i’m a star

[w00yngie]

i ride, you ride, bang!

pairing: song mingi x f!reader

genre: non idol!au, friends to lovers, lowkey fast n' furious if it was supah horny, mechanic!mingi x street racer!reader

word count: 31.3k

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warnings: no use of y/n, plot with some eventual smut, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), car sex hallelujah, public sex if u squint, dry humping, p in v, multiple o's, cum play, slight edging, mingi is a fkn munch, felching, fingering, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation (kinda), breast play, nipple play, bratty!reader, dom!mingi hallelujah, mingi is a meanie >:c, spanking, praise kink, almost pronebone but not rlly, he calls the reader a slut once, manhandling, size difference, body worship, use of 'good girl', slight dacryphilia, he's big, weak ass pullout game, implied marathon, cute aftercare (mingi is a softie my baby) / lmk if i missed any!

author's note: i saw his part in the bad mv and this idea just came to me in a dream. his outfit just screamed mechanic to me but also i was horny as fuck sooo can you blame me :> i apologise in advanced to anyone who owns a car or drives i dont have a license (yet) so i was just writing sum bullllshiiit. my friends and i have been rewatching the entirety of the fast and furious franchise so it also continued to spark this idea in my silly little brain. who knew typing a story with one hand could be so hard... i jest! i hope you guys enjoy my extremely self-indulgent fic of mingi. stream ghpt5!

ps. heres some songs i listened to while writing this fic: one, two, three, four, five

permanent taglist: @norixseaweed @f3mboienjoyer @puoeri @mingvxs @no1likepepix8 + if you want to be added to my taglist, let me know :))

The asphalt screamed under your tires like it was begging for mercy, and you gave it none. You’d taken the second turn tight. The one with the loose manhole cover that sent most racers wide. You heard the car behind you overcorrect, its bumper grazing the guardrail in a shriek of metal that meant you’d already won. The night air whipped through your cracked window, carrying burnt rubber and cheap cologne up from the crowd lining the overpass.

Your hands were steady on the wheel. The engine hummed the way it always hummed when it was happy—deep and throaty and just the right side of angry. You’d built this car from the ground up, and the only people who’d ever touched it besides you were the crew at ATZ Auto, and that was a trust you didn’t hand out lightly. Three weeks since the last race. Three weeks of late nights in the garage with nothing but a socket wrench and a headlamp for company. Three weeks of waiting for this exact stretch of empty industrial road.

The finish line was maybe forty seconds out. You could see the flare of the orange cones in your rear view, the silhouette of the flagger already lifting his arm. Another racer had fallen back to a full car length. This was yours. This was already—

Clunk.

You felt it before you heard it. A vibration through the pedal, through the floorboard, through the bones of your right foot. Not the good kind.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

Your stomach dropped.

There was a rattling now, coming from somewhere beneath the driver’s side—under the dash, maybe, or lower, somewhere in the guts of the transmission tunnel. It was rhythmic, metallic, and getting louder with every press of the accelerator. 

You glanced at the dash. No lights. No temperature spike. Nothing on the gauges to tell you what was dying under the hood.

“Come on,” you muttered, gripping the wheel tighter. “Come on, baby, just thirty more seconds. Give me thirty.”

You eased off the throttle. Just barely, just enough to keep the rattle from becoming something you couldn’t drive home from. The headlights behind you swelled in your mirrors like something hungry. Whoever it was had sensed the hesitation. Their engine climbed in pitch, closing fast.

Not tonight.

You dropped back into gear and put your foot down, and the rattle became a groan that you felt in your back teeth, in the base of your skull, but the car gave you what you asked for. It always did. You crossed the line with that sound still filling the cabin like a bad omen, and you had no idea by how much, and you didn’t care.

The crowd was already moving toward you. A flare went up somewhere near the overpass, throwing red light across the ground. They were chanting something—your car’s name, probably, or the name they’d given it, which had stopped feeling separate from your own a long time ago.

You cut the engine at the turnout and sat in the silence that followed, listening to the metal tick and settle around you. The rattle was gone. Clean as if it had never happened. You’d learned not to trust that. The car only ever confessed when it had no choice.

A window rolled down somewhere behind you. “No way your shitty car beat mine”

“Well...” you said, and forced a laugh you didn’t feel. “It is what it is. Get good next time, yeah?”

They laughed and drove off to collect their losses from the betters, and you were left alone with the hood of your car and the creeping dread that something expensive had just given up on you.

You popped the hood. The engine bay looked normal, from a racers eye anyway. The wires ran they should be, belts tight, no obvious leaks. You ran your hand along the underside of the frame near the transmission mount and came away with nothing but grease and road grit. Whatever was wrong was hiding from you, somewhere you couldn’t reach without a lift and a full set of tools.

You pulled out your phone. Scrolled past three missed calls from your roommate and a text from your mother asking if you’d eaten dinner. Found the number you needed—the one you’d saved three months ago after your last catastrophic breakdown, the one with the shop logo as the contact photo. You dialed. It rang twice.

“ATZ’s Auto, this is Mingi speaking.”

You exhaled, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened just hearing his voice. That low, unhurried drawl that always made it sound like he’d been expecting your call. A part of you hoped so, anyways.

“Hey—”

“Hi, sweetheart.” There was a smile in it already. You could hear it, the way his voice went soft at the edges. “What did you do to her this time?”

You leaned your hip against the fender, phone pressed between your ear and your shoulder, and let your free hand rest on the warm hood. The metal was still ticking, still settling, and somewhere deep in the chassis, you were pretty sure something was still dying.

“I didn’t do anything,” you sighed, hearing your own defensiveness. “She just—I don’t know. She started making this sound on the last stretch. Like a clunk sound? Like something’s swinging loose under the driver’s side.”

“Clunking?” He repeated, and you could hear the scratch of a pen on paper. Mingi always wrote things down, even the small stuff, even the things you thought were nothing. It was one of the reasons you kept coming back. “If it's under the driver’s side... Maybe it's the transmission tunnel area?”

“Maybe? I couldn’t tell. It was rhythmic, though. Tied to the rotation. Got worse when I gave it gas, went away when I let off.”

“Mmm.” The sound was thoughtful. You heard the creak of his chair, the muffled thump of what might have been his boots coming off the desk. “No dash lights?”

“Nothing. Gauges looked fine. The temperature was steady. I popped the hood and poked around but I couldn't see anything obvious from the top.”

“Of course you can’t,” he teased, “Because the car knows better than to show you what’s wrong. It’s saving it for me.”

“Don’t be smug.”

“I’m not being smug. I’m being right. There’s a difference.” You could hear him moving through the shop—the familiar background percussion of a metal door swinging open, the overhead lights buzzing to life. He was already walking toward the bay. “Where are you? Still on the industrial stretch?”

“Yeah, just by the turnout by the overpass."

“I know the one.” There was a pause, and you heard the jingle of keys. “Stay put. I’ll come get you. Twenty minutes, tops.”

“Mingi, you don’t have to—”

“See you soon,” the line went dead before you could argue.

You stared at your phone for a second, then slipped it into your back pocket. The crowd had thinned out now. Most of them following the money to the next unofficial bet, a few stragglers lingering near the guardrail with their phones still recording the aftermath. Someone had brought a speaker. The bass was thumping low and lazy, and someone else was laughing too loud about something that probably wasn’t funny.

You slid down onto the curb and pulled your knees up to your chest. The asphalt was still warm from the day’s heat, and the night air smelled like diesel and the distant, greasy promise of the all-night diner three blocks over. You let your head fall back and stared at the underside of the overpass, at the graffiti someone had painted in fluorescent pink that you’d never been able to fully read.

Twenty minutes.

You closed your eyes and listened to your car breathe. The ticking had slowed to something almost peaceful, the way a person’s pulse slows after a scare—still elevated, still wary, but pretending to be fine. You knew that rhythm intimately. You’d felt it in your own chest more times than you wanted to count.

The tow truck arrived in eighteen. You’d know the sound of it anywhere—that particular diesel grumble, the squeak of the suspension that Mingi kept meaning to fix and never did because, in his words, it gives her character. The headlights swept across you in a wide arc before settling, and then there he was, climbing down from the cab in that oversized mechanic’s jacket with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, grease already smudged along the inside of one forearm like he’d been working on something else before you called.

He was tall enough that he had to duck under the tow rig’s boom, and the motion made his dark hair fall across his forehead in a way that was, frankly, unfair. His eyes found you on the curb before they found the car—which, coming from Mingi, was basically a love confession.

“There she is,” he announced as he walked over to where you where seated.

You couldn’t tell if he meant you or the car. Maybe both. He was looking at you like you were the one making the concerning noise. “You in one piece?”

“I’m fine. The car’s the one—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just messing with ya,” he was already crouching beside your driver’s side door, one hand flat against the frame, the other reaching underneath. You watched his fingers move with the kind of practiced confidence that made your stomach do something complicated. He’d barely touched the car, and already he looked like he understood it better than you did. “Can you pop the hood for me?”

You reached through the window and pulled the release. He stood, and the hood swung up between you like a shield, and for a moment you could only see his hands—long fingers, silver rings decorating them, a thin white scar across the knuckle of his right index finger that you’d asked about once and he’d shrugged off with "kitchen accident, don’t worry about it." You worried about it.

He leaned into the engine bay, and you heard him hum. A low, considering the sound he made when he was cataloguing damage. You’d heard it enough times to know the variations.

“Transmission mount,” he noted, pulling back. A streak of fresh grease ran from his wrist to his elbow now, and he didn’t seem to notice. “Or something connected to it. The bolt’s either sheared or backed out entirely. I can hear the play from here.”

“Well... Can you fix it?”

He looked at you over the hood, and his mouth did that thing—the half-smile, the one that meant he was trying very hard not to be charmed by the question and failing. “Can I fix it?” He repeated, like you’d asked him if water was wet. “Sweetheart. I could fix this car with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back.”

“Then why do you charge me so much?”

“That's because you keep breaking it in increasingly creative ways, and my emotional labour isn’t free.” He closed the hood with a soft thunk and wiped his hands on a rag he pulled from his back pocket. “C'mon. Help me get her on the flatbed and I’ll take you to the shop. I can pull it apart tonight if you want to watch.”

You stood, brushing the grit off your jeans. “You’re not going to lecture me about racing, are you?”

“I’ve given up on that.” He was already walking toward the tow controls, but he glanced back over his shoulder, and the streetlight caught the line of his jaw and the curve of his smile in a way that made your breath catch. “Besides. You won anyway, didn’t you?”

“Huh? How'd you know?”

“You called me from the turnout instead of a ditch.” He shrugged like it was obvious. “Winner stays. Loser limps home. That’s how it works.”

You helped him hook the chains—your hands under his direction, his voice low and patient beside your ear, his fingers guiding yours when you fumbled with the latch. The car went up onto the flatbed with a groan that sounded almost relieved. You stood there in the red glow of the tow lights with grease on your palms and Mingi’s jacket brushing your shoulder, and something in your chest that had been rattling all night finally went quiet.

He gave the last strap a snap to check the tension, then straightened up and wiped his hands on the rag. You walked together back to the truck and the gravel shifted under your boots and his footsteps were easy and unhurried beside yours, like he had nowhere else to be. He opened the passenger door before you reached for it. An old habit, one he never skipped, even though the hinges groaned like they were protesting the gentleness—and you climbed up into the seat, settling into the seat that still smelled like him. Coffee, motor oil and that cedar-sandalwood cologne he wore ever since the day you mentioned that combination smelled good.

The engine turned over with a rumble that vibrated through the floorboards and up through the soles of your boots. Mingi pulled out onto the industrial road with the kind of unhurried confidence that came from knowing every pothole and crack by heart, his left arm resting on the door frame, his right hand loose on the wheel at the bottom. You watched his profile in the dashboard light—the sharp line of his nose, the way his jaw worked when he was thinking about something he wasn’t saying.

“You’re staring,” he said, without looking over.

“You have grease on your face.”

He touched his cheek, found nothing. “Where?”

“Nah, it's on the other side.”

He touched the other cheek. “What a little liar.”

“You’ll never know.”

The smile he gave you was small and private, just for the dark of the truck, and you turned to look out the window at the streetlights blurring past. The tow rig swayed gently with each turn, and your car rocked on the flatbed behind you with a soft metallic creak that sounded almost like a lullaby. You hadn’t realized how tired you were until the adrenaline drained out of you all at once, leaving you hollow and heavy-limbed.

You pressed your forehead against the cool glass and let your eyes drift half-shut. The engine hummed quietly. Mingi’s thumb tapped a rhythm against the steering wheel tapping along to a beat of a song you couldn’t quite recognise. The streetlights strobed across your closed eyelids in warm amber pulses.

You didn’t remember falling asleep. One moment you were watching the city slide past in streaks of neon and shadow, and the next there was nothing—just the deep, dark quiet of a body that had decided it was done.

You came back to consciousness in pieces.

First: the smell. Motor oil and metal and something warm—cotton, maybe, or the inside of a jacket? You couldn't tell. Second: The feeling of being carried. Strong arms under your knees and across your back, the steady rise and fall of someone’s breathing close to your ear, the careful way they shifted their weight to keep from jostling you through a doorway that was too narrow.

Then: a voice, very low, and very very close. “—she’s fine, she’s just—no, I’ve got her.”

You forced your eyes open. The ceiling was familiar, you think. Not to mention the acoustic tile and water stain in the shape of something that might have been a rabbit if you squinted. A fluorescent light buzzed somewhere out of sight, casting everything in that particular shade of institutional pale yellow.

You were in Mingi’s office.

You came to that conclusion after you recognized the framed poster on the wall. It was some vintage Porsche ad he’d found at a flea market and hung crooked because he thought straight lines were boring. The desk was covered in invoices and a half-eaten sandwich on a paper plate.

You were on the couch. Or—not a couch, not exactly. Mingi had pushed the two waiting-room chairs together and draped them with what looked like every clean shop towel he owned, layered thick enough that the metal armrests had disappeared entirely. A folded hoodie served as a pillow. He had tucked your boots off to the side, lined up neatly against the baseboard like they were standing at attention.

You tried to sit up but unfortunately your body said no.

“Hey.” His voice came from the doorway, and you turned your head to find him leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you with an expression that was equal parts amused and something softer. “You’ve been out for twenty minutes. I was starting to think I’d have to check your pulse.”

“How did I—”

“You fell asleep in the truck. Like, fully. Head against the window, mouth open, the whole thing.” The amusement won out. His smile was wide and unguarded, the kind he only wore when he thought no one was looking. “It was very dignified. Very graceful and adorable”

You groaned and pressed the heel of your hand against your eye. “You carried me in here.”

“Yes, I did.”

You pouted, a flush of pink creeping up your cheeks. The thought of Mingi carrying you alone sent shivers down your spine. "You didn't have to, could've just woken me up too."

“And be a dickhead for waking up sleeping beauty? Absolutely not.” He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room in three long strides, and before you could protest, something heavy and warm settled over you—his jacket, the oversized mechanic’s one, still carrying the heat of his body and the smell of him up close. He tugged it up to your chin with the same careful precision he used on engine bolts, making sure it covered your shoulders. “Go back to sleep. I promise the car isn’t going anywhere.”

“But… I wanted to watch you work on it," you yawned, clearly your body betrayed what your heart wanted.

“You can watch me work on it tomorrow, when your eyes are open and you are fully conscious.” His hand lingered on the collar of the jacket, adjusting it, and his knuckles brushed your jaw. You held very still. “I’m just going to get her up on the lift and take a look. No heavy lifting tonight. Scout’s honour.”

“You were never a scout.”

“How do you know? Maybe I had a very brief and disappointing scouting career.” His thumb traced a line along the edge of the jacket—once, twice—and then he pulled his hand back like he’d remembered himself. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be right outside if you need me, okay?”

He left the door open a crack—enough that the sounds of the shop filtered through: the hydraulic hiss of the lift engaging, the clank of a toolbox being rolled across concrete, the low murmur of whatever he was saying to your car under his breath. You’d heard him do that before. Talk to engines like they were old friends. Tell them it was going to be okay. You’d always found it endearing in a way that made your chest ache.

You pulled his jacket tighter around you and buried your face in the collar. It smelled like him—the coffee and the oil and the cedar and something underneath that was just warmth. The makeshift bed was more comfortable than it had any right to be. The shop towels were soft from a hundred washes, and the hoodie-pillow held the shape of his head like a confession.

Outside, the lift groaned as it took the weight of your car. You heard Mingi’s boots on the concrete, the metallic click of a drop light being positioned, the soft whistle he made when he was concentrating—the same three-note tune every time, becoming your lullaby for the night.

You closed your eyes and listened to him work, and the sound was steadier than any lullaby, and you were asleep again before the first bolt came loose.

══════════════════

Light came through the half-closed blinds in thin, dusty stripes, and you woke to the sound of water hitting glass. Not rain. Something more deliberate. The measured pour of a coffee machine doing its one job in the world with quiet, mechanical devotion. You blinked against the soft morning light and found the ceiling tile rabbit still there, still watching over you with its water-stain eyes. You were on the couch. Or—the chair-couch. The shop towels had shifted in the night, bunched up under your left hip, and Mingi’s jacket was still draped over you like a promise he’d made and kept. Your neck had a crick in it that felt like it had been personally installed by someone with a grudge.

You turned your head.

Mingi was standing at the small counter he’d wedged into the corner of his office. The one that held the coffee maker, a stack of paper cups, and a jar of sugar packets that had been there so long the paper had gone soft at the edges.

He had his back to you. White tank top, the ribbed kind, worn soft from too many washes, and dark denim that sat low on his hips—not a mechanic’s uniform, not a work shirt. Something he’d changed into. His hair was damp at the temples, like he’d splashed water on his face recently, and you could see the shift of muscle in his bare arms as he measured something into the machine with the kind of focus most people reserved for open-heart surgery. He’d either gone home and come back or kept a change of clothes in the shop. Knowing Mingi, you weren’t sure which answer was more like him.

The machine gurgled and hissed. He reached for two mugs from the shelf above, the ceramic kind with the shop logo chipped along the rim from years of being knocked against the sink. One was blue the other green. He set them side by side with the care of someone arranging chess pieces.

He pulled the carafe and poured it into the blue mug first. Two sugars. A splash of the creamer from the mini-fridge under the counter—the oat milk kind, the specific brand you’d mentioned exactly once, six months ago, when he’d handed you a black coffee and you’d said "oh, I usually take it with—" and he’d cut you off with "oat milk, two sugars, I know, I was testing you."

He didn’t look over. Didn’t ask. Just poured the oat milk in with the same steady hand he used on transmission fluid, stirred it twice with a spoon that had the ATZ logo printed on the handle, and set it on the edge of the desk closest to where you were lying.

The green mug got black. Nothing in it. He took a sip straight from the carafe before setting it back on the warmer, and you watched the line of his throat move when he swallowed, and you thought about how unfair it was that a person could look like that at—you squinted at the clock on the wall—seven-forty in the morning.

“Morning,” he greeted, his back was still facing you. “You snore, by the way. Just so you know. It’s not loud. It’s more of a—” He made a small, rhythmic puffing sound with his lips. “Like a cute little engine trying to start on a cold morning.”

You scoffed. “I do not snore.”

“You absolutely snore.” He turned finally, leaning his hip against the counter with his mug cradled in both hands. “It’s cute, though. Don’t worry about it.”

The morning light caught his eyes and made them warmer than they had any right to be. The cut on his left thumb was wrapped in electrical tape because of course it was. His hair had dried crooked from wherever he’d splashed water on his face, pushed back and slightly flattened on one side, and there was a shadow of his stubble catching the light—along the line of his jaw. You looked at all of it and felt a low, private irritation settle in your chest. Just how could someone look so beautiful?

You sat up slowly, wincing as the kink in your neck announced itself with a crack that echoed off the acoustic tile. His jacket slid down to your lap, and you caught it before it hit the floor and pulled it back over your shoulders. The coffee was right there, steam curling up in lazy spirals, and you reached for it and wrapped both hands around the mug and let the warmth seep into your palms.

“How long have you been up?” you asked, taking the first sip. The coffee hit your bloodstream like a jumpstart cable.

“Since about four.” He took a drink from his own mug, watching you over the rim. “Got as far as I could on the car, then hit a wall—parts house doesn’t open until eight. So.” He lifted a shoulder. “I reorganized the tool wall.” You raised an eyebrow, “At four in the morning? Really?” “The socket wrench set was out of order,” he insisted, like that explained everything, and in the context of Mingi’s brain, maybe it did. “It was bothering me.”

You held the mug against your chest and studied him—the way he stood in the morning light like he’d been built for it, all long lines and easy posture, the white shirt doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he spent most of his waking hours lifting things heavier than himself.

“How’s my car?”

Something shifted in his expression. He set his mug down on the counter and crossed his arms, and you watched the fabric pull across his chest and tried very hard to focus on his words and not the way the morning light was doing something illegal to the line of his shoulders.

“Transmission mount bolt sheared clean through,” he explains, “Right at the base. The threads are still in the block, which is the good news—I didn’t have to drill and tap new ones. The bad news is that the mount itself took some damage when it came loose. There’s a crack along the bracket on the driver’s side. Not catastrophic, but it needs replacing.”

You closed your eyes. “Thank God it wasn't that bad. How much do I owe you?”

“Taking into everything into account,” He paused, and you could hear him doing the math in his head, always honest, never padding. “Three-fifty, maybe four hundred. I’ll have to call the parts house when they open to confirm the bracket price.”

You opened your eyes. He was watching you with that careful, measured look—the one that meant he was already running through the options, the payment plans, the ways he could make it hurt less.

Mingi had never once pressed you for money. He’d let you pay in installments more times than either of you could count, and there was a running tab on a sticky note on his monitor that had your name at the top and a number that would have made a bank manager faint.

“I can pay up front,” you weren’t entirely sure that was true, but you said it anyway because pride was a thing you’d never fully excised from your system. “I’ve got some cash from—from last night.”

“From the race.” He replied it flatly, without judgment, but you heard the the underlying concern he always had for you. “How much did you take?”

“More than enough, thankfully.” You took another sip of coffee. “The other racer had a big ego and a bigger wallet. It worked out.”

“Mmm.” The sound was noncommittal, which from Mingi meant he had opinions he was choosing not to share. He picked up his mug again and tilted his head toward the door. “You want to see her?”

You were already standing. The shop towels rustled to the floor as you swung your legs off the makeshift bed, and you pulled Mingi’s jacket over your shoulders because the morning air coming through the cracked window was sharper than you expected. Your boots were still lined up by the baseboard, and you stepped into them and laced them quickly, fingers still clumsy with sleep. He held the door open for you as you walked past him into the shop proper.

The overhead fluorescents were already on, buzzing their familiar yellow-white hymn, and the air smelled the way it always smelled in here—metal and solvent and the particular sweetness of fresh rubber. The shop was organized chaos: tool chests along the far wall, each drawer labeled in Mingi’s careful handwriting; a rolling cart stacked with parts bins; the hydraulic lift in the center bay, and on it—

Your car.

She was up on the lift, raised to chest height, and the undercarriage was exposed in a way that felt almost intimate—the transmission tunnel open, the exhaust piping curled along the frame like veins, the differential housing gleaming with fresh grease where Mingi had been working. You could see the damage from here: the empty bolt hole where the mount should have been secured, the cracked bracket hanging at an angle that made your stomach clench. There was a new bolt already threaded partway in, shiny and clean against the old, oil-darkened metal around it.

Mingi came to stand beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours when he pointed. “See there? The crack runs along the weld line. It’s been stressed out for a while—this didn’t happen last night. This has been a gradual build up”

You crouched down to get a better look, and Mingi crouched with you, his knees popping softly. His shoulder pressed against yours, warm and solid, and you could feel the heat of him through the jacket, through your shirt, through the thin barrier of everything you both weren’t saying.

“How long has it been building?” you asked.

“Hard to say. A few weeks, maybe. You said you tuned it yourself—when was the last time you had the transmission out?”

“Three months ago. When you replaced the clutch.”

“Right.” He reached past you—his arm extending over your shoulder, his chest nearly against your back—and tapped the bracket with one finger. The metal gave a dull, hollow sound that confirmed everything he’d already told you. “The mount was probably already compromised then. The new clutch put more torque through it, and the racing just—” He made a sound with his tongue, a soft tch, like he was scolding the car. “She held on as long as she could. She’s a good girl.”

The last two words landed somewhere low in your stomach and stayed there. You’d heard him say it before—to engines that turned over after a hard rebuild, to cars that limped in and left running clean—but with his jaw close enough to your temple that you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, the phrase did something it had no business doing. You wondered how much better it would be if those words were directed at you.

You looked up at him. He was close—closer than he needed to be, his face inches from yours. You tear your gaze away to reassess your car.

“You fixed the bolt already?” you gasp, pressing your lips together to fight a smile.

“Started to. I couldn't sleep, remember?” His voice had dropped to something quieter, something that belonged to the space between the two of you and nowhere else. “The bracket’s the holdup. I’ve got to call the parts house soon. If they have it in stock, I can have her back on the road by this afternoon.”

“That quick? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I‘m sure.” He held your gaze, and his eyes did that thing—that slow, warm thing that made your chest feel like it was full of something too big for your ribs. “Unless you had somewhere else to be?”

You didn’t. You looked back at the car—at the cracked bracket, the new bolt, the careful way Mingi had already cleaned the mating surfaces and applied thread locker to the fresh threads. He’d been working on your car in the dark hours of the morning while you slept on his makeshift bed in his office, wearing his jacket, drinking coffee he’d made exactly the way you liked without being asked.

He’d cut himself on your transmission and wrapped it in electrical tape and kept going. He’d reorganized the socket wrench set at four in the morning because the disorder bothered him, and he’d remembered your oat milk, and you realized, belatedly, that it wasn’t just about the car and it wasn’t just about the coffee and it wasn’t just about the sharp sting of a cut wrapped in cheap tape. It was the sum of it, the way it all stacked up into a scaffolding of care, a habit of showing up for you that had never announced itself as anything special but now, under the ugly shop fluorescents and the pale creep of morning, felt like the kind of thing people wrote songs about. It hit you with a force that absolved every sleepless night you’d ever spent wondering if you meant anything to anyone outside of a set of hands on a steering wheel, or the numbers on a finish line clock.

You remembered the first time you’d stumbled into his shop: rain in your hair, a half-dead alternator in your trunk, and a chip on your shoulder big enough to wedge open the front door. Mingi had looked at you over the top of his glasses, rainwater pooling under your boots, and said, “No offense, but you look like you lost a fight to a lawnmower.” He’d fixed your alternator for half what the dealer quoted, showed you the basics so you could DIY next time, and called you “boss” with a straight face even as you stripped a bolt and almost started a small electrical fire.

You remembered the way he never commented on your hands, even when they shook after a race, even when you cut them on cold steel and stained the shop rags dark. He’d hand you a fresh towel, or a bottle of water, or a protein bar from his desk drawer, and just say, “You good?” Like he already knew you weren’t, but he’d be there when you started to be.

You remembered that night you lost by a nose and blew out the input shaft. You’d expected nothing—maybe a lecture, a bill, perhaps even silence. Instead, you’d found a note under your windshield wiper: “Nice launch. Shift faster next time. Come by tomorrow, I’ll fix her up. - M :)"

You remembered a lot of small things. The way he’d always find the one good song on the radio and turn it up just before the solo. The way he’d set his jaw when he was about to say something he thought might piss you off. How he’d talk to your car when he worked on them, in the low, careful voice some people reserved for frightened animals or babies. How he’d stand close, when you both leaned under the hood—shoulders bumping, elbows knocking—and none of it ever felt accidental.

You looked at him now, this tall, loose-limbed mechanic with his wild hair, goofy smile and hands that looked like they’d been built to break and repair the same things over and over. The cut on his thumb was leaking through the electrical tape, and his shirt was streaked with something dark.

You thought about every time you’d tried to pay him back, every time you’d tried to balance the emotional ledger, and how he always found a way to tip the scales in your favour. You thought about all the ways you’d failed to say thank you, or I owe you, or just—anything that would make it clear that you noticed. That you noticed everything.

The weight of it all landed on your chest with the slow, terrifying certainty of falling in love with the exact person you’d told yourself that would never fall in love with you. It didn’t hurt—it just rearranged some things inside you, made space for something that might not have a name but absolutely had a pulse.

You reached for the coffee again, just for something to do with your hands, and took a sip that was mostly oat milk and sugar from the lack of stirring. Mingi watched you, waiting, like he knew you were on the verge of some personal catastrophe and was already prepping the metaphorical fire extinguisher.

You finished the coffee in two long swallows and set the mug down on the edge of the lift, where it wobbled once before settling. Mingi caught it with the edge of his hand—a reflex, the same one he used to catch falling tools before they hit concrete—and set it somewhere safer without comment.

“I should go,” you cleared your throat, your voice came out steadier than you expected. “Don't want to bother you more while you're working on my baby."

He straightened up from his crouch, and you both rose together, and the distance between you was exactly the same as it had been a moment ago—close enough to feel the warmth, far enough to pretend it was nothing. He nodded once, that slow, easy nod that meant he understood and wasn’t going to make it difficult.

“Like I said, I'll phone the parts house and if, hopefully, they have the shit I need I can have her buttoned up by—” He tilted his head, calculating. “Three, maybe four this afternoon. I'll call you as soon as I'm finished”

You nodded, finding a sense of calm with his reassurance. “Sounds good! Also, don’t bother calling 'cause I might not answer. Text me instead.”

“Of course.” He pulled his phone from his back pocket and held it up like proof. “Go home. Sleep in a real bed, please.”

You pulled his jacket tighter around your shoulders and walked toward the office to collect your things. Your phone was on the desk where you’d left it, the screen lit with three new notifications—your best friend asking if you were alive, a group chat you’d muted, and a weather alert you didn’t read. You shoved it into your pocket and hesitated at the door, one hand on the frame.

“Mingi?”

He was already turning back toward the lift, a socket wrench in his hand, but he paused and looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Thank you. For—” You gestured vaguely at the car, the shop, the jacket, the coffee, the entire architecture of care he’d built around you without ever asking for permission. “All of it.”

His mouth did the half-smile thing—the one that meant he was trying not to be charmed and failing. “Don’t mention it, it’s my job after all.”

You left before he could see whatever was happening on your face.

══════════════════

You showered in water hot enough to turn your skin pink, scrubbing road grit and engine grease from under your nails until your fingertips went raw. You changed into clean clothes—jeans, a t-shirt that had seen better days, a hoodie that smelled like your own laundry detergent and not someone else’s cologne. You ate a bowl of cereal standing at the kitchen counter and stared at your phone, waiting.

The text came at 8:47.

Parts house has the bracket.

Pulling it now.

She’ll be ready by 3.

Don’t come early, I mean it.

You sent back a thumbs-up and nothing else, because if you started typing you’d say something stupid, and Mingi would read it in the middle of a transmission job and drop something heavy on his foot.

You spent the morning doing nothing useful. You organized the junk drawer. You called your mother and listened to her talk about the neighbour’s cat for eleven minutes. You scrolled through your phone and found a video someone had posted from last night’s race—the angle was bad, the audio even worse. You could hear the clunking in the last stretch, that rhythmic metallic death rattle that had sent your stomach through the floorboards. The comments were already filling up. She’s cooked. That’s a rod. Nah that’s transmission. RIP to another one. You closed the app and put the phone face-down on the couch.

At two, you couldn’t sit still anymore. You grabbed your keys and your wallet and this jacket, still draped over the back of the kitchen chair where you’d left it that morning, because you’d forgotten to give it back, or maybe because you hadn’t wanted to—and headed out the door.

You stopped at the place on the corner. The one with the yellow awning and the handwritten menu taped to the window and the cook who knew your order by heart because you’d been coming here since before you had a car to break. You got two orders of the spicy pork bulgogi bowls—extra kimchi on the side, extra rice, the way Mingi liked it, because you’d watched him eat it enough times to memorize the ratio.

You added a container of japchae because he’d mentioned once, offhand, that his mother used to make it on Sundays, and the way he’d said it had made you want to put the entire city between you and the feeling it produced. You got two coffees—black for him, oat milk and two sugars for you—and a slice of the honey butter cake that the owner’s wife made fresh every afternoon, because Mingi had a sweet tooth he pretended he didn’t have and you’d watched him eat three pieces at a shop potluck without breathing between bites.

The bag was heavy and warm against your hip as you walked the six blocks to the shop. The afternoon sun was high and bright, and the city smelled like exhaust and fried food and the particular greenness of the potted trees someone had placed along the sidewalk in a doomed attempt at beautification. You passed the auto parts store where Mingi had sourced your bracket, the hardware store where he bought his electrical tape in bulk, the laundromat where he washed his shop rags because the machines at his apartment complex ate quarters. You knew this stretch of road the way you knew the inside of your own engine bay—every crack, every stain, every story it told about the people who walked it.

The shop’s roll-up door was half-open when you arrived, and you could hear the radio before you could see inside—some old rock station Mingi kept tuned to because the signal was clear and the DJs never talked during the guitar solos. You ducked under the door and stepped into the fluorescent hum.

Your car was on the ground. The hood was closed. The driver’s side door was open, and the interior light was on, and you could see the fresh gleam of something newly installed through the gap in the door frame.

Mingi was sitting on an overturned bucket near the workbench, wiping his hands on a rag that had long since given up any pretense of cleanliness. He had the radio turned up just loud enough that he didn’t hear you come in, and for a moment you just stood there and watched him. The way his shoulders moved when he reached for the solvent bottle, the way his jaw worked around whatever he was chewing (gum, probably, or the inside of his cheek), the fresh bandage on his left hand where he’d clearly cut himself again and upgraded from electrical tape to something that actually qualified as medical supplies.

You cleared your throat.

He turned. His face went through three expressions in rapid succession—surprise, recognition, and then something warm and slow that started at the corners of his mouth and spread upward until his whole face was doing the thing, the thing you’d been cataloguing for months without admitting what it was.

“What did I tell you about coming early, hm?” He deadpanned.

“Don't be dramatic, Min.” You held up the bag. “I got your favourites.”

His eyes dropped to the bag, then back to your face, and the warmth deepened into something that looked almost endearing, which was not a look you’d ever seen on Mingi and did not know what to do with.

“All of this for me?” He set the rag down and stood, and he was taller than you remembered, or maybe you’d just forgotten in the hours since morning how he filled a room without trying. “You shouldn’t have, baby.”

The word landed somewhere between your ribs and stayed there. He said it casually, the way he said everything—like it cost him nothing, like it was just a sound the air made when it passed through him on its way to you.

You crossed the shop and set the bag on the workbench, pulling out the containers one by one. The bulgogi bowls steamed when you opened the lids, and the smell of garlic and gochujang filled the space between the tool chests and the lift. You handed him the black coffee without asking and kept the other one for yourself, and you set the japchae and the honey butter cake on the bench beside the bowls like you were setting a table.

“It’s for my favourite mechanic, after all,” you smirked, keeping your voice light and easy.

Kept it from doing the thing it wanted to do—which was crack open and spill everything you’d been carrying since four that morning when you’d woken up on his makeshift bed with his jacket over you and his coffee in your hands and the sound of him working on your car like a prayer in the next room. Maybe even beyond that.

Mingi’s smile went wide and bright, showing the dimples that only appeared when he was genuinely, stupidly happy. “So, you finally admit I’m your favourite, huh?”

You handed him a pair of chopsticks and fixed him with a look that you hoped conveyed the appropriate ratio of affection and threat. “Don’t push it, pretty boy.”

He laughed—full and loud, the kind of laugh that echoed off the concrete walls and made the overhead lights buzz in sympathy. He pulled the bucket closer to the bench and sat, and you pulled up a stool from the corner, and you ate lunch together.

He told you about the bracket—how the parts house had exactly one left in stock, how he’d had to sweet-talk the guy behind the counter into holding it, how the installation had gone smooth except for the bolt that fought him for twenty minutes before finally surrendering. You told him about the cereal, and the cat, and the video someone had posted, and he made a face and said, “Send me the link, I want to see these idiots diagnosing your car from a thirty-second clip.”

You ate the japchae first, and he didn’t comment on it, but you watched his face when he took the first bite and saw something shift behind his eyes—something old and fond and a little bit melancholic—and he looked at you across the workbench with an expression that said he knew exactly why you’d ordered it and exactly what it meant that you’d remembered, and he didn’t say thank you because he didn’t need to.

The honey butter cake disappeared in four minutes flat, and he licked the glaze off his thumb with the shamelessness of a man who had given up pretending he didn’t have a sweet tooth approximately three bites ago.

When the food was gone and the coffees were empty and the radio had cycled through two more songs, Mingi stood and stretched—arms overhead, back arching, the white tank pulling tight across his chest in a way that you absolutely did not stare at—and walked to your car. He patted the roof twice, the way you’d seen him do a hundred times, and looked at you over the hood.

“She’s ready when you are.”

You walked to the driver’s side and ran your hand along the door frame, tracing the line where the paint chipped and the clearcoat had started to surrender to time and sun and too many city winters. It was cool and solid under your palm, and for the first time in days you didn’t imagine hearing the sickly metallic tick that had haunted every drive since the first warning sign. No rattle. No vibration. No secret countdown to catastrophic failure shivering through the welds. Just a door, a car, a moment of stillness as you drew in a breath and let your shoulders drop.

You slid into the seat, and the interior smelled like Mingi—solvent, engine oil, the sharpness of fresh brake cleaner and something sweeter underneath, a cedar note that clung to the cloth. You could see where he’d wiped down the steering wheel, the faintest imprint of a towel snagged on the horn pad, and the new bracket gleaming through the gap below the dash. The seat was exactly the way you left it, except you could tell he’d sat here, adjusted the mirrors, checked the fit of the pedals. It was like stepping into a space that had been quietly, lovingly proofed against disaster.

The key was already in the ignition. You turned it.

The engine caught on the first try—clean, steady, the deep throaty hum you’d tuned into existence with your own hands, but different now. Quieter. Settled. Like something that had been suffering in silence had finally been allowed to breathe again. You pressed the throttle lightly and listened, heart in your mouth, waiting for the telltale clunk or metallic swing-and-bang. Instead, there was only the smooth, even purr, the delicate click of injectors priming, the systems waking up like a body stretching after a long sleep.

You pressed a little harder, feathering the pedal. The tach jumped, held, dropped. No hesitations. No overcompensation. No subtle warning in the feedback through the wheel. If you closed your eyes, you could almost believe this was someone else’s car—someone who’d never driven it to the edge, never asked it to survive three consecutive summers of midnight street circuits, never let it run a degree hotter than it was supposed to just to beat a kid with something newer and flashier. But it was yours, and you’d earned every scar on the center console, every burn mark on the carpet. And now, for the first time in years, it didn’t sound like a ticking time bomb. It sounded like something that was meant to last.

You sat with that for a minute, hands resting on the wheel, the engine’s steady rhythm echoing in your bones. You shifted into neutral and let the engine idle. Mingi’s handwriting was on a sticky note taped to the dash: “Check oil before running. -M.” You popped the hood just to be sure, and the dipstick came up clean and full, the oil exactly where it should be, the new gasket already sealing like it was part of the block from the beginning. He’d even topped off your washer fluid, the little things he always did, the ones he never mentioned but that you always noticed.

When you came back around, Mingi was standing by the shop door. He’d wiped his hands again, but there was a new smudge of something across his cheekbone, and he was watching you with an expression so open it made it impossible to look away. There was pride there, and relief, and a weird kind of gentleness that didn’t fit with the way he usually moved through the world. You realized, suddenly and with embarrassing clarity, that he was waiting for you to say something. To react, to light up, to show him that this mattered.

So you revved the engine, just a little, and gave him a thumbs-up through the windshield.

He grinned, and the whole shop seemed to brighten. You cut the engine and stepped out, and for a second the world held its breath.

He nodded, then pointed at the car. “How does she feel?”

You tried to come up with something technical. Something that would do justice to the hours he’d put in, the parts you knew he’d paid for himself, the sweat and blood literally on the line. But all that came out was, “She’s perfect.”

Mingi’s face went soft around the eyes, and he scrubbed a hand through his hair like he didn’t know what to do with the compliment. “You did most of the work, I just did some touch ups,” he smiled.

You barked a laugh. “All I did was fall asleep in your office and bring you lunch. You fixed my car.”

He shrugged, but you could tell he was pleased. “Yeah? What’s next, then? An oil change? New tires? You know, just for fun.”

You grinned. “I was thinking about a test drive. Want to come with?”

He hesitated, then held up his hands. “I’ll sit in the passenger seat, but only because I don’t want to get kimchi juice on your nice upholstery.”

You tossed him the keys. “No Min, You’re driving.”

He caught them one-handed, easy, and you felt something loosen in your chest. You hopped into the passenger seat, let the window down again, and watched as he adjusted the mirrors just so, checked the angle of the seat, and all the little rituals he did before a test drive.

He started the engine, and this time you noticed the way the sound made him smile. He rolled slowly out of the shop and down the street, careful at first, but then letting the car stretch out as the road opened up. You watched the city go by in a blur—corner store, laundromat, the park with the busted swing set—and realized you were seeing all of it through the windshield of a car that was finally, blissfully, whole.

Mingi drove with one hand on the wheel and one on the shifter, and he kept glancing at you like he was trying to memorize your reaction. You leaned back in the seat, let the sun warm your face, let the feeling of the world working as it should sink in.

Halfway to the river, he turned to you and said, “So what do we do now? Victory lap? Or do we just keep driving until something else breaks?”

You considered it. “Can we...” You stopped, not sure how to put it into words, and settled for, “Let’s just keep going for a while.”

And so you did. You let the city recede, let the noise fade into the background, and just existed, two people in a car that was finally running right, the road unspooling ahead of you like there was nowhere else you needed to be.

The road curved along the riverbank, and the water caught the late afternoon light in long, lazy ribbons of gold. Mingi drove with the windows down, one elbow resting on the door frame, and the wind pushed his hair back from his forehead in a way that made him look younger, looser, like someone who’d set down a weight he’d been carrying for years and forgotten what it felt like to stand up straight.

You watched the trees slide past and let the silence hold for another mile before you spoke.

“Hey,” you began, and your voice came out quieter than you meant it to. “I have another race on Friday. The industrial stretch again—the same one as last night, but bigger. More cars. Some guys from out of town are coming up.”

Mingi’s thumb tapped the steering wheel once. Twice. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You turned in the seat to face him, pulling one knee up under you. The leather creaked. “I’m in, obviously. Jihoon, the guy that had that fat stack of cash, wants a rematch, and there’s this new kid from Busan who’s been talking shit online all week.”

Mingi nodded slowly, eyes still on the road. “You can beat him for sure.”

“I don’t even know what he drives.”

“Nah, it doesn't matter.” He glanced over, a warm smile spread across his face. “It’s not about the car, it’s about who’s behind the wheel. That cocky piece of shit will not win, trust me.”

The warmth that spread through your chest was embarrassing in its intensity. You looked down at your hands, at the grease still lingering in the creases of your knuckles, and you said the thing you’d been turning over in your head since you woke up on his shop-towel bed with his jacket over your shoulders and his coffee in your hands.

“You should come watch me. In the race— I mean.”

The words hung in the air between you, carried on the wind rushing through the open windows. You kept your eyes on your hands, on the grease, on anything that wasn’t his face, because you’d said it casually—or tried to—and you needed a second to make sure the casual had landed.

Mingi was quiet for too long. Unusually long, you think. His jaw had set. Not in a hard way—in the way it did when he was about to deliver news he didn’t want to deliver.

“Friday,” he repeated, and the word came out carefully, measured, like he was testing its weight. “This Friday?”

“Mhm. Starts around ten. Should be over by midnight, hopefully by one.”

He exhaled through his nose—a slow, controlled breath that told you everything before the words did.

“Oh I'm sorry, sweetheart.” His voice had gone soft in that particular way, the way that meant he was about to disappoint you and he already hated himself for it. “I can’t. I’m booked solid. Like—completely. I’ve got three clients coming in after hours, and one of them’s a timing chain replacement on a V6 that’s going to take me till two in the morning if everything goes right, which it won’t, because timing chains never go right.”

“Oh,” you mumbled. And then, because you were a person who’d spent your entire adult life pretending you didn’t need anything from anyone: “That’s fine. No big deal. It’s just a race.”

You turned back to the windshield. The river was on your left now, wide and flat and silver, and a heron stood motionless in the shallows, and you focused on the heron because the heron didn’t care about Friday nights or timing chains or the particular ache that had settled behind your sternum like a stone dropped into still water.

The car slowed. Mingi pulled over onto the gravel shoulder, the tires crunching softly, and cut the engine. The sudden silence was enormous—just the tick of cooling metal and the distant hum of the highway and the sound of your own breathing, which you were trying very hard to keep even.

He turned in his seat.

You didn’t look at him. You kept your eyes on the heron, which had taken a step forward into the water with the slow, deliberate grace of something that had never once needed to explain itself to anyone.

“You’re doing the thing,” he frowned as he scanned your facial expression.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you say it’s fine and it’s not fine.” His voice was close. Closer than the passenger seat should have allowed. “Look at me, please.”

You looked at him.

His face was right there—inches away, the afternoon light catching the gold in his eyes. He was looking at you with an expression that made your chest do something complicated and painful, like a valve opening somewhere you hadn’t known was closed.

“I want to be there,” he mumbled. The words were simple and direct, the way Mingi’s words always were when he meant them. “You know I want to be there. I’d rather be watching you race than doing a timing chain on a V6 that some idiot ran dry for six months. But I told these people I’d do it, and they’re counting on me, and—”

“I know.” You did know. That was the worst part. You knew exactly the kind of person Mingi was—the kind who showed up, who kept his word, who rebuilt transmissions at four in the morning because someone had asked him to and he’d said yes. You’d fallen for that person. You didn’t get to resent him for being exactly who he was. “It’s okay, Mingi. I understand.”

He studied your face for a long moment—the way your mouth was doing something you hoped passed for a smile, the way your eyes kept flicking to the heron because holding his gaze for too long felt like standing too close to a fire. He saw it. Of course he saw it. Mingi saw everything.

His hand came up.

Slow. Deliberate. Giving you every chance to pull away, to deflect, to make a joke, to do any of the things you usually did when someone tried to touch you with intention. You didn’t move.

His palm settled against your cheek. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone—once, twice—and his skin was warm and rough and smelled like solvent and the honey butter cake from lunch, and the touch was so gentle it made your eyes sting.

“Hey,” he whispered. Soft. So soft. “I’ll make it up to you. You name it, and I’m there. I promise.”

You leaned into his hand before you could stop yourself. Just a fraction—just enough to feel the pressure of his palm, the steady warmth of it, the way his thumb stilled against your skin like he was holding his breath.

“You promise?” you mumbled against his hand, your voice came out smaller than you wanted it to.

“Promise.” His thumb moved again—a slow sweep along your cheekbone that sent something warm and liquid through your bloodstream. “I’ll clear a night. I’ll put it on the calendar in permanent marker. I’ll tell every client in the city that Song Mingi is unavailable that evening because he has a prior engagement that is non-negotiable.”

A laugh escaped you, a little broken, but real. “Non-negotiable?”

“Completely non-negotiable.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, and the dimple appeared, and the cut on his lip stretched when he smiled, and you thought—with the kind of clarity that only comes in the quiet moments between one heartbeat and the next—that you would remember this exact image for the rest of your life. Mingi in the driver’s seat of your car, his hand on your face, the river silver behind him, promising you something he meant with every molecule of his being.

“Okay,” you exhaled. “Another night.”

“Another night, I promise.” He held your gaze for one more beat—long enough that the air between you changed, thickened, became something you could almost taste—and then his hand dropped from your cheek and returned to the wheel, and the moment collapsed back into the ordinary like it had never happened.

He started the engine. The car came alive around you, that clean, steady hum that meant everything was where it was supposed to be. He pulled back onto the road, and the heron lifted from the shallows and beat its slow, heavy wings into the sky, and you watched it go until it was a speck against the pale blue, and then you watched the road unfold ahead of you, and you didn’t say anything else because you didn’t need to.

The silence held. The kind that didn’t need to be filled. The kind that felt like a promise.

══════════════════

Friday arrived like a held breath finally released.

The industrial stretch was different tonight—larger, louder, the energy cranked up to something that buzzed against your skin like a live wire. More cars lined the turnout than you’d seen in months, their engines idling in a low, impatient chorus that vibrated through the soles of your boots. The crowd had spilled past the guardrail and onto the shoulder, phones out, speakers blasting three different songs at once, the smell of cigarette smoke and cheap beer and someone’s body spray mixing with the burnt-rubber perfume of the asphalt. Someone had strung LED lights along the overpass supports, casting everything in a pulsing, carnival-bright wash that made the night feel like something staged, something that knew it was being watched.

You stood at the open driver’s side door with your hands on the roof and your head bowed, running through the checklist.

Tire pressure: thirty-two all around, checked four times.

Oil: full, clean, Mingi’s handwriting still on the dipstick tube where he’d marked the fill line with a pencil.

Coolant: topped off. Brake fluid: clear and full. Belts: tight, no cracks, no fraying.

You’d gone over every inch of the engine bay yourself that afternoon, twice, with a headlamp and a torque wrench and the kind of obsessive attention to detail that bordered on compulsion. The new bracket gleamed under the hood like a promise kept, and the transmission mount bolt sat snug and true, and you’d driven the car here tonight without a single sound that didn’t belong.

Still. You checked again. You always checked again.

Behind you, the pre-race circus was in full swing. You could hear your best friend, Yuna, before you could even see her. A voice that could cut glass and a laugh that could shatter it—was arguing with someone about the bet spread, her hands moving in sharp, emphatic arcs while three guys in matching jackets nodded along like they understood a word she was saying. Your friend, Soobin, was crouched beside your rear tire with a flashlight, double-checking the tread depth because he’d lost fifty bucks once on a blowout and had never fully recovered emotionally.

And there, leaning against the hood of a black sedan that had no business being at a street race, were three figures you’d recognize anywhere.

Hongjoong saw you first. He was the shortest of the three but carried himself like he’d been genetically engineered for maximum authority—black beanie pulled low over his forehead, a leather jacket that cost more than most of the cars on the stretch, arms crossed, jaw set in that permanent expression of mild, world-weary amusement that he wore like a second skin. He raised his chin in greeting, and you raised yours back, and that was the entirety of the conversation Hongjoong ever needed to have with anyone.

Beside him, Seonghwa stood with the kind of posture that suggested he’d been born in a finishing school and escaped at the first opportunity. Tall, lean, dressed in all black like he was attending a funeral for someone he didn’t like, his dark hair swept back from his face in a way that looked effortless and absolutely was not. He was the manager at ATZ—the one who kept the books, handled the clients, and maintained the delicate fiction that the shop operated within the bounds of something resembling a schedule. He was also, you’d learned over the months, the only person on earth who could make Mingi do paperwork without a fight, which meant he was either a wizard or had blackmail material of catastrophic proportions. You suspected both.

Jongho was on Seonghwa’s other side, arms folded, watching the crowd with the alert, slightly wary expression of someone who’d seen enough to know that crowds were where trouble went to multiply. He was the youngest at the shop but moved through it like he’d been born under a lift—quiet, capable, the kind of mechanic who could diagnose an engine from the sound of the starter alone. He’d helped Mingi with your transmission mount the morning after the repair, you’d learned later, holding the bracket in place while Mingi threaded the new bolt. He gave you a small nod when you caught his eye, and you nodded back, and the exchange contained approximately as much warmth as two people who respected each other’s competence could manage in a single gesture.

You straightened up from the door and walked over to them, wiping your palms on your jeans.

“I can’t believe you guys made it,” you beamed, because it was the polite thing to say, even though the sight of them—of anyone from ATZ, anyone who knew the shape of your engine bay the way you did—had loosened something tight behind your ribs.

“Hongjoong lost a bet,” Seonghwa said, without looking at Hongjoong.

“I did not lose a bet.” Hongjoong’s voice was flat. “I made a strategic decision to attend a cultural event.”

“Uh-huh, cultural event… right, right.” you nodded your head slowly, heavy with suspicion.

“Street racing is a cultural institution with deep roots in—”

“He lost twenty dollars to Jongho about whether you’d check your tire pressure two times or four,” Seonghwa said, and Jongho’s mouth twitched in something that was almost a smile. “It was three, by the way.”

“Four, actually.” you corrected, and Hongjoong pointed at Jongho with the satisfied air of a man who’d just been vindicated.

“See? She checked it four times and I said four. You said three. Pay up, kid.”

Jongho reached into his back pocket without argument and handed over a crumpled twenty. Hongjoong took it with the gravity of someone accepting a Nobel Prize.

You laughed, the sound felt good in the night air, loosening something that had been wound tight since you’d pulled into the turnout and cut the engine. The three of them were here. They’d come. Mingi’s people had come, which meant maybe he was also there too. 

“How’s the car?” Seonghwa asked, and his tone was professional—the manager’s tone, the one that meant he was genuinely interested in the answer and not just making conversation.

“She’s solid,” you answered back confidently. “Mingi did the bracket last week. She’s running cleaner than she has in months.”

“Mm. Good.” Seonghwa’s eyes moved past you to the car, assessing it with the same quiet attention he gave everything—invoices, clients, the state of the break room microwave. “He spent three hours on that mount. Wouldn’t let anyone else touch it.”

Something warm bloomed behind your sternum. You didn’t let it show on your face.

“Control freak,” you joked lightly.

“The worst,” Seonghwa agreed, and there was something in his voice—something knowing, something that suggested he’d been paying attention to more than just the state of the break room microwave—but before you could parse it, Hongjoong was speaking again.

“Who are you running against tonight? The Busan kid?”

“Jihoon and the Busan kid, yeah. And a few others—some guy in a WRX who’s been talking a big game on the forums, and a girl in a Civic that’s been modded within an inch of its life. It should be interesting.”

Jongho made a sound—a low, considering hum that was eerily similar to the one Mingi made when he was cataloguing damage. “The Civic’s got a K-swap. I saw it at the meet last weekend. She’s running a bigger turbo than she should be. She’ll pull hard off the line but fade by the second turn if the cooling can’t keep up.”

You looked at him. “You went to the meet?”

“I go to all of them.” He said it like it was nothing. Like attending every unofficial car gathering within a thirty-mile radius was a perfectly normal hobby for a twenty-five-year-old mechanic who otherwise gave the impression of being allergic to social interaction. “Research.”

“Research,” Hongjoong repeated, deadpan.

“Market analysis,” Jongho smirked, and didn’t elaborate.

You grinned and turned back to the car. The ritual wasn’t finished. You still had to walk the length of the stretch—check the surface for debris, note the manhole cover on the second turn, feel the asphalt under your boots and commit its texture to memory. You still had to sit in the driver’s seat for exactly three minutes with the engine off, hands on the wheel, eyes closed, running the course in your head—every shift point, every braking marker, every place where the road cambered in a way that could send an unwary car wide.

Your eyes moved past the crowd. Past Yuna and her betting spreadsheet, past Soobin and his flashlight, past the three ATZ mechanics standing in their cluster of black leather and quiet competence. Past the LED lights and the speaker stacks and the groups of strangers with their phones raised like offerings to some digital god. You scanned the turnout. The guardrail. The overpass. The shadows where the streetlights didn’t reach.

You looked for him.

You looked for the tall frame, the dark hair, the oversized jacket with the sleeves pushed up. You looked for the way he stood—loose and easy, one hip cocked, like gravity was a suggestion he’d chosen to follow. You looked for the familiar smile. You looked for the one person in the crowd who would be watching you the way he watched engines—with total, uncomplicated attention, like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at.

The turnout was full of people. None of them were Mingi.

You let your gaze sweep one more time—slower now, deliberate, giving him every chance to materialize from behind a car or step out of the shadows or call your name from somewhere you hadn’t checked. The crowd shifted and pulsed, and a flare went up near the starting line, throwing red light across a hundred faces, and none of them were his.

He wasn’t here. Of course he wasn’t here. He’d told you, and you’d said it was fine, and it was fine. It was completely, totally, one-hundred-percent fine.

You turned back to the car and placed both hands on the roof again, fingers spread wide, and you took a breath that went all the way to the bottom of your lungs and held it there for a count of four.

“You okay?” Seonghwa asked from behind you. His voice was careful. Observant. He’d seen you looking.

“Yeah. Everything’s fine,” you replied, and you meant it about the car, and you meant it about the race, and the part that wasn’t about the car or the race—the part that was about a mechanic who rebuilt transmissions at four in the morning and remembered your oat milk and carried you through a doorway too narrow for his shoulders—you set that part aside. You set it in the same place you kept all the other things you weren’t ready to examine, and you closed the door on it, and you turned the lock.

You had a race to win.

You walked the stretch. You checked the surface—clean, dry, the manhole cover still loose on the second turn, the same one that had sent Jihoon wide last time. You committed the texture to memory—smooth here, slightly rough there, the seam where the old pavement met the new running like a scar down the centerline. You sat in the driver’s seat for exactly three minutes with the engine off, hands on the wheel, eyes closed, and you ran the course in your head.

You opened your eyes. The dashboard glowed its familiar amber, and the key was in your hand, and the crowd outside had gone quiet in that particular way that meant the flagger was taking position.

You turned the key.

The engine caught—clean , steady, that deep throaty hum that meant every bolt was where it belonged and every belt was singing the same song. You let the RPMs settle, then blipped the throttle twice—once for luck, once because the car asked for it—and pulled forward to the starting line.

Jihoon was already there. His silver coupe idled beside you, its aftermarket exhaust popping and crackling with the aggressive, attention-seeking rhythm of someone who’d spent more on sound than substance. He revved at you—three quick stabs, the automotive equivalent of a middle finger—and you didn’t respond. You kept your eyes on the flagger, on the strip of white cloth hanging limp in the still night air, on the exact point where it would snap upward and the world would narrow to nothing but asphalt and instinct.

The Busan kid was two cars back in his modified Civic, the intercooler gleaming under the LED lights like a promise of trouble. The WRX was on your other side, its driver—a guy you didn’t recognize, late twenties, a baseball cap pulled low—cracking his neck side to side with the theatrical tension of someone who’d watched too many movies. The girl in the K-swapped Civic was behind you, engine ticking over with the tight, impatient rhythm of a turbo spooling against its wastegate.

The flagger raised his arm.

Your hand found the shifter. First gear. Clutch in. Throttle to the sweet spot—three thousand, hold it, feel the car strain against the brakes like a dog pulling at its leash. Your heartbeat was steady. Your breathing was even. Everything outside the windshield had gone soft and distant, the way it always did in the seconds before the green—the crowd noise flattening to a dull roar, the LED lights blurring into streaks of color, the smell of burnt rubber and beer and body spray condensing into a single, meaningless note.

The flag dropped.

You released the clutch and the brakes simultaneously, the way you’d practiced ten thousand times in empty parking lots and deserted stretches of road, and the car launched forward with a violence that pressed you into the seat. The tires bit—clean, no spin, no wasted energy—and you were through first gear before the WRX had found its footing, the tach needle swinging past redline and your hand already moving to second, third, the engine screaming its approval as you fed it everything it asked for.

The first turn came fast. You took it tight—tighter than the line you’d rehearsed, cutting inside the apex marker by a close margin because Jihoon was already trying to crowd you wide, his front bumper edging into your peripheral vision like something predatory. You held the line. Your right rear tire kissed the inside curb and the car shuddered once—a brief, violent protest—and then settled, and you were through, accelerating hard into the short straight before the second turn.

The manhole cover. You could see it ahead—a dark circle in the asphalt, slightly raised, slightly loose, the same one that had cost Jihoon a bumper last time. He’d remember it. He’d be cautious. You wouldn’t.

Your foot came off the pedal at the last possible moment, and the car rotated into the turn with the kind of precision that only comes from knowing exactly how much grip you had left and being willing to use all of it. The manhole passed under your left tires with a dull, metallic thunk that you felt through the steering column, and you were already unwinding the wheel, already feeding power back in, already watching Jihoon in your rearview as he lifted—just barely, just enough—to avoid the cover, and the gap between you opened by half a car length.

Not enough. Not nearly enough.

The third turn was sweeping and fast, the camber pulling you toward the outside guardrail, and you fought it with micro-adjustments of the wheel—tiny, instinctive corrections that kept the car on the line you’d drawn in your head three minutes ago. The tach sat at six thousand in fourth gear, the engine pulling hard and clean, no hesitation, no vibration, no sound that didn’t belong. Mingi’s bracket held. Mingi’s bolt held. The transmission mount sat silent and true beneath you, and you pushed harder because it let you.

The Busan kid was gaining. You could hear him—the high, tight whine of his turbo spooling, the sharp crack of his exhaust on overrun—and in your mirrors you could see the Civic’s headlights swelling, closing, eating the gap you’d built on the first two turns. He was fast. Jongho had been right about the cooling—you could see heat shimmer rising from his hood in the LED light—but he was fast enough that the fade wouldn’t matter if he caught you before the straight.

The fourth turn. The one that looked easy and wasn’t.

Jihoon had recovered from the manhole. He was on your right now, his front bumper level with your door, his engine screaming as he pushed for the inside line. You could see his face through his window—jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the road ahead with the desperate intensity of someone who’d bet more than he could afford to lose. His car was faster in a straight line. You both knew it. If he got past you before the fifth turn, the straight would belong to him, and you’d never close the gap.

You braked early.

You let the car slow a fraction of a second before the braking marker, and Jihoon took the bait. He shot past your bumper, diving for the inside, certain he’d found the opening, and you let him have it. You let him have the inside line on a turn that tightened at the exit, on a road that cambered outward, on an asphalt surface that was slightly rougher on the inside than the outside.

He realized his mistake a half-second too late. You saw it happen—the moment his wheels lost their grip, the moment the camber pulled him wide, the moment his rear end stepped out and he had to catch it with a correction that cost him speed, momentum, everything. You cut to the outside, carried your speed through the exit, and when you looked in your mirror, Jihoon was a full car length behind and fighting to stay on the road.

The straight opened ahead of you—flat, dark, the orange cones of the finish line glowing like distant candles. Fifth gear. Foot to the floor. Don’t lift. Don’t think. Just go.

The Civic was still there. The Busan kid had found something on the fourth turn—some line you hadn’t anticipated, some technique that kept his turbo spooled and his tires planted—and he was alongside you now, his front bumper creeping past yours inch by inch, his engine howling with the particular fury of a K-swap pushed past its comfort zone. Heat poured from his hood in visible waves. The cooling was failing. You could see it in the way his tach was fluctuating—dropping a hundred RPM, climbing back, dropping again—the engine fighting for air it couldn’t get.

But he was still moving. Still gaining. His front bumper was at your door. Then at your front wheel. Then past it.

The finish line was thirty seconds away. Maybe less. The cones were getting bigger, the crowd noise swelling from a dull roar to something sharp and specific—you could hear individual voices now, individual shouts, someone screaming your name.

You dropped to fourth. The engine screamed—past the redline, into territory you’d never asked it to visit, the tach needle buried in the red and the valves singing a song that was equal parts defiance and desperation. The car responded. It always responded. The RPMs climbed past anything the factory had ever intended, and the power came back—not smoothly, not cleanly, but enough. Enough to close the gap. Enough to pull even with the Civic’s rear bumper, then its door, then its front wheel.

The Busan kid looked over. You saw his face through his window—young, flushed, eyes wide with the particular shock of someone who’d been certain they’d won and was watching the certainty evaporate. He pushed the throttle harder. You heard his engine stutter—a single, violent misfire that cost him everything—and in that fraction of a second, you were past him.

The finish line. The cones. The flagger’s arm dropping.

You crossed first.

You knew it before the crowd told you. You knew it in the way the Civic’s headlights fell behind you, in the way the straight opened up empty ahead of your bumper, in the way the engine’s scream shifted from desperate to triumphant as you lifted off the throttle and let the car coast, the adrenaline still singing through your veins like electricity through a live wire.

The crowd erupted.

You could hear it even through the closed windows—a wall of sound that hit the car like a physical force, hundreds of voices merging into a single, incoherent roar of celebration. Phones were raised, flashlights swinging, the LED lights along the overpass pulsing in time with the bass from the speakers someone had turned up to maximum. You pulled into the turnout and cut the engine, and the sudden silence was immediately filled by the sound of people running toward your car, their boots pounding on the asphalt, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of congratulations and disbelief.

You sat there for a moment. Hands on the wheel. Breathing hard. The dashboard lights faded slowly, and the engine ticked its cooling song, and something behind your chest—something that had been wound tight since the starting line, since the moment you’d scanned the crowd and found him missing—unspooled all at once, leaving you lightheaded and grinning like an idiot.

The door opened from the outside.

Yuna was there, her face split in a grin so wide it looked like it hurt, both hands gripping the door frame like she was afraid the car might try to escape. “You absolute madwoman! You insane, beautiful, completely unhinged—” She was pulling you out of the seat before you could unbuckle, her arms around your neck, her voice shouting directly into your ear at a volume that should have required a permit. “You killed it, babe! You beat them all! The Busan kid looked like he was going to cry!”

Soobin was right behind her, his flashlight still in his hand, his face flushed with the particular joy of someone who’d just won back the fifty dollars he’d lost on the blowout plus interest. “Dude, that fourth turn was insane! That was literally criminal, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal but who gives a fuck.”

You were laughing—you couldn’t stop, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and raw and entirely involuntary—and people were pressing in from all sides, hands clapping your shoulders, voices shouting your car’s name, your name, variations of your name that you’d never heard before. Someone had a bottle of champagne—the cheap kind, the kind that came in a green bottle with a foil label—and the cork popped with a sound like a gunshot, and foam sprayed across your hood in a wide, arcing fan that caught the LED light and turned to gold.

“Careful on my paint man!” you shouted, but you were laughing, and someone else had a second bottle, and then a third, and within seconds your car was glistening with cheap champagne, the hood dripping, the windshield streaked, the headlights wearing crowns of foam that slid slowly down the lenses. The crowd was chanting—your name, your car’s name, something rhythmic and obscene that Yuna had probably started—and you stood in the center of it with champagne in your hair and the particular, dizzying high of having done the thing you’d set out to do and done it perfectly.

Hongjoong materialized at your left shoulder, his twenty-dollar bill now folded neatly in his breast pocket, his expression one of grudging respect. “Not bad, kid.” He nudged your shoulder, which from Hongjoong was roughly equivalent to a standing ovation.

Seonghwa was beside him, arms crossed, a small, satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “The bracket held,” he observed, like he’d been watching for exactly that and nothing else.

“Thank god for that, huh,” you confirmed, and the words came out slightly breathless, slightly giddy, and you wiped champagne from your eyebrow with the back of your hand and grinned at both of them like you’d just won the lottery.

And then you saw him. He was at the edge of the crowd—tall, unmistakable, the white of his tank top bright against his leather jacket, dark jeans that had no right to fit the way they did. Hair pushed back. Rings shining brightly on his fingers and silver chains by his throat catching the light they always did. Both hands clean, the left one uninjured and wrapped around the stems of a bouquet he was holding down at his side with the careful, slightly uncertain grip of someone who had never bought flowers before and was now standing in a crowd of street racers holding flowers. Proudly wearing that stupid smile of his.

Mingi.

Your brain short-circuited. You blinked. You blinked again. The champagne was still dripping from your hair, and the crowd was still roaring, and Yuna was still screaming something in your ear that you couldn’t hear, and Mingi was there, standing at the edge of the turnout like he’d materialized from the very specific fantasy you’d been refusing to acknowledge for the past couple of weeks.

You pushed through the crowd. People moved aside—or you moved through them, you weren’t sure. The crowd parted like water, and you were running. Boots slapping against the champagne-wet asphalt, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your teeth. Mingi lifted the bouquet from his side and held it out to you like an offering, like a confession, like the only thing he could think to bring to the most important moment of his week.

You took the flowers without breaking stride. Wildflowers, not the kind from a shop, the kind that grew along the riverbank where you’d pulled over that afternoon, blue and yellow and white, stems wrapped in what looked like shop towel because Mingi didn’t own ribbon. Then you were launching yourself at him, both arms around his neck, your legs wrapping around his waist because the momentum demanded it, because physics demanded it, because every molecule in your body demanded it.

He caught you. Of course he caught you—his free arm hooking under your thighs, the other still clutching the bouquet, his body absorbing the impact with the same easy, practiced confidence he brought to everything that mattered. You buried your face in his neck, and he smelled like something warm and new—aftershave, maybe?

The crowd erupted.

Not the race-winning eruption—something different, something bright, the particular sound of hundreds people collectively losing their minds over something they hadn’t known they were watching for. A chorus of whoops and whistles and someone—Yuna, definitely Yuna—screaming “OH MY GOD” at a frequency that could transcend both space and time. Phones were up, cameras flashing, and you could hear the cooing, the affectionate, slightly drunk awwww that rolled through the turnout like a wave, and someone shouted “KISS HER, BRO!” and someone else shouted “AW MAN I THOUGHT I HAD A CHANCE.” and the whole thing collapsed into laughter and applause that vibrated through the asphalt and up through Mingi’s chest and into yours.

His mouth was at your ear. His breath was warm against your skin, and his voice was low—so low that only you could hear it, the words meant for you and you alone, tucked into the space between his jaw and your hair.

“Congratulations, my little racer,” he whispered. “You were incredible. I watched the whole thing from the overpass. You kicked their asses.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him—his face inches from yours, the gold in his eyes catching the LED light, the cut on his lip healed to a thin white line, the flowers crushed between your chest and his, releasing their faint, sweet smell into the narrow gap between your bodies.

“You came,” you beamed up at him, your voice came out breathless and disbelieving, like you were still waiting for the punchline. “I thought you said you couldn’t—the timing chain, the V6—”

“I pulled some strings.” His dimple appeared. “I finished the timing chain at nine. Drove straight here. Parked on the overpass and watched you absolutely murder that Civic.”

“You finished a timing chain in—”

“Did you forget that I’m very good at my job?” The smile was wide now, unashamed, the kind of smile that belonged in a movie montage, and you were laughing—both of you were laughing, your foreheads pressed together, the crowd still cheering around you like you’d invented something new.

He shifted his grip on you—adjusting, settling, his arm tightening under your thighs—and then he was walking. Carrying you. Back through the crowd, past Yuna who was filming with both hands and sobbing dramatically, past Soobin who gave you a thumbs-up that was mostly champagne foam, past Hongjoong who looked like he was trying very hard to maintain his world-weary composure and failing, past Seonghwa who was watching with the quiet, knowing satisfaction of someone who’d seen this coming from three months away.

Mingi’s mouth found your ear again. His lips brushed the shell of it—barely, accidentally, not-accidentally—and his voice dropped to that register that lived in the space between a whisper and a thought.

“Did you want to give them a show, hm?” The words were warm and teasing, his breath ghosting across your skin. “Because we could. We could stand right here and let them film every second. I’m sure everyone would appreciate the content.”

You shook your head against his shoulder—a quick, emphatic no—and felt him smile against your temple.

“Smart girl, aren’t you.” His arm tightened around you, possessive and gentle in equal measure. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

You reached into your back pocket without looking, your fingers finding the key fob by touch alone, and you pressed it into his free hand—the one not holding the bouquet, the one not holding you. He caught it without looking, the way he caught everything—tools, keys, the particular weight of your trust—and his fingers closed around it like it belonged there.

He carried you to the car. The crowd was still cheering, still filming, still living in the moment you’d already left behind, and Mingi set you down gently at the passenger door—your feet finding the ground, his hand lingering at the small of your back—and opened it for you with the same old habit, the one he never skipped. You slid into the seat, the flowers in your lap, their stems cool against your palms, and Mingi closed the door behind you with a soft, deliberate click.

He walked around the hood—you watched him through the windshield, the way he moved through the champagne-streaked light with the unhurried confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going—and dropped into the driver’s seat. The engine turned over on the first try, that clean, steady hum that meant everything was where it was supposed to be, and Mingi pulled out of the turnout with the kind of smooth, controlled precision that made your stomach flip.

The crowd fell away behind you. The LED lights shrank to pinpoints in the rearview. The champagne and the shouting and the bass-heavy music dissolved into the night, replaced by the sound of the engine and the wind through the open windows and the faint rustle of wildflowers in your lap.

══════════════════

The road unwound beneath you, and the city thinned to scattered streetlights and the occasional glow of a late-night convenience store. You held the flowers in your lap, their stems cool against your palms, their scent—something green and wild and faintly sweet—mixing with the smell of Mingi’s cologne that still clung to the upholstery. The radio was off. The engine hummed its steady, contented song. The wind through the open windows pushed your hair across your face, and you didn’t bother pushing it back.

Mingi’s hand left the wheel. You felt it before you saw it. The shift in the air, the subtle change in the weight distribution of the car as he turned his body slightly toward you. His fingers found yours on the center console, warm and rough and sure, and they laced through yours with the easy, unhurried confidence of someone who’d been waiting to do exactly this and had decided that the waiting was over.

You looked down at your joined hands. His thumb traced a slow circle over your knuckle—once, twice—and then his grip tightened, just barely, and he lifted your hand from the console and brought it to his mouth.

His lips pressed against the back of your hand. Soft, deliberate, lingering. The kiss was warm and dry and over almost before it began, but it sent something electric cascading through your bloodstream, a current that started at the point of contact and raced up your arm and settled somewhere behind your ribs like a spark catching dry tinder.

You didn’t pull away. You didn’t speak. You just watched him—the sharp line of his profile in the dashboard light, the way his jaw worked as he lowered your hand but didn’t let go, his thumb resuming its slow, circling pattern on your skin.

The car turned left. You recognised the road—the one that curved along the riverbank, the one you’d driven that afternoon with the windows down and the silence between you feeling like a promise. The water was dark now, reflecting the moon in long, broken ribbons of silver, and the trees along the bank stood in silhouette against the pale sky. The road narrowed to a single lane, then to gravel, and Mingi pulled into the empty parking lot.

He cut the engine.

The silence was immediate and total—just the tick of cooling metal and the distant murmur of the river and the sound of your own breathing, which had gone slightly uneven without your permission. Mingi’s hand was still in yours. The flowers were still in your lap. The moonlight came through the windshield and painted everything in shades of blue and silver, and for a long moment neither of you moved.

Then Mingi turned in his seat.

He looked at you the way he looked at engines—with total, uncomplicated attention, like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at. His eyes moved from your face to the flowers in your lap and back, and something shifted in his expression—something vulnerable and warm and slightly terrified, the look of a man who’d decided to say something he’d been carrying for a long time and was now realizing there was no taking it back.

“I picked those,” he said, nodding at the bouquet. “From the riverbank. This morning, before the shop opened. I drove out here at five-thirty and walked along the water and picked the ones that looked the prettiest, reminded me of you.”

You looked down at the flowers. Blue and yellow and white, stems wrapped in shop towel, slightly crushed from being held between your bodies during the champagne-soaked celebration. They were imperfect—wild, uneven, some of them already starting to droop—and they were the most beautiful thing anyone had ever given you.

“You drove out here at the ass crack of dawn” you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper. “To get me flowers?”

“Mm.” His thumb was still moving on your hand—slow circles, steady and grounding. “I was going to give them to you at the race. Had this whole plan—I’d wait until you won, and then I’d walk up like it was nothing, suuuuper nonchalant. Like hey, congratulations, here are some flowers I found, no big deal.” He huffed a laugh, soft and self-deprecating. “But then you came up and ambushed my whole plan.”

“You remembered the flowers.”

He turned to look at you—really look at you—with an expression you’d never seen on him before. Not the easy grin, not the teasing half-smile. Something quieter. Something that made your breath catch.

“You’re surprised?” he said. It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

“Sweetheart.” His voice was low, almost careful, like he was choosing each word by hand. “I remember your fancy oat milk creamer. I remember that you check your tire pressure four times before a race. I remember the little sound you make right before you shift, and the way your hands shake after, and you shove them in your pockets, so nobody sees.” His thumb stilled on your knuckles. “It’s you. How could I forget all the things that make you, you?”

The words landed in the space between you like stones dropped into still water. You could feel the ripples spreading—through your chest, through your stomach, through the places you’d been keeping locked and quiet for months.

“Mingi—”

“I know,” there was a thread of nervousness in his voice that you’d never heard before—not from him, not from the man who rebuilt transmissions at four in the morning with one hand tied behind his back. “I know it’s a lot. And I know the timing is—I showed up at your race with riverbank flowers wrapped in shop towel, that’s not exactly—”

“No, It’s perfect,” you breathed.

He stopped. Blinked. “What?”

“It’s perfect.” You squeezed his hand, and your voice was steadier now, steadier than it had any right to be given the way your heart was trying to escape through your sternum. “The flowers are perfect. Showing up when you said you couldn’t is perfect. Finishing a timing chain in four hours to watch me race is—” You laughed, a little broken, a little giddy. “That’s the most ridiculous, over-the-top, completely unnecessary thing anyone has ever done for me, and it’s absolutely perfect.”

His eyes went bright—not with tears, but with something close, something that made the gold in them catch the moonlight and hold it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You held his gaze, and the air between you had gone thick and warm and charged with something that had been building since the first time he’d called you sweetheart over the phone, since the first time he’d carried you through a doorway too narrow for his shoulders, since the first time you’d woken up on his makeshift bed with his jacket over you and his coffee in your hands and the sound of him working on your car like a prayer in the next room.

“I’ve been remembering things too, you know. The way you talk to engines. The way you wrap cuts in electrical tape. The way you always open the door even though the hinges complain. The way you—” Your voice cracked, just barely, and you pushed through it. “The way you make me feel like I’m worth showing up for. Like I’m worth the overtime and the missed sleep and the riverbank flowers at five-thirty in the morning.”

Mingi’s hand tightened around yours. His jaw worked—once, twice—and when he spoke, his voice was rough at the edges, like something had been sanded down to its most honest layer.

“You are,” he said. “You’ve always been. I just didn’t know how to say it without sounding—”

“Like a lovesick mechanic?”

The laugh that escaped him was startled and genuine, and it broke the tension like a window shattering—not violently, but completely, the barriers between you dissolving all at once. “Yeah,” he admitted, still laughing. “Like a lovesick mechanic who picks wildflowers at dawn and drives across the city to watch his girl race because he can’t stand the idea of her crossing the finish line without him there.”

His girl.

Your chest was so full it hurt. You looked at him, at the way his eyes were shining in the moonlight with something that looked terrifyingly, beautifully like love—and you made a decision.

You swung your leg over the centre console, bracing one hand on the dashboard and the other on the back of Mingi’s seat, and the flowers tumbled from your lap into the footwell—you’d apologise to them later—and you were halfway across when your back connected with the steering wheel.

BEEEEP!

The horn blared. One long, deafening, comically loud sound that shattered the romantic tension like a brick through a greenhouse window.

The sound bounced off the river and came back at you from three directions, and a flock of something erupted from the trees along the bank in a flurry of wings and indignant squawking.

You froze. Mingi froze. The horn kept blaring—your weight still pressing against the wheel—and for one horrible, eternal second the only sound in the universe was the aggressive, unwavering beep of your car announcing to every living creature within a half-kilometre radius that two people were having a moment.

Then Mingi laughed.

It started low—a rumble in his chest that you felt through the hand still pressed against his seat—and then it broke open, wide and bright and completely unrestrained, his head falling back against the headrest, his whole body shaking with it. You were laughing too. you couldn’t help it, the absurdity of it crashing over you like a wave. You shifted your weight off the horn, and the silence that followed was somehow even funnier than the noise had been.

“Oh my god,” you wheezed, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. “I just—I can’t believe I did that.”

“So smooth,” Mingi confirmed, his voice cracking with laughter. “That’s going in the wedding vows. I’m putting it in our wedding vows one day.”

“Stop—” You were laughing too hard to finish the sentence. “This is so embarrassing.”

“To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, and that one time you honked the horn with your back—”

You swatted his shoulder, and he caught your wrist—easy, instinctive, the way he caught everything—and the laughter died between you like a candle guttering in a draft, and the silence that replaced it was different from the one before. Charged. Intentional. The kind of silence that had a destination.

You were in his lap.

You hadn’t fully registered it until this moment. The solid warmth of his thighs beneath yours, the way your knees bracketed his hips, the way his free hand had found your waist and settled there with the kind of certainty that suggested it had been planning this landing for months. His face was inches from yours. You could see every detail—the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his lower lip caught the moonlight and held it.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he murmured.

“Hi, pretty boy,” you whispered back.

His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back and pulled you in with the quiet confidence of someone who had already decided. Your chest met his, and through the thin cotton of his tank top you felt it: the hard press of a chain against your chest, cold metal warming fast between your bodies, and beneath it the steady knock of his heartbeat going just a little faster than it should have been. His other hand still had your wrist, his thumb resting over your pulse, and you had the dizzy, helpless thought that he could feel exactly what he was doing to you—every traitorous beat of it.

“Mingi,” you whispered.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his voice was low and rough, the words coming from somewhere deep in his chest. “If you want me to stop, tell me now, because—”

You kissed him.

You didn’t hesitate. The need in your chest had built past the point of thinking, past the point of planning, leaving you with nothing but the gravitational certainty of wanting him so badly it hurt. You leaned in and claimed his mouth with both hands—one threading into his hair, the other cupping the sharp angle of his jaw, thumb grazing the stubble as you tilted his face toward yours. Your lips crashed together, all the trembling restraint of the last few months shattering between your teeth, and you kissed him with none of the gentleness you’d always thought a first kiss was supposed to have. It was hungry, greedy, almost angry—a collision of lips and breath and hands, your pent-up longing poured into the space of a single, shuddering breath.

Mingi met you with an equal, ferocious urgency. His hands found your hips and pulled you even closer, and the heat between your bodies was immediate, as if the months of flirting and 'what ifs' had been gasoline and someone finally struck the match. His mouth tasted like cool mint and something darker, sweeter, and you licked into him without thinking, chasing the sound he made when your tongue brushed his. He groaned, low in his throat, and the vibration went straight through your bones, finding all the places in you that had been waiting for this and lighting them up at once.

The kiss turned reckless almost instantly. Your fingers curled into his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath catch and his lips part for you. His hands slid up your back, bunching the fabric of your shirt at your waist, exposing a strip of skin that tingled in the cool air and then burned under the heat of his palms. He kissed you like he was trying to learn you—memorise you. Take as much as you would give and then ask for more, and you gave it to him gladly, shamelessly, your body moving in the small, instinctive ways that said yes, now, please.

He tasted you, mapped you, his breath coming faster as the kiss deepened, and when you broke away to gasp for air, his mouth didn’t leave your skin—it travelled along your jaw, down to your neck, finding the spot just beneath your ear that made your eyes flutter shut, and your nails dig into his shoulders. You heard yourself make a noise, helpless and wrecked, and felt him grin against your neck, triumphant.

You chased his mouth back to yours, biting his lower lip, and he let you, let you take and take until you were dizzy with it, until nothing else existed except the press of his lips, the slide of his hands, and the wild, intoxicating rush of wanting him and being wanted back just as fiercely.

You barely heard yourself whisper his name as you pressed your forehead to his, breathing the same air, letting his hands anchor you while the rest of the world spun out beneath you.

He kissed you like he wanted to ruin you for anyone else, and you let him. You kissed him back like you wanted to ruin him too. You lost track of time. Of the river outside, of the moon overhead, of anything that wasn’t the taste of him and the weight of his hands on your body.

When you finally separated, both of you breathing hard, his hands were still at your waist and your fingers were still in his hair. He was looking at you like a starved man, a little wrecked and utterly, unironically smitten.

“I should’ve done that a long time ago,” you heard yourself say, voice shaky but certain.

He grinned, slow and devastating, and pulled you in for another, softer kiss, barely a brush of lips but somehow more intimate than everything before. “You know damn well that I would’ve let you,” he breathed, and you felt the words all the way down your spine.

You kissed him again.

This time it was deeper, hungrier, his hands sliding up your sides with a deliberateness that made your skin prickle. His thumbs hooked under the hem of your shirt, and he broke the kiss just long enough to murmur against your lips.

“Lift your arms for me, baby.”

You did, arms lifting without hesitation, and he peeled the fabric up and off in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere behind the driver’s seat without looking. The cool night air hit your bare skin, and you shivered— but not from the cold. His gaze darkened as it dropped to your chest, and his fingers went to the clasp of your bra with the same practiced ease he used on engine bolts. One flick, and the band loosened. He didn’t pull it away yet, just let the straps slide down your shoulders an inch at a time, his knuckles grazing your skin like a promise.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice rough. “Look at you.” His thumb traced the edge of the lace, teasing the swell of your breast before finally dragging the fabric away.

The air hit your nipples first, tightening them instantly, but then his hands were there—warm, calloused, cupping you with a reverence that made your breath catch. He rolled one peak between his fingers, watching your face contort with pleasure as you gasped, then leaned in to take the other into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue made you arch into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as he teased you, alternating between gentle suction and sharp little nips that sent sparks straight to your core.

“S’not fair I’m half naked, and you’re still fully dressed,” you whined, tugging at his own shirt. He smirked and let you pull it over his head, revealing the lean muscle you’d been thinking about all evening—all week, if you were being honest. His chains pooled against his collarbones, still warm from his skin. Your fingers went to them before you’d made any conscious decision to, looping them gently, feeling the small links drag across your knuckles as you gave a slow, idle tug. “Fuck… Damn,” you breathed, because apparently your vocabulary had abandoned you.

Mingi’s laugh was low and pleased. “Yeah? That’s all you’ve got for me?”. His hands were already on your hips, guiding you down onto his lap, and the words dissolved into something more primal when you settled against him.

You rolled your hips experimentally, and the sound he made—half groan, half growl—went straight to the blooming heat of your pussy. His fingers dug into your waist, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to steer, and you found a rhythm that had both of you panting against each other’s mouths. “That’s it,” he drawled, his voice dropping into that register that made your stomach flip. “Always so pretty f'me.”

You ground down harder, chasing the friction, and his head fell back against the headrest. His throat was right there, and you kissed it, nipped at it.

“Backseat,” the command in his tone sent a thrill down your spine. “Now.”

You blinked, dazed. “What?”

“Go to the backseat. I’m not doing this half-assed in the front of your car.” His hands were already pushing you off his lap, and you stumbled out of the driver’s side, your legs unsteady. He followed, unfolding his long frame from the passenger seat with considerably less grace.

You both climbed into the back—you first, sliding across the leather—and then Mingi ducked in after you. Or tried to. His head connected with the roof with a solid thunk, and he winced, rubbing the spot with a rueful grin.

“Jesus—Forgot this car is so tiny. Might need to buy you a bigger car if we're going to do this again.”

You burst out laughing, the tension breaking into something bright and giddy. “It’s a perfectly normal-sized car! You’re just—” You gestured vaguely at all six feet of him.

“I’m just what?” He was grinning now too, that lopsided smile that crinkled his eyes. He settled beside you, the space suddenly very, very small. “Don't get shy on me now.”

“Massive,” you smirked, and the word came out breathier than you intended.

His eyes darkened. “Is that so? You know…My height isn’t the only thing that’s massive.” Instead of answering, you pulled him into another kiss, and he let you for a moment before pulling back, his hand on your jaw “Lie back for me, baby.” He nodded toward the door behind you. “Right there.” You shifted, letting your back find the door, the handle pressing briefly into your shoulder blade before you angled away from it. Your upper body sank against the cool window, your legs stretching across the seat toward him. The leather was cold against the backs of your thighs. Mingi settled in the footwell—knees at his chest, impossibly folded—and reached for the button of your jeans. “Lift your hips.” You did. He worked your jeans down your legs, his hands trailing fire along your skin, then dealt with your boots—one lace, then the other—and you kicked them off into the darkness somewhere near the front seats.

Then it was just you, stretched across the backseat in your panties, propped against the door with Mingi crouched between your knees, looking up at you like you were something worth taking his time with.

“Spread your legs wider,” he drawled.

Your breath caught. “Mingi—”

“Don’t make me ask twice, sweetheart.” His voice was velvet over steel, and your thighs fell open almost involuntarily. “Good girl.”

His hands settled on your knees, and he just looked at you—all of you, laid out for him. The parking lot light filtered amber through the windows. You could feel your own heartbeat in your throat. “You’re so beautiful,” he coos, his thumb grazing the inside of your thigh and stopping long before you needed him.

“Please,” you managed, voice trembling.

He flashed that infuriating smile and inched his thumb higher, then paused. “Please what? You’re my smart girl—you can use your words.”

“You know what I want,” you whispered, voice cracking.

He reached up, cupping your face and tilting your chin until you met his gaze. “If you want something, you have to use your words.”

You wanted to kill him—or kiss him. Maybe both. “Touch me properly. Please, Mingi, I need—”

“Shh.” At last his thumb brushed the edge of your underwear and you whined. “Good job, baby. That’s all you had to say.”

He shifted forward, knees braced against your thighs, steam and intent filling the small space between you. His eyes were dark, fixed on the bare skin just above his reach. When you looked down, your heart stuttered—he was entirely present, and you trembled before his touch even arrived.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he murmured, voice absolute. You obeyed, so helplessly drawn in that you’d have done anything he asked.

His touch feathered across your knee crease, drifting upward along the line where your skin warmed with anticipation. He watched every shiver, every hitch of your breath, lingering on the inner curve of your thigh. You squirmed; his hands held you steady, grounding you with effortless strength.

When your lids fluttered closed, he cleared his throat, and you snapped them open, mortified by how much it turned you on. He extended each second, building tension until you felt you might scream.

Finally, his thumb caught the elastic of your underwear, teasing the fabric. He leaned in close enough for each breath to scorch your skin. “Want it right here don’t you, baby?”

You nodded, barely able to whisper, “I do, Please Mingi...”

He rewarded you with a devastating smile and hooked both thumbs into the waistband of your underwear, dragging it down your legs in one slow, deliberate pull. He held your gaze as he folded the fabric and tucked it into his back pocket, casual as anything, like he was keeping it. Then his hand found you, fingers gathering your slickness, mapping every gasp and twitch as he traced your clit in gentle, maddening circles.

Your hips bucked, and he murmured, “Easy, pretty girl. I’ve got you.” But instead of rushing, he slowed, keeping you perched at the edge. Your knees knocked against his shoulders as he leaned back to admire his work.

“You look so perfect like this,” he breathed, voice low and ragged, “alll of this just for me.” He paused, satisfaction in every curve of his smile, as though he’d painted a masterpiece with his own two hands.

“Please, Mingi, p-please,” you heard yourself beg, the words rolling out of you shameless and raw.

He gave in, at last, sliding one long finger inside you, the sensation so intense you almost blacked out. The stretch and the heat and the pressure, all of it hit you at once, and your hands flew to his shoulders, digging in.

He curled that finger, just so perfectly, and when you arched off the car door, he kept pace, never breaking that perfect eye contact, never letting you drift even a second away from his attention.

He pumped his finger with a slow, luxurious rhythm, letting you ride the wave until you could hardly breathe. “So fucking tight, need to get you all ready for me,” he whispered, the pride in his voice made you even wetter. His thumb came up to circle your clit again, this time with purpose, dialling your body up to eleven in the space of a heartbeat.

He added a second finger, stretching you wider, and that was it—you were gone, hips rolling, head tossed back, mouth open in a silent scream. He pressed his face against your thigh, biting softly, and the feeling of his teeth and tongue sent shivers through your whole body.

But even when you tried to hide your face behind your hands, to ride the sensation out in the darkness of your palms, he stopped, pulling his hand away just long enough to force your gaze back to his.

“Don't you hide that cute face from me. I wanna see all of you.”

"Ah! M-mingi, fuck!" You cried out, unconsciously pulling away from him when his fingertips were already hitting so sinfully against your g-spot. You gripped onto his forearms for purchase, steadying yourself against his promiscuous rythmn.

He kept his fingers moving through it—curling, stroking, finding that sweet spot again and again with devastating precision, the filthy wet sounds of your cunt filling the silence of the car each time he drove his fingers deeper.

"You're taking my fingers so well," Mingi cooed, picking up the pace even faster.

Broken moans left your lips as he fucked you with his fingers. Your thighs clamped around his wrist and he pulled them apart with his free hand, firm and unhurried, spreading you back open without ever breaking his rhythm.

“You’re close, aren't you?” He murmured, not as a question rather as a statement. His voice was low and honeyed, that lazy confidence threading through every word like he’d mapped out every single one of your reactions before you’d even felt them. “I can feel it. You’re clenching so pretty around my fingers, baby.”

You whined, high and desperate, because he was right and he knew he was right and the worst part was that he sounded so goddamn pleased about it.

“That’s it. Don’t fight it.” His free hand slid up your thigh, fingers splayed wide against your skin, and he pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee like it was something sacred. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

The coil in your belly pulled tighter, tighter, and your hands fisted in the leather seat because there was nothing else to hold onto, nothing solid in a world that had narrowed down to the curl of his fingers inside you and the rough velvet of his voice.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Right on my hand. Show me how good I made you feel.”

You shattered.

It hit you like a wall of white noise, blinding and electric, and your back arched clean off the backseat as you came apart around him. His fingers didn’t stop for a second. If anything they slowed, drawing it out, wringing every last shudder and pulse from your body until you were trembling and gasping and completely, utterly ruined.

He watched you the entire time. You cracked your eyes open at some point and found him staring down at you with that crooked half-smile, the one that always made your stomach flip even when you were too wrung out to do anything about it.

“Fuck,” he breathed, and there was something almost reverent in it. “Look at you.”

He pulled his fingers free slowly, and you whimpered at the loss, but then he was bringing his hand up between your puffy folds gathering the remains of your pleasure on his digits.

You watched, still trembling, your chest heaving, as he slipped those slick fingers them between his lips and sucked them clean with the kind of deliberate, unhurried pleasure that made your thighs clench all over again. His eyes never left yours, dark and heavy-lidded, and the sound he made—a low, appreciative hum—vibrated through the small space between you.

“So sweet,” he murmured, pulling his fingers free with a soft pop. He licked the pad of his thumb, slow and thorough, like he was tasting something worth savouring. “So fucking perfect. You taste even better than I imagined.” He paused, searching for the word, and the half-smile that curved his mouth was devastating. “And I've imagined it a lot.”

Your face burned. Your entire body burned. You couldn’t look away from his mouth, from the way his tongue traced the line of his knuckles, from the way his eyes went half-lidded and dark with satisfaction.

You made a noise that was supposed to be indignation but came out embarrassingly close to a moan. “Such a fucking perv.”

“Mm.” He lowered himself over you, bracing his weight on one forearm against the back of the seat, and pressed his lips to the corner of your jaw. Still wet. Still tasting like you. “You love it though.”

You did. God help you, you really did.

He lowered his hand and reached for you, his palm warm against your hip, guiding you with that easy, unhurried confidence that made your knees weak even when you were already lying down. “Come lie down properly, you know I don’t bite,” he purred, and you obeyed—sliding backward onto the leather seat, letting him guide you. His hands traced your spine like he was tuning something precious. He shifted, smoothing your body until you lay flat, legs splayed, arms above your head, torso exposed beneath the cool leather.

He hovered over you, one hand on your hip to anchor you, the other brushing your inner thigh. The door handle pressed into your shoulders, the stickiness of the leather biting into your ribs, but none of it mattered. Only Mingi’s heat and the slow, hungry gleam in his eyes.

“How flexible are you?” he asked, as casually as if checking the time.

Your mind still foggy, you blinked. “I’d say I’m pretty flexible. Why?”

He hummed, hands sliding beneath your hips with mechanical precision, and lifted. Your lower body left the seat entirely, suspended in the air, nothing beneath your but his grip. You grabbed for something to hold and found his thighs—thick and solid under your palms, the denim warm.

“Is this okay?” he murmured. You nodded as you dug your fingers in his thighs.

Then his mouth was on you.

His tongue was a live wire, tracing a slow, molten path from where you ached to where you burned. The first drag of it—flat, deliberate, searing—sent a jolt through you like a spark plug firing. Your hips jerked upwards in his grasp, a broken sound clawing its way out of your throat. Mingi hummed against you, the vibration a deep, resonant purr that thrummed through your bones, your nerves, your very core. He explored you like he was memorizing a blueprint—each ridge, each sensitive fold, each flutter of muscle beneath his lips. His tongue lingered where your breath hitched, swirled where your thighs trembled, pressed where your pulse hammered like a piston in overdrive.

“M-Mingi—fuck, feels so good!” Your voice was raw, shredded by the pleasure coiling tighter inside you.

His grip on your hip intensified, fingertips biting into your flesh with an urgency that made your spine arch. You could feel the imprint he was leaving on your skin—five points of possession, claiming you as his even as you squirmed helplessly in his hold. The other hand slid up, tracing the natural curve of your back with almost reverent care before splaying wide and holding you there, helplessly suspended, a perfect angle for his tongue to do its damage. The cold air inside the car prickled against the sweat beading along your skin, but the contrast only sharpened the focus of every hot, wet, maddeningly precise thing Mingi was doing between your thighs.

He worked you with a methodical, almost mechanical intensity, the kind you’d seen him use on the shop floor with a stubborn bolt or a seized part—determined, relentless, and utterly sure of himself. His mouth didn’t just tease; it engineered your pleasure, tracing out every sensitive ridge and dip, every stuttering gasp and involuntary twitch. He learned you so quickly it was terrifying—every time you tried to twist away or clamp your knees shut, he countered, easily, like a wrench snapping onto a stripped nut. You had no leverage. No hope. Just the inevitability of what he was building in you.

He alternated, sometimes flattening his tongue and dragging it up your puffy pussylips in one long, slow burn, sometimes isolating the spot that made your vision strobe, focusing the pressure until you were clawing at his jeans and choking on your own moans. There was no rhythm to fall into, no lull; just spikes of pleasure, sharp and unpredictable, wracking through you until your thighs shook uncontrollably. He hummed again, the sound low and smug, vibrating straight into your core like a tuning fork.

Somewhere in the haze, you realized you’d started to beg. Not with words, not at first—just hoarse little whimpers, your ragged breathing an open admission of defeat. But then the words tumbled out, torn from you by the merciless grind of his tongue. “Please, Mingi, please, please, I can’t—” You weren’t sure what you were asking for. Mercy, maybe. Or more, always more.

He paused only long enough to meet your eyes, his gaze dark with heat and satisfaction. “I thought you could handle more, baby?” he rasped, breath fanning over your swollen flesh.

“I can-fuck, I can handle it.” you snarl back, your words having no real bite behind them. Mingi knows that, hell, even you know that.

He bent to his work with renewed vengeance—faster now, chasing your pleasure like it was something he could catch and pin down. The car’s interior filled with the obscene wet sounds of his mouth and your body betraying you, slick and desperate under his assault. The seat vibrated under your head as you started to thrash, your legs locked tight around his shoulders, your fingers digging deeper and deeper into the meat of his thighs.

Somewhere outside, a car alarm went off, a shrill warble that barely penetrated the cocoon of sensation. The world could have ended around you and you wouldn’t have noticed. Not when he was doing this, not when he was making you feel like your whole body had been rewired for his touch alone.

He played you up and down the scale, sometimes gentle, sometimes ruthless, reading every clench and flutter with greedy satisfaction. When he sensed you hovering on the knife’s edge, he eased off, letting you breathe for exactly two seconds before diving back in, measuring out your pleasure in cruel increments. He wanted you to break. He wanted to see it.

And you did.

Then he sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked, hard. The sensation detonated through you, a backfire of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. You came apart with a cry, your voice fracturing on his name, the seat shuddering beneath your frantic grip. The orgasm wasn’t just a release—it was a full-system failure, white-hot and all-consuming, waves of sensation crashing over you like a blown gasket. Your vision whited out, your body convulsing in his grasp as he drew it out, his tongue still working, still demanding, still taking until you were nothing but a trembling, sobbing mess of sweat and tears.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were slick with small strings of your arousal hung between his lips and your dripping cunt. You collapsed against the seat, your chest heaving like you’d just run a 10km marathon, your arms limp, your legs still trembling in the cradle of his hands.

He blew warm breath against your thigh and groaned, part laugh, part moan. “Fuck,” he rasped. “You’re incredible. So good for me, my sweet girl.”

Then he rose, slow and deliberate, his body unfolding from between your legs with the easy grace of someone who knew exactly how much power he held. Your breath still came in short, hitching gasps as he leaned over you, one hand braced on the headrest beside your temple, the other still tangled with your fingers.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes said enough—hungry, satisfied in a way that was only temporary, the kind of satisfaction that fueled something deeper. He tilted your chin up with his free hand, thumb tracing your lower lip, and then he was kissing you.

His mouth was hot and wet and you—the unmistakable taste of your own release still clinging to his tongue as it swept past your lips. The flavor was sharp, musky, intimate in a way that made your cheeks burn even hotter. You moaned into the kiss, the sound muffled against his mouth, your body still trembling with the aftershocks that his taste seemed to reignite. He swallowed the sound like it was something precious, his hand sliding from your chin to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the angle.

You could feel the rough texture of his calloused fingers against your jaw, the faint scent of cologne and sweat and him filling your lungs with every ragged breath you shared. His tongue moved against yours with the same deliberate precision he’d used between your thighs—methodical, thorough, tasting every corner of your mouth like he was cataloging you. The kiss was filthy and tender all at once, possessive in a way

You couldn’t speak. Still pulsing with aftershocks, you looked and saw him—flushed, lips swollen, eyes dark with hunger sharpened, not sated. His hand found yours on the seat, fingers lacing through yours, squeezing gently.

“Still with me?” he whispered, genuine concern in his voice, as careful as checking an engine after a hard run. You nodded, something warm and new cracking open behind your sternum. You squeezed his hand back. “Still here,” you managed, and your voice was hoarse, barely recognisable. “Want… more.”

His eyes went dark—deeper, hungrier, the look of a man who’d been holding himself back by a thread and just heard the thread snap. “More,” he repeated, and the word came out low and rough, like gravel dragged across silk. “Does my baby want more?”

You nodded. “Please. I need—I need to feel you inside me, Mingi.”

The sound he made was barely human—a low, guttural growl that started in his chest and vibrated through the console into your bones. Then his hands were on you, sure and unhurried, guiding you forward until your stomach met the centre console, the leather cool against your bare skin. He arranged you with careful, deliberate hands—chest down, hips tilted back toward him, your ass and cunt angled up and open, completely exposed to whatever he wanted to do next.

“Stay right there,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that register that made your thighs clench. “Don’t move. Keep your hips up, just like that—perfect, sweetheart, perfect.”

You stayed. The hard edge of the gear shift dug into your body and none of it mattered because Mingi’s hands were on you, warm and sure.

His hand left your hip. You heard the rustle of denim, the soft clink of a belt buckle, and then the sound of fabric being pushed down—and your heart hammered so hard you were certain he could hear it, certain it was echoing off the windows and the river and the moon. You glanced over your shoulder to watch him, he smirked when he realised you were watching him, then pulled down his boxers.

Precum was already oozing from his pinkish mushroom tip. Mingi wasn’t kidding, he was fucking massive. A good 7 to 8 inches you thought to yourself. You reached behind you and pumped the base of his cock, earning a low groan from him as you traced your thumb across the head. Mingi twitched in your palm and gently bucked his hips into your hand.

Mingi’s jaw tightened, a muscle flickering in his cheek as you squeezed him again, your thumb swirling another lazy circle around his tip just to watch his nostrils flare. His hand closed over yours—large, warm, calloused—and stilled your movements.

“Careful,” he moaned, his voice had dropped into that dangerous register, the one that sounded like a warning label on something flammable. “You keep teasing me like that and you’re gonna regret it, sweetheart.”

You bit your lip, a grin spreading despite yourself. “Regret what, exactly?”

His eyes narrowed. “You know exactly what.”

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t help it. The power of making him twitch, of watching his composure crack, was intoxicating. You gave him one more deliberate pump, slow and tight, your fingers curling just the way you knew would make his hips buck.

“Mingi, I don’t think you’d actually be so big—”

The words died in your throat because he was moving, shifting behind you with that fluid, predatory grace that made your stomach drop. His hand left yours and found the small of your back, pressing you flat against the console. You felt the blunt, hot head of him drag through your slick—not pushing, not entering, just smearing—trailing a path of your own arousal along your swollen, desperate entrance with agonizing precision.

You clenched. Your body tried to pull him in, hips tilting back, chasing the pressure that wasn’t there. Your cunt pulsed around nothing, fluttering, aching, empty.

“Mingi—please—”

“Uh-uh.” His voice was velvet over steel, warm and utterly merciless. “You had your chance to behave. You didn’t take it.”

Then his hand was on your ass. Not gently or tentatively. His palm settled against the curve of your right cheek with a weight that made your breath catch, his fingers spreading wide, and for one suspended moment he just held you there like he was claiming his territory.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he said, almost to himself, his thumb tracing a slow arc along the crease where your thigh met your ass. “Such a shame, you just had to be a brat, didn’t you?”

The first spank landed without warning.

His palm connected with your right cheek with a sharp, stinging crack that echoed through the car’s interior like a gunshot. The sound was obscene—wet, resonant, the kind of sound that made your face burn and your cunt clench simultaneously. The pain bloomed hot and bright, spreading across your skin in a wave that crested and broke into something that wasn’t pain at all—something electric, something that lit up every nerve ending it touched and sent a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

You gasped. Your fingers scrabbled against the dashboard, and Mingi made a sound—low, satisfied, the sound of a man who’d just confirmed a hypothesis and found the results exceeded every expectation.

“Again,” you whimpered at the impact. “Harder, Mingi.”

“Tsk, Greedy girl,” he murmured, but there was no admonishment in it. Only warmth, only approval, only the particular pleasure of being asked for exactly what he wanted to give. His hand came down again—left cheek this time, harder, the impact ringing through your bones—and you cried out, your hips jerking forward, your body chasing the sting like it was oxygen.

He spanked you three more times—alternating sides, each one landing with a precision that spoke to practice, or instinct, or both. The pain built in layers, each impact compounding the last, until your entire ass was burning and your cunt was so wet you could feel it dripping down your inner thighs. You were moaning openly now, embarrassing, desperate sounds that you’d never made in your life, sounds you’d have been mortified by if anyone but Mingi could hear them.

And still—still—he didn’t push inside you. His cockhead just rested there, right at your entrance, hot and heavy and right there, and every time your hips shifted back to try and take him, he pulled away just enough to deny you.

“Min—baby please, I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I’ll—”

“You’ll be good?” he repeated, and you could hear the smirk in his voice without turning around. “I asked you to stop teasin' me but you didn't listen, baby. Look where that got you.”

His hand smoothed over the burning skin of your ass, palm flat and warm, soothing the sting even as he stoked it. The gentleness was almost worse than the spanking. The tenderness in contrast to the punishment making your eyes sting.

He leaned down, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing your ear. “You’ll get what I give you, when I decide to give it,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “And right now, I think you need to learn some patience.”

His hand returned between your thighs, fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering your arousal before circling your entrance again still refusing to push inside. You whined, your hips bucking desperately against his teasing touch.

“Aww you poor thing,” he chuckled, his voice thick with satisfaction. “So wet. So desperate. All because you couldn’t resist being a brat.”

You were beyond words now, reduced to incoherent sounds of need as he continued his torment. The spanks had left your skin hypersensitive, every nerve ending alight, amplifying the sensation of his fingers as they traced patterns around your entrance without ever granting you the penetration you craved.

When he finally, mercifully, pressed the tip of his cock against your entrance, you nearly sobbed with relief. But he didn’t push in—he just held it there, letting you feel the heat and weight of him without giving you what you needed.

“Still want to tease me?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.

“No,” you gasped, shaking your head frantically. “No, I’m sorry. I’ll be good I-I promise…”

He rewarded your submission with a slow, deliberate push—just the head of his cock entering you, stretching you just enough to make your breath catch. Then he stopped again, pulling back slightly.

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, his voice rough with restraint.

“You,” you panted, your fingers gripping the dashboard so hard your knuckles turned white. “All of you. Please, just fuck me, Mingi.”

The sound he made sent shivers down your spine. “That's my girl. Look how easy that was when you just ask nicely.” he murmured, and then he was pushing forward. His fingers were spreading you open, and you felt his cock—hot, heavy, already slick—pressing against your entrance with a pressure that made your whole body clench in anticipation.

“Hands,” he said, the command was quiet but absolute, leaving no room for interpretation.

You reached back automatically, and his hand caught both of your wrists in one grip and pulled them behind your back. His fingers laced through yours, locking your hands together, and the position pushed your chest forward, your breasts pressing into the console, your back arching in a curve that left you completely exposed, completely vulnerable, completely his.

“Now, be a good girl and stay still for me, okay?” He instructed, and you gripped your own hands, your fingers interlaced behind your back, held in place by the warm cage of his palm. The restraint was gentle but unyielding, and the vulnerability of it—the inability to move, to brace, to control anything about what was happening to you—sent a wave of heat through your body so intense it bordered on vertigo.

Then he was pushing inside you.

Slow. So slow. Inch by agonising inch, his cock stretching you open with a fullness that made your breath stutter and your vision white-out at the edges. You were still sensitive from before, still trembling with aftershocks, and the sensation of him filling you—thick, relentless, every ridge and vein pressing against walls that were already singing—was almost too much. You whimpered against the console, your fingers tightening behind your back, and Mingi groaned above you—low, broken, the sound of a man who was fighting for control and losing.

“Fuck—fuuuck, you’re so tight, sweetheart—” His voice cracked on the last word, and his free hand found your hip, gripping hard enough to leave marks. “So perfect. So goddamn perfect for me.”

He bottomed out, and the feeling of him—fully seated, his hips flush against your ass, his cock buried to the hilt inside you—drove the air from your lungs. You could feel his heartbeat through the point of connection, fast and strong and slightly out of rhythm, and for a moment neither of you moved. Just breathed. Just existed in the same impossible, electric space.

Then he pulled back and thrust forward, and the world narrowed to nothing.

The angle was devastating with the console holding your hips at exactly the right height, the position forcing him deep, deeper than you’d thought possible, every stroke hitting something inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. You couldn’t move. Your hands were locked behind your back, his grip unrelenting. The helplessness of it, the complete surrender of control, turned every nerve in your body into a live wire.

“Mingi—oh my god, oh fuck—” The words tumbled out of you in a broken stream, your voice cracking on every syllable, and you felt him shift behind you—adjusting, finding the angle, his hips snapping forward with a precision that told you he was paying attention to every sound you made, every hitch in your breathing, every involuntary clench of your body around him.

“I want to hear you,” he growled, and his voice was rough, wrecked, barely holding together. “Every sound. Every moan. Every time I make you feel good, I want to hear it. Don’t hold back. Don’t be quiet. I’ve been thinking about the sounds you make—” His hips pressed forward, just an inch, just enough to make you gasp. “—for months. So be loud for me, baby.”

He punctuated the words with a thrust that drove the air from your lungs, and the sound you made was loud—embarrassingly loud, the kind of sound that would have carried across the parking lot if anyone had been there to hear it—and Mingi groaned like you’d punched him.

“Louder,” he demanded, and his hand tightened on your wrists, pulling them higher up your back, the new angle arching your spine and pressing your chest harder against the console. “You think I pulled up to this abandoned car park to hear you be quiet?”

You laughed—or tried to, the sound dissolving into a moan as he hit that spot again, that devastating, mind-melting spot that turned your bones to liquid. “You—you’re such an asshole—mmf!”

“Mm-hm.” His hips snapped forward, harder this time, and the console creaked beneath you. “And you love it. Now be loud for me, baby. Let me hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He set a devastating rhythm—deep, relentless, each thrust measured and deliberate. His cock dragging against every sensitive point inside you with a precision that bordered on cruel. You couldn’t hold back. You didn’t try. The sounds poured out of you. Moans and whimpers and half-formed pleas, his name repeated like a prayer, a mantra, the only word your brain could still form.

Each thrust pulled another sound from your throat, each one louder than the last, and Mingi fed on them. You could feel it in the way his grip tightened, in the way his breathing went ragged, in the way his hips moved faster, harder, chasing the particular pitch of your voice that told him he was doing something right.

“So—fuck, so fucking tight,” he panted, and his forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, his breath hot against your spine. “My pretty little slut to ruin.”

His free hand slid from your hip to your stomach, pressing flat against your abdomen, and you could feel him through the thin wall of muscle—the thick, heavy shape of his cock moving inside you, stretching you open with every thrust—and the obscenity of it, the visceral, undeniable reality of being filled so completely, made you sob.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your ear, and the words sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. “You were made to take this cock.”

He established a rhythm—steady, unhurried, each thrust deep enough to hit the spot that made your eyes roll back and your mouth fall open. The console creaked beneath you with every movement, the gearshift vibrating against your hip, the leather squeaking where your skin met it. The sounds were so pornographic. Wet, rhythmic, the slap 'plap, plap, plap' of skin against skin punctuated by your increasingly desperate moans and Mingi’s low, ragged breathing.

You kept your promise. You were loud. Every thrust pulled a gasps, moans, whimpers and broken versions of his name that dissolved into nothing before they finished. When he angled his hips and found the spot that made you see stars. The pleasure was so euphoric you felt fat wads of tears trailing down your face.

“Right there, baby?” he grunted, barely controlled. “That feel good?”

“Yes—fuck, yes, right there, d-don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

He didn’t stop. He shifted his angle, changed the depth, found the exact position that had your entire body lighting up like a switchboard and he stayed there, driving into you with a precision that was almost mechanical in its consistency. Each thrust hit the same spot, built the same pressure, sent the same cascade of pleasure rolling through you in waves that grew taller and closer together with every repetition.

His free hand left your hip and found your hair, fisting in it, pulling your head back just enough to expose your throat. His mouth found the pulse point beneath your jaw. Sucking, biting, leaving marks you’d find tomorrow. The overwhelming combination of sensations—his cock inside you, his hand in your hair, his teeth on your neck—pushed you toward the edge with a speed that was almost frightening.

“Min—Mingi, I’m close, I’m so close—”

“I know, baby.” His voice was strained, the words coming in sharp bursts between thrusts. “I can feel it. You’re clenching so hard—fuck, sweetheart.”

His hand left your hair and slid down between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. The first touch was electric. A direct connection to the live wire of your pleasure and you completely fell apart.

Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, no warning, no build up, just a sudden detonation that ripped through your body and turned every muscle to liquid fire. Your walls clamped down around his dick, pulsing in tight, rhythmic waves, and Mingi’s breath hitched—a sharp, broken sound that told you he was right there with you. His jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out like cables, and his thrusts grew slower, sloppier, the precise mechanical rhythm dissolving into something raw and desperate.

His fingers kept working your clit through your high, drawing out every last tremor, and you could feel the sweat dripping from his forehead and chest onto your back. The ministrations he had on your clit wasn’t his normal teasing ones. It felt like he was spelling something out—S-O-N-G M-I-N-G-I. You gasp at the realisation. The bastard wrote his name on your clit. He didn’t pause, didn’t pull away, just kept moving inside you through the wreckage of your own orgasm.

“Gonna cum, baby,” he rasped, and his voice was wrecked—scraped raw, barely recognizable, the voice of a man hanging by a thread. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” you whimper, the word torn from you as another wave crested and broke. You were still coming, still trembling, still clenching around him in pulses that you couldn’t control, and you were pretty sure if he kept going like this, kept hitting your sweet spot, kept his fingers on your clit—he’d pull another orgasm from you before you’d even finished the first. “Want it inside, need it inside. Need you s’bad ohmygod.”

He groaned as his hips snapped forward three more times, deep and deliberate, each one driving the air from your lungs. Then his entire body locked, every muscle going rigid, and you felt him spill inside you—hot, thick, pulsing in time with the frantic beat of his heart.

“Wait, baby—don’t do that,” he choked out weakly when your cunt fluttered around him, trying to milk every last drop.

His cock twitched inside you, still sensitive, still spilling, and you hummed—content, satisfied, smug—at the feeling of him filling you up exactly the way you’d asked. He laughed, the sound hoarse and breathless, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades.

“You’re greedy,” he murmured, carefully lowering himself until his chest pressed flush against your back. His body was warm despite the sweat, solid and heavy and grounding, and you felt him press a kiss to the nape of your neck—soft, almost tender, completely at odds with the animal intensity of the last twenty minutes.

“Mm,” you managed, your voice barely a whisper. Your hands were still locked behind your back, still held in his grip, and you made no move to free them. You didn’t want to. You wanted to stay exactly like this—trapped between the console and his body, filled and claimed and utterly, completely his.

Mingi’s grip loosened on your wrists. His fingers uncurled from yours, and your hands fell to your sides, tingling with returning blood flow. His forehead was still pressed between your shoulder blades, and you could feel the rapid hammer of his heartbeat against your back, slowly, slowly beginning to steady.

“Are you okay?” he murmured against your skin, and his voice was wrecked—hoarse and tender and slightly dazed, like he’d just woken from a dream he wasn’t sure was real.

You turned your head on the console, your cheek pressed against the leather, and managed a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. “Barely.”

He laughed—a warm, rumbling sound that vibrated through your back and into your chest—and his arms came around you, gathering you against him with a gentleness that made your chest swell with love. He pulled you upright, carefully, mindful of the cramped space and the awkward angle, and you collapsed back against his chest, your body boneless and trembling, your head falling against his shoulder.

His arms were warm around you, his heartbeat steadying beneath your ear, and the world was slowly reassembling itself from the scattered pieces the orgasm had left behind. His hand was tracing lazy patterns on your lower back, his fingers drawing circles that made your skin prickle with renewed sensitivity.

His face was right there—inches away, his eyes half-lidded, his lips swollen and slightly parted, a thin sheen of sweat catching the moonlight that filtered through the windows. You looked at the way his hair stuck to his forehead, and at the flush still high on his cheekbones, shifted in your chest. You turned your head and found his mouth with yours.

The kiss was different this time. Slower. Softer. The desperate, hungry collision of before had given way to something deeper, something that tasted like relief and wonder and the particular sweetness of a thing you’d been waiting for without admitting you were waiting. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache, and you felt him smile into the kiss.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark and soft and slightly unfocused, the way they got when he was looking at something he couldn’t believe was real, and you pressed your forehead to his and breathed him in.

Then you moved.

You shifted in his lap, turning your body, swinging one leg over his hips until you were straddling him—facing him, your knees pressed into the leather on either side of his thighs, your hands braced on his shoulders. The position was awkward in the cramped backseat—your head nearly brushing the roof, your knees at angles that would make a chiropractor weep—but you didn’t care. You looked down at him, at the way his eyes went wide and dark and hungry all at once, and something hot and liquid pooled low in your belly.

His hands found your waist immediately. Both of them, warm and rough, his thumbs tracing slow circles on your hipbones through the thin barrier of your skin. His gaze dropped from your face to your chest, and the sound he made—low, appreciative—sent a shiver cascading down your spine.

“Oh fuck,” he breathed, and his hands slid upward, tracing the line of your ribs with a touch so light it barely qualified as contact. “Now this is a view I could get used to.”

You rolled your hips. The movement was deliberate. Slow, grinding, your cunt dragging along the length of his cock where it lay heavy and spent against his stomach. You felt him twitch, felt the soft sound he made vibrate through his chest, and you did it again—slower this time, more pressure, watching his face the whole time.

His hands tightened on your waist. His jaw clenched. His eyes went dark—not the playful dark, not the teasing dark, but the deep, consuming dark of a man who was being given something he hadn’t known to ask for.

“Again,” he groaned, his voice was rough, wrecked, the words barely holding together. “Do that again.”

You did. You rolled your hips in a slow, circular motion that pressed your clit against the base of his cock, and the friction—combined with the oversensitivity still singing through your nerves—made your breath catch. You braced your hands on his shoulders and lifted your hips, just enough to shift the angle, and when you sank back down. Taking him inside you in one smooth, devastating stroke.

His head fell back against the seat, his throat exposed, the tendons standing out in sharp relief. His hands flew to your hips, gripping hard, and you felt his cock twitch inside you—still soft, still recovering, but the sensation of being filled, of being stretched around him even in this state, sent a fresh wave of heat rolling through your core.

“Holy shit…” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You’re gonna kill me. You know that, right?”

You smiled slow and deliberate. “Good.” Then, you started to move.

Not fast. Not yet. You set a torturous rhythm. Slow, grinding, your hips rolling in tight circles that dragged his cock against every sensitive wall inside you. You kept your eyes on his face, cataloguing every reaction—the way his breath hitched when you clenched around him, the way his fingers dug into your hips when you changed the angle, the way his eyes went half-lidded and glassy when you found the spot that made his whole body tense.

His hands never stopped moving.

They traced your waist, your ribs, and the curve of your lower back. Like he was trying to touch every inch of you at once and couldn’t decide where to start. His hands were everywhere, and each point of contact sent sparks cascading through your nervous system, building on the pleasure already coiling tight in your belly.

Then his hands found your breasts.

You felt the shift in his attention before you saw it. His gaze dropping, his breath catching, his hands moving with a new kind of intention. His palms cupped you from below, lifting, weighing, his thumbs tracing the undersides with a touch so light it made your skin prickle. He squeezed gently—once, twice—and the sound you made was involuntary, a soft, broken moan that escaped before you could catch it.

“These,” he murmured, and his voice was thick, reverent, his eyes fixed on your chest with the same focused attention he gave to engine bays. “I’ve been thinking about these. Every time you leaned over the hood, every time you stretched. I tried to be a gentleman but fuck, baby, you made it so hard.”

His thumbs found your nipples—hard, sensitive, still aching from before—and rolled them between his fingers with a precision that made your vision blur. The sensation was sharp and electric, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core, and you arched into his touch, your hips stuttering in their rhythm.

“Oh god, that feels s-so good!”

“I know, sweetheart,” he breathed, and his mouth was already moving, leaning forward, closing the distance, his tongue finding your left nipple with a flat, wet stroke that made you cry out. He circled it, his tongue painting tight spirals around the peak and then he sucked, and the sound you made was loud enough to echo.

His hand kept working the other breast. Rolling, squeezing, his fingers finding the perfect pressure while his mouth lavished attention on the first. He alternated between gentle suction and sharp, teasing bites that made your whole body jerk, and every time you moved, every time your hips rolled or your back arched, he groaned against your skin like you were doing something specifically designed to destroy him.

You were. You knew you were. The way you moved, the way you clenched around him on every upstroke, the way your hands found his hair and pulled just hard enough to make his breath catch—you were giving him exactly what he’d given you, and then some.

His cock was hardening inside you. You could feel it. You could feel him. The gradual thickening, the way he filled you more completely with every passing second, the way his breathing went ragged and his grip on your hips turned desperate. You rolled your hips harder, faster, chasing the friction, chasing the building pressure, and Mingi broke away from your breast with a gasp that was almost a sob.

“You feel so fucking good.” His hands were everywhere—your waist, your back, your tits, your thighs—touching, squeezing, mapping your body with the frantic energy of someone who was trying to memorise every detail before the moment ended.

You leaned down and kissed him. Deep, hungry, your tongue sliding against his, your hips never stopping their rhythm. He kissed you back with equal fervour, his hands sliding up your back and pressing you closer, your chest flush against his, your nipples dragging against the hard planes of his pecs with every movement.

When you pulled back, you were both breathing hard, your foreheads pressed together, your noses brushing. Mingi’s eyes were dark and dazed and full of something that looked terrifyingly like love.

“Ride me like you mean it, baby. Show me what you’ve got.” he whispered, and the words were a plea and a command in equal measure.

You sat up straight, your hands braced on his shoulders, and you moved.

Your thighs flexing as you lifted yourself up and dropped back down, setting a pace that was fast and deep and absolutely devastating. The angle was different from before. You were facing him, your weight driving you down onto his cock with a force that made the leather squeak and the seat frame creak and Mingi’s hands fly to your hips like he was trying to hold on to something solid in a world that had gone liquid.

“Atta girl, that’s it baby jus’ like that” The words tumbled out of him in a broken stream, his head falling back, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscles jumping.

His cock was fully hard now, thick and heavy inside you, stretching you open with every downstroke, and the sensation combined with the friction of your clit against his pelvis was building something enormous and inevitable at the base of your spine. You were bouncing now, your body moving with a fluid, athletic grace that surprised even you—and every time you dropped down, Mingi’s cock hit that spot, that devastating, mind-melting spot, and the sounds you made were obscene.

“Harder,” he growled, and his hands tightened on your breasts, squeezing, rolling, his fingers pinching your nipples just hard enough to make you see stars. “Ride me harder, baby. I want you to feel me until tomorrow.”

You obliged. You drove yourself down onto him with everything you had. Every ounce of strength in your thighs, every shred of control in your core. The impact was sharp and bright and perfect. The car rocked beneath you, the suspension groaning, and Mingi’s grip on your breasts turned bruising, his mouth finding your collarbone and biting down hard enough to leave a mark.

“You’re—fuck, you’re so good at this,” he panted against your skin, his voice cracking.

“Shut up,” you gasped, and you meant it fondly, your hands sliding from his shoulders to his chest, your nails dragging down the hard planes of muscle. “Stop talking and touch me.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

His hands moved. They slid up your sides—slow, reverent, his palms mapping the terrain of your body with the same careful attention he gave to engine components. His hands cupped you—both of them, warm and sure, his thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, deliberate circles that made your breath hitch and your hips falter. You were still riding him, still moving in that steady, controlled rhythm, but his touch was pulling your focus, scattering your concentration, turning the deliberate pace into something more desperate, more urgent.

You couldn’t stop. You were moaning—loud, unrestrained sounds that filled the car’s interior—and every sound you made seemed to spur him on, his mouth working harder, his tongue more insistent, his hands gripping tighter.

“Fuck—Mingi, I can’t—it’s too much—”

“You can.” His voice was muffled against your breast, his tongue still working, his hand still moving. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. So fucking good for me. Oh fuck— This pussy was made for me.”

You found the rhythm again—or something close to it. Your body moving on its own, chasing the pleasure that his mouth and his hands and his cock were building inside you in overlapping waves. Your hands found his shoulders, gripping hard, your nails digging into the muscle, and you rode him with everything you had—every ounce of strength, every shred of desire, every month of pent-up longing poured into the movement of your hips.

Mingi’s mouth left your breast. His lips traced a burning path up your sternum, along your collarbone, to the pulse point in your throat, where he sucked hard enough to leave a mark you’d wear like a trophy. His hands were on your back now, his palms sliding from your shoulder blades to the base of your spine, pressing you closer, holding you flush against his chest as you moved.

“My pretty girl giving me the best ride of my life,” he breathed against your throat, and his voice was shattered, barely holding together.

You rolled your hips harder, faster, your body tightening around him with every downward thrust, and you could feel him swelling inside you, thicker, harder, his control fraying at the edges. His hands dropped to your ass, gripping both cheeks, spreading you open, and the obscenity of it—the way he was holding you, positioning you, watching you take him apart—sent you spiralling toward the edge.

“Mingi, I’m so close again—I’m gonna cum again!”

“Me too, baby.” His forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. “Together. Cum with me... I want to feel you cum all over me.”

You kissed him. Messy, desperate, your teeth catching his lower lip, your tongue pushing past his, and your hips didn’t stop. They couldn’t stop. The rhythm had taken on a life of its own, your body moving with a primal, instinctive urgency that left no room for thought. Mingi kissed you back with equal desperation, his hands gripping your ass, his hips thrusting upward to meet your downward movements, and the collision of forces—you riding him, him driving into you—created a friction that was devastating.

The orgasm built from the base of your spine—a slow, tight coil of pressure that wound tighter with every thrust. You could feel it approaching like a wave, could feel the moment the water started to pull back from the shore, and you held Mingi’s gaze through it all—his eyes dark, desperate, fixed on yours with an intensity that told you he was right there with you, hanging by the same thread.

It broke.

The orgasm hit you with a sensation so immense it threatened to strip away your consciousness, leaving you suspended in a single, blinding instant of pleasure that fused every muscle, every nerve, every trembling synapse into a singular electric current. You screamed, a sound that started low and guttural and built into a thin, ragged shriek, the kind you’d never made before, the kind that left your throat raw and echoing in the thick, humid air of the car.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the way your body seized around Mingi’s cock, the way you milked him, the way every wave of release hit harder than the last, scattering your thoughts to the corners of your skull and leaving you utterly, beautifully ruined.

You felt him come apart under you. Felt the way he jerked inside you, the way his breath stuttered, the way his hands flew up to lock around your waist like he could anchor himself in your wreckage. He was gasping your name, voice wrecked and desperate, his hips slamming up to meet you with a force that jolted your spine, his cock throbbing as he emptied himself inside you with a velocity that bordered on violence. The aftershocks were nearly as intense as the orgasm itself; your body took his, drank him down, and doubled the force of his own release, the sensation so raw and so real it went straight to your soul.

Your legs shook. Your vision went white at the edges. You collapsed forward, your hands flattening against the sweat-slicked muscle of his chest, your hair falling in a tangled curtain around your face as you panted, desperate for air, for sanity, for a return to the world that didn’t seem to want you anymore. Mingi’s hands were still on your waist, trembling slightly, his chest heaving beneath your palms. You could feel his heartbeat—fast, erratic, slowly steadying—and the wet heat of him still inside you, still filling you, still marking you as his in the most primal way possible.

You shifted. Slowly, carefully, your body protesting every movement, and reached between your bodies. Your fingers found the mess between your thighs. Warm, slick, the mingled evidence of both of you leaking from where you were still joined and you gathered it. Your fingers came away glistening, and you brought them to your mouth without thinking, without planning, without anything but the raw, animal instinct to taste what you’d made together.

You closed your lips around your fingers. Sucked. The taste hit you. Salt and musk and something uniquely, unmistakably both of you. You moaned around your own knuckles, your eyes fluttering shut, your hips clenching involuntarily around his softening cock.

Mingi went absolutely still beneath you. The way his breath stopped, the way his hands tightened on your waist, the way every muscle in his body locked into sudden, rigid attention. You opened your eyes and found him staring at you with an expression you’d never seen before—not hunger, not satisfaction, not even the dark, possessive gleam from before. Something rawer. Something that looked like he’d just been hit by a car he hadn’t seen coming.

“Oh my god.” His voice came out wrecked—not the sexy, post-orgasm wrecked, but genuinely, fundamentally destroyed. “Oh my fucking god.”

You pulled your fingers from your mouth slowly, your tongue dragging across your knuckles one last time, and you watched his eyes track the movement with the intensity of a man watching his life flash before him.

“That,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word, “might be the hottest thing I have ever seen in my entire goddamn life.”

You smiled and as you were about to say something clever when his hands flew to your face and he was kissing you. Hard. Desperate. His mouth crashed into yours with a force that knocked the air from your lungs, his tongue pushing past your lips, tasting the remnants of what you’d just licked from your fingers, and the sound he made—a low, broken groan that vibrated through your chest and into your bones—made your entire body clench around him again.

His hands were in your hair, cradling your skull, angling your head to deepen the kiss even further, and you kissed him back with everything you had left. Which wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to make his hips shift beneath you, enough to make him gasp against your mouth, enough to make the world narrow to nothing but the heat of his lips and the taste of you both on his tongue.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing like you’d just run a sprint. His forehead pressed against yours, his eyes still closed, his lips still parted, and you could feel the smile forming on his mouth before you even looked at him.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he murmured, and his voice was warm and dazed and full of something that made your chest ache. “You know that, right? I haven't even taken you out to a proper date yet and I'm already dead.”

You laughed—soft, breathless, your hands still flat against his chest. “Would you have it any other way?”

His eyes opened. Soft, shining with something that looked terrifyingly, beautifully like devotion. “Not a chance in hell, sweetheart.” Mingi shifted beneath you once more, his arms loosening just enough to let you breathe, and you felt his lips press against your temple.

“We should go and get out of here,” he murmured against your skin, and his voice was low, rough, still carrying the gravel of everything you’d just done to each other. “Do you wanna come back to mine?”

You lifted your head to look at him, and the expression on his face made your stomach flip. Hungry. Determined. The look of a man who’d tasted something and was addicted.

“Your place?” you repeated, your voice still wrecked, still barely functional.

“Yeah.” His hand slid down your spine, settling at the small of your back with a possessiveness that made your toes curl. “Because this car is about three seconds away from being declared a biohazard, and I have a bed that’s significantly bigger and more comfortable than this console.” His thumb traced a slow circle on your skin. “And I’m not done with you yet. Not even close.”

The words hit you like a spark jumping a gap—sudden, electric, lighting up every nerve ending you had left. You felt your body respond before your brain caught up, a fresh pulse of heat rolling through your core despite the fact that you were still trembling, still oversensitive, still leaking him onto the leather beneath you.

“Not done?” you managed, and your voice came out breathier than you intended.

Mingi’s grin was slow and devastating, the kind that started at the corners of his mouth and spread until it reached his eyes, turning them dark and dangerous and full of promise. His hand slid from your back to your hip, squeezing gently, and you felt him shift beneath you—felt the unmistakable, traitorous twitch of his cock, still buried inside you, already stirring back to life.

“Sweetheart,” he said, and the word came out like a caress, like a threat, like both at once, “we’ve been in this car for what—an hour? Maybe two?” His hips rolled upward, deliberate, and the friction made you gasp. “I’ve been thinking about this for months. You think I’m gonna call it quits because your backseat’s uncomfortable?”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling, and he was smiling, and then he was easing you off of him—slow, careful—and you both made a sound at the same time, a soft, involuntary whimper at the sudden cold where there had been warmth, the absence where there had been fullness. He pressed his lips to your temple like an apology.

He helped you dress.

Not in a hurry because nothing about Mingi was ever in a hurry, but with the same methodical care he brought to everything. His hands found your bra first, hooking it closed with fingers that trembled just slightly, his knuckles brushing your spine in a way that made you shiver. He smoothed the straps up your arms, adjusting them with a precision that suggested he’d been paying attention to how they sat before, and when his thumbs traced the line where the fabric met your skin, you caught his wrist.

“Mingi.”

“Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded pleased. “Can’t help it. You’re right here.”

You pulled your shirt over your head, and his hands were there immediately—tugging the hem down, smoothing the wrinkles, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with a gesture so domestic it made your chest ache. He found your jeans in the footwell, shook them out with a quiet efficiency that made you think of him folding shop towels, and held them open for you like a gentleman helping you into a coat.

Before reaching for your jeans, he paused and reached behind him, two fingers hooking your underwear out of his back pocket like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he’d been carrying them there all evening on purpose.

He crouched down and held them open at your feet without a word, and something about the quiet patience of the gesture made your throat tighten. You stepped in. He took his time drawing them up, his thumbs pressing slow, warm circles into the outside of your hips as he settled the waistband into place.

Then he shook out your jeans and held them open the same way—“ Step in,” he said— and you did, balancing on one foot, your hand on his shoulder. He pulled the denim up after, his palms warm against your calves, your thighs, the curve of your hips, and when he fastened the button, his fingers lingered at your waistband, pressing a kiss to your stomach through the fabric.

“There,” he murmured against your skin. “All dressed.”

“Not all of us are dressed.” You gestured at his bare chest, the leather jacket still draped over the front passenger seat, his own shirt nowhere to be found. “You’re half naked.”

“Am I?” He looked down at himself with mock surprise. “So I am! The absolute horror.”

You found his shirt balled behind the driver’s seat and tossed it at him. He caught it one-handed and pulled it over his head, the fabric stretching across his shoulders in a way that made your mouth go dry all over again. His jeans were already on. You had no memory of when he’d managed that. He reached past you for his jacket, shaking it out with a practiced flick of his wrists.

Then he held it open for you.

The gesture was so simple—so stupidly, achingly simple. You turned, and he draped the jacket over your shoulders, his hands settling on your arms for a moment, pulling you back against his chest. The leather was warm from the car’s interior, and it smelled like him—cedar and engine oil and the faint sweetness of whatever he’d put on after his shower—and it was so big on you that the sleeves swallowed your hands entirely.

“You look good in my jacket,” he said, his chin resting on your crown.

“It looks like I'm being swallowed by your jacket.”

“You look perfect.” His arms tightened around you, and you let yourself lean into him, let the weight of his body hold you upright when your legs were still shaky and your brain was still soft around the edges. “Absolutely perfect.”

You stayed like that for a moment—wrapped in his jacket, wrapped in his arms, the car ticking quietly around you, the river murmuring its endless, indifferent song beyond the steamed-up windows. Then Mingi pressed one more kiss to the top of your head—soft, lingering, the kind that felt like a period at the end of a sentence—and pulled back.

“Alright, let's go home.” he exhales.

“Okay.” You tugged the jacket tighter around yourself, the leather creaking softly. “But you’re driving. I can barely feel my legs.”

“Of course.” He kissed you once more—quick, chaste, the kind of kiss that was more punctuation than prose.

Unfolding his long frame from the backseat with considerably more grace than he’d managed on the way in. You heard the soft thud of his boots hitting the gravel, and then his hand appeared through the open door, palm up, waiting. You took it. 

He helped you out of the backseat. Steadying you when your knees buckled, his arm around your waist, his body a warm wall of support, and you stood in the moonlight together, the river silver behind you, the city a distant constellation of light beyond the trees. The night air was cool against your flushed skin, and you pulled his jacket tighter, breathing in the smell of him like it was oxygen.

Mingi opened the passenger door for you and you slid into the seat, the leather warm beneath you, the dashboard glowing its familiar amber. He closed the door with that soft, deliberate click, and you watched him walk around the hood—tall and sure and slightly dishevelled, his hair a mess, his shirt still untucked, the moonlight catching the line of his jaw and the satisfied curve of his mouth.

He dropped into the driver’s seat, and the car came alive around you. That clean, steady hum that meant everything was where it was supposed to be. He adjusted the mirrors, checked the seat position, and turned to you with an expression so open and warm it made your breath catch.

“Ready?” he asked.

You nodded your head. He pulled onto the road, and the river fell away behind you, and the city lights grew closer, and you sat in the passenger seat of your own car—wearing his jacket, smelling like his skin, your body still singing with the echo of his touch—and you watched the road unfold ahead of you.

His hand found yours on the console. Not tentative—not the careful, testing reach of someone still figuring out the impossible. This was different. This was his palm sliding across the leather, his fingers lacing through yours. His thumb settled into the groove between your knuckles, and the warmth of his skin against yours was so familiar it made your chest ache.

You looked down at your joined hands. At the way his thumb traced a slow, absent circle on your skin, the same pattern he’d used that afternoon on the river road, the same pattern he’d use a thousand more times if you let him.

You lifted his hand from the console.

He glanced over—just briefly, just long enough to register the movement—and you brought his knuckles to your mouth. You pressed your lips to the back of his hand and felt the slight roughness of his skin, the faint chemical smell of solvent that lived in the creases of his fingers, the steady pulse of blood beneath the surface. You held the kiss there for a count of three, maybe four, and then you lowered your joined hands into your lap, tucking them between your thighs, his palm warm against your denim-clad leg.

Mingi laughed.

Not the startled, horn-induced laugh from before. Something quieter. Something that started in his chest and came out through his nose, a soft, incredulous huff of sound that carried more tenderness than any word could have. His thumb resumed its circling on your knuckle, and he kept his eyes on the road, but the smile, the one that crinkled his eyes and pulled at the cut on his lip, was doing something devastatingly beautiful to his face.

“You’re so cute, baby,” he coos. The words were simple, almost offhand, delivered with the same casual confidence he used when he told you your oil level was fine. But you heard the weight behind them. The particular, careful weight of a man who meant what he said and was still learning how to say it without sounding like he was about to combust.

“Only for you,” you replied, because you couldn’t think of anything else, because your chest was so full it was pressing against your ribs, because his hand was in your lap and his jacket was on your shoulders and his smell was in your lungs, and you were fairly certain you’d never been this happy in your entire life.

He kept driving. One hand on the wheel, one hand in yours, the road unspooling ahead of you like a ribbon of dark silk under the pale wash of the streetlights. The city rose around you in increments—first the scattered houses, then the convenience stores with their neon signs still burning, then the apartment blocks and the late-night buses and the occasional taxi drifting through the empty streets like a fish through deep water.

The city had a way of falling in love with the people who moved through it at night—the ones who knew its empty streets and its quiet corners, the ones who understood that the best parts were the ones nobody else was awake to see. The racer and the mechanic drove through those streets now, their hands locked together over the center console, the engine humming its steady, contented song beneath them, and neither of them said a word about timing belts or transmission mounts or the particular, terrifying thrill of falling in love with someone who could take you apart and put you back together better than you’d been before.

But the car knew. The car had always known. It had carried you to him and it had carried you home, and somewhere between the starting line and the finish, between the riverbank and the backseat, between the first time he called you sweetheart and the last time you screamed his name, the engine had learned a new song—one about two people who’d been running on parallel tracks for so long they’d forgotten what it felt like to collide, and who were now, finally, beautifully, irreversibly headed in the same direction.

The mechanic’s hands knew every bolt and belt and bearing in the city, but they’d never held anything as perfectly as they held yours. And the racer’s heart, which had spent its whole life chasing finish lines, had finally found the one that mattered—the one that didn’t end with a checkered flag, but with a man in a leather jacket who picked wildflowers at dawn and rebuilt transmissions at midnight and promised you another night in a voice that meant forever.

You squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.

The city lights blurred past the windows, and the engine hummed, and the road stretched ahead, endless and open and full of possibility, and you didn’t need to say a word, because the car was already saying it for you. In every clean shift, every steady rev, every mile that carried you closer to the place where the racer and the mechanic had stopped being two separate things and become something neither of them had the words for yet.

But they’d find them. They had all the time in the world, and an engine that would never let them down, and a road that went on forever, and each other.

And really—when it came down to it—what else did anyone need?

© w00yngie 2026 | do not steal, plagiarise, translate or feed my work to ai.

[beaniesayshi]

second opinion

Your car breaks down right in front of his garage, and you’re already steeling yourself for the usual routine: a sky-high bill, too much time wasted, and a mechanic who barely looks up. Instead, you get Sukuna, who’s so offended by your previous mechanic's scams that he takes it upon himself to teach you enough to make sure it never happens again. Unfortunately for him, fixing your car is a breeze, but getting you out of his head? Not so much.

cw: mechanic!sukuna x f!reader, mostly sukuna pov, sukuna has a crush, yearning sukuna, pining sukuna, sukuna is bad at feelings, kinda slow burn

wc: 10.4k, one shot

notes: based on these two asks: first and second! thank you nonnie for the idea <3

main masterlist ◦ ao3 ◦ sukuna art by @/hunnismokah

It's barely past dawn, and as Sukuna drags the shutters up, the ungodly morning air hits him with a brisk, damp chill, cooling the coffee in his hand. He’s banking on a quiet hour to sort through the mess of inventory, maybe even enjoy the silence, before the first scheduled appointment pulls him away.

Down the road, maybe a hundred meters away, hazard lights blink through the gray mist. A hatchback sits stranded on the shoulder with its hood open. You’re there beside it, looking entirely defeated, with your shoulders hunched as you rub your arms against the biting chill that cuts straight through your jacket. You're pacing in small circles, your breath blooming in white puffs that vanish into the fog.

Taking a long sip of his coffee, Sukuna watches the scene for a beat. It’s obvious that this mess is about to become somebody's problem, and with how close you are to his driveway, that somebody's him. He lets out a resigned grunt, sets the mug aside, and starts the slow, reluctant walk down the slick, dark stretch of asphalt.

By the time he gets to you, you’re prodding at the battery terminal with pure confusion, clearly out of your depth. He stops by the driver’s side fender, his shadow stretching over the engine bay and swallowing up what little light the morning offers.

"Get in and try to crank it," he rumbles, his voice still rough from sleep.

You flinch slightly, nearly dropping your keys, as you turn to find the massive mechanic who’s just materialized out of the fog. Stumbling through a rushed, embarrassed explanation about how the dashboard lit up like a christmas tree before the steering went stiff, you slide behind the wheel, fingers trembling as you twist the key. The engine coughs out a pathetic, sluggish click-click-click before dying completely.

Sukuna leans over and scans the open engine bay with narrowed eyes. He brings his hand down to the alternator, then straightens and wipes a streak of grease off on his thigh.

"Alternator's shot," he diagnoses, pinning you with a flat stare through the windshield. “It stopped charging your battery while you were driving. That's why your steering went stiff, and all those warning lights came on. Battery's flat now."

He glances down the road toward his garage, jerks his chin in that direction, then flicks his gaze back to you, waiting. "Not fixing it out here. I can tow it in and take a look, if you want.”

You blink at him, hesitation suddenly tightening your chest. He's a huge, imposing stranger with eyes that seem to see right through you. You have no clue what his garage charges, and for all you know, he’ll tow your car a few meters and hand you a bill big enough to drain your entire savings account. Biting your lip hard, you look down the foggy road toward the distant city lights, debating whether freezing out here for your usual mechanic is worth it.

"Really?" you ask, your voice thin and cautious.

"You got a better plan?" Sukuna asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. He doesn't look like he's got the patience for a long deliberation this early in the morning.

Your eyes flick from the dead dashboard to the shutters of his garage down the road again. Waiting for your own mechanic could mean hours out here, and you’re already running late. Shoulders sagging, you let out a shaky, resigned sigh and nod. "No, not really. Okay, yeah. Please tow it."

True to his word, ten minutes later your car is hooked up to his truck and rolled right onto his hydraulic lift. He works quietly, hooking up a diagnostic scanner and testing the voltage. You stand on the side, nervously watching him work through the tangle of wires and metal, while the smell of old coolant and burnt oil fills the air.

Finally, he wipes his hands on his coveralls. He glances up, meeting your gaze with a flat, unreadable look before speaking. "Alright. It's definitely the alternator. Parts and labor, you're looking at around two hundred, maybe two-fifty if the belt snapped when it seized up."

He braces himself for the usual routine: the hesitant sigh, the defensive wince, maybe a drawn-out complaint about how expensive car parts are these days. He’s seen it all before, a thousand times over.

None of that happens, though. You just blink at him, completely speechless, like he’s started speaking a foreign language.

"Are you..." You swallow hard, eyes darting between your car and the man in front of you. "Are you undercharging me out of pity? Did I really look that pathetic standing on the side of the road?"

Sukuna freezes, and the rag stops mid-wipe against his palm. He stares at you, his brow knitting into a dumbfounded, deep scowl, entirely derailed by the accusation. "What? No. That's the price of the part and half an hour of my time. I don't do pity discounts.”

"Seriously?" A breathless, half-disbelieving laugh escapes you, as your hand comes up to press against your forehead while you try to make sense of the numbers. "My mechanic charges me a small fortune every time I bring this thing in. Like... last year I paid almost three hundred for an oil change, so I figured something that actually stopped the car from running would be..." You trail off, your eyes wandering up to the underside of a different car on the lift. "Honestly, I have no idea. Just… more."

Disbelief hardens his stare, and a sharp, sudden outrage flares in his chest at whoever’s been fleecing you, quickly followed by a heavy wave of disappointment. He can't quite believe you’d just hand over a small fortune for basic maintenance without so much as a second thought.

"An oil change," he repeats in a low rasp. "He charges you three hundred dollars for an oil change?"

"Well... yeah? And..." Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you wince as your sneakers squeak against the slick concrete. Your hand waves uselessly in the air when you’re trying to remember the items from the invoices you received. "Some other things? He always says there are other things."

Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the steady drip of fluid into a drainage pan nearby, each drop echoing like a ticking clock.

Sukuna tosses the rag aside, leans against the workbench and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes narrow, studying you with a look that grows more troubled by the second, like you’re some puzzle that refuses to make sense.

"You know what those other things were?"

You frown, your shoulders pulling in slightly under the weight of his intense stare. "Not really."

That stare doesn’t budge, flat and unblinking, and it makes you want to sink straight into the concrete floor.

"And you paid anyway."

It's not a question, but a flat statement, paired with a slow, disappointed shake of his head that twists your stomach.

Heat crawls up your neck, embarrassment prickling across your skin. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself defensively, trying to salvage a scrap of dignity. “He’s a mechanic, so like… why wouldn’t I trust him about… mechanic stuff?”

"So you just pay whatever he puts on the invoice?"

After a beat of hesitation, your eyes flick toward the garage exit before you force yourself to meet his gaze again. "I mean..."

The irritation in him doesn’t fade; if anything, it settles in deeper. The more you talk, the clearer it gets that this wasn’t just one bad invoice. It’s a pattern.

"How long you been taking your car to this guy?"

A startled blink, caught off guard by the rapid-fire questioning. "A few years?"

A muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw flexes. "Christ." His arms drop, one hand coming up to rest flat against the workbench behind him. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"

You open your mouth, ready to stammer out some flimsy defense, but he cuts you off with a sharp, impatient wave.

"No, don't answer that." He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. "I already know." When he lowers his hand, his expression darkens. "And he knows it too. That's the problem." He takes a slow step toward you, his towering height making the small garage feel instantly crowded. "He knows you don't know what you're looking at. He knows you won’t question the invoice. He knows you’ll just nod, pull out your card, and pay whatever number he pulls out of thin air."

His words hit with bruising accuracy, uncomfortable in their honesty. Swallowing hard, you feel the bitter reality of years of being scammed settle like a stone in your stomach. Sukuna clicks his tongue, the sharp, dismissive sound echoing off the concrete walls.

"And he's been taking advantage of it, overcharging the hell out of you.” He shakes his head again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It's disgusting."

—

The last clink of metal fades, giving way to the low, steady purr of your car’s engine. Sukuna lingers, listening to the alternator hum, his attention fixed on the sound until he’s sure everything is running just right. Only then does he cut the ignition and shut the hood.

At the sink, he scrubs at the thickest layer of grease on his hands and forearms, while each pass of the soap gives him a moment to stew. The whole time he’d been working on your hatchback, the audacity of your last mechanic kept simmering in the back of his mind, needling at his sense of professionalism and refusing to let go.

He dries his hands on a clean rag, then heads back to where you’re waiting by the office door. The invoice comes off the clipboard, and he holds it out to you along with your keys.

"Alright, you're good to go," he rumbles, his voice level and calm. "It was just the alternator. Parts and labor came out to two hundred, exactly like I said."

You take the keys and the paper, relief washing over you as your eyes land on the total. Exactly what he quoted. No hidden fees, no sneaky line items, no surprise charges, nothing lurking in the fine print.

Sukuna stands there, his large hands settling loosely on his hips. His gaze flicks from your face to the paperwork in your hands, brow furrowing slightly as he hesitates. Then, the words slip out before he can stop them.

“If you want, you can bring your old receipts by sometime. Dig 'em out of your glovebox or whatever." He clears his throat, the sudden offer surprising even him as it leaves his mouth. This isn’t something he does. He doesn’t take work home, and he sure as hell doesn’t do clerical charity for strangers. Still, he pushes through the awkwardness, keeping his tone flat and businesslike. "I’ll look through 'em and write down what you actually should have been paying for that basic stuff. That way you have a baseline reference sheet next time you go back to your guy, and you'll know if he's trying to pull a fast one."

There's no pressure behind his words. He leaves it entirely up to you, offering a casual favor simply because he despises seeing someone get taken advantage of.

You blink at him, completely caught off guard. You look up to his face, and gratitude cuts through your usual wall of caution.

"Really?" you ask, a soft smile breaking across your face. "You'd actually do that?"

Sukuna gives a short, dismissive shrug, shifting his weight like he’s trying to play down the gesture. "Takes me ten minutes. It's no big deal."

"Thank you. Seriously, that’s... incredibly nice of you," you say, genuinely touched by the gesture. You fold the invoice carefully, tucking it into your purse. "What day would work best for you? I don't want to interrupt your business."

Sukuna rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting toward the calendar tacked to the garage wall as he does the math in his head. "Day after tomorrow," he decides, looking back down at you. "I usually wrap up around six. Come by then. The shop's quiet after hours."

"Six on Wednesday. Perfect," you nod, your smile widening slightly. "Thank you again. I really appreciate you fixing the car so fast, and for... well, everything else. I'll see you Wednesday."

"Yeah," he mutters, his voice dropping a fraction softer as he nods back. "See you then. Drive safe."

He stands in the open bay, watching as your hatchback backs out of the driveway and pulls into the morning traffic. Only when your taillights disappear down the street does he finally let out a low breath, turning back to his tools and wondering what possessed him to volunteer his free time to look at old paperwork.

——

Just like he promised, the shop is mostly quiet when you pull up to the garage on Wednesday. With the bay doors rolled halfway down, the usual street noise is muffled, leaving only the clink of a wrench against metal to let you know he’s still inside.

Pushing open the side door, you’re greeted by the soft chime of the bell overhead. Sukuna appears from the back a moment later, dragging a clean rag over his forearms. His crimson eyes catch yours before flicking down to the stack of papers in your hand and the box tucked securely under your arm.

"You actually found 'em," he rumbles, a faint quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his expression smooths back into that usual, unreadable mask.

"Every single one I could find." Stepping up to the high counter that separates the office from the shop floor, you set the invoices down and nudge the box toward him, careful not to jostle what’s inside. "And I brought this. As a thank you."

Sukuna glances down at the cardboard box but doesn’t reach for it. He folds his arms across his chest, and his brow instantly furrows into a stubborn, defensive scowl.

"I don't need cake," he snaps, voice blunt and dismissive. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than accepting a gift. "I fixed the alternator, you paid the invoice. We're even. You don't owe me anything."

"It's not cake. It’s an apple pie. And it’s homemade," you counter softly. Before he can get another word in, you reach out and pop the lid open, letting the sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon spill into the grimy, oil-scented room. You shoot him a small, stubborn look that dares him to refuse. "And you're taking it."

For a split second, Sukuna freezes, his eyes darting from the warm pie back up to your face, looking completely out of his depth. The tension drains from his broad shoulders, and he lets out a low, grudging grunt, realizing he’s being difficult for no good reason.

"Fine," he mutters, reaching over. He grabs the box and carries it to the small, cluttered desk in the corner, sweeping aside a stack of part catalogs to clear a spot. Pausing, he peeks into the box again, then nudges a metal stool toward the desk for you with his boot. "Sit down. Let me wash up."

While he heads over to the sink to scrub the grit from his hands, you pull the pie out of the box. Only as you glance around the cluttered office does the realization hit you. You look down at the pie, still warm in its baking dish, then at your empty hands.

When Sukuna walks back in, drying his hands on a paper towel, he finds you perched on the stool, mortification written all over your face.

"Um," you manage, cheeks burning with embarrassment that creeps up. "I just realized... I forgot plates. And forks. I was so focused on getting the pie out of the oven and not showing up late that I didn't even think about it."

Sukuna stops, staring at your flushed face, and a slow, amused smirk tugs at his lips. He opens a filing cabinet, rummages through a plastic bin in the top drawer, and pulls out two plastic forks he clearly hoarded from a takeout order.

"Don't worry about it," he says, dragging a second stool over and settling in beside you. One fork is pressed into your hand, while he plunges his own straight into the pie, breaking off a steaming chunk. "We can eat it out of the dish. Problem solved."

A relieved laugh slips out as you take a bite for yourself. The pie is actually good—better than you hoped and the relief from that is almost dizzying. Watching this massive, intimidating mechanic quietly savor a dessert you’ve made in his own garage fills you with a sudden, unexpected warmth.

A few bites in, Sukuna reaches for the stack of invoices you brought along. He fishes a battered yellow highlighter from the drawer, uncapping it with his teeth, and drags the first sheet closer. Instantly, his whole demeanor sharpens, focus narrowing as he scans the lines of text.

"Two hundred for an air filter?" he mutters, jaw clenching so fast you can almost hear his teeth grind. Flipping the page back a little too sharply, he scans the top of the sheet, eyes narrowing. "When was this?"

"Last… three months, I think?" you offer, leaning in to peer over his elbow, the edge of his sleeve brushing your arm.

"Three months ago," he confirms, voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight register. The highlighter clicks against the paper, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. "I looked at your air filter on Monday when I was checking the belt. There is absolutely no way a filter looks that bad after ninety days of city driving. He didn't even change it. He just wrote it down and charged you for the part."

Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth. Staring at the highlighted line, you feel disbelief crash over you, cold and sharp, prickling along your skin.

"Wait... what? He just... left the old one in there?" You shrink down on your stool, while both embarrassment and genuine offense burn in your chest. "I actually remember sitting in his waiting room for an hour because he said he had to go fetch the specific part from the back warehouse."

Sukuna lets out a sharp, cynical grunt that cuts through the room and makes you wince. "Yeah. He was probably back there taking a nap on your dime." He flips to the next invoice and scoffs loudly. "A hundred and fifty for a 'diagnostic fee'? Your car doesn't even have a complex computer system. You plug the reader in, it takes two minutes. He's padding the numbers because he knows you’re not gonna question it.”

You blink, eyes glued to the number on the page, the math slowly ticking through your head. "Two minutes... for a hundred and fifty...?"

He’s working himself up again, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making sure you’re following every step of his explanation on why it's a scam. He breaks down the mechanics in plain English, laying out the real labor time versus what was billed, and you find yourself keeping pace with him, asking about parts, checkup schedules, and why on earth a single fluid could ever cost that much.

Sukuna’s highlighter hovers over a line, pausing as he takes in the questions you’re firing back at him. Whatever assumption he had about you being gullible is gone now. He sees you're not stupid or careless, just someone who did what anyone would: you trusted a professional because you didn’t have the background to know better. The way you’re sitting here, eagerly learning, determined to protect yourself, earns a flicker of respect in his eyes.

"You're tracking this fine," he says, irritation melting away into something unexpectedly gentle. "You just needed someone to actually layout the baseline for you."

"Yeah," you murmur, smiling a little self-consciously. "Nobody ever really explained it before."

Any trace of your nervousness has vanished. Settled into his office, you absentmindedly swing your legs beneath the stool, taking another bite. Eating straight from the baking tin, you instinctively leave the best pieces of crust for him. It’s a small, polite habit that doesn’t go unnoticed, and Sukuna finds it oddly endearing.

Powdered sugar dusts your thumb as you hold the dish steady while digging your fork in again, and without thinking, you lick it off while scanning an invoice. The gesture is so unselfconscious, so normal, but it catches his attention and draws his gaze to your face.

This close, he can’t help but notice the small things: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you’re focused on the paperwork, the little smile that appears each time you taste the pie, how small you look perched beside him. For a moment, his mind just goes completely blank.

The realization hits him square in the chest—you’re beautiful. And you went out of your way to bake a pie for him.

All at once, the office starts to smell different. The sharp tang of oil and metal slips away, replaced by the sweetness of apple and cinnamon, and beneath it all, your perfume.

You point to a line on the invoice, but his attention drifts to your hand resting next to his on the desk. His own fingers are thick and calloused; yours look impossibly soft and small by comparison. The urge to see how your hand would feel in his is so distracting he nearly loses track of what you were saying.

For a moment, the usually unshakeable and confident mechanic is thrown completely off balance, his thoughts tangling so fast he almost forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. Somehow, he keeps his face neutral, handling the rest of the paperwork with a steady voice, but underneath, panic is already clawing at him. He has no clue how he’s supposed to get your number before you walk out that door.

Hesitation or tentativeness have never been his style. If he wants something, he takes it; if he likes someone, he just tells them. It’s always been that simple. But with you leaning over his desk, a crumb of crust clinging to the corner of your mouth, something unfamiliar creeps in and stiffens his limbs. It isn't shyness—he doesn’t have a shy bone in his body, and he certainly doesn't embarrass easily. Still, this strange, careful caution settles in his bones, making every movement feel intentional and new.

For once, he actually cares about the reaction he’s going to get, and that shift in the stakes makes his usual straightforwardness feel too rough, too heavy-handed for this. The thought that messing this up could mean never seeing you again roots him to the spot, every instinct to act suddenly tangled up in hesitation. His hands feel too big, his words too blunt, and the risk of screwing this up presses in until he feels almost clumsy.

Ideas tumble through his head, each one worse than the last, none of them good enough. Sliding his business card across the desk? Too impersonal, like he’s just angling for another job. Handing over his phone and asking you to put your number in? That’s too aggressive, too much like he’s trying to corner you in his own shop. Even making up some excuse about needing to text you a follow-up on the alternator warranty feels cheap, and the idea of playing a game just to get your number makes him feel ridiculous.

The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth, every option making him feel more foolish than the last. Frustration builds until his jaw aches from how tightly he’s been clenching it, tension crawling up into his temples. He can’t remember the last time he was this stuck on something so simple.

At last, he forces his jaw to unclench, loosening his grip on the highlighter before setting it down. Glancing around the cramped office, something cuts straight through his frustration. Here you are, sitting in a garage after hours with a man twice your size you barely know, just because he offered to help. You trusted him enough to walk into his shop after closing, carrying a homemade pie as a thank-you that feels so genuine it almost hurts.

The last thing he wants, and the absolute last thing his pride will allow, is to make you feel like he used a professional angle just to corner you. If he pushes for your number now, after spending an hour showing you how vulnerable you’ve been to a scam, it’ll feel like an ambush. It’ll undo every bit of safety you felt sitting next to him and ruin any chance he might have had. The thought hits him like a splash of cold water, cooling his temper.

Drawing in a sharp breath, Sukuna reaches past you for a pen resting on the clipboard. He pulls the top invoice toward him and scrawls his phone number across the margin of the page.

"Look," he rumbles, his voice steady and stripped of the chaos in his head, sliding the stack of paperwork back across the desk to you. "You're gonna have to find a new shop now or keep dealing with that idiot down the road. If he—or anyone else—hands you a quote and it feels even a little bit off, you text a photo of the invoice to that number." He taps his thick thumb against the handwritten digits on the page. "That's my personal cell. I’ll look at it and tell you if they’re trying to rip you off."

Blinking down at the paper, you’re completely oblivious to the war he just waged with himself. The gesture is so unexpectedly kind that warmth blooms in your chest and a soft smile tugs at your lips as you glance back up at him. "Are you sure? I don't want to bother you any more than I already did."

"It's not a bother," he mutters, keeping his face carefully blank even as his pulse hammers a little harder against his ribs. "Just think of it as a backup plan. I can't stand watching people get scammed."

"That… actually makes me feel a lot better. I’ll make sure to save it," you murmur, glancing up to meet his unreadable gaze. The papers fold neatly beneath your fingers before you tuck them into your bag and rise from the stool. "Thank you. Seriously. For the alternator, the invoices, all the explanation and… for the company."

"Yeah," he mutters, his throat suddenly tight as he gives a single, gruff nod. "Don't sweat it."

Once your empty baking dish is tucked back into the box, you offer him one last warm smile that squeezes his chest uncomfortably tight. He pushes himself up to walk you to the door, the bell above your head chiming bright as you step out into the cool evening air.

"Goodnight, Sukuna."

"Goodnight," he calls back, standing entirely still as he watches you walk toward your car.

The warmth lingering in the office vanishes, leaving only a cold, hollow ache in its place. Through the glass, Sukuna watches your car start up, headlights slicing through the dusk as you ease out of the driveway and disappear around the corner. The instant your taillights blink out, frustration slams into him, heavy and relentless.

"Damn it," he barks into the empty shop, slamming his hand flat against the workbench.

Never in his life has he felt this powerless. Control is what he prides himself on—knowing exactly how a machine or a situation will play out because he’s the one steering it. But right now? He’s handed over his only leverage, left the whole gamble in your hands, and the lack of control is enough to make him want to tear his hair out.

He has no name saved in his phone, no confirmation. Nothing. He’s got no way to reach you, which means he’s stuck waiting, and everything now hangs on whether you decide to text. What if you lose that paper? What if the number gets buried in your purse and you forget about it until your car dies again months from now? What if you just think he was being polite and have no intention of ever using it?

The weight of not knowing gnaws at him, driving him to pace the shop floor, muttering curses under his breath for being so damn careful.

Two hours later, fresh from the shower, he sinks into the couch with a cold beer he hasn’t even opened yet. Usually, Sukuna finds the quiet of his apartment a relief after a day spent surrounded by noise, but tonight the silence feels heavy and irritating.

His phone lies face-up on the coffee table. By ten, he’s already picked it up and set it down more times than he cares to admit, each glance met with nothing but the glow of the lock screen and the relentless crawl of minutes. By eleven, frustration curdles into something uglier—doubt.

Doubt isn’t something he’s ever felt before, but alone in the dark, his mind starts tearing apart every second of that hour you spent in his office. The memory of your shoulder brushing his lingers. He can still hear your laugh when you realized you’d forgotten the plates, see how easily you followed his explanations, and how you smiled. He’d been so sure there was something there. He’d bet on it.

But as midnight approaches without a single vibration, his thoughts twist, turning defensive and sharp. Maybe he’d read the whole thing wrong. His brow knots as a heavy, sour thought appears and settles right in his gut. You didn’t feel a connection. You were just being polite, bringing an apple pie to thank a mechanic for doing his job. Sitting on that stool, chatting with him, you were just well-mannered, not interested. He’d blown it all out of proportion, let himself believe there was a spark when, to you, he was just the guy who fixed your alternator and handed out some advice.

—

Sukuna arrives at the shop in the worst mood humanly possible. Sleep barely touched him last night, and whatever patience he might have had for the rest of the world has been ground down to nothing.

Fingers curling around the cold iron handles, he wrenches the shutters up, and metal slams against the top of the frame so hard the glass windows in the office rattle. Not that he gives a damn. His jacket lands carelessly on the hook as he storms inside, and the paper coffee cup hits the workbench hard, sloshing the dark liquid over the plastic lid. It tastes like battery acid, but he drinks it anyway, needing the bitterness to match what’s inside of his chest.

He sets his personal phone right at the edge of the workbench, telling himself it’s just so it won’t get crushed in his pocket while he works. He knows that’s bullshit. Each time he reaches for a tool or crosses the bay for another socket, his gaze flicks back to the black screen, searching for a flicker of light that stubbornly refuses to appear.

Around nine, the shop's cell rings, echoing through the empty bay. Sukuna’s heart lurches, a ridiculous, frantic leap before his brain can rein it in—maybe you lost his number but found the shop’s online. The wrench clatters to the floor as he strides into the office, snatching the phone off the desk with a grip that’s just a little too tight.

“Ryomen’s Automotive," he grunts, his voice a rough, impatient gravel.

"Hey, man, just checking if you got those brake pads in for the pickup?"

Disappointment slams into him right beneath his ribs. His jaw locks, knuckles whitening around the mobile. "Yeah. They’re here. Come get 'em," he snaps, hanging up before the customer can get another word in.

Storming back into the bay, he grabs up his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket, as if that’ll keep the urge to check it all the time. The impact gun roars as he goes after a stubborn lug nut, the booming racket finally loud enough to drown out the chaos in his head. That’s it. He’s done checking. If you haven’t texted by now, you’re not going to. You probably tossed the paper, and he needs to get over it.

By one, Sukuna is elbow-deep in the greasy undercarriage of an old sedan, forearms streaked with black smears, his expression locked in a scowl so forbidding that even the delivery drivers have been giving him a wide berth all day.

He’s just reaching for a torque wrench when his phone vibrates on the workbench.

Bzzzt.

The sudden vibration catches him off guard, freezing him mid-reach. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all, letting the faint clicks of the cooling engine overhead fill the silence. It’s probably just spam, he tells himself. Or some useless data plan alert. Or a wrong number.

Peeling off his gloves, he slides a hand into his pocket, pulls out the phone, and swipes the screen awake. There’s a text from an unknown number—except the first line of the preview makes his chest seize up.

[You]: Hey! Sorry for the late text, I didn't want to bother you last night since it was way too late. Just wanted to send this so you have my contact too. Thanks again for looking through those invoices with me, the pie was a small price to pay for saving my bank account!

OH THANK FUCK.

Relief hits him in a bone-deep wave, draining the tension from his shoulders. He draws in a slow breath as he stares at the words glowing on the screen. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and register the gap between his own spiraling and your ridiculously polite message. You were just being considerate, that’s all.

Clearing his throat, he uses a clean patch of his forearm to wipe the grease off his thumb before he even thinks about typing. Something clever would be good, something that proves he’s not rattled by any of this, but his fingers feel thick and awkward on the keys. Finally, he settles for something short that won’t give him away.

[Sukuna]: No worries. Pie was great, by the way. Just let me know if you get any more of those invoices.

He taps send, eyes glued to the delivery confirmation, then instantly adds the number to his contacts. Your name appears at the top of the chat, and for the first time all day, a smirk tugs at his mouth, breaking through the hard set of his jaw.

The phone disappears back into his pocket, and he turns to the sedan on the lift, with a jolt of energy running through him. As he grabs his wrench, the reality of the situation hits him from a completely different angle: you texted just to be polite and acknowledge the professional favor, and he just capped his own response by telling you to let him know if you get more invoices, boxing himself right back into being the helpful mechanic. Now what? How is he supposed to ask you out without trampling all over the boundaries you just so carefully respected?

By Friday night, that pitiful text thread on Sukuna’s phone has become a full-blown obsession. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he ignores the bowl of dinner going cold on the counter, his attention fixed on the glow of his screen. The chat is as embarrassingly short as it was the previous day: your polite thank-you, then his own awkward reply about the pie.

With a low, frustrated rumble in the empty apartment, he taps the empty text box. He’s never had to plan a conversation in his life, but suddenly, the weight of actually caring what you think drags every word through mud.

Hey, you free this weekend?

He glares at the five words. The line looks all wrong, like something a teenager would send on a dating app, hovering over his phone, waiting around for a girl he barely knows to throw him a bone. Sukuna is a grown man; he doesn't do vague, open-ended checking-in. And if you say no, or tell him you have plans, that’s it. Conversation over. No way to push back without looking like a desperate idiot.

Worse, you texted him because he'd offered to help with invoices, not because you'd expected him to use your number for anything else.

"Don't be a fucking asshole, Sukuna," he mutters.

With a heavy, irritated sigh, he holds down the backspace key until the box is wiped clean.

Saturday evening drags in after a brutal ten-hour shift, wrestling with stubborn leaf springs and rusted exhaust bolts. As he’s slumped on his couch with a cold beer in his hand, his muscles ache, but his mind is still stuck on the same loop. He pulls out his phone again and opens the chat. All he needs is an excuse—something car-related, since that’s the only ground you both actually somewhat share.

Let me know if that alternator’s making any noise.

His thumb freezes before he can hit send, and he scowls at the message, a sharp spike of professional irritation cutting through the haze. If the alternator was making noise, that would mean he’d screwed up the belt tension. He knows it’s perfect. He checked it twice before you left the bay. Asking about it now is basically calling his own work sloppy, and his pride won’t let him insult himself just to get a text back. With a shake of his head, he deletes the line and takes a long pull from his beer, trying to rework the phrasing, still clinging to the car angle but making it less about his own hands.

Make sure you check your oil this week.

He drags his hand over his face, catching himself immediately. If he sends that, he’s just barking orders at a customer who already admitted she doesn’t know a thing about cars. It sounds bossy, too gruff, and leaves you nothing to say except a flat agreement. 

"What the fuck am I doing?" 

He clears the text box again and tosses the phone face down onto the cushion beside him, ready to bang his head on the wall.

Monday night is the worst. The silence of the last few days feels like a personal insult. Standing by his kitchen window, looking out at the dark street, he’s completely fed up with his own uncharacteristic hesitation. He’s Sukuna. He doesn’t sit around overthinking a three-line message like some awkward kid. Enough. He’ll just give it to you straight, no games or professional excuses. He snatches the phone off the counter and types, fingers jabbing at the screen.

I'm heading to the diner by my shop for lunch tomorrow. Come with me.

He stares at the message, breathing heavier as his thumb hovers over the blue arrow. For a split second, he almost hits it. But then your reaction flashes through his mind—opening your phone and seeing a blunt lunch demand from the mechanic who fixed your car last week, suddenly wondering whether the man who seemed so put-together had been working an angle the whole time.

"No. That's fucking creepy."

He’s completely trapped by his own respect for you, stuck suffering the consequences of having zero organic reason to reach out. He can rebuild a transmission blindfolded, but figuring out how to move a text thread from professional advice to I want to see your face again without being an asshole? That breaks his brain entirely.

A low, bitter curse slips out as he clears the message. He throws the phone onto the kitchen table, furious that one person has managed to jam his gears so completely without even lifting a finger.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

By Tuesday afternoon, the frustration has cooled into a quiet, stubborn determination. Leaning against the workbench during a lull in the shop, he stares at your name in his contacts. One more try to find a middle ground that feels natural but actually gives him an opening.

Found another complaint about that shop online. Thought you’d wanna see it.

Sukuna deletes it before he even finishes the sentence, dragging his hand down his face. Thought you’d wanna see it. He sounds like he’s trying way too hard to find an excuse to talk to you. It’s not a lie, but he’d rather die than let you catch on.

"For fuck's sake."

By Wednesday afternoon, Sukuna’s completely done with himself, and he’s become absolutely insufferable to be around. Leaning against the tool board, he glares at the calendar pinned crookedly to the office wall, his thumb drumming a relentless rhythm against his thigh.

Every scenario he plays out in his head ends with him looking like an idiot. If he’s going to make a move, it has to be on his own terms, in his own space, where he actually knows what the hell he’s doing. Turning back to his tools, he forces himself not to spiral into another round of pointless drafts. Finally, his mind clears—he doesn’t need a smooth pickup line. He just needs a real, professional reason to get you back in the garage. Maintenance. That’s it.

I’m closing up the shop tomorrow around 6. If you wanna swing by, I can show you how to check your fluids and oil so you aren’t just guessing. No worries if you’re busy.

He stares at the message for a moment. There. Completely professional. Nobody in their right mind could mistake that for flirting. Another second passes. Perfectly reasonable text to send a customer.

With that, his thumb slams the send button, heart thudding stupidly against his ribs. The phone disappears deep into his pocket as he turns back to his tools, pulse racing, completely irritated by his own anticipation and already hooked on the slow, torturous wait for your reply.

Meanwhile, you’re at home, finally sinking into the couch after a long day, when your phone buzzes against the coffee table. His name flashes across the screen, and your heart gives a small, unexpected flutter. You read his invitation twice, and a soft smile tugs at your lips. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tap out your reply, keeping it light and trying to match his tone.

[You]: I'd love to! Need me to bring anything? (I promise I'll actually remember the plates this time if there's food involved!)

Down in the garage, Sukuna’s been organizing the same shelf of oil filters for the last four minutes, trying to distract himself, when his pocket finally vibrates. He freezes mid-reach. He deliberately finishes placing the last filter on the rack, forcing himself to move at a normal pace, refusing to look like a lunatic even to his own reflection. Only then does he step back, dig out his phone, and unlock the screen.

Reading your text, the tight, stubborn knot in his chest unravels all at once. Relief hits so fast it’s almost dizzying, and a rush of heat crawls up his neck. You didn't say no. You didn't find an excuse, you didn't think it was weird, and you explicitly said you'd love to come back. And that little joke about the plates instantly crumbles the remaining walls of his stubborn frustration.

A massive, genuinely victorious smirk spreads across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners as a low, rough chuckle rumbles out of his chest. Energy surges through him, ridiculous and electric, like he’s just rebuilt a blown engine in record time.

Then his gaze snags on that last sentence, and his thumb freezes over the keyboard.

Food. You’re asking about bringing food.

For you, it’s testing the waters for a little more time together. But to him, it's enough to send his thoughts careening straight off the rails of the maintenance lesson and into a chaotic spiral of logistics. Does he buy something? Does he tell you to bring something? If he says no, does that mean you’ll just learn how to check a dipstick and drive away immediately after? He doesn't want you to leave. He wants you back on that metal stool, right where he can see you.

Pacing a short line next to the workbench, he types out a response, frowning as he slams straight into a wall of overthinking that’s completely foreign to him: I’ll grab some burgers. No, that’s too much like a date. Don't worry about food. No, that sounds like he doesn't want to eat with you at all. Or worse, you’ll eat before you come, and he’ll miss his chance entirely.

Frustrated with his own hesitation, he deletes the drafts, grunts, and decides to handle it the only way he knows how: blunt and completely practical.

[Sukuna]: Just bring the car. I’ll order a pizza. Pepperoni alright?

He hits send, tossing the phone back onto the bench with a sharp exhale. The message is demanding, a little aggressive, and leaves zero room for negotiation. Still, it guarantees you're staying for dinner.

A wide grin splits his face as he spins around and surveys his empty shop, eyes scanning the bays with sudden, critical focus. Twenty-four hours. That’s all he’s got to make sure his office looks halfway respectable before you walk through the door.

—

Rolling into the gravel driveway with five minutes to spare, you idle near the entrance just as the side door swings open and Sukuna steps out into the cool evening air. He’s in a plain black tee stretched across his broad shoulders and dark grey sweatpants. The change catches your eye immediately because he looks ridiculously good out of his coveralls. You can’t help but wonder if the wardrobe swap was just a coincidence, or if he actually cared about making a good impression tonight.

He walks over to the front of your car, waving his hand to guide you forward. "Bring it straight into the second bay," he calls out.

Following his gesture, you shift into drive and ease the car forward into the bay. The engine clicks softly when you shut it off, and as you step out, Sukuna’s already at the front bumper, nodding at you.

“You’ve made it," he rumbles, stepping up to pop the latch and lift your hood into place with a practiced, heavy thud.

"Told you I would," you say, glancing over the open engine bay with curiosity. "So, where are we starting? Am I going to get entirely covered in grime?"

Sukuna lets out a low, amused huff, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and pivots toward the rolling tool cabinet. "Not if I can help it."

He reaches into a cardboard box on top of the cart and pulls out a pair of thin, black single-use gloves. His size is impossible to ignore when he steps in close, suddenly crowding the space, and hands them over.

"Put these on first," he instructs, his gaze locking onto yours for a heartbeat. "The alternator's fresh, but everything else under that hood isn’t. No reason for you to ruin your hands."

You take the gloves, smoothing the black rubber over your wrists before looking up at him with a playful smile, tilting your head. "Very thoughtful. I didn't think a tough mechanic like you cared about a little dirt."

"I don't care about it on me," Sukuna mutters. His eyes linger on your hands for a second before he jerks his gaze back down at the engine bay, clears his throat, and points into the tangled mess of metal and hoses. "Alright, come here. We’re skipping the basic fluid check—you’re smart enough to know how to read a dipstick. I want to show you more interesting stuff."

Stepping in close, you slide the gloves over your hands, your shoulder brushing his for just a second. It's barely a touch, but enough to make both of you hyper-aware of the space you share.

"See this belt right here?" Sukuna asks, leaning over the grille. His deep voice drops into a steady, confident cadence as he gets into his element. "This is your serpentine belt. In case someone tells you it’s about to snap, I'll show you how to check the tension yourself, and how to spot actual dry rot versus regular wear."

He tugs on his own gloves, then reaches down. He navigates the cramped space around the engine block with ease, and you find yourself briefly distracted by the contrast between the size of his hands, the precision of the movements, and how gentle they look as he grips the heavy rubber belt. Then, with a twist, he exposes the underside to the light.

"Get your hand in right here," he says, glancing sideways at you, his eyes dark and intense in the low light. "Feel the edge of the rubber. Tell me what you notice."

For the next hour, Sukuna guides you through a standard oil change, patiently talking you through each step. He doesn't do the work for you; he has you reach beneath the chassis with a socket wrench to feel the exact point of resistance on the oil pan drain plug, his hand covering yours to adjust the angle, explaining the difference between a secure seal and stripped threads.

When he shows you a spark plug, he holds the tiny ceramic piece beneath the shop light, pointing out the faint color differences that separate a healthy engine from one that's burning fuel too rich.

All the while, Sukuna stays at your shoulder, keeping you grounded. Each time your gloved fingers falter over a stubborn clamp or an unfamiliar valve, his hand is there, nudging your wrist or guiding it with a confidence that makes it impossible to feel foolish. He answers every question thoroughly without a hint of impatience, pleased with your curiosity. By the time you peel the gloves from your hands, the machinery that once felt so intimidating is just a puzzle you’ve learned how to solve, and the satisfaction settles deep in your chest.

A sudden chime of the office bell cuts through the quiet, shattering the spell. Sukuna pulls his hand back from the engine block, his head snapping toward the front door.

"Pizza's here,” he rasps.

He strips off the gloves, tossing them in the trash before heading to the glass door to pay the delivery guy. You follow suit, peeling yours off and grabbing the plates you stashed in your trunk earlier. Stepping into the dim office, you find Sukuna already setting the steaming pizza box dead center on his desk.

"Look at that," you tease softly, sliding the plates onto the desk. "Real plates this time."

Sukuna glances down at them, and a faint, genuinely amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Fancy," he mutters, eyes flicking up to catch yours for a split second before his hand moves to the cardboard lid. “Bringing the good stuff to a garage."

The moment he flips the lid open, the rich, savory scent of hot cheese and pepperoni floods the room, instantly smothering the stubborn trace of motor oil that still clings to the air. He slides a massive, steaming slice onto your plate before grabbing one for himself. "Eat up before it gets cold."

For the first twenty minutes, conversation just flows easily, and to his immense relief, not a single word about car parts comes up. You ask about the shop, how long he’s been running it, and whether he always wanted to be a mechanic. He tells you how he likes working with his hands, how machines make sense in a way people never do, because if something’s broken, there’s always a reason, and always a fix.

After a while, Sukuna starts tossing questions your way. One answer leads to another, and before long you're deep in a story about that trainwreck project at work and the latest chaos your friends managed to stir up over the weekend. He doesn’t interrupt, his crimson eyes fixed on your face, watching your eyes crinkle with laughter, how your hands sketch wild shapes in the air, and the tiny smile that sneaks out when you mention your friends.

Some part of him is convinced this should be awkward. Or, at the very least, harder than this. But it feels completely natural, and before he knows it, he’s talking more than he ever does. And that’s exactly when the invisible trap closes right back around his throat.

Ask her, his mind orders, the thought landing in his chest with a sudden, heavy thud. Eight words. Do you want to go out with me? Just say the damn words.

You finish your slice and lean back a little on your stool, thumb brushing a stray crumb from your lower lip without thinking.

Do it now. She's sitting right here. She likes talking to you. Just open your stupid mouth and ask for a real date.

Sukuna shifts his weight on the metal stool as his large hand tightens around his napkin.

Don't be a coward. It's a question, not a marriage proposal.

He opens his mouth, but his throat locks up tight. He isn't actually afraid of hearing the word no—he has plenty of pride, but a rejection wouldn't break him. What paralyzes him is the fiercely protective boundary he’s drawn around you in his own head.

And then what? She realizes the mechanic who helped her has been working an angle the whole time?

He’s desperately trying not to abuse the trust he’s built with you. The sheer weight of wanting to keep this clean and respectable for your sake completely jams his gears.

"Hey," he blurts out anyway, his voice a little rough, cutting right through the middle of whatever you were saying.

You pause, blinking at him with curious eyes. "Hm?"

Sukuna freezes as his brain goes completely blank again under your direct gaze. His eyes drop to your mouth, staring at the soft curve of your lips in the dim light of the desk lamp, his mind scrambling for any kind of escape hatch.

For fuck's sake, Sukuna. You've started already. Just finish it.

Instead, his throat stays bone dry, jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek. The words just refuse to come, and the surge of internal fury that follows nearly knocks him sideways.

“Never mind.”

You study him for a long moment, and a small, knowing look flickers in your eyes as you set your crust down on the plate.

"Well," you say softly, with a playful little tilt to your head. "I guess I officially know enough about drive belts now. At this rate, I won't have an excuse to bother you anymore."

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. The thought of you just fading back into the real world, never showing up at his garage again, triggers a raw, defensive panic that steamrolls right over his hesitation.

"You don't need car trouble to stop by," he quickly says.

It comes out too blunt, his voice rough and a little too sharp in the quiet room. He winces inside, bracing for you to pull away, but you just look at him, a soft, slow smile spreading across your face.

"You know," you murmur, your voice dropping into a gentle, teasing tone as you lean just a hair closer over the edge of the desk. "Most people just ask for a date."

Sukuna goes utterly still. The words hang in the air, and the silence that follows is so thick you can hear the faint, steady hum of the fluorescent bulb overhead. He doesn’t answer right away—he can’t. The gears in his brain lock up as he stares at you, completely stunned that you’ve just outmaneuvered him without even trying.

But then the sheer absurdity of it all hits him, and the tension in his chest snaps like a rubber band.

A low, rough chuckle shakes his chest, half frustration, half pure captivation. He drops the crumpled napkin onto the desk, and suddenly his eyes are burning with that hyper-confident heat he’s been holding back all week. The cautious, hesitant mechanic is gone in a blink.

"Yeah?" he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave.

Before you can blink, he closes the distance between the stools. That massive hand of his finds the back of your neck, thick fingers curling gently, thumb pressing into the warm skin along your jaw. His sheer size blocks out the rest of the office, casting you in his shadow as he leans down, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

His eyes drop to your mouth, and the intensity of his stare makes your breath catch.

"Been trying real hard to be polite all week," he mutters with a wicked smirk right against your lips, tracing a slow line along your jaw with his thumb. "But you're entirely right. I'm taking you out tomorrow night."

He pauses, giving you one last chance to pull away if you want to. When you don't move, matching his smirk with one of your own, he closes the last bit of space without a single shred of hesitation.

The moment his lips meet yours, a ragged breath escapes him, a sound so raw it sends a shiver tearing down your spine. He’s been starving for this all week, and the force of it knocks the air from both your lungs.

Sweet vanilla and tobacco from his perfume flood your senses, drowning out everything else. Sukuna tastes exactly like he smells: warm, intense, and utterly intoxicating. Any coherent thought vanishes beneath the rush of it. Your hands find the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric at his chest and bunching it tight in your fists as you pull him closer. Every bit of hunger he pours into the kiss, you give right back.

Feeling you lean in and your hands on him, a low, gravelly groan rumbles from deep in his chest. His grip at the nape of your neck tightens, thick fingers slipping higher into your hair until they're tangled in the strands at the base of your skull, leaving no room for doubt about how badly he's wanted this. His other hand leaves the desk, sliding up to cup your face, calloused thumb sweeping hard over your cheekbone as he tilts your head back, searching for a better angle.

Slow, insistent pressure parts your lips, and his mouth moves over yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin. The heat pouring off him is overwhelming, swallowing up the entire office until there's nothing left but his lips and the rough drag of his hands against your skin.

Sukuna pulls back just a fraction, barely a breath of space between you, so you can both drag in ragged breaths. Eyes closed, his forehead drops against yours while his chest heaves. But staying away isn’t an option. He leans right back in, catching your lower lip between his, sucking on it with a slow pull that rips a quiet gasp from your throat.

That deep drag is followed by a series of quick, hot pecks—one to the corner of your mouth, another firm press at the center of your lips, and finally a lingering kiss that seals your mouths together all over again.

Every tiny, breathless break just makes him hungrier. He presses in deeper, tongue tracing the shape of your lips, completely taking over the pace. Your heart hammers stupidly against your ribs, your body turning to liquid on the metal stool, kept upright only by the iron grip of his hands. He’s kissing you like he wants to leave a permanent mark, making up for an entire week spent talking himself out of this.

Even when he finally tears his mouth away, he refuses to let you go. His breath comes in short, heavy rasps that tangle with your own, crimson eyes fluttering open to find you—dark, hooded, and completely blown wide as he stares at your swollen lips. His thumb sweeps over your lower lip, wiping the dampness away with a slow, heavy pressure that makes your chest ache.

For a moment, neither of you says a word. The office is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath. His chest rises and falls close to yours, and you can feel the lingering warmth of him, the tension that hasn’t left either of your bodies.

A smirk slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth. He savors the silence every bit as much as the kiss itself.

“Text me your address,” he rumbles, his voice incredibly low and rough. His hand is still tangled in your hair, fingers threaded deep enough that when you instinctively try to lean back and get a better look at him, his grip tightens just enough to stop you. It isn’t rough, but it’s firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his fingers shift slightly against your scalp. “And be ready at seven.”

Blinking up at him through the haze of the kiss, you tilt your head as much as his grip allows, brows lifting as you study him. The corner of your mouth twitches, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

"Pretty sure that wasn't a question, Sukuna."

His smirk deepens as he looks down at you, completely unfazed by your tone. That arrogant confidence in his eyes is impossible to miss now, and somehow it only makes your stomach flip harder.

"Neither was taking you out tomorrow night," he murmurs.

You don’t bother answering. Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his shirt as you drag him down, crushing your lips into his. He chuckles deeply into the kiss as his hands slide from your face to your waist. Before you can think about what he's doing, he's pulling you off the stool and into his lap. Deepening the kiss, you bury your fingers in his hair, drawing a low groan from him that sends a shiver racing down your spine and straight between your legs.

notes:

> sukuna: somebody has been scamming this woman > sukuna: she baked me a pie > sukuna 5 minutes later: i need her phone number or i'm going to lose my fucking mind

sukuna. buddy. my man. my brother in christ.

[ichigf]

୨୧﹕fem!reader, meg trying to find ur gspot

megumi’s fucking relentless when he wants to be.

you didn’t expect it—not from him. cool, quiet, closed-off. the kind of guy who mumbles through compliments, blushes if you so much as kiss his neck. but now? now he’s behind you on the bed, hands tight on your hips, chest damp with sweat, cock driving into your cunt at angles so precise it’s like he’s mapping you out with surgical intent.

except he hasn’t hit it yet.

he’s trying.

you can feel it in the way he keeps adjusting—sliding one knee forward, shifting your legs apart, reaching up to cup your tit while his other hand angles your hips higher. every thrust is different. measured. focused. calculated. he’s testing your body like a theory, chasing something he knows is there.

but you’re dazed.

whimpering, breathless, soaked and shaking, confused as fuck because every time you think he’s found it—fuck—he misses by a hair. it’s so close. the pleasure is blinding, but something inside is pulsing, begging, like a button he just hasn’t pushed yet.

he groans low behind you, voice hoarse and frustrated. “it’s in here,” he pants, like he’s talking to himself more than you. “i know it is—fuck, why can’t i—”

you mewl his name, back arching, your hands clawing at the sheets. “m-megumi, what—what’re you—f-fuck—”

“trying something,” he growls, and then—

then he grabs your hips, strong and firm, and lifts them slightly, angling your ass higher, tipping your pelvis up, bringing your cunt closer to him, tighter. he shifts forward, sinks deeper—

and hits it.

“fuck—!”

you scream. not a cute moan. not a gasp. a full-bodied, throat-shredding scream as your body convulses. your hands slap the mattress. your legs kick. your mouth falls open with a sob as something detonates inside you, pressure exploding.

then you squirt.

not a little trickle. not some delicate drip.

it gushes—loud, wet, uncontrollable—as megumi’s cock hits your g-spot dead-on and stays there, grinding into it while his grip on your hips keeps you locked in place.

his eyes widen, blown black, and he chokes out a groan that sounds like it’s dragged from the bottom of his lungs. “holy fuck—” his cock twitches hard inside you. “you—fucking squirted—”

you can’t speak. your voice is gone. your entire body is shaking, twitching under him, cunt spasming uncontrollably around his cock as slick pours out of you, soaking his thighs, the bed, everything.

“shit,” he pants, hips slamming forward again—same angle, same brutal grind—and you scream again, body lurching, nails digging into the mattress.

“you like that?” he hisses, his rhythm suddenly unhinged, frantic, chasing that spot with every thrust now. “that’s it, right there—fuck, i found it—look at you, fucking soaking me—”

“c-can’t—too much—megumi—!”

he doesn’t stop. not when you gush again, not when you sob and scream, not even when your legs shake like they might give out from under you. he holds you up, keeps that perfect angle, pounds your g-spot like it’s his fucking mission.

“you’re gonna cum like this,” he growls. “you’re gonna squirt all over me again. i want it. need it. give it to me.”

you break.

you cum harder than you ever have in your life, squirting again with a scream as your body collapses under him, mind blank, voice wrecked, thighs sticky and trembling.

[aquasprings]

➽───── one who yearns is one who earns ─────❥

ft. suguru geto

synopsis ~ months of longing. a week at a beach house. one shared bed, too much tension and too little self control. suguru geto has spent far too long wanting his friend’s roommate. far too long trying not to ruin her. unfortunately for him, when she shows up to spring break looking at him like that, he fails spectacularly.

tags ~ 18+ mdni !!! idiots in fucking love, yearning yearning yearning, geto's a masterclass yearner, lowkey slowburn? friends to lovers-ish, mutual pining, praise kink, dirty talk, pet names, oral fixation, piv sex, creampie, marking, size difference, belly bulge, light possessiveness, aftercare, geto's just down bad and i love him and i love this

a/n ~ gosh this was toooo much fun to write. decided to make this one a long(er) oneshot compared to the multi parts i had for choso n gojo, bc it made more sense with the plot i had in mind! hopefully all of u lovelies enjoy ;) and sorry for the wait <3

w/c ~ 17.4 k (youch i got carried away)

access the frat verse here!

your roommate brings it up three days before finals week officially starts, which already tells you the idea is terrible. the two of you are sitting cross-legged on the floor of your apartment living room surrounded by open textbooks, half-folded laundry, and empty instant noodle containers.

she’s supposed to be writing a paper. instead, she’s online shopping for bikinis. “i actually can’t do this anymore,” she announces dramatically, laptop balanced on her thighs. “if i read one more discussion post i’m walking into traffic.”

you hum absentmindedly, highlighting a paragraph without processing any of it.

outside, rain taps against the windows in soft uneven bursts. campus looks gray and muddy and exhausted. even the frat houses have gone quieter this week. everyone’s studying, or pretending to.

your roommate suddenly gasps. “spring break,” she says.

“what about it?”

“we should go to your beach house.”

that gets your attention. you look up slowly from your laptop. “we?”

“yes, we.” she tosses a sock at you. “like. everyone.”

“everyone…us girls? or—”

“no, the frat too,” she says, smiling. “i want choso to be there.”

you roll your eyes, focusing back on your notes. she’s been glued to her boyfriend’s hip ever since they got together. it’s almost sickening, if they weren’t so perfect for each other. you’re rarely in the house alone anymore.

“dunno if that’s a good idea,” you say, because your brain immediately supplies the image of suguru geto.

it’s geto. always geto.

your roommates notices your change in expression instantly. the grin that spreads across her face is immediate and evil. “oh my god.”

you narrow your eyes. “don’t.”

“you thought about him first.”

“i literally didn’t,” you mumble, pushing your glasses up your nose.

“you literally did.”

you throw the sock back at her head and she dodges it, laughing. “you’re soooo weird about him.”

and she’s right. you are weird about him. not in an obvious way, no. whatever thing between you and geto occurs in fragments. in pauses and glances held half a second too long.

eye tag.

that’s what gojo called it once after catching the two of you staring at each other across the frat kitchen while everyone else argued over beer pong rules. “you guys do this every time,” he’d said.

you’d denied it immediately. geto had just looked away.

your roommate clasps her hands together. “please invite them. choso already said yes if you say yes.”

“you asked him before asking me?”

“well, yes.”

you sigh, rubbing your forehead. “the house isn’t huge.”

“it has four bedrooms.”

“one of them barely counts,” you point out.

“we can make it work.”

your parents are never at the beach house this time of year, anyways, and know you’re responsible enough to handle it on your own.

it’s few hours from campus along a quieter part of the shoreline. you haven’t been in almost a year.

the thought of ocean air instead of stale lecture halls makes you exhale slightly.

“aha,” your roommate says, pointing at you. “that was a considering face.”

“it was not.”

“come on. it’ll be fun.”

“it’ll be loud.”

“only a little.”

“imagine bonfires,” your roommate says dreamily.

“imagine property damage.”

“imagine volleyball.”

“imagine bail money.”

you already know you’re going to cave. despite everything the rest has somehow become tangled into your life over the past semester. in the middle of late-night food runs and campus events and parties is geto’s face and how you notice him before he notices you almost every time.

at parties, he’s usually tucked somewhere quieter while everybody else spirals around him in chaos. sitting on kitchen counters, leaning against walls with a drink untouched in his hand. watching. and eventually his eyes find yours, every single time.

the first few times it happened you thought you imagined it. you? nerd you? suguru geto looking at you?

but it kept happening. across crowded rooms and across lecture halls.

“you’re thinking about him again,” your roommate says.

it’s his deep voice and calmness and the way he rolls his sleeves to his elbows when he’s focused. the exhaustion constantly sitting beneath his eyes lately because he’s balancing classes and internship applications and responsibilities and everybody else’s problems too.

“shut up,” you say weakly.

“i’m texting choso. this is happening.”

you sigh, knowing that once your roommate wants something to go her way, it’s happening.

how bad can the trip really go, anyway?

“gojo’s already asking if the beach house has speakers.”

“tell him yes, but the neighbours don’t like noise past 10pm.”

“geto says he can drive.” your roommate looks up at you, chewing her lip, and you’re suddenly very interested in the notes you’ve been trying to read over.

now you’re imagining geto driving, one hand on the wheel, ocean air and his stupid rings glinting under the dashboard lights

you stand abruptly, gathering your notes before your imagination gets worse.

thursday - eight days from departure

geto realizes he’s in trouble on a thursday night while half-drunk freshmen scream-sing nextdoor to music that sounds like somebody attacking a speaker with a hammer. he’s sitting at the frat dining table with an untouched beer beside his laptop, trying to finish an internship application before midnight.

keyword : trying.

because you’re here. you’re not even doing anything particularly distracting either. you’re sitting cross-legged on the couch in one of those oversized university sweaters, glasses sliding slightly down your nose while you argue with choso’s girlfriend over how many bags of chips are too many for one week at the beach house.

you shouldn’t be this difficult to ignore, and yet geto’s cursor has been blinking on the same sentence for six minutes.

gojo and toji yell something at each other from across the room. everyone starts talking over each other, except for choso, who’s curled into his girlfriend’s side, and you.

you stay focused, tapping at your laptop with concentration pulling your brows together slightly. geto watches your mouth move while you talk.

that’s becoming a problem too. noticing little things. the tiny crease between your eyebrows when you’re annoyed. the way you tuck your legs underneath yourself without thinking.

it’s gotten worse recently, or maybe he’s just stopped pretending it hasn’t been happening. for months now, every room he walks in feels altered slightly if you’re there.

he hates how aware he’s become of you. worse, you notice him too.

geto’s not stupid. he sees the way your eyes snag on him before flicking away. the pauses, the tension, that look you get when he stands too close.

it’s there constantly, like static humming between you both.

“geto.” your voice cuts clean through his thoughts.

he looks up immediately. you’re staring at him from across the room now, brows raised slightly. his stomach does something deeply irritating. “yeah?”

“you haven’t answered a single thing we asked.”

gojo grins instantly from the kitchen island.

“he was staring at you.”

geto doesn’t react outwardly. years of dealing with satoru have made his self-control nearly supernatural.

you, unfortunately, do react. irritation flashes visibly across your face before you glare at gojo. “oh my god, shut up.”

“am i wrong?”

“yes,” both you and geto say at the exact same time.

toji starts laughing so hard he nearly chokes. “jesus christ,” he mutters. “you two are painful.”

geto drags a hand down his face slowly. you’re suddenly very interested in your spreadsheet.

cute.

“i made categories,” you explain, stuttering over the last word as you regain composure. “colour coded. it’s a shared excel sheet so you can all access it too.”

geto smiles softly. you’re focused and bossy and pretty. he thinks he should probably stop looking at you like that.

“okay,” you say, tapping the couch. “can everyone e-transfer me their share tonight so i can book groceries in advance?”

gojo raises a hand. “no. actually, toji and i pass.”

you run a hand down your face. “what?”

“we’re the entertainment,” he explains, like it makes total sense.

“eighty dollars, each of you, please,” you say, tilting your head back. “i hate all of you.”

“that’s not true,” gojo says. “You like suguru.”

the room goes quiet instantly. choso coughs into his drink. gojo’s girlfriend physically turns away to hide her smile.

gojo points between the two of you lazily.

“the vibes are crazy.”

“there are no vibes,” you say immediately.

“you look flustered,” toji notes helpfully.

everybody starts talking over each other again while you try defending yourself with rapidly deteriorating success. geto says nothing, because while the others laugh and argue his eyes stay on you.

you can feel it too. he knows you can. that tension pressing tighter every time your gazes meet.

your eyes lift to his and his gaze flicks to your mouth for one brief, horrible second.

you both look away just as fast.

sunday - five days from departure

your bedroom looks like a clothing store exploded. bikinis draped over desk chairs, shorts hanging off your bedframe, three different pairs of sandals abandoned in the middle of the floor. “i hate everything,” you announce.

your roommate barely glances up from where she’s laying across your bed with choso half beneath her like a human mattress. “dramatic.”

“none of this looks right.”

“you’ve changed outfits six times.”

“because i look weird.”

“you literally don’t.”

you turn sideways in the mirror, scrutinizing yourself harder. the dress is just soft black fabric that skims your body, thin straps, lower neckline than what you normally wear. you bought it for some finance networking event your department hosted last month because your mom said you needed “staple outfits.”

your roommate sits up on her elbows finally, exasperated. “you know most people going on beach trips are worried about, like, sunscreen?”

“i am worried about sunscreen.”

“i forgot you made a spreadsheet for sunscreen.”

“uv rays are serious.”

choso laughs quietly from beneath her, hands resting loosely on her thighs. you point at him immediately. “don’t encourage her.”

“i didn’t say anything.”

“the laugh felt judgmental.”

your roommate rolls her eyes before looking back at you properly. “you look hot,” she says flatly. “actually annoyingly hot. if you don’t pack the dress i’m stealing it.”

you scoff softly, turning back toward the mirror. “it’s too much.”

“for who?”

you shrug. some part of you already knows exactly who you’re thinking about, which is ridiculous. you’re literally standing in your bedroom overanalyzing a dress because suguru geto might see it.

your roommate seems seconds away from teasing you about exactly that when choso speaks absentmindedly from the bed.“geto likes that one.”

the room goes silent and you slowly turn around. “…what?”

choso freezes and his eyes widen slightly like he physically felt the mistake leave his mouth in real time.

your roommate lifts her head immediately. “what do you mean geto likes that one?”

“nothing,” choso says too quickly.

“choso,” she says.

“i’m serious.”

you narrow your eyes at him. “how would he even know this dress?”

another pause then choso makes the fatal mistake of hesitating. your roommate gasps dramatically. “OH MY GOD HE DOES KNOW THE DRESS?!”

“baby,” choso says weakly.

“no, no, come back.” she grabs his arm before he can sit up. “what do you mean he likes the dress?”

“i wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

you cross your arms slowly. “that’s an insane sentence.”

choso looks deeply distressed now. your roommate softens instantly though, because unfortunately for choso, she knows exactly how to handle him. she cups his face gently, pressing a tiny kiss against his jaw. “please?” she asks sweetly.

choso exhales heavily through his nose, cheeks going pink. weak man. he folds almost immediately. “okay but you cannot tell geto i said any of this.”

you and your roommate both nod way too fast and he points at both of you suspiciously before continuing. “you wore that dress to the frat one night.”

your brows pinch together slightly. “…when?”

“when you came to pick her up after that finance networking thing.”

oh.you remember that night.

you’d stopped by the frat around midnight because your roommate was too drunk to uber home alone. you were still dressed up from the event downtown. heels hurting. hair done. tired and irritated because gojo had answered the door already yelling.

you hadn’t stayed long, just long enough to drag your roommate upstairs to collect her stuff while half the frat stared at you like they’d never seen a woman before.

apparently including geto.

“what happened?” your roommate asks immediately.

choso rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “nothing happened exactly. some guy made a comment after you left.”

your stomach tightens slightly. “what kind of comment?”

“just saying you looked good or whatever.”

“and?” your roommate presses.

choso sighs. “and geto got weird about it.”

heat crawls instantly up your neck. “weird how?”

“he just…” choso pauses, visibly trying to decide how much to say. “he looked annoyed.”

your roommate’s jaw drops. “he got jealous?”

“well, I dunno, not—”

“choso.”

“i’m serious.”

“what did he say?”

another long sigh. “he said you don’t even realize how pretty you are.”

your roommate physically collapses face-first into the bed, laughing into a pillow. you just stand there your heart suddenly beating way too hard. “that’s not…” you clear your throat softly. “that’s not that serious.”

both of them look at you. your roommate lifts her head slowly. “you are genuinely the dumbest smart person i know.”

“i’m not dumb.”

“he said you don’t know how pretty you are.”

“people say things.”

“not like that.”

choso looks like he regrets existing and unfortunately for him your roommate isn’t done. “what ELSE has he said?”

“nothing,” choso mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

“liar.”

“baby.”

another soft kiss against his jaw, pretty doe eyes, and you watch the fight leave choso’s body. he groans quietly. “he just asks about you sometimes,” he mumbles, glancing up at you.

your stomach flips again. “asks what?” your roommate says immediately.

“normal stuff.”

“define normal.”

“like if she’s seeing anybody.”

your eyes widen slightly.

“or what her type is,” choso admits.

your roommate grabs your arm so hard you almost lose balance. “i knew it.”

“stop saying that,” you hiss, feeling too warm and out of place in your own body now.

choso keeps talking now that he’s doomed anyway. “there were these guys talking to you outside one of our econ buildings a while ago and geto asked after if you knew them.”

you blink. you remember that too. two business majors from another frat trying very hard to impress you after class. geto had walked by while you were talking to them and you hadn’t thought he even paid attention.

apparently he had.

“and,” choso adds carefully, “he asked if they were bothering you.”

something warm and dangerous and twisting settles low in your stomach, and your roommate looks one second away from planning a wedding. “this is insane.”

“it’s not insane,” you say weakly.

“he likes you.”

“you don’t know that.”

“y/n,” she says flatly. “be serious.”

you sit on the edge of your bed, the black dress clinging to your skin, and now all you can think about is geto noticing it. remembering it. liking it enough to mention it after you’d already gone.

your roommate watches your expression carefully from the bed and then smiles slowly.

friday - day of departure

departure day starts at eleven in the morning and immediately feels cursed. gojo is late, even though the meetup spot is outside the frat. toji's holding an iced coffee and is directing where bags are to be put instead of actually helping. somehow, your roommate's lost one of her sandals already. choso's carrying about fourteen bags (thirteen of which are his girlfriend's) and you?

you're standing in the driveway trying to figure out how seven people accumulated this much luggage for a beach trip. a seven day beach trip. “why do you have three suitcases,” you ask gojo’s girlfriend.

"two of them are satoru's," she says, patting her boyfriend's head, and he grins like a lovesick puppy. "i don't know why he has so many clothes."

geto’s car sits at the curb behind gojo's girlfriend's car - the two drivers for the trip. geto's leaning against it, typing on his phone, and of course the fact that he looks good pre-noon makes your heart pang. you can only imagine what you would look like standing beside him, what with your frizzy hair and crooked glasses.

he's wearing a dark hoodie and shorts, sunglasses pushes up into his hair while choso helps him load luggage into the back. you try not to stare but your brain seems to enjoy self-destruction.

because watching geto lift heavy bags with one hand while calmly reorganizing everybody’s mess should not be attractive.

"okay," gojo announces loudly, clapping once. "vehicle assignments."

getp closes his trunk with a final solid thud. "my car's got the most space," he says. "why don't you transfer all the luggage over from the other car?"

your roommate perks up immediately. "perfect."

"there'll be room for one person up front too," geto adds casually. then he looks directly at you. your stomach flips so hard it almost makes you angry.

you glance away first. before you can say literally anything, your roommate beams. "great! y/n'll go with you."

you whip around instantly. "what?"

"you get carsick in crowded backseats," she says innocently.

which is true. unfortunately. “i can survive.”

“and i want leg room,” toji says. "no fuckin' way am i cramming in the back with the lovebirds," he grumbles, pointing to choso and your roomate, "with this fucker in the front." he points his thumb to gojo, who's smiling happily.

"then you can go in the front with geto," you say.

your roommate gives you a deadpan look. gojo's girlfriend sighs.

"toji, just sit in the back, please," choso says quietly. "it's only a two and a half hour ride."

he opens his mouth to retort an excuse but gojo's girlfriend promptly elbows him in the chest. he grumbles but settles in the back of gojo's girlfriend's sedan anyway.

geto looks almost relieved, but he quickly masks it with his typical aloofness.

your roommate grabs your shoulder, grinning ear to ear. "have fun!"

you narrow your eyes at her. “i hope your phone charger breaks.”

gojo leans out the passenger window of the other car. “pee break every forty-five minutes!”

“absolutely not,” both you and geto say simultaneously.

gojo points between you both immediately. “they’re married already.”

you ignore him completely, mostly because geto is already walking around to the passenger side of his car and opening the door for you. which should not affect you this much.

it’s basic manners. normal behavior. except when you pass him, the scent of his cologne mixes with cool morning air and coffee and suddenly your thoughts short-circuit for half a second.

annoying. very, super annoying.

you settle into the seat while geto finishes loading the last bag.

the car smells clean, like sandalwood and detergent and something distinctly geto. you hate that you know what he smells like.

the second he slides into the driver’s seat beside you, the space feels smaller. you feel him glance at you before putting the car into start, and you're driving off, leading the other car behind you.

your phone buzzes immediately.

roomie: have fun on your first date ❤️

you: i’m going to kill you with my bare hands

you shove your phone away quickly before geto can accidentally see. “you have the address?” he asks quietly.

“yeah.” you pull up the map. “did gojo’s girlfriend save it too?”

“i sent it to her twice.”

“good.”

“you don’t trust them?”

you stare out the windshield where gojo is currently hanging halfway out the car window yelling something about his spring break arc. “…should i?”

geto laughs quietly beside you and the sound makes your head spin happily. you don't hear him laugh often, unless he's mocking gojo. this quiet, real laugh is something you notice every single time.

after twenty minutes you hit the highway and you sink back into your seat with a sigh. “finally.”

“you stressed?” geto asks lightly.

“i like plans.”

“i noticed.”

you narrow your eyes slightly. “that sounded judgmental.”

“it wasn’t.”

“mhm.”

he glances at you briefly while turning onto the highway. sunlight catches against the rings on his fingers resting on the steering wheel. your brain immediately decides to become unhelpful so you look out the window instead.

for another few minutes, it’s quiet except for road noise and the distant bass vibrating from the other car behind, then geto taps the screen on the dashboard. “you want music?”

“i don’t mind.”

“you sure?”

“...yeah? why?” you glance over at him.

“because now if you hate my music taste you'll have to be super polite about it and the car ride will be awkward.”

you laugh softly. “i promise it won't be bad. i won't be that harsh.”

his mouth curves slightly before he scrolls through his phone. music fills the car a second later and you recognize it almost instantly.

your head turns before you can stop yourself. “wait,” you say. “is this the smiths?”

geto glances over briefly. “…you listen to the smiths?”

“obviously.”

“obviously?”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“nothing,” he says, clearly amused now. “i just didn’t expect it.”

you scoff. “what did you expect?”

he thinks about it for a second. “something old. like classical music.”

"i don't mind classical, but the smiths have always been one of my favourites."

he flashes you a genuine smile, fingers gently tapping the rhythm of the song on the wheel. "i'm glad."

after that, conversation begins to flow easier. favourite albums, worst profs, gojo. (lots of gojo). he says something that makes you snort and that same small, real smile etches onto his lips and god, this is dangerous.

you watch the highway stretch under the pale morning sunlight while trees blur at the edges of the road. after a moment you steal another glance at him. he's relaxed, one arm resting near the window, sunglasses low on his nose.

he's so...pretty.

the thought hits so fast and hard it almost embarrasses you. as if sensing it, geto looks over suddenly. your eyes meet instantly and there it is again. that thing. that horrible, suspended moment where neither of you looks away fast enough.

his gaze flicks down briefly to your mouth then back up. your pulse stutters.

behind you, gojo’s girlfriend's car suddenly swerves slightly as gojo sticks his head out the sunroof, shouting something imperceptible.

the moment breaks. you clear your throat quickly, looking forward again. “they’re going to die before we even get there.”

geto’s laugh rumbles low beside you. “probably.”

gojo’s girlfriend has both hands gripping the steering wheel like she’s transporting explosives. “if you scream one more time,” she says flatly, eyes locked on the road, “i’m pulling over and leaving all of you on the highway.”

“that feels hostile,” gojo says from the passenger seat.

“you barked at a motorcycle.”

“it barked first.”

from the backseat, toji groans dramatically as choso’s girlfriend shifts closer into choso’s side again. “i’m in hell,” he mutters.

“you’re just bitter because nobody wants to cuddle you,” she says cheerfully.

“wrong. women love me.”

“do they?” gojo says from the front, shit-eating grin on his face.

“historically. your mother would know.”

“you don't know shit about my mom,” gojo laughs. “she doesn't have your fucking number.”

“that's cause she gave it to me.”

choso quietly adjusts his arm around his girlfriend’s waist so she can lean more comfortably against him. toji gags loudly. “there they go again,” he says. “the world’s most nauseating couple.”

"you're just single. quadruple-wheeling the trip. us, choso and his girl, and whatever the fuck is going on in geto's car."

toji kicks the back of gojo’s seat and the car swerves slightly.

everyone yells immediately. “if we die,” gojo’s girlfriend says through gritted teeth, “i’m haunting all of you.”

“you’d look hot as a ghost,” gojo says instantly.

she snorts despite herself. from the backseat, choso’s girlfriend glances down at her phone.

“they’re probably having the most awkward car ride ever right now.”

gojo twists around immediately. “you think they’ve kissed yet?”

“it’s been thirty minutes,” choso says.

“exactly.”

“they’re not kissing,” his girlfriend says, though she sounds deeply unconvinced.

toji stretches his long legs out miserably. “they do have weird tension though.”

“thank you,” gojo says, pointing dramatically. “finally someone sane.”

choso’s girlfriend smiles to herself a little, gaze drifting toward the road ahead where geto’s car moves steadily a few lengths in front of them. “i think they’re both just nervous,” she says softly.

“geto?” gojo laughs loudly. “nervous over a girl?”

if only they saw how bright geto's smile was right now as you talked animatedly about how well your finals went. with you and your legs propped up on the dash, smooth and perfect and he couldn't stop staring without seeming weird. how his heart skipped a beat every time one of your perfect smiles were directed to him.

if only they knew how gone for you he really was.

the second the beach house comes into view, everyone in the other car completely loses their minds. your phone starts vibrating before geto’s even finished pulling into the driveway.

SPRING BREAKKUHH

gojo: HOLY SHIT???

gojo: WHY IS IT HUGE

roomie: i warned u

you laugh softly under your breath as the other car practically screeches to a stop beside you. the house sits glowing gold in the late afternoon sunlight, all warm cedar and giant windows overlooking the water below. dune grass sways softly around the edges of the deck while waves crash faintly in the distance.

home.

you hadn’t realized how badly you needed this until now. gojo launches out of the car first. “BEACH ARC!” he screams.

“inside voice,” you call automatically.

“we’re outside.”

“future inside voice.”

toji steps out next, stretching dramatically. “thank christ. my knees were touching my organs back there.”

everyone starts unloading luggage in a blur after that. bags thumping against the deck, music already blasting from someones speaker, and of course, gojo attempting to carry six things at once before immediately dropping half of them.

you’re hauling one of the grocery bags up the front steps when your roommate appears beside you wearing the smuggest expression imaginable. “so,” she says casually.

you already know. “don’t.”

“you and geto looked cozy.”

“we were in a car.”

“alone.”

“with seatbelts.”

gojo’s girlfriend appears on your other side immediately. “the sexual tension was visible through the windshield.”

you nearly trip over the doorway. “there is no sexual tension.”

both of them stare at you and you adjust your glasses defensively. “there just objectively is not.”

“you’re doing the nerd thing,” your roommate says.

“what nerd thing?”

“the glasses push.”

your hand drops instantly away from your frames. traitors, the both of them. behind you, geto lifts two suitcases from the trunk effortlessly while listening to choso say something beside him.

he glances toward the front porch, toward you, and your stomach does the stupid thing again. once inside everybody immediately scatters to explore the house.

gojo runs directly toward the back windows dramatically. “the back deck is is insane.”

“don’t break anything,” you warn.

“you say that every time.”

“because every time you almost break something.”

toji opens the fridge. “this thing is bigger than four of the fridges at the frat.”

you kick your shoes off near the entryway while everybody talks over each other around you. the house smells faintly like cedarwood and ocean air, comfortable and familiar. comfortable. familiar.

geto pauses beside one of the windows quietly, gaze moving across the living room and you watch his expression shift slightly. he looks good, his hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair loosened slightly from it's usual knot, sunlight catching against his skin through the windows.

you look away before your brain gets worse.

eventually everyone gathers in the living room surrounded by luggage and grocery bags while you attempt to regain control of the chaos. “okay,” you say, clapping once. “room assignments.”

immediately, “dibs,” both gojo and choso say at the same time.

their girlfriends laugh. “obviously,” gojo’s girlfriend says. "we can take the upstairs bedroom, if you don't mind? the one on the side?"

“don’t be loud,” you say, and gojo flips you off. within seconds choso and your roommate have claimed one of the downstairs bedrooms, which leaves you, geto and toji, and two remaining bedrooms.

the master, upstairs. the guest room, downstairs, which has a double bed.

you’re mentally calculating sleeping arrangements when geto speaks first.

“y/n should take the master.”

your head lifts. geto’s leaning back slightly against the kitchen island now, arms folded loosely. “it’s her house,” he says simply.

heat flickers low in your stomach at how immediate the answer was. before you can respond, toji lets out a deeply offended noise. “what,” he says flatly.

everyone turns toward him. he gestures broadly at himself and geto. “so your solution is to cram two six-foot-plus men into a queen bed?”

“you survived the car,” gojo calls from halfway down the hall.

“barely. my spine compressed.” toji points accusingly at you. “i already sacrificed circulation for this trip.”

your roommate’s eyes flick between you and geto so fast it’s almost cartoonish. “easy fix,” she says. “geto and y/n share.”

silence, and your heart drops to your ass. nobody says anything immediately because apparently every single person in this house has collectively decided to make your life harder.

you stare at your roommate. she grins back innocently. beside him, gojo's girlfriend physically bites the inside of her cheek trying not to smile.

toji shrugs instantly. “works for me.”

“of course it does,” you mutter.

your roommate looks dangerously delighted now. “i mean…”

you whip around. “okay, that's--that's enough.”

“it makes sense.”

“does it?”

“logistically?”

you narrow your eyes. she smiles sweetly. geto has gone suspiciously quiet beside the kitchen island and when you risk one glance towards him he's already looking at you completely unreadable except for the faintest pink creeping up his ears.

your pulse stutters embarrassingly hard. “i can sleep on the couch,” you say quickly.

“absolutely not,” geto says immediately. too fast. the room goes quiet again and you feel every single person notice the tension. especially when geto clears his throat softly afterward. “i mean,” he adds more evenly, “it’s your place.”

gojo looks one second away from exploding with laughter.

toji stretches lazily against the armchair. “well i’m not sharing with him.”

your roommate suddenly stands. “perfect! problem solved.”

you stare at her in horror. “you didn’t solve anything.”

“you and geto get the master.”

your brain short-circuits. you open your mouth to protest then glance toward geto again. his eyes meet yours instantly, and you both look away.

biggest coward of all - your one and only, y/n.

everyone disperses after that. gojo immediately starts trying to connect his phone to the speaker system downstairs, toji disappears toward the back deck with a beer already in hand, choso and his girlfriend vanish into their room carrying bags and giggling like a disease.

you flee upstairs before your friends can torment you any further. your heartbeat still feels weird - you hate that.

the master bedroom sits at the end of the hallway overlooking the water, all soft linen and huge windows glowing gold from the lowering sun outside. you’ve always loved this room, not that you were in it often. throughout your childhood, it was occupied by your parents.

you especially love it at sunset. usually it calms you down.

usually.

right now all you can think about is the fact that suguru geto is sharing this room with you for an entire week.

it's insane and horrible and slightly thrilling in a way you refuse to examine too closely. you drop your bag onto the bed with a sigh before digging through your suitcase for something more comfortable. the drive left you sticky and overheated so you tug your shirt over your head absentmindedly, tossing it onto the bed before reaching behind yourself to unclasp your bra.

finally. freedom.

you’re halfway through pulling on a loose tank top when the bedroom door suddenly opens. you turn automatically.

geto walks in mid-sentence. “i was just gonna leave my ba—”

he stops completely. so do you.

silence detonates through the room because your bra is currently halfway off your arms and your tits are fully out.

oh my god. you yelp immediately, clutching the tank top against your chest. geto looks genuinely horrified. not in a bad way but shocked, like his brain physically short-circuited. his eyes flick upward instantly but it’s too late because the image is already there now, permanently burned into his consciousness forever.

“fuck,” he blurts immediately. “shit. fuck, sorry. jesus christ.”

you make another strangled noise while trying to cover yourself and pull the shirt on at the same time. geto turns around so fast he nearly walks into the doorframe. “i’m sorry,” he says again, voice suddenly rougher than usual. “i thought you were downstairs.”

“it’s okay,” you squeak.

it is not okay. your face feels approximately one million degrees.

geto grabs the doorknob blindly. “i’m gonna— yeah. sorry.” then he practically slams the door shut behind him.

you stand frozen in the middle of the bedroom clutching your shirt to your chest while your nervous system completely implodes.

oh my god.

OH MY GOD.

geto descends the stairs with a flushed face and rigid expression - the kind of forced composure that immediatley attracts attention in a house full of idiots.

gojo looks up from the couch instantly. “…the hell happened to you?”

geto keeps walking toward the kitchen. “nothing.”

“you look like you saw a ghost.”

“something like that,” geto mutters.

friday - 7 pm

by early evening, the house finally settles into something softer. the unpacking chaos dies down, most of your group is watching the ocean from the back porch. you’re cleaning up dinner dishes with choso, who keeps (politely) asking why you’ve got a weird look on your face.

it’s been four hours since that disaster upstairs. the awkwardness still hangs between you and geto, who can’t look you in the eye.

you change into one of your bikinis eventually, tugging an oversized button-up over it before heading downstairs with your glasses perched back on your nose. the second you appear, gojo grins. “beach time.”

“beach time,” you confirm with a small smile.

outside, the air smells like salt and warm cedar as everybody trails down the private wooden path toward the shoreline. the beach stretches mostly empty around you, pale sand glowing gold beneath the lowering sun while waves roll lazily onto shore. your roommate immediately grabs your hand and drags you toward the water. gojo sprints in after you both screaming for no reason. toji lights a cigarette. gojo’s girlfriend seems reluctant to put her feet in the water but she explodes into giggles when the white-haired man hauls her over his shoulders.

geto hangs back slightly. he still can’t think normally, not after upstairs. not after accidentally walking into the bedroom and seeing you half-dressed with your tits out looking shocked and all cute and soft beneath afternoon light.

jesus christ.

he’s trying very hard to be normal about it but the image keeps replaying against his will. the gentle curve of your chest and your startled expression and the way you scrambled to cover yourself.

he feels insane.

“you good?”

geto blinks. choso stands beside him now holding a cooler in one hand.

“fine,” geto says immediately.

choso hums, not believing him at all. ahead of them, you’re standing ankle-deep in the water now while your roommate splashes at gojo nearby. the ocean catches sunset light in shifting ribbons of gold and blue around your legs and fuck, geto’s pulse jumps instantly.

your oversized shirt hangs open slightly over your swimsuit whenever the wind catches it. your hair glows warm at the edges beneath the fading sun while you laugh at something gojo yells from farther down the shoreline.

pretty doesn’t even feel like the right word anymore.

it’s worse than that now. every time geto looks at you lately, something low in his chest tightens painfully. beside him, choso watches quietly for about three seconds. “you should probably stop staring.”

geto tears his eyes away immediately. “i wasn’t.”

“mhm.”

annoying.

they walk farther down the beach together while the others spread out ahead. waves crash softly nearby, the wind cool against their skin. “you know,” choso says after a minute, “she likes you too.”

geto nearly chokes. “…what?”

choso shrugs lightly. “i’m just saying.”

“you shouldn’t say anything.”

“okay.”

barely a pause before geto blurts, “does she actually?”

choso laughs quietly while geto rubs a hand over his jaw with a sigh.

this whole situation feels increasingly impossible to manage. before this trip, there was distance. space and campus distractions. now there’s shared car rides and a shared room and seeing you every five minutes. and apparently accidental nudity.

and of course there’s the fact that geto genuinely likes being around you. he likes talking to you. likes the way your brain works. the way you explain things when you’re excited. the little irritated face you make whenever gojo says something stupid.

it’s becoming a real problem.

“you’ve spent six months pretending you weren’t obsessed with her,” choso observes quietly.

geto glares at him. “i’m not obsessed.”

choso looks unconvinced. fair enough.

the sound of you laughing (at something toji or gojo did, likely) hits geto square in the chest. there’s something different about you here already. you’re lighter, less tense than you are on campus. he watches you push your glasses back up your nose while smiling toward the ocean, sunset washing warm gold across your skin.

beautiful.

the thought arrives with startling clarity this time, like he could spend an entire lifetime memorizing moments exactly like this. you glance back toward him suddenly and your eyes meet across the beach.

there it is again, that pull.

that awful suspended feeling like the rest of the world drops slightly out of focus whenever you look at each other too long.

friday - 9 pm

it's properly evening when you all head back to the beach house. the sky's a pretty shade of dark blue, stars shining little dots above your head. you all file into the house and you say something about not trailing any sand in, looking very pointedly at gojo.

salt clings faintly to your skin, your hair's a mess from the wind, and your brain still hasn't recovered from the way geto looked at you on the beach. you slip into the kitchen first to grab water, hoping for approximately thirty seconds alone to regain your sanity.

so, naturally, geto walks in immediately after you. of course he does.

you busy yourself with the fridge while he moves toward the sink beside you, sleeves pushed up again as he washes sand from his hands.

silence stretches, and it's not uncomfortable, exactly. it's worse - aware. you can feel him there without even looking. the heat of him beside you, the sound of water running over his hands. your pulse does something deeply irritating when his shoulder brushes yours accidentally reaching for a dish towel.

“sorry,” he murmurs.

“you keep saying that this trip.” you regret the words as soon as they come out. why would you bring up that incident?

his mouth twitches slightly.

before either of you can spiral further or say anything else gojo’s voice erupts from the living room.

“movie night?!”

you close your eyes briefly. saved by the idiot.

everybody migrates downstairs afterwards where the basement living room is. it's cozy and there's a huge projector setup against one wall, and an entire cabinet full of old dvds your parents collected over the years.

gojo kneels in front of it like he’s discovering sacred texts. “this is so fucking cool.”

“don’t touch them with your greasy hands,” you warn.

“snob.”

he ends up carefully plucking the first indiana jones movie from one of the shelves and hands it to you. "good pick? i've never seen it."

"great pick," you approve. you crouch down to the dvd player, fiddling with the wires to connect it properly to the projector. behind you, everyone's already claimed spots on the couches.

you don't think much of it until you finally turn around and freeze. one end of the sectional is occupied by toji's giant limbs. the rest has a very comfortable looking choso-and-roommate combo who are already curled into each other. the beanbag has gojo and his girlfriend squished onto it.

the only open spot left is beside geto on the loveseat.

your roommate suddenly becomes very interested in not making eye contact and gojo's girlfriend looks seconds away from laughing. you narrow your eyes at both of them before trudging toward the loveseat.

you sit as far from geto as physically possible, which on the loveseat is not very far. there's maybe a foot of space between you both ,close enough to feel hyperaware of each other's presence.

as the movie starts gojo's already stealing popcorn from his girlfriend and your roommate is practically asleep against choso's chest within minutes. geto's still infuriatingly still beside you, one arm draped along the back of the couch. not touching you, just there, and your heartbeat won't calm down.

you manage to balance this thin line of whatever-this-is between you and geto for half the movie, hardly paying attention to the plot, though you've seen the flick a dozen times. you keep gettind distracted by his arm (it's right there) and how if you inched just a liiiitle bit over, you'd basically be pressed against geto.

your bubble's interrupted by gojo bolting up from the beanbag, shouting about about a plot twist he 'totally saw coming,' and the volume of his screaming is so aggressive you jolt slightly.

your thigh brushes geto's. the rush that flows through you is electric and you both go still instantly. the contact lingers half a second too long before you shift subtly back except now geto's arm behind you lowers slightly. closer. his fingers brush your shoulder lightly and your pulse spikes so hard it hurts.

you stare very intensely at the movie screen pretending your entire nervous system isn’t imploding, then his thumb moves - small absentminded circles against your shoulder through the thin fabric of your shirt.

oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god -

you stop breathing for a second and beside you, geto’s voice drops low enough only you can hear. “…this okay?”

your throat feels weirdly tight. you nod once, his arm sliding lower around you slowly, careful enough to give you time to pull away if you want.

you don’t.

so instead he gently pulls you against his side, warm and solid, your brain short-circuiting instantly. somehow curling against him feels natural already. your head settles near his shoulder while his arm stays firm around your waist now, thumb still tracing slow patterns against your side.

the movie disappears completely and all you can think about is him. his cologne and the warmth radiating through his hoodie and the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek.

your heart feels seconds away from exploding.

geto feels equally doomed. having you tucked against him like this is significantly worse than he imagined. you fit there too easily. soft against his side and warm beneath his arm. he can smell coconut sunscreen faintly lingering on your skin from the beach and it’s actively destroying his ability to think. he's also trying very hard not to tighten his grip every time you shift closer unconsciously.

from across the room, toji announces, with zero social awareness, “i’m cold.”

toji’s voice cuts through the moment like a gunshot. you pull away instantly and geto’s arm drops from around you immediately like he touched fire.

“i can get blankets,” you say quickly, already standing.

“i’ll help,” geto says, glancing at you.

“you don’t have to—”

“it’s fine.”

you swallow thickly and nod, walking up the stairs, legs feeling like jello, geto right behind you.

from the couch, choso's girlfriend grabs a pillow and hurls it directly at toji's head. “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

toji catches it midair, deeply offended. “what?”

“they were having a moment.”

“how was i supposed to know that?”

“because everyone with functioning eyes knew that.”

gojo starts cackling.

when you make it upstairs, the silence between you and geto feels heavy and sharp and you move the hallway quickly trying to regain control of your heartbeat while grabbing blankets from the linen closet.

geto stands too cloise behind you that when you turn accidentally, you nearly walk straight into his chest.

your breath catches. his does too.

for one suspended second neither of you moves.

the hallway feels narrow suddenly and you're focused on warm, dim light spilling softly across his face and his dark eyes fixed on yours. your pulse pounds violently as geto's face flicks briefly to your mouth, then back up.

you think he’s going to kiss you.

you really think he’s going to kiss you.

instead, he quietly says, “…you don’t have to feel weird about downstairs.”

the words feel strange and your stomach drops slightly. “…weird?”

his expression shifts instantly like he realizes too late how that sounded. “no, i just meant—”

“right,” you say quickly.

humiliation flashes hot beneath your skin. he thinks you misread things, or worse, that he did. you step back first, push your glasses up too quickly. “no yeah. obviously.”

geto looks frustrated suddenly. “that’s not what i—”

“it’s okay,” you interrupt softly. “really.”

the tension curdles painfully into awkwardness as you grab as many blankets as possible before he can say anything else, then practically flee downstairs.

everyone looks up when you return. you toss blankets at people mechanically before settling onto the far end of the loveseat, as far away as you can from geto.

your roommate notices immediately. so does choso. so does gojo. gojo's girlfriend would've, too, if she weren't out cold asleep.

geto comes downstairs a second later quieter than before and he hesitates briefly looking toward you, then sits separately too.

on the floor.

distance stretches cold and strange across the room now. your chest aches and you tightly pull a blanket around yourself, staring at the movie screen without really seeing it.

geto watches the side of your face in silence from his spot on the floor and from that point on the rest of the movie feels wrong. nobody says anything outright but everybody notices, because thirty minutes ago you'd been curled into geto's side looking soft and shy while he stared at you like you painted those stars in the sky over the ocean.

now you're curled up like a hermit and geto's face seems almost painful as he stares at his feet.

gojo's eyes flick between the two of you every few seconds with all the subtlety of a car accident. his girlfriend, now awake, elbows him every time

choso notices too, though he’s more discreet about it. he just keeps glancing toward geto occasionally like he’s trying to figure out which one of you panicked first.

(toji remains blissfully clueless.)

you stay tucked beneath your blanket staring blankly at the projector screen while the movie plays out in blurry colors you barely register.

geto looks equally miserable. worse, actually, because now that he's replaying the conversation upstairs in his head, he realizes exactly how badly he phrased it. 'you don't have to feel weird about downstairs'. god. he sounded like he regretted it, like he was trying to backtrack, which is the opposite of what he meant.

he’d only wanted to make sure you weren’t uncomfortable. that you didn't feel pressured and that he hadn't crossed a line. instead he'd watched your face fall in real time. idiot. he's an idiot.

when the credits finally roll, everybody starts talking at once again. gojo arguing about the ending and toji asking if there's leftover chips and your roommate whispering something to choso while glancing at you.

you quietly push the blanket aside and stand. “i’m gonna go to bed,” you mumble. you’re not even sure anyone hears, but geto does. his head lifts immediately but you don't look at him, disappearing upstairs before anyone can stop you.

you trudge to your bedroom, straight to the en suite. the shower helps a little. the warm water and the silence as you scrub salt from your skin and try very hard not to think about how close geto had been in the hallway upstairs. or how badly you wanted him to kiss you.

humiliating.

by the time you finish changing into your university sweatshirt and tiny sleep shorts, exhaustion finally starts creeping in around the edges. the bedroom is dark when you return except for moonlight spilling silver across the floor through the giant windows.

geto isn’t there yet. your stomach twists at the thought but you climb into your side of the bed anyway, pulling the blankets up to your chin while ocean waves crash softly somewhere outside.

you tell yourself not to care, then eventually fall asleep anyway.

when you wake up again, the room is still dark. for one disoriented second you don’t know why your chest feels strange then you glance toward the other side of the bed.

empty. empty?

your brows knit together immediately. the digital clock beside the bed reads 4:07 am. you push yourself upright slowly. “…geto?”

nothing, and the bathroom’s empty too. confused now, you slip quietly out of bed and head downstairs.

the house is silent, dark except for one of the kitchen lights left on.

and there he is. geto's asleep on the downstairs couch, or at least attempting to be. one arm thrown over his eyes, long legs awkwardly cramped against the cushions because the couch is way too short for him, a blanket half falling onto the floor.

your chest tightens. he thought you didn't want him upstairs and guilt floods through you instantly. you carefully walk closer. “geto,” you whisper.

he wakes almost immediately. years of frat-house living apparently killed deep sleep permanently. his arm drops from his face slowly when he realizes it’s you standing there. his hair’s messy, voice rough with sleep. “…hey.”

you hesitate, suddenly nervous again. “why are you down here?”

his eyes flick away briefly. “didn’t wanna make things uncomfortable.”

your heart sinks. “you weren’t,” you say quickly. “i just thought…” you trail off awkwardly.

geto pushes himself upright slowly, watching you carefully in the dark. “thought what?”

you fiddle with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. “that maybe you regretted it. when...we were on the couch.”

his expression changes instantly, softens to something almost confused. “what?”

“upstairs,” you mumble. “when you said i didn’t have to feel weird.”

geto exhales quietly through his nose then drops his head back against the couch cushions. “that is not what i meant.”

heat creeps into your face again. “oh.”

he looks up at you then, eyes all sleepy and honest in the dim blue light. “i was trying to make sure you were okay,” he says quietly. “because i wanted to kiss you.”

your breath catches hard. silence fills the room save for the hum of the fridge, ocean waves somewhere outside and your heartbeat going completely feral.

geto's gaze stays fixed on yours. “and i wasn’t sure if you wanted that too.”

you stare at him for one suspended second. “i thought you were going to.”

his mouth parts slightly, something warm flashing through his expression. “yeah,” he says softly. “i was.”

your pulse feels violent now and you shift your weight nervously. “you should come upstairs.”

geto studies your face carefully for another second like he’s making absolutely sure, then stands. the couch blanket slips forgotten onto the floor while you both just stand there in the dark living room breathing the same air.

when geto’s hand brushes lightly against yours heading toward the stairs, neither of you pulls away. walking beside him somehow feels more intimate than the almost-kiss downstairs. your hand brushes his once on the staircase and suddenly your pulse is trying to escape your body.

neither of you talks much once you reach the bedroom either. it’s painfully awkward now in that fragile post-confession way. you hover near your side of the bed, and geto stands near the dresser rubbing the back of his neck.“…sorry again,” he says quietly.

“for what?”

“all of this being weird.”

you blink at him then laugh softly despite yourself. “you saying that is making it weirder.”

his mouth twitches. “right.”

when you both scramble into bed you face opposite directions, approximately three feet apart. you can physically feel the tension across the mattress. as you stare at the ceiling you're trying very hard not to think about the fact that geto is right there.

same bed, same room, close enough that you can hear his breathing if you focus.

saturday - 10 am

you stir faintly as the sun wakes you up, bright enough to peek through the edges of the blinds. you stir faintly, something heavy resting around your waist. your brows pinch together sleepily.

wait.

you blink your eyes open slowly and realize with immediate horror that sometime during the night, both of you migrated completely across the bed. you’re practically tangled together now, your head tucked against geto’s chest, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist beneath the blankets, one of your legs halfway thrown over his.

before you can even process it fully, geto shifts too, his arm tightening instinctively for half a second before he wakes up enough to realize.

you both freeze then very slowly, geto looks down at you. his hair is completely loose from sleeping now, dark strands falling around his face messily and eyes still heavy with sleep.

his voice comes out rough and groggy when he finally speaks. “...morning.”

his voice sounds unfair, deep and sleepy and warm against the quiet room. you want to choke. instead you stare at him for one embarrassingly long second before scrambling backward so fast you nearly fall off the bed. “good morning!”

too loud. way too loud.

geto pushes himself upright slowly, clearly trying not to laugh.

you’re suddenly acutely aware now of your oversized university sweatshirt riding up slightly from sleep and the tiny shorts you forgot you were wearing. you can feel oil slicking to your skin and you probably look horrible, meanwhile geto looks basically offensively attractive for a man who literally just woke up. dark pools of hair fall over his shoulders, features softened

your nervous system cannot survive this week. “i’m gonna change,” you announce suddenly.

geto blinks once. “…okay.”

you point at him very seriously while backing toward the bathroom. “do not come in there.”

that finally gets a real laugh out of him, low and sleepy. “wasn’t planning on it.”

“good.” you disappear into the bathroom before your dignity can deteriorate further and once inside you stare at your reflection while trying to regain basic human functionality.

you slept wrapped around suguru geto. comfortably.

eventually you change into denim shorts and a fitted tank top before putting your hair up and emerging from the bathroom again.

the bedroom’s empty and for a confusing second you think maybe geto left downstairs already, before movement catches your eye through the balcony doors.

geto’s outside stretching in the early morning sunlight. shirtless. warm golden light spills cross his skin while he stretches one arm over his head lazily, back muscles shifting beneath the sunlight. his sweatpants hang low enough that the sharp v-lines disappearing beneath the waistband are very visible.

extremely visible.

you feel warm all over immediately because sure, you knew geto was attractive. obviously. but this feels actively engineered in a lab to ruin your life specifically.

outside, he rolls his shoulders once before turning slightly and immediately catches you staring. your soul leaves your body as geto pauses then very slowly raises a brow. “…morning again.”

heat floods your face so fast it’s almost violent. you look away instantly. “you could warn people.”

“about what?”

you gesture vaguely toward him without looking directly.

“that.”

his laugh drifts softly through the open balcony door and when you glance at him again you see how prettily the sun catches against the winding tattoos along his arms.

geto watches your expression carefully and smirks slightly.

you swear you'll die before noon.

the house is (unfortunately) wide awake as you and geto walk downstairs. gojo’s voice echoes through the kitchen before you even hit the last stair. “WHY IS IT SMOKING?”

you immediately close your eyes. “what did you do,” you say, voice dangerously low.

“nothing!”

you walk into the kitchen to find everyone gathered around the coffee machine like it’s a bomb squad situation. steam hisses violently from the side of it and gojo stands there holding the glass pot. “i pressed brew,” he defends.

“with no water in it,” his girlfriend says.

toji looks half asleep at the island. “natural selection should’ve taken him years ago.”

your roommate's eyes narrow immediately as she sees you and geto walk in. her gaze drifts to the living room, specifically the blanket crumpled on the couch and the pillow on the floor.

you grab a mug to avoid eye contact with her, geto moving toward the counter beside you like this is a completely normal morning.

gojo squints suspiciously. “…you two look weird.”

“you always look weird,” you mutter into your juice.

“true but irrelevant.”

“the coffee machine’s dead by the way,” toji interrupts.

“i figured as much,” you sigh, examining the machine with a frown.

“he killed it,” gojo's girlfriend says.

“it was weak,” gojo argues.

“it was a twelve hundred dollar espresso machine,” you say, rubbing a hand over your eyes. "my parents are so going to kill me."

gojo freezes. “it was how much?”

you groan softly, dropping your forehead against the counter. “i’m going back to bed.”

beside you, geto laughs under his breath, low enough only you heard it. your stomach flips and you glance at him accidentally and immediately regret it because his hair's tied loosely back and he's in a fitted black t-shirt that does nothing helpful for your concentration.

plus you know what's under it. worse - you know what it looks like first thing in the morning sunlight.

your brain needs to be chemically sterilized.

everyone slowly migrates toward breakfast eventually while arguing over plans for the day. gojo offers to toast bagels (provided he doesn't break the toaster, too) and your roommate keeps kicking your ankle beneath the island every time you look at geto too long.

“stop that,” you hiss quietly.

“make me.”

you’re still groggy as hell from waking up at four in the morning and emotionally spiraling before sunrise so eventually everyone starts looking at you expectantly when discussion turns toward plans.

“what’s the weather?” choso asks.

you glance out the giant kitchen windows toward the water. clear skies, barely any wind. perfect.

“it’s gonna be a good beach day,” you say, wrapping your hands around your mug (yes, still full of juice. you'd kill for coffee right now). “we can stay down there most of the afternoon.”

gojo pumps a fist. “beach arc continues.”

“then maybe head into town this evening,” you continue. “there’s a boardwalk and some restaurants by the marina.”

“shopping?” your roommate perks up instantly.

“you don’t need more clothes.”

“counterpoint, yes i do.”

“we can do dinner there,” you say. “then come back for the sunset.”

everyone nods along pretty quickly after that but geto’s not really paying attention anymore, because while you’re talking, sleepy and slightly disheveled in your little tank top with your glasses sliding down your nose, sunlight catches against your skin through the kitchen windows.

all he can think about is waking up with you curled against his chest.

you look over toward him mid-sentence.“does that sound okay?”

geto realizes a full second too late that everyone’s waiting for his answer. “…yeah,” he says quietly, eyes still on you. “sounds perfect.”

after breakfast, the second you head upstairs, your roommate and gojo’s girlfriend follow immediately with excited little grins. you barely make it into the bedroom before your roommate shuts the door behind her dramatically.

“spill.”

you blink. “about what.”

both of them stare at you. “y/n,” gojo’s girlfriend says flatly, “there was visible yearning at breakfast.”

“there was not.”

you move toward your suitcase quickly before they can corner you properly. “nothing happened.”

“liar,” your roommate says instantly.

“nothing serious happened.” you push your glasses back up your nose. you ignore their little comments and start sorting through your bikinis instead. “we’re focusing on beachwear now.”

“avoidance,” your roommate whispers solemnly.

“coping mechanism,” gojo’s girlfriend agrees.

you throw a swimsuit at both of them and eventually the three of you end up sitting cross-legged around the open suitcase debating bikini options. “this one’s cute,” your roommate says, holding up a blue floral set.

“i dunno why i packed that one.”

“this one?”

“too bright.”

gojo’s girlfriend suddenly digs deeper into the suitcase before pausing. “…wait.” she lifts a black triangle bikini from the pile. sleek black fabric and a tiny gold charm dangling between the cups.

you laugh nervously. it's smaller than what you typically wear - you prefer more full-coverage, something that doesn't let the plush of your stomach and thighs fully exposed. the top'll push up your tits way more than anything you normally wear.

both girls stare at it reverently like archaeologists uncovering forbidden treasure. “THIS one,” your roommate breathes.

“absolutely this one,” gojo's girlfriend agrees.

you snatch at it immediately. “that’s too...much. i don't -”

“y/n, you're going to look amazing in it, no matter what comments you have to say about yourself or your body,” your roommate says. “you're hot. it's hot. you're going to look good.”

“i’m literally not wearing dental floss to the beach.”

“y/n.”

“what.”

“put it on.”

five minutes later you emerge from the bathroom already regretting every life decision that led here. the bikini really is tiny.

the black fabric contrasts sharply against your skin while the gold charm rests perfectly between your chest. the top pushes everything up unfairly well and the bottoms sit low against your hips with thin strings at the sides.

you instinctively cross your arms slightly. your roommate’s jaw physically drops and gojo’s girlfriend just stares.

“…holy shit,” she says softly.

“you HAVE to wear that.”

“i look insane,” you say, glancing at your feet. "bad insane."

“you look hot.”

heat crawls across your face instantly, and you glance toward the mirror again. okay. maybe it does look good. “it’s more revealing than what i usually wear,” you mumble.

“and you rock it.”

eventually they encourage you to keeping it on and you throw on a loose white cover dress afterward at least, something soft and flowy enough to hide most of the bikini beneath it.

then you start filling your beach bag. book, sunscreen, waterbottle, lip balm, portable charger.

your roommate watches with deep affection. “you pack for the beach like a divorced father.”

“preparation prevents suffering,” you say wisely, and gojo's girlfriend laughs while you shove sunglasses into your hair.

the three of you head downstairs together where the guys are still getting ready. gojo's already shirtless and toji's hoarding chips and choso nearly walks directly into a wall when his girlfriend appears in her bikini.

geto looks up from the kitchen counter when you enter. you feel his gaze drift down your face, down the cover dress you're wearing, and your pulse jumps instantly.

gojo ruins the moment by throwing sunglasses at him. “beach.”

everyone starts heading outside after that. the walk toward the shoreline is warm and breezy, sunlight sifting through dune grass while everybody talks over each other around you. you’re halfway down the road when somebody calls your name suddenly.

you turn instantly, recognizing the voice with a smile. “aaron?”

geto watches as a guy about your age jogs over from the neighboring property, grinning broadly. he's tall, sun-bleached hair, and apparently he knows you very well because he immediately pulls you into a quick hug.

“holy shit,” he laughs. “when’d you get here?”

“yesterday! i didn’t know your family was coming down this week.”

“mom wanted the boat out, even though it's kinda early.”

you smile easily at him - you did practically grow up together, summer after summer.

behind you, your friends have gone suspiciously quiet.

“oh, these are my friends,” you say, gesturing to your group. aaron shakes everyone’s hands easily while you chatter beside him naturally, smiling more openly than you usually do around new people.

geto watches the entire thing in silence and immediately dislikes this guy. he knows it's irrational but you look happy talking to him. not nervous or flustered, just easy and warm and familiar. aaron says something that makes you laugh and geto's jaw tightens.

logically, this means nothing. he knows that, but still. he watches aaron’s hand brush briefly against your arm while talking and suddenly feels the deeply primal urge to throw him into the ocean.

gojo notices instantly, of course, despite being a bumbling oaf most of the time. his eyes slowly widen behind his sunglasses. “he’s jealous,” he whispers as he leans towards choso.

“obviously,” choso whispers back.

the second aaron finally heads back toward his family’s place, the group starts moving again. something's shifted now, though. you notice it almost immediately walking beside geto down the sandy path toward the beach.

he’s quieter. thinking.

gojo notices too, his grin getting increasingly more dangerous every few seconds. eventually he speeds up to walk backward in front of you both. “so,” he says brightly. “beach boyfriend.”

“don’t start,” you sigh.

“he looked rich.”

“his parents are both lawyers and they own three beach houses here.”

“shit, well -”

gojo’s girlfriend drags him away by the arm before he can get worse. bless her.

for a minute it’s just you and geto walking side by side while the others move ahead laughing about something. ocean wind catches softly at your cover dress, your sunglasses rest pushed into your hair.

geto finally speaks. “…you two close?”

you glance over. his expression’s careful, casual sounding. “kinda,” you say. “i only really see him in summers though. it's been a while.”

geto hums once. silence stretches another few steps then before he can stop himself, he asks, “you ever date?”

your brows lift slightly.

geto stutters, “i just mean—”

“no, i know what you mean.” you laugh softly under your breath a little awkwardly now. “not seriously. we messed around a little as teenagers.”

geto goes still. you say it so casually, like it means nothing, and his brain instantly starts supplying images he absolutely does not want. you younger, laughing with that guy at bonfires, swimming together at night.

that guy touching you.

“oh,” he says evenly.

you glance at him sideways. “…you okay?”

“fine.”

liar. he’s absurdly jealous which is insane because he knows he has zero claim over you whatsoever. (and yet he thinks about last night and how you almost kissed and that soft look in your eyes and he feels waves of jealousy wash over him again.)

the thought of anyone else having touched you makes something dark and unpleasant twist low in his stomach. the walk to the beach is silent and the shoreline opens wide before all of you again.

everyone starts setting up camp and the warm sand burns pleasently beneath your feet. umbrellas, chairs, coolers, towels are all placed in motion

toji tries to ram an umbrella into the sand with zero clue what he's doing and you laugh softly, setting your beach bag down near one of the chairs.

geto watches you from a few feet away while pretending to unfold a towel as you reach for the ties of your cover dress.

his brain short-circuits instantly, watching the thin fabric slip from your shoulders. jesus christ, that bikini is devastating.

sleek little triangle top, gold charm catching sunlight perfectly between your chest, tiny straps against your skin. the bottoms sit low on your hips with those little thin side ties and geto physically has to look away for a second because blood rushes south immediately.

fast.

he’s actually in hell because now not only does he remember accidentally seeing your chest upstairs yesterday, but he also has visual confirmation that your body is genuinely engineered to ruin his life specifically.

nearby, your roommate whistles. “see?” she says smugly. “told you.”

heat creeps across your neck while you shove your sunglasses on quickly. “stop making announcements.”

toji glances from you to geto and laughs under his breath. “…dude.”

geto doesn’t answer. he's still staring until toji smacks his shoulder hard enough to jolt him back to reality. “get in the ocean.”

geto blinks. “…what?”

“cold water.”

realization hits instantly and his ears turn red immediately.

“shut the fuck up,” geto mutters. gojo walks by and smirks, shouting no way at the top of his lungs with absolute glee.

you look between all of them confused. “what’s happening?”

“nothing,” geto says too quickly.

toji’s grin turns downright evil. “he just really likes the scenery.”

your face burns alive instantly.

geto looks seconds away from committing homicide. he starts trudging towards the ocean, following everyone who's running towards the water.

choso's girlfriend stops him, pausing with the slyest smile you've ever seen in your life. “y/n needs someone to put sunscreen on her.”

geto stares at her blankly. “…okay?”

your roommate glares at him pointedly. “you dumbass.”

when realization hits, geto goes still, cause you’re standing there in that tiny black bikini looking suddenly very interested in literally anything except him, and now he’s imagining touching sunscreen onto your skin for an extended period of time while already painfully hard.

cool.

great.

awesome.

gojo’s girlfriend physically drags your roommate toward the lake before either of you can escape.

“have fun!” she calls sweetly.

silence settles immediately afterward except for distant waves and screaming from the water where gojo’s already drowning dramatically. you stand awkwardly beside the chairs clutching the sunscreen bottle and geto pushes a few loose strands of hair back from his face slowly before reaching for it.

his fingers brush yours. your pulse jumps. (his does too.)

“…so,” he says.

“mhm.”

“…where do you want it?”

you choke, brain interpresting that in the worst way possible.

geto's eyes widen slightly. “i didn’t mean it like that.” his ears are turning red again.

“right,” you mumble weakly. god, the tension between you lately feels actively lethal.

geto clears his throat once. “i just meant sunscreen.”

“i know.”

“okay.”

you very quietly mumble, “…just put it everywhere.” you realize how that sounds approximately one second too late.

geto shuts his eyes briefly like he’s asking the universe for strength then gestures toward the towel laid out beneath one of the umbrellas. “you can, erm, lay down. or stand. dunno.”

you nod quickly, and the sand's warm beneath the towel as you settle carefully onto your stomach. geto kneels beside you, close that you can hear the bottle of sunscreen click open. your heartbeat pounds harder instantly.

“tell me if i’m using too much,” he says quietly.

“okay.”

cool sunscreen hits your shoulders first, then his hands. geto’s fingers spread the lotion slowly across your skin, warm palms gliding carefully along your shoulders and upper back.

he’s trying very hard to stay normal about this but your skin’s warm from the sun and soft beneath his hands and when you shiver slightly when his thumbs press near the base of your neck it certainly doesn’t help his…situation.

geto swallows hard. “…cold?”

“no.” your voice comes out quieter than usual.

you hear him exhale softly through his nose and his hands move lower slowly, fingers spreading sunscreen across the middle of your back now, dragging lower and lower inch by inch. it feels intimate, the kind of slow touch that settles beneath your skin.

you wonder, briefly, what your roommate, or gojo’s girlfriend, or choso, or any of them really, think of the sight (if they’re looking) geto leaning over you beneath the umbrella with his hair falling loose around his face slightly while his hands move slowly across your skin like he’s memorizing it. you lying there visibly tense every time he touches you.

“you missed a spot,” you mumble weakly, pointing toward your side mostly just to say something.

mistake. big huge mistake because you throb as geto’s hand slides carefully along your waist, thumb brushing just beneath the curve of your ribs. as your breath catches so does his and his hand lingers one dangerous second too long against your side before pulling away.

“…done,” he says roughly.

you sit up slowly, face to face with him at extremely close range. his hair’s falling into his eyes slightly from the wine, jaw tight, expression unreadable except for the very obvious tension simmering beneath it.

the moment snaps apart before either of you can do something catastrophically stupid. “y/n!” gojo’s voice echoes from the water.

you jerk backward slightly like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t and geto clears his throat immediately and pushes to his feet a little too fast. “…i’m gonna get in the lake.”

“okay,” you say too quickly.

he nods once before practically escaping into the water, leaving you sitting there afterward feeling completely disoriented. your skin still tingles everywhere he touched so to attempt to distract yourself you grab your book from your beach bag.

it doesn’t work. you read the same sentence six times in a row without processing a single word because all you can think about is the feeling of geto’s hands slowly sliding over your waist.

you’re hopeless.

your roommate and gojo’s girlfriend eventually wander back up from the shoreline dripping water everywhere and both immediately clock your expression.

“wow y/n,” your roommate says sweetly.

“don’t.”

“your sunscreen is blended sooo thoroughly.”

gojo’s girlfriend nods solemnly. “very even application.”

you close your book dramatically over your face. “i hate both of you.”

“he looked one touch away from cardiac arrest.”

“i’m serious,” you say, voice muffled from beneath the pages.

“and you looked like you were gonna melt into the towel,” your roommate adds wisely. you groan into the book.

out in the lake, geto’s standing waist-deep in freezing water, mind still scrambled, because shit, he can still feel the shape of your waist beneath his hands. he can still remember the tiny sound you made when he touched your side.

he thinks you might have noticed his situation downstairs. the water helps a little, at least, and beside him, gojo suddenly appears floating on his back. “you know,” he says conversationally, “you were sporting a fucking hard-on.”

geto nearly drowns him. “what the fuck is wrong with you.”

“you could see it from across the beach.”

“why were you looking, you piece of shit.”

“because you looked stupid.”

toji barks out a laugh nearby. “i’ve never seen you this bad over anybody.”

geto drags both hands through his wet hair with visible frustration. he knows they're right. this is bad. worse than bad. you're going to be upstairs sharing a bed every night walking around in tiny little outfits and looking at him with those shy nervous eyes whenever he gets too close.

from your spot in your chair on the beach you glance to the shoreline again over the edge of your book. you make the mistake of seeing geto standing waist-deep in the water with his wet hair pushed back.

by late afternoon, you're all making your way to the marina, everyone sun-kissed and buzzed off coolers. there's cute little boutiques with sun-faded signs, ice cream stands, tourists wandering around with shopping bags, boats bobbing against the docks while seagulls scream overhead.

it should be relaxing but instead, everyone’s acting weird. well, not everyone - gojo is still normal, unfortunately, which means he’s being loud as shit and trying on ugly sunglasses in every store while his girlfriend tells him he looks like a divorced dad. toji's carrying everyone's bags very bedgrudgingly and choso’s girlfriend keeps linking arms with him and dragging him into little souvenir stores.

meanwhile you and geto keep ending up next to each other by complete accident, which is to say, absolutely on purpose by everyone else. you’re walking along the docks eating gelato at one point when your roommate suddenly grabs your arm. “come into this store with me.” before you can respond, she’s already yanking you inside.

you blink, looking back where geto’s left standing outside with gojo and toji before you get tugged into a store.

gojo smirks immediately. “you gonna keep staring at the door like that?”

geto doesn’t even look at him. “shut up.”

“bro.”

“satoru.”

“you’ve had the expression of a war widow since sunscreen.”

by dinner, if possible, things have gotten even weirder. you all end up at this marina-side restaurant right on the water, string lights overhead and music drifting faintly from somewhere nearby.

the seating arrangement was personally made to ensure you don't survive the meal, obviously, what with gojo and his girlfriend together, choso and his girlfriend together, toji sitting like he’d rather die, and you and geto next to each other. close enough that your knees almost brush beneath the table.

drinks come, everyone's talking about the beach tomorrow and whether they should rent paddleboards. "we have the budget, but everyone has to pitch in," you say, which makes toji groan.

gojo says, "i saw that you can get a boat tour? we could go fishing or something."

you're all talking animatedly (save for geto, who's oddly quiet and keeps looking at you from the corner of his eye) then the waiter comes over. he's probably around your guys' age, eyes skimming over gojo's girlfriend tucked under gojo's arm, choso's girlfriend pressed against choso's shoulder, then you.

sitting alone, or rather alone-adjacent. “and what can i get for you?” the waiter asks you with a smile that lingers a little too long.

you look up awkwardly. “um…”

“good choice on the drink,” he says after glancing at your glass. “not everybody appreciates taste.”

your roommate nearly chokes on her water and you stare at the waiter awkwardly. “thanks?”

the waiter grins. “you guys visiting?”

you can physically feel everyone at the table stop listening to their own conversations. geto’s gone silent beside you, more silent then earlier. “yeah,” you say after a beat.

“nice,” the waiter says, leaning slightly against the table. “hope someone’s shown you the good spots around town.”

you laugh weakly because what the fuck do you even say to that. “uh…”

“hey, if you need someone to show you around, i get off at ten.”

“i think i'll get the chicken parm?” you say, laughing nervously. “please.”

“or maybe i could just give you my number,” the waiter says with a smile that makes your toes curl in disgust.

geto finally looks up, slowly, expression completely unreadable except for the fact that he looks deeply unimpressed. “she’s very clearly not interested.”

silence. complete silence. you even stop breathing, and the waiter blinks, looks between you and geto. “…sorry, man,” he says with an awkward little laugh, hands up. “can’t blame me for trying.”

geto doesn’t even smile. “yeah.” he pauses before saying, coldly, “just get the food and go.”

the waiter straightens. “alright.” he scribbles something on his pad quickly, then mutters, “didn’t know your boyfriend was so serious,” and walks away.

the silence is nuclear. nobody says anything, nobody moves, and your face is so hot you think you might actually die.

because boyfriend.

because geto didn’t correct him.

because nobody corrected him.

gojo is staring at his plate so hard his shoulders are shaking. your roommate won’t look at you. choso’s girlfriend is chewing on her straw like she’s witnessing live television and toji actually says nothing for once in his miserable life.

you risk one glance sideways to see geto staring straight ahead, jaw tight, ears slightly red.

you immediately look away.

dinner proceeds in the most painful silence known to man.

conversation starts back up eventually, but it’s all stilted and everyone keeps exchanging looks when they think you and geto aren't noticing.

you barely taste your food. geto says maybe twelve words the entire meal.

when the bill comes everyone’s kind of ready to leave purely to escape the tension. checks get split, gojo grabs his and his girlfriend’s without looking. choso pays for his girlfriend’s too.

toji stares at his own bill like it insulted his bloodline.

“why the fuck is grilled salmon thirty dollars.”

“because you ordered grilled salmon,” gojo says.

you reach for your wallet quickly.

“i got mine.”

“same,” geto says at the exact same time.

your fingers brush awkwardly near the bill tray, both of you jerking back like you touched fire. chairs scrape back and everyone starts filing out onto the marina walkway under the string lights and the tension between you and geto follows like a third person walking right between you.

saturday - 10 pm

on the drive back to the beach house, gojo’s girlfriend controls the aux while everybody talks intermittently about dinner and shopping bags and whether toji could survive prison after complaining about restaurant prices loud enough for the waiter to hear.

but underneath all of it sits that awful electric awareness between you and geto. every glance feels more loaded than before now, especially after the boyfriend comment. especially because a small part of you didn't want to correct it.

you stare out the window most of the drive pretending the cool night air coming through the cracked glass is enough to settle your heartbeat. (newsflash - it isn't).

when you finally pull into the driveway, the sky’s gone deep navy overhead, stars scattered bright across the water beyond the dunes. gojo stretches dramatically exiting the car. “i feel alive. this was a good day.”

“you screamed at a seagull today,” his girlfriend says.

“well, it was disrespectful. did you see how it took the hotdog out of my hand -”

everyone slowly filters toward the back deck unloading leftovers and drinks while the ocean crashes softly somewhere below. you’re halfway through carrying cups into the kitchen when gojo’s girlfriend suddenly says, “bonfire?”

you all immediately agree and you're honestly grateful for the distraction, because if you had to go straight upstairs right now and exist in a quiet bedroom with geto after today, you think your nervous system might actually collapse.

outside, the fire crackles warmly against the cool night air while everyone settles into chairs scattered around the pit.

you end up directly across from geto. the flames flicker gold across his face while he leans back slightly in his chair listening to gojo argue about horror movies beside him.

he’s not really listening, you can tell. every few seconds his eyes drift back to you again, and the look in them makes your stomach twist painfully.

yearning.

there’s genuinely no other word for it anymore. it’s there in every glance and every pause and every second too long his eyes stay on your face. you feel warm all over despite the ocean breeze.

around the fire, conversation drifts lazily between everyone else toji and gojo arguing and your roommate curled against choso’s side and music humming faintly from someone’s speaker. nobody comments on the way you and geto keep looking at each other. they just quietly notice, giving you both space.

across the fire, geto feels like he’s losing his mind a little.

you look beautiful tonight, your hair slightly windblown, oversized hoodie on, firelight dancing warm across your skin while you smile softly at something choso says.

he can’t stop looking at you and doesn’t really want to. his chest physically aches with it now, this awful wanting.

god, geto’s never been this gone over anybody before.

when yawns start appearing, everybody heads inside. gojo drags his girlfriend upstairs and your roommate shooting you one deeply knowing look before disappearing too.

it’s just you and geto left outside.

you crouch near the firepit gathering empty bottles quietly while embers glow soft orange against the dark.

geto watches you for a second.“…wanna walk to the beach?”

your heart stumbles immediately. “sure.”

the shoreline’s almost completely dark except for moonlight silvering the waves. sand cool beneath your feet, wind soft against your skin. you walk side by side in silence at first. comfortable silence this time. above you, the stars stretch endlessly bright across the sky untouched by city lights.

you stop eventually near the waterline where waves curl around your ankles gently before retreating again.

geto looks at you like he’s trying to memorize something. like his chest hurts with it. like every glance all semester somehow led here, to you, moonlight catching softly against your face when you tilt your head upward to the stars.

beautiful.

the thought, though not new, hits him so hard it almost steals his breath. “…you know what the worst part is?” he says quietly.

you glance over. “what?”

geto laughs softly once, self-aware and helpless. “i spent months trying not to want you this bad.”

your breath catches yet his eyes stay fixed on yours, steady and honest in a way that makes your pulse pound harder. “and now i don’t think i’ll ever stop.”

something in your chest melts completely. there's no teasing in his voice, just aching sincerity. geto looks at you like you're something precious and terrifying and like you're everything all at once, and suddenly you can’t stand the distance anymore.

so you kiss him.

his breath catches sharply against your mouth before he melts instantly, completely. one hand slides gently against your waist while the other cups your face like he can’t believe you’re real, kissing you back slow and deep beneath the stars. warm, careful for approximately two seconds before all that pent-up wanting finally cracks open.

you feel him exhale shakily against your lips. it feels a lot like relief.

you kiss him back just as deep, hands sliding up into his hair you've been aching to hold for months now, tangling your fingers there, and he groans into your mouth, pulling you more flush against him.

your toes curl from the sand when you feel his hardness poking against the top of your stomach.

from one kiss?

when he pulls back it's reluctant, his hands cupping your face and staring into your eyes like you're the only person he's ever seen.

"should we go back?" you ask softly, and he nods immediately. your lips are tingling, geto's hand laced tightly with yours like he physically can't let go now that he finally has you. every few steps he glances at you again with that same dazed expression that makes your stomach flip violently.

like he still can’t believe you kissed him first.

the house is dark when you slip inside, quiet, everyone asleep in their rooms already. you barely make it through the kitchen before geto pulls you gently against him again, kissing you hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

you laugh softly into it, hands catching against his chest while he kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the feeling.

months of tension finally snapping all at once.

you nearly stumble into the staircase together trying to stay quiet and by the time you reach the bedroom, both of you are flushed and breathless and grinning a little helplessly.

the door clicks shut behind you and suddenly geto’s hands are on your waist again and your back hits the wall softly beside the door while he kisses you deeper, warm and hungry. your fingers slide automatically into his hair again and he makes this low sound against your mouth that nearly destroys you.

“fuck,” he murmurs quietly against your lips. you can feel how nervous he is underneath it too though, how his hands careful despite how badly he wants you. you tug at the hem of his shirt first and geto pulls back just enough to drag it over his head quickly before immediately kissing you again.

shirtless in the dim moonlit bedroom, he looks unfair. your eyes stare at the tattoos winding along his arms and chest, dark hair loose around his face from the beach wind.

you stare for half a second too long because geto's cheeks flush slightly. (this, of course, makes him infinitely more attractive.)

“don’t look at me like that,” he mutters.

you laugh breathlessly while your hands slide down his chest, his muscles tensing beneath your touch instantly. his fingers hook gently into the hem of your hoodie, hesitation flickering briefly across his face. you nod softly, and that's all he needs.

geto pulls the hoodie over your head slowly and when it drops to the floor he just stares quietly. his eyes drag across your skin with open awe now, nothing hidden in his expression anymore.

this is how he wanted to see you. not startled or accidental. wanted.

heat blooms across your entire body under that look and geto steps closer again slowly, one hand settling against your waist while the other brushes lightly up your side like he’s still convincing himself you’re real. “…pretty girl,” he says softly.

you kiss him again immediately because otherwise you think you might combust, your fingers fumbling with the button of his pants while geto's lips start to press kisses down your jaw.

your back eventually hits the mattress gently as you both stumble toward the bed, and for one second he hovers over you breathing hard while moonlight spills silver across the sheets behind him. he's gazing at you with those lidded eyes, his boxers strained as his hands run up your stomach slowly, savouring, until he's cupping your tits in his hands, squeezing with gentle reverence.

“…i wanna take my time with you,” he says quietly. one hand moves to slide up your thigh while he properly settles over you, his other elbow braced beside your head. one of his legs slips naturally between yours and the pressure makes your breath catch immediately.

a faint smugness flickers briefly through his expression now, that quiet confident energy finally surfacing. “there she is,” he murmurs softly.

heat floods your face instantly and geto kisses you again before you can hide from it. your lips, deeply, tongue sliding against yours, brushing along your mouth. then your jaw, then your neck. his mouth lingers just beneath your ear, sucking gently, while his hand drifts carefully along your waist, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin.

“fuck,” he mutters quietly against your throat. his voice sounds wrecked already.

your fingers slide through his hair, tugging lightly without thinking, and geto exhales sharply against your neck before lifting his head to look at you. dark eyes and flushed cheeks and hair falling loose around his face.

he looks gone.

completely gone for you.

his hand smooths slowly along your waist again before drifting higher, fingertips tracing along your side with almost unbearable patience. your breathing stutters when he holds your tits again, kneading them once before rolling your stiffened nipples between his fingers.

“you okay?” he asks softly.

you nod quickly and he kisses you again while his thumbs slowly brush over sensitive skin, drawing another shaky breath from you. the sound goes straight through him - geto's spent months imagining this. wondering what you'd sound like, how you'd react to him touching you.

(the little, jealous part of his brain remembers aaron. he shoves the thought away immediately.)

reality is infinitely worse for his self control. you squirm slightly beneath him and his leg presses more firmly between yours automatically.

your breath catches harder this time and geto looks at you, something a little darker simmering beneath his eyes. “that feel good?” he murmurs quietly.

you hide your face briefly against his shoulder. “…maybe.”

his laugh comes soft against your hair. “maybe?”

heat floods your face when he tilts your chin back toward him gently. “use your words, pretty girl.”

your stomach twists and you nod once. “yeah.”

“yeah what?”

you stare at him in disbelief. “you’re annoying.”

he grins properly for the first time all night. “and you’re avoiding the question.” before you can answer, he kisses you again, swallowing the tiny embarrassed sound you make while his hand drifts lower along your thigh slowly.

your fingers curl against his shoulders when his mouth returns to your neck again, kissing lower this time while his hand squeezes gently at your thigh. when his hands defly dip into the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down, you moan quietly, head turning to the side.

he makes you so nervous and excited your heart feels like it's going to lurch out of your chest.

"can i touch you here, pretty girl?" he murmurs, fingers sliding along your inner thighs until they ghost over your cotton panties. if you'd known you'd end up like..this tonight, youd've chosen a more tasteful pair of underwear.

"please," you whisper, pulling him to your mouth as his fingers press against your clothed cunt, applying just enough pressure to make you mewl into his lips. you feel him smile, pushing your panties to the side before running a finger through your folds.

"you're wet," he chuckles before pushing his finger in, crooking it against your spongey insides. your head falls back against the pillow, hands digging into his back.

"oh my god, geto," you whimper, lips parting.

"suguru," he corrects, pushing another digit in, curling them deep enough to find the gooey spot that has your nails making crescent against his arms.

"suguru, please, 's so good," you babble, thrusting your hips to meet his hand.

he stills for a moment at the sound of his name on your lips. how you moan his name so prettily, begging for more. he leans down, kissing you hard, fingers moving faster and faster inside you, the sound lewd and so dirty and buzzing right to his crotch.

geto feels how you clench around his fingers, and he swallows thickly at the thought of how you'll take his cock. he groans, low and wrecked, capturing your nipple between his lips, teeth grazing along it slightly.

your head's dizzy, stars behind your eyes, gazing at geto and how he's sucking little bruises along your tits, up your neck, down your stomach. constellations of bite marks across your body.

"suguru, i—i'm close," you say, voice breaking. his eyes darken and he thumbs tiny circles over your clit, his two - no, three - fingers curling against all the right spots inside your core.

when you cum, body pulsing hard and hot in waves that make you tingle all over, geto groans, fingering you slowly until your breathing evens. the sight of you coming undone for him has him hardening impossibly more in his boxers, now damp at the front with precum.

you're panting below geto and your hand inches to his boxers, itching to tug them off. "you sure?" he asks quietly, restraint obvious in his voice.

"i'm sure, suguru," you say softly, kissing him again, palming over his boxers. he lets out a strained sound as you reach to pull them down and he quickly obliges, shrugging them off.

suguru geto, in all of his naked glory, is the most beautiful man you've ever seen.

you're rather partial to his pretty, leaking cock, too.

your eyes trace over the vein that runs along one side, the flushed, mushroomed dip, slick with precum, the thick shaft. how it twitches slightly under your gaze, hard and angled up towards his abs. you watch in a daze as he pumps himself slowly, his lips parted, watching you sprawled out so prettily for him, your hair like a halo around your head as you lay there.

you watch his gaze drift down your body, down past your tits, down past the splattering of marks he's left across practially every square inch of your skin. down to your pussy, still slick from your orgasm.

you squirm under geto's face and he tuts, leaning down and pressing his tip to your core. "don't have to be nervous, pretty girl," he says, kissing the side of your neck. his cock brushes against your folds and you both moan quietly.

geto's forehead drops to yours as one of his hands hooks through your thighs, pushing it up as he pushes in slowly. you wince at the pressure, eyes watering slightly - none of the men you've been with have been this...proportionate. he's quick to wipe the tears from your eyes, kissing your cheeks softly, jaw tight as he pushes in more, and more, passing each wall of muscle with a grunt.

"you're squeezing me, y/n, shit," he manages, pushing your thigh higher to deepen the angle. when he finally bottoms out his eyes roll back and you whine.

loud.

geto pushes his thumb into your mouth, his hand cupping your face, and you suck on it gently, face contorting with pleasure as he starts to thrust slowly, struggling to fit his cock back in when he pulls out.

"so tight," he groans raggedly, and all you can do is moan in response, his thumb still in your mouth, his other hand still warm against your thigh, sliding up to squeeze your waist. when geto manages to set a slow, steady pace, he's grunting every time he thrusts in fully, watching your hands grip the sheets desperately.

"right there, suguru," you moan, muffled against his thumb.

"here, pretty girl?" he rumbles, pistoning his cock deep and faster now, brushing your cervix with every thrust.

you nod, babbling incoherently, tugging his hair, holding his biceps, wrapping around his neck, touching everywhere you can and he lowers himself, chest pressed to yours. your tits soft against his skin, your tongue swirling around his thumb.

he holds you reverently, kneading the plush of your thighs as you clench around him, chasing another orgasm. you pull his thumb out of your mouth with a pop, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the digit. "suguru," you whimper, "suguru, suguru, suguru—"

"yeah, i know," he coos, thrusting so deep inside you you can see where he pokes at your stomach, the bulge bumping against your skin every time his cock presses deep in your cunt. "look at that, pretty girl. taking me sooo good, yeah? so good for me."

blood rushes hot through your body, liquid heat coursing through your veins, and your back arches off the bed, pulling geto impossibly closer to you as you moan softly into his ear, biting his neck as you feel your climax build and build and build.

"are you close? 'm gonna cum," he says, voice rough and eyes blown wide. "you feel me here?" he presses his hand to where his cock bulges against your stomach, the pressure stealing the air from your lungs.

"inside," you breathe, panting now. "cum in me, suguru."

and so he does, seconds later, because your voice saying those words along with his name fully break him. he holds you against him as he cums, pulsing thick and hot spurts of release, coating your walls. he rubs circles over your nipples as you climax, too, with a cracked moan of his name and your hands tangled in his hair.

after, you’re both a little breathless, tangled in rumpled sheets with the balcony doors cracked open enough for the ocean air to drift in. geto just stays close, one arm wrapped around your waist while his fingers lazily trace little patterns against your skin like he doesn’t quite know what to do with all this softness in his chest. you’re tucked against him, cheek pressed to his shoulder, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat finally slowing down. “…you okay?” he asks after a while, voice low and sleep-rough now.

you tilt your head to look at him, how pretty he looks with his pink lips and flushed cheeks. you smile softly. “you’ve asked me that like eight times.”

“i know.”

“paranoid?”

he huffs a quiet laugh, looking at the ceiling. “a little.”

your heart squeezes and you lift yourself enough to kiss him softly. geto smiles into it, eyes closing briefly. "you like me," he murmurs, and you bury your face in his shoulder so he can't see you smiling.

he helps you clean up, gently rubbing a warm cloth along your inner thighs where his cum's dried, hands you your hoodie, tucks blankets around you when you both collapse into bed. when you instinctively curl toward the far side like you did the first night, geto just blinks at you. "...seriously?"

you look over. "what?" and he wordlessly lifts an arm. your stomach flips and you slide back over, letting him pull you into his chest. his chin rests lightly on top of your head, one hand smoothing once down your back.

sometime in the middle of the night, you both fall asleep smiling.

sunday - 8 am

the next morning feels surreal. when you wake, blinking sleepily, you realize two things immediately. one: you're basically half on top of geto. two: he's already awake, watching you. the second your eyes meet, he smiles, small and sleepy and completely soft. "...hi," you mumble.

"hi." his voice is still rough with sleep and you both just stare at each other for a second like idiots then start laughing quietly for no reason at all.

everything feels weirdly giddy, soft. you brush hair out of his face, he catches your wrist and kises your palm. as you both get dressed you exhange stupid little smiles the entire time.

however, when you both head downstairs together, something awful starts to creep into your brain. there's no way anyone heard, right...? gojo's girlfriend is a notoriously heavy sleeper, though you don't know much about how gojo sleeps...toji and choso and your roommate, being downstairs, couldn't have heard anything at all. and you weren't that loud.

the living room comes into view where choso's sitting drinking coffee (from a new, temporary machine you bought at the marina yesterday). when he sees you and geto walk down the stairs he goes tomato red and your soul leaves your body. beside you, geto's trying so hard to act normal.

"morning," he says in the most suspiciously casual voice ever.

choso makes a sound that is not a word. "...morning." he looks away so fast he nearly spills coffee on himself. you stare at him, horrified. there is no way. there is absolutely no way they heard anything. they couldn't have.

before you can spiral further, gojo strolls in from the kitchen, looking smug for no reason. "good morning!" he says brightly. you narrow your eyes immediately. never trust that tone. he starts making coffee, chatting casually about breakfast plans like a completely normal person. too normal.

geto relaxes as gojo stirs sugar into his cup. takes a sip, then says, "so."

you feel the danger immediately. gojo glances over with the smile of a man about to ruin lives. " 'cum in me , suguru'?" he says thoughtfully. "that's the best you got?"

you swear time stops. geto goes completely motionless, full red ears to collarbone. your body leaves this earthly plane. choso coughs so hard he nearly dies on the couch. from the back porch, where you now see your roommate, gojo's girlfriend, and toji watching with rapt attention, they all burst laughing.

which means. oh my god.

you stare blankly at the wall in front of you and geto slowly turns toward gojo. "i'm going to kill you."

gojo raises both hands, grinning. "hey, don't shoot the messenger. walls are thin, lover boy."

you make a strangled noise and bury your face into your hands. somehow, impossibly, gojo makes it worse. "also," he says, taking another casual sip, "the name thing was kinda hot. personal fave detail."

"SATORU."

"WHAT? i'm being supportive!"

a/n ~ did u cry when they kissed? no? just me blubbering like a baby writing this? ...

[indiewritesxoxo]

THE GIRL WHO CRIED WOLF

what do you do when you think a werewolf is stalking you? have sex with him, of course!

synopsis: you tried to live a normal life on your family's farm. until a werewolf bit you as a child and no one seems to believe you when the same one starts to follow you for years. branded an outsider and browbeaten towards an arranged marriage, you start to think that maybe you are going mad - until a certain werewolf shows up to wreak havoc again!

pairing: werewolf!sukuna x f!reader

wc: 8.0k

content: mdni, angst + smut, porn with plot, werewolf sex, he's hairy and has fuzzy ears + tail for it, unprotected piv sex, knotting, breeding kink, creampie, marking, biting, bonds, sukuna is lowk a yandere and VERY obsessed with reader, reader is an awkward loser, toxic family/environment, a sprinkle of violence against an asshole, kissing, oral sex (f!receiving), scratching, feral lovemaking, happy ending

a/n: the sukuna art is by @winterrbluess ! this was a super fun commission for the lovely @martianzmars <333

There were beasts in the woods. 

Creatures the townsfolk whispered about in hushed tones out in the market, a tight hand on their children’s wrists to keep them tugged close as they ushered them back to the safety of their cottages. Monsters made into bedtime stories your mother warned you about before tucking you into sleep at night. 

Stay on the trail. Never go out by yourself. 

But hunger makes people do stupid things. 

And you were no exception. 

Just a clumsy child yourself, tumbling over roots and avoiding breaking any twigs as you snuck through the brush, going to check a trap you carefully crafted yourself after listening to your parents complain about not having any meat to preserve for the coming cold days. Not when all your livestock were going missing lately. Stolen or slaughtered by the predators lurking unseen. 

They wouldn’t approve of you sneaking out in the woods, but if you brought back any animal, you were sure they’d forgive you for it. You were tired of being just another mouth to feed, something fragile to keep an eye on who’d yet to contribute much to the farm. 

So you just huffed and held your tears in rather than start to bawl when you hit the rough forest floor and scraped your knees up, messing up the patched-together trousers your mother just mended last week, a hand-me-down that probably wouldn’t last to make it to another kid. 

Biting your tongue as you made it past a familiar trove of trees, steeling your nerves with the thought that at least your trap was close – and then you heard it. 

The whine of an animal. 

Your hand reflexively reached for the battered hunting knife sheathed tucked in your pocket. You had to steal it from your father’s drawer this morning, but he should be too busy tending to the crops to notice your little theft. 

Had it truly worked? 

Did you really snag yourself an animal to bring home and brag about? 

You swallowed hard, barely containing your anticipation as you struggled to stay silent the rest of the way. Too distracted in your own excitement to realize all the bugs and birds had gone quiet too. 

Of course, even if you had, you still never would have considered the cause being what you caught. Who you caught. 

Peeking beneath a branch to get a glimpse of your prize only to discover a pup. 

And not the cute, fluffy kind the boy down gravel road had. 

A werewolf pup. Somewhere between human and wolf, caught between two different forms and completely, totally feral. With scraggly pink fur and searing red eyes, barking out a low growl at you as he struggled to get out of your trap. There was…something in there with him. A small animal you must’ve snagged before he tried to steal it, only tufts of brown and orange left of it and bits of bone. 

But when you looked back at his face, the shape of his quivering mouth and the way his eyes widened with pure panic, you couldn’t help but feel awful for him. He was even smaller than you, scrawny and starving, his fingers trembling as he fought to break free. 

“It’s okay,” you tried to soothe him, swallowing hard to quell your own fear. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” 

You pulled out your knife, moving slowly to not scare him as you showed him the blade. From what you’d pieced together from your parents late-night hushed conversations over the town’s werewolf problem, they were intelligent. Had families too. Made their homes in caves rather than out of wood and stone. 

Was he your age? Maybe a year younger? 

Did he have parents out there waiting for him to return to them like yours were? 

“I’m just going to cut you free,” you half-whispered, careful to keep your tone even as you started to dismantle your own handiwork. 

You didn’t know if he could understand you. 

But his growling had turned into low huffs. 

If you didn’t know better, you’d almost think he was impatient.

You worked faster, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you nervously stole glances back at the pup, hesitant to even think of him as a beast when he was so…scraggly? You’d always thought werewolves were vicious, too smart to get caught by a silly contraption like yours, strong enough to bust their way out of it if they did. 

“Okay, there you-” 

You didn’t even get to finish your sentence, the second he’d been released, that scraggly body of his was launching off the ground – and on top of you. Knocking you onto your back, all the air forced out of you as you let out a sharp gasp, trying to shove him off only to get the knife knocked out of your hand. 

And your wrists pinned by your head just a moment later, his claws digging into your skin as his iron grip bit into your bones. 

You were sobbing before he had even leaned in a little, big fat tears rolling down your cheeks as you squirmed and attempted to roll out from underneath him. “Pl-please don’t hurt me, I-I-” 

Blubbering like a baby, shaking your head desperately as fear struck a dagger of its own straight through your core, primal terror setting in as you began to sweat. Your whole face felt wet, your lip wobbling as you tried to stammer out another desperate plea for your life, as you realized what a moron you were for having pity for him. 

Starving dogs would always bite. 

He was growling, barring sharp teeth as his canines glinted in the afternoon light, ready to sink into your throat and tear it out. You had a momentary surge of strength at the thought you really might die, managing to almost wrestle free as you screamed for your family, one hand slipping out of his grasp only for him to lunge forward, his teeth sinking into your wrist to stop you as a flash of white hot pain shot up your arm and-

Stopped? 

His eyes snapped up to meet yours, squinting almost accusingly before the hurt morphed into a relaxing tingle, like your body was being bathed in warmth, shivering at the strange connection in his locked stare. All the apprehension disappearing, your anxieties melting as if you weren’t in danger, as if you weren’t surely seconds from death. 

And then he was letting go, recoiling away from you like he tasted something rotten, nose scrunched up before he started to sniff the air. 

Blood was dripping down your wrist, leaving red splotches on the plants beneath you as you scooted backwards, breathing hard and heavy as you debated on trying to make a run for it now, weighing the risk of if he’d pounce again. Feeling for where the knife landed, unable to bring yourself to break eye contact with him. 

His mouth opened again, not in a snarl this time, but before he could bark or speak, there was the rustle of branches behind you, your parents calling out your name with worry in their voices. You glanced over your shoulder, just for a moment, but by the time you looked back, he was gone. 

Disappeared deeper into the forest, into the safety of the thick brush. 

Leaving you with a wounded wrist and a funny flutter in your chest as you stumbled to your feet after grabbing the knife, stumbling back towards the sound of your parents shouting for you. 

You made it out of the woods with your life. 

A story that got you scolded for years to come too, not to mention a scar that made the townsfolk sneer at you for doing something so foolish. 

And a werewolf who just wouldn’t stop coming around. 

Although, it had taken you until your teenage years to figure out that you were being stalked by the creature you made the mistake of saving as a child. You found his fur on your family’s porch, tufts of pink left behind in the mornings your family never seemed to notice. Scratch marks etched against the walls, grooves left in the wood from claws that were meant for slicing through flesh. 

You caught glimpses of him. Sporadic at first, spread out between months and weeks. A flash of sharp teeth through the treeline. A phantom stare that seemed to constantly trail after you as you carefully kept your distance from the forest during the days while you tended to the farm. Hair pretty much perpetually raised on the back of your neck as you pretended you didn’t feel like you were being watched the second you walked outside. 

The livestock had stopped disappearing, at least. 

No more waking up to missing chickens or goats left with gashes strewn across the yard. 

Your parents thought that all the werewolves in the area had moved somewhere else. Retreated deeper into the woods or somehow all slaughtered each other, victim to their own instincts, their own aggression. 

You knew better. Kept waiting for the beast lurking and lingering around to…well, do something. 

Not just watch. 

You wondered if he was hoping for your guard to slip. If maybe he liked to play with his food before he scarfed it down. 

Every time you’d step foot into the forest, he would seemingly be there. One hand on a silver dagger, not that you thought it would be much use if he’d been able to pin you down back when you were still bigger than him, especially now that he had a massive frame that lumbered between the trees, too big to be stealthy if he tried. Yet, not a single other person had seen him. 

But you didn’t really have a choice. Someone had to collect herbs, had to get fresh water from the river, had to bring back branches and berries. 

And no one believed your stories of the pink werewolf who just stood there and stared without ever attacking. 

Everyone in town thought you were just a crybaby who called wolf. 

“Stop staring and hang those clothes up,” your mother huffed, an elbow digging into your side snapping you out of your daze. Daydreaming about a world where they all listened to you instead of ignoring every word that left your mouth. “The neighbor’s boy will be by soon.” 

Of course. 

You wouldn’t be their problem much longer anyway. 

Soon you’d be married off, sent to be the bride of the farmer’s eldest son next door. Most people married their daughters off the second they came of age, became adults who were too much of a burden to keep around, but your reputation had bought you a couple extra years. 

No one wanted to wed a woman who weeped about creatures the rest of the folk were desperate to forget about. 

Except for the boy with the bad temper you whispered to through the fence. 

You had only started speaking to him a handful of months ago, back when you were hanging the sheets on the line and overheard a rustling sound through the rotting wooden planks separating your family’s land from the neighbor’s. 

“Hello?” You called out, glancing over your shoulder anxiously, picturing a mass of pink on the other side. Considering the chance that you had gone crazy, cringing as you realized your paranoid mind might just be playing a trick on you. “Is someone-”

“Hello?” A man’s voice had echoed yours, equally uncertain. It came out all gruff, like someone was dragging a wooden rake over gravel, a rough rumble to it you automatically liked. 

He didn’t try to sound smooth or honeyed. No pretending, nothing pretty or pompous. 

And more important than anything else, real. 

“Oh, um, my apologies,” you awkwardly cleared your throat, not sure what to say to him, belatedly realizing it had to be the boy your parents kept bringing up as a potential marriage prospect for you. “I just heard a noise and-” 

“Did I scare you?” 

“A little,” you admitted, laughing it off as you stared at the wood blocking him from your sight. “There’s a werewolf that roams around here.” 

You waited for him to mock you for suggesting it. To dismiss your claim the same way everyone else did. 

“Oh?” 

He didn’t. 

You informed your mother that night you wouldn’t mind marrying him after all. 

And before long, you were confiding in him about everything. Sitting by the fence whether the weather was warm or cold, picking flowers while you poured out the years you’d spent looking over your shoulder, scared that you wouldn’t make it through another season. 

He never told you your suspicions were stupid. 

But he did tell you that if the werewolf hadn’t attacked you yet, there might be another reason it was there. Suggested one drizzly day that the object of your fear might actually be protecting you, that he could’ve scared off all the others that used to wreak havoc on your family’s farm. 

You had never considered it before him. 

But he made a point you were doing your best to talk yourself into believing. 

It had helped calm some of your nerves. Turn your nightmares into something more…managable. They weren’t scary anymore, just, well, strange. 

Your werewolf was still there. 

But your body no longer tensed with terror when he came close and crouched low. Your heart still thrummed, pounding against your chest as you reached out a hand, but the beast who occupied so much of your brain had begun to let you pet him in the scenes it conjured up. Stroking his surprisingly soft fur as his mouth parted to purr, sharp teeth hidden behind his curled-up lips. 

You had told your future fiancé about it, excitedly recounting the details as he gruffly hummed along. You asked about his dreams too, tried to return the favor he’d done you by easing your fears by getting to know him.  

But he avoided that altogether, always redirecting the conversation back to your day. What you had for breakfast or what chores your family would be making you do later. 

He didn’t flirt, never made any kind of crude suggestions of sneaking over the fence to spend the night — despite the rather unsavory reputation you heard he had around your village. 

When you got close, your knees pressed to your chest while you rested your cheek against the wood, sometimes you could almost swear you felt some invisible string tying you to him. A natural pull you had a hard time resisting, reluctant to ever end the conversation or step away when your heart wanted to plant itself on the spot. Fingers itching to pry apart the boards so you could see his face, touch his skin. 

You told yourself that it was a pretty fantasy.

Something your mind was weaving to keep yourself from actually going crazy from sheer loneliness. 

Despite all of your stolen conversations, the minutes you snuck away to speak to him, you had never met him in person.

Until today. 

You hurried to hang the clothes per your mother’s request, hands trembling as you worked and your head snapping over your shoulders as you hoped to hear his voice. 

“Are you there?” You called out, aware that you’d look as crazy as everyone said you were if you got caught. It was a miracle in itself that you hadn’t before now. 

But you didn’t get a reply. 

Brief disappointment burned through you, but you shut it down. 

Ignored the way it stung as you finished up, casting a wistful look back before returning to the house, stepping over trampled wild flowers and dying grass until you were climbing back up the stairs to your porch. 

Your head hanging low, mulling over what you’d actually say when you got to see him. 

“Ahem,” your mother cleared her throat, and your stare snapped up to find her waiting for you with-

Oh. 

Your shallow disappointment immediately deepened into a lake you could drown you. 

“Hi,” you breathed, struggling not to let your dismay show for the man in front of you. He wasn’t awful looking. No, he was attractive, you guessed, in his own way. 

But he didn’t fit what you had in your head. He was too…clean? Normal? 

His eyes weren’t filled with the warmth you dreamed they’d have. They were cold. Slipping over your frame cautiously, as if he was calculating what he should make of you. 

You didn’t feel that tug towards him, no spark or gravity drawing you in. You didn’t feel anything for him. 

“I’ve heard quite a bit about you,” he greeted, nodding as his stare dipped from your face to your chest. 

He didn’t even sound the same either. 

Could a piece of wood really change the quality of his voice that much? 

“I’ll leave you two to it,” your mother chirped, disappearing back inside like she wouldn’t be watching through the window. 

“You don’t have to pretend like you don’t know me,” you said once you were sure she at least wasn’t eavesdropping. Telling yourself that you were surely just overthinking everything, trying to claw back some comfort in your one safe person. “Speaking to you has often been the highlight of my days these last few months.” 

He looked at you incredulously, mouth curling up in a sneer you’d seen so many times before. 

It was the one you usually got in the market from the townsfolk who thought you were mad. 

The delusional farmer’s daughter. 

“We’ve never spoken before.”

˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀

Would you be mad at him for murdering your fiancé? 

Sukuna mused on how hard it would be to catch that imbecile off-guard and slice through his throat as the idiot scoffed and sneered at you. 

He always knew it was a matter of time before you figured out your future groom wasn’t the man on the other side of the fence. 

But he thought he had a little more time. 

To warm you up a little more on the whole werewolf thing. 

He heard the fear in your voice when you first talked about the pink beast stalking you through the woods without realizing it was the creature you were so terrified of that you were crying to. 

It wasn’t like he wanted you to think he was a fucking creep. 

But the longer he stayed away, the harder he fought and resisted the bond tying you to him, the more of a monster he became. Slowly becoming more animalistic, giving into the primal parts of him, pain scorching through every muscle and limb and threatening to melt his mind when he strayed too far from your side. 

Werewolves needed their mates. 

And you were his. 

Bonded from the moment he bit you, his heart claimed to only beat for you from that day forward. Most werewolves had packs to keep them sane. Families they counted on to maintain their control on the monstrous parts of them that would go unchecked without that connection.

He had been an orphan. An abandoned pup who figured out how to survive on his own. 

Lone werewolves, the ones like him, eventually became more wolf than man if they never found their other half to hold onto. Too aggressive to ever come close to someone that could tame them. 

Sukuna had learned to make due with what he had. 

You’d gotten good at avoiding him, running from him the second you caught so much as a glimpse, which honestly, was rather rude if you asked him. 

Forced to creep up to your house at night, prowling around your porch to protect your farm from any other predators that might come sniffing around. Sleeping beneath your window at night just so he could stave off transforming into more of a beast, telling himself that he wasn’t being weird as long as he didn’t peek through to watch you dream and drift off in your bed. 

He only ended up talking to you through the fence out of impulse. 

Creeping along the other side of it to stay close to you and keep his instincts at bay, knowing those morons next door barely tended to their fields enough to notice him even during the day, caught off guard by the sound of your pretty voice calling out to him. 

A single conversation was enough to have him hooked though. 

And he was nothing if not addicted to the tiniest tidbits of your attention. 

Desperate to feel the faintest warmth of your affection.

Sometimes, he was tempted to burst through the rotting wood, rip the whole fence down until he was face-to-face with you, shake your shoulders and beg you to see that it was him, that every part of him belonged to you. 

Humans didn’t feel the bond the same way werewolves did, but he wanted to believe you could sense it too. 

You had kept coming back. 

And now you were standing on your front porch, frozen with a different type of fear that he could feel from here. 

Your emotions seeping into his, curdling with his own shame for screwing everything up with you from the start. 

He couldn’t hear what you were saying, but he could tell you were stammering, your lips quivering just for the man in front of you to laugh. Reaching out to pat your head condescendingly before jutting a thumb back towards his own property. 

Sukuna was silently begging you to shake your head. 

To keep your feet firmly planted on your porch. 

You were too soft. Too trusting. 

The sort of girl that set him free. Let a wild wolf pup loose with no regard for your own safety. And apparently you never learned your lesson judging by the way you began following that fool back to his house. 

Clueless that his own family had conveniently left it empty for him to have his way with his future bride. 

Sukuna had listened to your complaints about the way you were treated by everyone else. How no one else ever seemed to see what you did. No one else cared to believe you when it was more convenient not to. 

You had trusted him. 

And now you were putting this faith in that man because he hadn’t told you the truth? 

Sukuna knew what would happen if he let you go inside with him, snarling as his claws started to grow, the bones in his fists cracking and popping as they formed a fist, creeping just deep enough to not be spotted as he trailed after the two of you until you crossed over onto his property. 

He kept hoping you’d turn around. Tell him that you weren’t sure this was a good idea. 

But you didn’t. 

Even if the look on your face was nothing short of sharp discomfort as you walked up a winding path to his house. 

Shit.

Sukuna was really going to scare you this time, wasn’t he? 

But he wasn’t just going to let you stay there alone with an even bigger predator. 

One who wouldn’t hesitate to bruise your skin or make you bleed for his own pleasure. 

He stepped out, his canines barred as his chest quickly began to rise and fall with heavy breaths, aware that there really might be no going back from this as he waited for just one of you to look back. But no, that asshole just slid his hand down the small of your back, attempting to grope your ass through your dress and ignoring the way you were recoiling from him as you tried to politely brush his arm off. 

Rage ripped through him in one hot burst, spilling over and souring any chance of his sanity winning out. Only half-monster this time, pink fur sticking out across his back as he lumbered forward. He didn’t have a real plan. Or any plan. 

Just the deep-seeded instinct to protect you at any cost. To not let another man lay a finger on you.  

Your husband-to-be never saw him coming. 

Blood splattering across the grass as he hit the ground from just a shallow scratch, whining in pain like a baby before Sukuna delivered a swift kick to his skull. 

It wasn’t particularly powerful, but he supposed humans really were just that much weaker given how fast it seemed to knock him out. 

“Sorry,” he growled, glancing over to you, expecting you to scream at any second, give him away. But you were stuck in place, those big eyes that had haunted him in his memory for so long finally locked onto his. More tears welling up in them, your shoulders shivering as the explanation on his tongue died. 

Your hand reflexively reached for your wrist, the scarred skin there still raised from where he’d clamped down on it as a child, and he flinched, guilt curdling in his stomach. 

He hated that he hurt you. Hated that he was terrifying you now. 

The bond burned, being so goddamn close to you, able to feel all your fear, all your messy emotions tangled and twisted together, your heart racing so fast he could hear the wild thumps as he tried to force his body to revert back to his most human form. 

“He was going to hurt you,” Sukuna defended himself with a low growl, kicking his limp body on the ground for a second time, like it would make himself feel better. A man like that would only waste your life. Force you to work the fields for him, bear his children and still pretend you were the burden. 

You blinked, sucking in a broken breath as you stared at him. The terror that had been radiating off of you fading faster than he expected as your pretty lips parted, as if you pieced together the rest of who he was on your own. 

“You’re-” You started, unable to finish the sentence. 

“I’m protecting you,” he grunted, before you could come to any other conclusion. 

You’d given him this life. He was devoting it back to you. 

“Why would you do that?” You whispered, unsure of whether or not to stay or sprint as far from him as you could. Your stare quickly shifted back to the body on the ground, biting your lip when you realized he was, unfortunately, still breathing. 

“You’re my mate.” 

˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀

The werewolf you’d spent well over a decade running from had declared you were his mate – and the man you thought you’d marry was bleeding in the grass. 

Great. 

You were blinking back tears, torn between twisting away and taking a step closer. Your blurred vision started to clear as you hastily wiped away the damp streak from your cheeks, starting to see the werewolf in front of you as what he might have been this whole time. 

Your protector. 

Were you a moron that misread everything? 

Maybe. 

Or were you once again a fool about to fall for his trap? 

He’d done it to you before, hadn’t he? 

A small voice in your head suggested that you were thinking about it wrong. You had set him free. And now he was repaying that favor by saving you from spending the rest of your years chained to a stranger.

“What did you mean about him hurting me?” You tentatively asked, jaw tensing as you stole another peek at the man bleeding onto the already dead grass. 

“You’re not that naive,” he scoffed, his mouth twitching when he looked too like he was tempted to kick him a third time. 

Your mouth pressed together in a thin line, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you replayed the way he tried to grab you despite how derisively he laughed at you before. How he commented that he didn’t really care if you were crazy before glancing down at your cleavage. 

But you had still walked with him anyway, starting to think that maybe you were losing it, that you were simply so lonely, you’d made up all those long conversations. Convinced that some jerk who just wanted you for your body was the best you’d be able to get. 

“So it was you? This whole time?” You asked, trying to make the pieces fit together in your mind as you pictured him on the other side of that fence. Listening to you complain about him. “You never said-” 

“Can you blame me?” He grunted, shrugging his massive shoulders up like it didn’t bother him.

“I called you a creep, like, a thousand times,” you pointed out, bottom lip quivering as you found yourself teetering on the verge of an apology you couldn’t decide if he deserved or not. 

“Yeah,” he grimaced. “If I stay too far away from you, it’s hard to stay human.” 

Your heart lurched. 

Eyes lingering over him as you realized that he could almost pass for human. 

Disarmed by how different he looked up close. His broad chest outlined with defined muscles, bulky and thick with scars and markings crisscrossed and etched deep into his tanned skin. There were sparse spots of fur that appeared to almost…shrink the longer he stood in front of you. 

And not a scrap of clothing to cover his rather large cock. 

You’d never seen one in person before. But you had overheard some of the girls gossiping about the men they were seeing in the market, comparing sizes to fruits and giggling about how they rarely seemed to make good use of them. 

Were werewolves just more well endowed? 

Heat coiled in your stomach, more enthralled than you should be as you got distracted by the shape of it, the way it curved a little to the left, a thick vein running along the side of it as your breath got stuck in your throat. 

His tail wagged behind him as he stepped closer, something irritatingly familiar inside you instinctively aching to move towards him too. 

That invisible string pulling tight, tensing up at the proximity of his presence, trying to draw you into his space as you felt what little resolve you had to resist him crumbling by the second. 

You didn’t want to stay here. 

Didn’t want to spend your life as the wife to an asshole or be the disappointment of a daughter your family treated you like. 

You were already an outsider in your own village. 

Why not give being a werewolf’s mate a try? 

It wasn’t like your situation could get much worse. 

“So,” you started, clearing your throat as you dragged your stare back up to his face. “What now?” 

“Would you run away with me?” 

In a strange way, his serious grumble felt romantic, his hand outstretched and all those sharp claws retracted waiting for yours as his red eyes pried apart and pierced through your soul. 

Somewhere deep inside you, you knew that you were never going to say no. 

That your path was always going to wind back to him one way or another the moment you slid your palm into his. 

Still, you kind of thought he’d be taking you back to some poorly-constructed hut in the forest made out of twigs and branches – not an actual cottage of his own. 

Buried deep within a twisted grove of trees tightly-spaced, tucked away far enough you doubted any hunters or folk from your village would ever discover it on their own. 

It was old, vines sprawling over the walls, the thatched roof freshly-repaired as he pulled you through the front door. The inside was nice, a little small, but comfortable. Furniture mix-matched, most of it either roughly handcrafted or well, stolen, you supposed. 

“This is yours?” You asked, stepping inside as he shut the wooden door behind both of you. Slipping off your shoes, not sure if that was considered polite or not in werewolf culture. 

“Uh-huh,” he wryly nodded, not even glancing around when his gaze was focused solely on you. Looking at you sort of like you might be his next meal. “

“And I’m your mate?” You continued, mostly just wanting to hear him say it again. Confirm whatever this funny feeling inside you was. The connection that seemed to just intensify with each passing breath, each step he took closer. 

“You’re mine,” he murmured, bridging the distance in just two long strides. He didn’t touch you. Not yet. Just let his calloused palm hover above your cheek like he was considering it – and using every ounce of his restraint not to cave in and caress you. “And I’m yours.” 

“Do you want to be?” You swallowed hard, finding it hard to hold yourself back too. To not feel how firm his chest was, to not skim your fingers over his defined jaw. “Or is it just part of your werewolf-” 

“I want to be,” he shook his head, like he didn’t even want you to entertain any other idea. “I want you. I think I’d want you even if we weren’t bonded.” 

Enough to sit there and resist the bond between you for months while you whined and whispered about your boring life. 

Enough to stop you from being sent off in an arranged marriage. 

You got up on your tiptoes, letting your fingertips ghost over his cheeks as you pressed your lips to his in a timid kiss.

It was meant to be soft and slow. 

But the second your mouth connected with his, it was like someone had set your skin on fire. Pleasure you hadn’t planned on racing through your limbs, across your body in one massive rush. Shuddering at how sensitive everything abruptly was, abruptly aware of the breeze in the air, the pressure of his hand as he grabbed your waist and pressed your body up against his. 

As if it hurt for there to even be an inch between his chest and yours. 

His tongue danced across your bottom lip, asking for entry you quickly granted, exploring your mouth with a flattering fervor. 

Your thighs were already pressing together, warmth pooling as your walls clenched around nothing. But in between the heat, you felt a funny throb starting to build, begging for attention. 

“W-what’s your name?” You asked, belatedly realizing you still didn’t know it. 

“Sukuna,” he muttered, fingers sliding around to splay possessively over your spine, his steps guiding you back as he kissed you again. 

His tongue slipped back in your mouth as his hand travelled over the rough fabric of your dress, pausing to tch at how it rubbed against your skin. 

Sukuna was quick to pull it up over your head, throwing it down on the creaky wooden floorboards as he pushed open the door to his bedroom. 

You had a brief flash of contemplation, wondering whether or not you were really about to offer your virtue up to the beast that had been haunting you for well over half your life. 

But then you gave him another onceover, felt that fierce tingle travelling straight to your core, and you were committing to the animal inside you too. 

He pinned you to his bed in a flash, although it looked more like a nest. A few of your clothing items, shawls and dresses that had gone missing over the last couple years you assumed your mother had thrown out were all bundled up on the surface along with a tattered blanket, the warmth of his own scent mixed with your sweeter one striking you the second your back hit the thin mattress. 

“Are those-” Your voice died in your throat at how alarmingly cute the sheepish expression that crossed his face was. 

“I’m sorry,” he begrudgingly grunted an apology, jaw tense as he paused on top of you, his hands on either side of your head, hesitating like you might slip out and make a break for it. 

“What else did you steal?” You tried to tease, fingers loosely running over your old shawl close by.

“Nothing,” he grunted, not particularly believable as your lips curled up in a smile. 

Was it morally questionable? 

Yes, but when you’d wasted so long thinking that no one would ever like you, finding a man obsessed with you was too intoxicating for you to second guess it. 

You leaned forward and kissed him again, trying to match the frenzy behind his lips, a fever of your own starting to make all your thoughts feel loose, fuzzy. 

Limbs relaxing as your cunt started to ache, your fingers brushing through his soft hair, feeling his furry ears as his tail thwomped against the bed fast. 

His cock was digging into your thigh, throbbing and twitching with every little move you made. 

“You smell so fucking good,” he groaned, moving down to leave a messy trail of kisses down your jaw, over your throat as he began to sniff you. 

Sucking in deep inhales, grunting as he ran his tongue in sloppy circles over your nipples, lapping over your exposed skin with no real rhyme or reason. Skimming his teeth over the sensitive peaks, letting out lewd noises like he was the one being driven mad with his mouth. 

Nipping at you lightly, travelling lower until he was hovering over your pussy. 

“Jus’ need a taste,” he breathed, and before you could even fully spread your legs for him, his tongue was pushing inside you. 

It felt like he was trying to devour you. 

Lick up every single drop, dragging his tongue against your walls in messy strokes, dipping in-and-out at a mind-melting pace. 

Nails clawing at anything on his bed for grip, gasping for air as he lifted your hips off the bed so he could dive even deeper. 

None of the girls had ever talked about this. 

His thick digits were digging deep into your thighs, keeping you there as he worked his tongue in and swirled it with a devotion you were struggling to handle. 

You were losing it. 

Unravelling at a rate you never expected, wiggling and whimpering at how good it felt. How right it was to run your fingers through his soft strands. 

And despite it all, you were still greedy for more. 

Aching for him to stuff you with something bigger than his tongue. 

“P-please take me,” you whined, ruffling his hair as you peered down at his position between your soft thighs. 

His dark eyes widened, pupils completely blown, just a thin ring of red left as he processed what you had said. 

You didn’t take it back. 

Lips parted as you sucked in a shallow breath, silently daring him to do it. 

Before you blinked again, your thighs were being pressed up against your chest, squished and squeezed as he lined his leaking length up against your entrance. 

“Yeah?” He huffed, eyes narrowing as he saw the sweat starting to drip down your forehead, the way your thighs tensed and trembled before he even slid in. “You want me too?” “I do,” you nodded, feeling almost like you were making a vow you wouldn’t be able to take back as he pushed the first few inches in.

The pressure seared. 

Your stomach twisting into knots as your walls desperately squeezed down around him. He had to go slow, not desperately rutting or shoving, just slowly sliding into your warmth, his saliva and your slick making it easier for him to enter. 

“You’ve been keeping this from me this long?” He asked, his voice raw and reverberating through you as you found yourself looping your wrists around his neck. Thick tendons straining and flexing as he unclenched his jaw, your thighs straining from the way his fingers dug into your supple flesh. 

“I thought you were going to eat me,” you argued, pouting as he tilted his head back, using every ounce of his focus when his cock slipped in deeper, starting to rub against all those sensitive spots you had a hard time reaching yourself. 

Your own hand was nothing compared to him. 

“I might,” he chuckled, low and gritty. 

Tension thrumming thick in the air as you looked down and realized he still hadn’t bottomed out, your lips parting as you stared at the connection between your bodies. 

That intoxicating tingle you’d felt when he kissed you back had returned, your body squeezing and clenching and…changing? 

It finally struck you what was happening. 

His cock was literally molding you around him. 

The bond working its weird werewolf magic to make sure you’d be able to accommodate him not just comfortably, but pleasurably. So you wouldn’t be in pain as he pushed you to your limits. 

“Is this normal?” You gasped, not sure if you should be grateful or freaked out as he slipped another thick inch in. 

“You’re my first,” he shrugged, the lump in his throat bobbing like he was currently too preoccupied just by the way you were wrapped around him to think straight. 

“And werewolves don’t have multiple mates?” You questioned, lips pursed as you felt his cock prod that soft, spongy place in the back, your back arching up off the bed just for him to press you right back down. 

“You can’t be serious right now,” he froze, his cock twitching in time with his mouth. 

“I’m just asking,” you frowned, but he was quick to fuck your pout off, pounding back into you as you saw something in his face shift. 

Crack. 

Coming undone as he struggled to slow down once he started, his pace just picking up as he kissed you to wipe away your silly assumptions. 

“You’re it for me, got it?” He grunted, the taste of you on his tongue as he kissed you again. 

How were you supposed to not fall for that? 

Not turn to putty for him to play with when his calloused hand slipped down the inside of your thigh, the tantalizing tips of his claws lightly tracing over your skin to tease you. Swirling the tip of his fingers over your clit, toying with the bud there too as he ruthlessly rutted into you like an animal in heat. 

Was that all the two of you were now? 

“M’sorry,” he moaned, his mouth right next to yours as you sucked in a broken breath. “I can’t hold back.” 

“You don’t have to,” you whispered back, your voice all airy, half a pitch too high right as he rolled his hips forward, forcing the last few inches in. Your eyes rolled back in response, a whimper ripped from the back of your throat. 

Perhaps you should’ve asked Sukuna to reign it in a little. 

Because moments later, the base of his cock that already barely fit started to get bigger. 

He was knotting you. 

And somewhere in your lust-addled head, you liked it. A primal voice in the back of your brain begging to be bred. 

For him to fill you up and never let you go. 

“It’s-” You started, struggling to get any coherent words out when it didn’t feel like you had any room left in you for anything.

“Too much?” He grunted, starting to slip back out, to release you before it was too late. 

But you pulled at his hair, squeezing your thighs and sorta wishing they were wrapped around his waist instead to stop him. 

“No,” you spat out, straining to shake your head as he stalled there. “I need it.” 

You needed him. 

The idea of being apart, separated just a little suddenly seemed hellish, like it would be sheer torment to not feel the full force of him lodged inside of you. 

His knot stretched you out, your nails raking mean scratches down his massive back as the base of his cock continued to swell. Unable to so much as squirm, stuck in place as he split you open on his thick length. 

And truly? You wouldn’t trade him for any farmer’s son. 

Wouldn’t want to be anywhere other than here, in this cozy cottage being fucked stupid by a werewolf. 

He might be a beast, but at least he was wholly yours. 

His fingers returned to rubbing soothing circles over your swollen bud, coaxing you towards a climax as he staved off his own. Lips leaving kiss after kiss across your face, your thighs still held against your chest by his weight alone, folded and straining as he fit all of him inside of you. 

“You don’t know how crazy you make me,” he growled into your throat, and you were starting to think you had an idea. 

Infected with his intensity, itching for release as he dragged you to higher and higher peaks of pleasure. 

Sukuna rocked into you hard and fast, those pointy teeth sinking just above your collarbone to claim you, hard enough that you were sure you’d bleed, but it just heightened the bliss still burning beneath your skin. Unlatching just to drag his tongue over it in warm licks, his sniffing not stopping even as he sucked and kissed the sore spot better. 

“Make me wanna put pups in you,” he continued, half-delirious and drunk on you alone as his hips smacked rudely into your skin. 

“Do it then,” you half-whispered, so close yourself as his thumb pressed down delectably over your clit, the thin string in the pit of your stomach holding you together ready to snap right there with him. 

Sukuna’s head snapped up to you for just a second, the fading light of the day casting shadows across his face as he let out a ragged little laugh like you didn’t know what you were requesting of him. 

He looked softer somehow, shoulders more relaxed, his thrusts slowing as he stared, becoming more steady as you felt blinding need warping what little sense of reason you had remaining. 

You were digging at his shoulder blades, thighs trembling as you leaned up to kiss his throat this time, craving even more of him. Tearing at his skin as you started sucking on his collarbone, leaving lovebites that made him grit his teeth and groan your name while he fought the parts of him that made him so different from you to start with. 

“I’m gonna cum, fuck,” he hissed, barely holding on as you nodded along.

His fingers roughly massaged into you faster, to make sure you came right as he did, your body shaking as you broke down for him, pretty little stars splashing across your vision as you scrunched your eyes shut and probably left a fresh set of scratches across his skin, feeling him shudder and shake on top of you as he called out your name again. 

You let out your moan, something that was supposed to sound like Sukuna but just came out strangled, too stuffed to really care about anything other than the size of him still filling you up so entirely. 

Unable to move back or forward, feeling something wet on your face as the scent of sweat and sex and something sweet invaded your senses. 

You let go of his shoulder blades, blinking a few times as you went to rest your arms over your head instead – just for him to snag your wrist and flip it around to examine the scar his old bite had left there.

“I guess I’m your problem forever now, hm?” You asked, the bond between you feeling a little less like a thin string and more like a heavy chain tying you to him. 

Unbreakable. 

“You’re not a problem,” he wryly muttered, not quite as amused as he tenderly dragged his thumb over the marred skin. “Just a brat.” 

Like he wasn’t the one whose cum was plugged up inside you thanks to his still-throbbing knot. Keeping him locked in place as you blinked up at him with damp eyes, tears of pleasure streaked down your cheeks this time.

Sukuna cleared his throat, his pretty jaw tensing as he stared down at the narrow space between your bodies.  

“So, uh, how do you feel about werepups?”

meanwhile reader’s fiancé

[chuuren]

cross your mind - R.S. ࣪˖➹

SYNOPSIS — You spent most of your time this year shoving that part of your life away, attempting to move on, and at the expense of your own friends. You’re here trying to take this version of yourself back, to look at your friends or your college memories without thinking of him. It’s a lot harder to hangout though when you listen to them look back at it like a funny memory, and you’re both forced to revisit what you pushed back enough to forget, but never fully. 

TAGS — MDNI (18 + only)  nsfw. work contains explicit sexual themes and content. piv.  Ex!Sukuna. Ex!Fwb!Sukuna. angst. porn with plot.  Secret relationships. hurt/comfort. drinking. slight mentions of drug use. depictions of intoxication. post-college AU. fluff. spit. ráw. rough. soft spanking. degradation. dacryphilia. soft sukuna. spooning position. máting press. unresolved feelings. anger issues. alcohol. slight ooc. kinda toxic. happy ending! first published work.

WC: 11k — art by: @/inaillus on twt

a/n: MY FIRST FIC IM SO HAPPY! My design formatting is heavily influenced by @/spideyyeet’s format. (I’m so worried that I’ll miss cw’s and tags!) Anyways, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING and excuse my spelling and grammatical errors. I’m really trying to explore on my writing styles!

Sukuna and you decided to be civil after your break up. Or whatever civil means to the both of you. It was more than what you could ask for, given his reputation of not having much patience, and being someone who has been on the receiving end of that, this feels almost like a gift.

You wouldn't say you ended on good terms, between the two of you, you felt like the one who held more of a grudge than him. It wasn't a sudden breakup, it happened quietly, kinda like the rest of your relationship.

You look at him from across where you’re seated, a beer in his hand, smirking at the friends you were able to keep around you because you chose to be ‘bigger people’. They were talking about what only adults talked about, settling or something work related probably. Is he seeing someone now? Last you’ve heard of him, he's taking over the family business.

You blink out of your own thoughts and sip on your beer, the malt leaving a creamy texture only someone who's familiar with it could feel. You sigh to yourself as your college friends continue to catch up with one another, loudly passing stories of the lives you no longer share. And here you were still thinking about it quietly. The atmosphere is warm and welcoming, but something within you feels out of place. Or is it you wanting to get out, especially when Gojo mentions something about a drinking game.

Everyone internally groans, some loud yet still somehow he manages to make everyone participate, including quiet Sukuna. You almost chuckle thinking about it, he tries so hard to be serious.

You join in as well, pulling yourself off the minibar, not wanting to look more out of place than you feel. You gather around, the cool air and the bonfire in Geto's wide backyard pair up well in this nostalgic atmosphere. It's also perfect for Shoko who doesn't need to be left out now when she has to smoke outside.

You join her side when everyone forms a circle around, drink in hand. "What's he up to now?" You whisper, looking at how Gojo pulls a reluctant Nanami out of his chair.

She blows smoke out while looking in the opposite direction before looking back to talk to you. She chuckled while tapping the ash off her cig, "Beats me, he's acting like the host but it's not even his house."

"I heard that!" That yell draws attention to both you and Shoko giggling to each other. You look around, suddenly conscious of the eyes on you before the laugh dies in your throat as you meet a pair of all too familiar ones. You look away a little too fast, not even having enough time to curse to yourself quietly.

"First of all, I'd like to thank everyone who came today. I'm glad you all chose to acknowledge the existence of your college friends, I know it must be hard to be sincere-"

"Get on with it!!" Someone, who you're guessing is Geto, exclaimed from behind since Satoru continued to do the opposite.

He goes on about how it's been years (11 months exactly, it’s now June) since the last time you all completely got together. No one says it out loud but you're glad to see every close friend you've made in college here, there was probably an underlying feeling of uncertainty before each one of you arrived.

He continues with how back in your sophomore year of college, you stood in the exact same way on Nanami's birthday but while listing down predictions for you guys after graduation. You were probably too wasted at the time you participated that now there was only a faint memory of the night of Nanami's surprise party, most distinctly remembering the appalled look on his face when he turned on the light. Only to be welcomed by just half of the people he knew invited there and being blasted with a big-ass party popper.

You don't really know where Gojo's going until he pulls out a piece of paper, folded and looking a little creased up. He expected people to beam at it like he's holding a relic except his friends look at him in confusion or indifference.

"Guys! It's the list!" A chorus of sarcastic ah's and oh's emit from you all. He nods in approval of the correct reaction, "And I found some pretty good predictions here. Sooo good that I made a drinking game out of it." Now that peaks your collective interest. How bad could they be?

Hiromi, the ever skeptical heedful man he is, raised his hand and answered without waiting to be called, "Now when did we have time to list all of those ourselves while inebriated? And who's to say you didn't just list down some weird scenarios there if we don't even remember who wrote each? And I doubt we wrote our names next to them."

Gojo smirks looking around you all, you didn't wanna read into it but you felt like he stopped a second longer when he reached you before moving to look at everyone. "Trust me, you'll know who wrote it." He does a double take and raises both his thumbs before he picks up his beer from a stool.

It took so long explaining the rules that Utahime managed to make it in time, surprising you from behind. You greet her as your attention draws away from Gojo, she was your closest friend aside from Shoko within the group. You try to brief her on what's currently happening but ultimately just tune Gojo out as you got the gist of his instructions and focused on her.

Everyone gets back to their steady commotion when he and Suguru go back into the house to bring out trays of straight poison (whatever vile concoction he somehow kept prepared for this.) You lean into Utahimes side, grabbing her arm in excitement as you haven't seen each other in almost a month. You suddenly feel a lot more relaxed when surrounded by two of your best friends.

You catch up, talking about when you'll see each other again, work-life, and pointing fun at Gojo before Utahime asks more about the game so she could also participate. Shoko starts since you tuned out Gojo a little too much earlier that you also don't know all the rules, "So basically we pass around this list and we could choose to read aloud or fold the paper— and we drink if it actually happened to us, or if you’re the reader you can also not read aloud and choose to drink so you can move to the next person"

You huff, "What's the fun in that? you won't even know what was written if they choose not to say and fold it."

Shoko raises her index up, "The catch is, you have to wait for the next person to see it cause they can choose to read it out loud too or choose to fold it!"

"What if it's consecutively bad that they don’t read?"

"Then you’ll just have to pray that the person after you isn't messy, which in our friend group..." She looks at Utahime, then they both look at you.

"Ha ha, okay." You roll your eyes, a smile planted on your lips while you take another swig from the bottle.  They giggle and coo at you while you feign your indignation and look away. "Don't worry too much about it, all the stuff there was listed long ago."

Utahime perks up, "Ouhh that list from Nanami's party?" You both nod or make a noise of agreement. And then you pause, before letting your own mouth run without thinking.

"Do you remember what was there?" Your brow raised in question. "Did I put anything in?"

"Shit, I don't remember putting anything either." Shoko whispered, before taking a puff.

At this, Utahime's grin spreads ear to ear, realizing she has an upper hand over you both. Your eyes squint, trying to read her face but you’re left uncertain. She giggles to herself and gives Shoko a knowing look as well. Almost as if she got the message too, Shoko laughs.

You start to feel left out, but not in a way that hurts you, just enough for you to get a little curious. "Wait, please, what is it?"

Utahime smiles just thinking about it, and waves her hand in dismissal. "No, actually it's nothing. It was so long ago already," Shoko can't help but put a hand on your back, as if trying to comfort you and control herself from giggling at the same time to avoid giving you fomo. You look at them pleadingly and she caves, "I mean, it was all during the whole Sukuna spiel, remember?"

Shoko sucks her teeth before continuing, "Yeah of course she does, how could we forget." She rubs your arm and something in you stirs.

Utahime nods, a harmless expression on her face while your insides churn. “Holy— I can’t believe you were fucking around at one point."

Fucking around, yeah. You almost forgot how it was like that, at least to them. Your smile fades into something less, not fake, just less. You straighten yourself and laugh with them, almost to stave off the embarrassment you narrowly missed.

Suddenly you're a little nervous, and your hands start to feel kinda clammy.

Just in time to fill the silence, Satoru walks in with a tray of appletinis looking hella nuclear, and what you're assuming are Jaegermeister shots. You  grimace. 

Just how many predictions did you all put there?

***

“Satoru hype that shit up way too much.” Shoko comments, voice loud without having to yell. Your brow quirks up when you look down at her, leaning on your shoulder as she slumps onto you. 

The game started, and everyone had been reading them first, no one passing up. It got a little rowdier though when everyone started pulling up chairs and taking the shots. It starts mellowing out midway though, less competitive aside from Gojo who is still a lightweight, the air starts getting less tense for you and you find yourself enjoying the sound of  everyone sharing a laugh.

You wonder what Satoru was trying to do with bringing this out. Did he want to just fuck around or catch you lacking. If so, it’s his unlucky day because you’re on a roll by the second time you choose to not share something; also second least out of anyone who skipped, by the way.

Your lips folds shut into itself right after the bitter alcohol burns in your throat. You let out a parched noise, “That’s vile.”  You clear your throat and try to keep yourself from feeling the effects too soon. The game continues, and more and more does it feel like it’s easier to humor you.

Satoru finally gets financially cut off by his parents before the term ends

Geto gets caught faking results during a drug test

Shoko stops using cigs and starts vaping ‘cause she’s broke

And it goes on.

The game ends up turning into this mixture of just drinking and conversation starters. Everyone seems to have something to say with the level of accuracy events predicted had or if they counted. But this kind of vibe felt nice, like you were lighter now. 

Higuruma’s up when he gets the paper, this is the 17th one now, “Ah,” He looks up and chuckles to himself. Even someone as blunt as him started reacting a lot easier now. “Nanami,” He starts, “Nanami graduates top of the class without getting laid throughout college.” He looks up with an expectant grin. 

Everyone laughs at that (except the butt of the joke), some already pitching their own theories or coming to his defence. 

“That’s impossible, look at him-“

“So what if he’s still a virgin?”

Nanami stands, raising his hand, but low. Everyone turns to him, commotion dying and waiting for him to either bring the tiny shot glass between his fingers to his mouth, or to stand his ground. He raises the glass and opens his mouth before pausing. Then a small smile grows on his lips, “It was the night of graduation-“

“Impossible!” Satoru yells while Nanami’s smile falls just as fast when the blur of white hair from your vision stands up from his seat. The loud commotion grows with a chorus of laughter and a constant complaint of, “That’s not counted! That’s not counted!” Nanami didn’t even try entertaining him, sitting back down on his chair and dusting his slacks.

You leave Shoko by the chair (she drank the most shots currently), before walking over to Utahime who is currently standing nearer to the bonfire. “Is the game supposed to have a winner?”

She turns, making space for you to stand by her side, she shrugs, her eyes looking a little droopier now. You continue. “ ‘cause I feel like there should at least be a loser, like who’s you know,  the one most out of it first?” You both look at Satoru trying to re-explain the rules with too much passion. Your laughs stacked on top of each other, your cheeks hurt so badly from how much they stretched into a smile, but it's also numbed by the slight buzz in your system. “I think I’ve had good luck.”

A short silence follows, the cracks of the fireplace and the distant crickets creak in the trees. Utahime rubs her arms, warming herself. ”Well don’t jinx yourself,” She comments while staring at the fire, before turning her head to look at you with a cheeky glint in her eyes. 

For a moment you pause, her demeanor now mirrors her early reaction when you first mentioned the list. At first, you’re curious and squinting at her. What isn’t she telling me? Before looking at the sparse number of shots left on the tray, then back at her. You shake your head, “Nah, I’d win.” 

The commotion dies down and so does Satoru’s energy, seemingly taking a break when he dramatically lays back on the outdoor lounger. 

“We have 4 left to read! and…” Geto looks around, noting how Shoko, Nanami, and Gojo look near done from participating. “5 left of us.”  He claims, and no one protests.

The paper opens softly as Geto looks down at the list, then looks up, before looking down and contemplating to himself. 

He looks at the person next to him and it’s…Sukuna. Maybe it’s the mix of four different drinks in you or you’re just paranoid and Suguru just looks like that, but his eyes look like they’re smiling for him. 

A palm gently lands on your shoulder and you look back at Iori with her phone buzzing in her other hand. “Shit- it’s my boss. I’m gonna take this.” She looks at you then at Suguru, to which he nods to her in acknowledgment. It’s not long till you’re now alone with these three idiots after she leaves your side with a soft squeeze to your arm. You keep your focus back on Suguru.

You purposely keep your attention on just Suguru. 

“Four of us then,” You voice out, one of the first things you kind of directed at Sukuna, and with a tighter smile on your lips than normal. Geto beckons for you to come closer and you follow, not wanting to think much of it. 

Geto downs his shot quickly and your steps falter slightly on the way to them. It was a short 3 steps away but you wished your hesitation wasn’t noticeable. He’s already handing the paper to Sukuna when you stand a little off to the side, keeping a friendly distance. You didn’t notice it but the other three losers perch up in their seat and inch closer discreetly yet flagrantly watch the interaction.

You weren’t prepared to be this close to him, you realize. You didn’t know what to expect out of today but you showed up anyway. Time does really change your perception of someone, you think to yourself.

It’s weird how you were so used to his presence before, to be able to know who was behind you if your eyes were closed, and to be able to recognize the air that they brought with them. Deep down, something in you feels tight when the realization comes that your body is no longer familiar with him. You feel it in your posture, the stiffness of your spine and muscles. 

You’re now gawking at him, and time feels slower than usual. You excuse yourself in your mind for being so shameless, but he looks healthier now. His hair’s still the same, his skin looks a little tanner with a soft tinge of red from the alcohol. His head is craned over at Geto with his side profile facing you, his well trained neck muscles flexing underneath his black henley top. Man, this shit was so unfair. 

He’s looking away from you, but it has a purpose. You swallow the obvious disappointment that shouldn’t be there. He hasn’t talked to you today you note, but you also shouldn’t mind. What’s there left to say?

There was a very brief pause as he stared at the piece of paper, a familiar empty look returned on his face. 

“At least 2 people will be taken by next year, and/or after graduation.”

It was oddly specific. But it was oddly familiar to you too, a vague memory pieces itself in your head of the words being written on paper. You’re suddenly deep in thought, remembering where you were in that time of your life. That unknown tightness makes itself known in your body once more, except this time you know exactly where it’s coming from. 

You remembered the confidence you had back then, the sureness that what you had with him was concrete. The beginning that felt like a slow buildup to a solid relationship. No rush, you agreed and it felt exciting to sneak around at first. You could almost hear the thought said in his voice. 

That night, you had a petty fight. He didn’t hold your hand when you tried to and you were drunk so you vented it out on paper, not caring about how stupid it would be to read sober. Or in a few years. The tightness rushed from your stomach and wrapped around your throat.

He looks up, again his eyes find yours immediately. Again, no words were shared. It was all but two seconds, but it was long enough for the last two years of your private relationship to cross the bridge between both your minds. 

You note how he doesn’t make a move to take the shot. 

Prick.

It was you first who looked away, but you gathered yourself like you always did. Your eyes found Geto’s behind him, ignoring the nosy audience behind you. “That was targeted.” You  forced a chuckle out of yourself, the sound came up like a shield, like if you mocked it too it would mean you’re in on the joke. 

Your eyes flit over to Sukuna, but whatever vulnerability you let peek through was gone, replaced by a passive, sober guard. You smile at him, an attempt to look friendly but it falls as just that, looks. A look you were able to master in the years of keeping your relationship under wraps. You wonder briefly if he ever realized that. When you face away from him, you don’t get to take in the way his jaw clenched.

The diversion seemed to work when the tension in the air dropped, your friends went back to talking with a distant ‘told you so’ muttered by Gojo before the game picked up again. As a response, you tune your surroundings out — a reward for carrying yourself through this internal humiliation ritual. You don’t spare him another glance though.

It ends with Hiromi and Sukuna as the last ones standing because you decided to sit the second to last round out; a dishonest victory for him, you think bitterly. But stopping in the game doesn’t mean you will stop drinking. You came here to have fun with your actual friends and were sick of letting this guy affect you. 

It’s been almost a year already, that should be enough to move on. But it’s the same thought every once in a while.  The same mantra you repeat to yourself when you down the last of the leftover appletini shots with Shoko, Utahime, and Gojo. 

“Oh you should’ve seen the look on her face, Hime. She just smirked and was all like,” She copies how your head turned, “It was cold as fuck.” Shoko slurred, putting an arm around your shoulders. You roll your eyes with a lazy smile. “Whatever bro.”

“No! Seriously, we thought it was really bad back then but-.” She looks over at you to gauge if you’ll react violently in private but you don’t. Your eyes are hazy and calm, effectively numbed by the alcohol enough for it to be sincere. 

Gojo, impatient, completed the sentence. “—Just that we thought you guys were going out forreal.” You hate how that easily sobers you up, again. Even if it's only for a split second, you wanted to stop flinching at even the thought of how embarrassing that experience was. How crazy you had felt back then. 

You don’t say anything, you just let out an awkward chuckle. It’s missed by them though, the sound overlaps with your friends talking over it as they’re adding to the  joke. 

Shortly after, Shoko and Utahime retire upstairs to the room they’ll be crashing at Geto’s house. Its a big enough place with 2 other guest rooms but you really weren’t planning on staying the night despite your lack of ability to walk in a straight line. 

Even Gojo settled on the couch back inside while Higuruma was sober enough to drive Nanami off as well. You said your goodbyes to each other despite only talking briefly, then turned to try and help clean up, but a rough hand stops you before you stuff another pizza box into the garbage bag you found.

“I can’t let a guest do the cleaning, go to your room.”Geto smiled, he was evidently more sober than you.

You shake your head, slower than you could earlier. “Nope, gotta compensate ‘cause I won’t be able to hang tomorrow.” He takes the garbage bag still, looking down at you with a jutted lip. Before he asks why, you interrupt. “Have t’a finish some work — Going home.” You smile, nodding your head. He squints at you, not quite understanding. You straighten yourself up and pull out your phone, the loading screen in your app already looking for a driver.

“I’m uh, Uber.”You try reassuring him with another unconvincing smile while tucking the device in your back pocket.

“I don’t know how I feel about you going home at two a.m., alone.” He raised his brows as he emphasized the last word, “It’s definitely not safe and you’re drunk.” It was a short back and forth, you slowly losing interest in explaining and wanting to get into the car of —you open up your phone— Jose who’s 8 minutes away.

When he continues on his rant on safety and not trusting you to call him when you get home, you make a face at him, unable to control yourself. You push again, trying to clarify, “I do this all the time after my office parties-“

“-That’s dumb.” 

Your shoulders slump, running out of options to convince him. Before you could help it, “What are you gonna do, drive me?” Suguru scoffed at your words, it was obvious what his answer would be already as he was also struggling to stand upright fully.

A beat passes, his eyes scanning the backyard when he zeroes on a rosette head of hair, bidding his goodbyes by the sliding door to a knocked out Gojo, keys in hand.

***

You were gonna kill Suguru.

Your head scrambled to explain how you allowed yourself to get to this position, but he’s already circling the front to reach the driver’s side. You feel his gaze past the windshield, blatant, intruding. 

If worse comes to worst, you’ll throw yourself out of the moving car and roll out of the door if it means saving yourself from real danger.

The thrum of Sukuna’s black Hellcat was unpleasantly familiar. The red interior still looked new, but the passenger seat molded well to your body like a pair of old jeans. But the smell is different now, he used to have this cheap citrusy scented air freshener that hung from the mirror (courtesy of the former owner), obstructing his view. It's now replaced by a light charcoal freshener clipped on a vent.

“You should really get rid of that thing, it’s dangerous y’know?” Of course the first thing you say about his car isn’t a compliment. He rolls his eyes at how typical it was of you.

“Why?” He slides in and shuts the door gently, like second nature, he doesn’t bother with a seatbelt. “Worried I’ll get into an accident?” He asks, left hand finding the wheel. 

“Sure, but it’s similarly distracting for the air to smell like 20 fluorescent orange peels.” He laughs lightly followed by a nod, agreeing. He’s generous enough to roll the windows down halfway. 

A beat passes, “And yes, you should also be more careful now that you’re driving me home.” 

The door shuts, snapping you out of your lingering thoughts, the ticking from the hazard lights cease as he rolls out of the driveway. You’re quick to pull out your phone, head down. At least now you know it's going to be a mix of dry and windy tomorrow.

You know there’s no right way to act and dread is now backing you into a two seater sports car until you confront it. It catches up to you, in the form of the unwavering presence of his body right next to you.

There isn’t possibly enough space in this car for both you and your thoughts. You turn your phone off, internally scoffing at yourself for trying to play non-chalant, opting to just look out the window but it’s hard to see it through your bleary eyes since it’s tinted. 

You close them instead, thinking of a place outside of your own consciousness, outside of here. For a moment,  you’re able to achieve peace when you’re actively pushing down thoughts of him, nothing but the muted sounds of cars passing by and the faint breeze gently caressing your cheeks. You open your eyes and realize the window has been rolled down for you. 

Slowly, your head turns without thinking, he’s still set on the road with both hands tightly on the wheel, you note. 

On the highway when you feel the car speed up, your body slightly surges forward when you’re nearing a slower area, your hand instinctively reaching for the glove compartment to brace. He cleared his throat beside you, and you loosen your grip. You look down, realizing you’re holding onto his forearm while his hand is on the gear shift. Stupid manual car.

You’re quick to pull off him and awkwardly put your hands on your lap. “Sorry.” You mutter, your face warm.

He replies, similarly strained, “ ‘s okay.” It’s strange hearing his voice like that. Maybe it’s strange to hear overall since it’s been forever since it’s been directed at you. He had always been the picture of confidence to you, a natural cadence for smooth talking and sureness. You don’t know what to feel. No, scratch that, you know what you’re feeling. 

It’s getting harder to swallow your pride when memories and these feelings that you never had the chance to confront felt like bile rising from your throat. 

“You really won’t talk to me?” 

And there it is, that confidence finding its footing. It makes you sick how it’s so easy for him to take your silence as reluctance, though it actually is. You hate how he doesn’t spare a second to think before acting on his impulse to speak to you when you spend plenty.

A beat, and nothing from you. He scoffed, you can feel him adjust his seating in a more relaxed manner. He’s about to add when, “You cheater.”

You hear the scrunch of his pants on the leather interior pause, “What the fuck?” He muttered, low, offended at your words.

You turn to him, arms crossed over, on guard. “In the game, dumbass.” You deadpanned, matching his vulgarity. His eyes flick to you and then on the road, now one handed as he scratches his jaw, a light stubble growing underneath.

“A year later and that’s all you have to say?” he grunts, thick brows scrunched, his piercing tugged by the movement.  

“Yes.” You voice out sternly, a newfound stubbornness arises from your half drunk mind. 

“You were always a brat.” 

“At least I don’t care what others think of me.” You mumble like a petulant child. He makes a face, gaze flicking on the rear view mirror. 

He scoffed, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Oh Ryo I think out of everyone,” He meets your eyes at the nickname, “You would know what I’m talking about.”

Something stirs in him, the way his name sounded coming from you wasn’t new,  but it’s now stripped from any warmth that used to always come with it. “You know I had to.”

It’s your turn to scoff, “Yeah even after everything, it just has to go your way.”  There’s a shift in the air, the car picks up its speed, accelerating but you don’t flinch. 

“You’re not making sense to me right now.” He’s quick when moving the shift to 4th gear. Your eyes flit over to the dashboard 65,66…,70 kilometers per hour, “Sukuna-“

He slows down, moving back to 3rd gear when you’re approaching  a new set of traffic, then he breaks early.  You jolted forward, his arm coming up to block you by your stomach. Your eyes are wide and piercing at the windshield, “What is wrong with you?!”

He shook his head, unphased by the forces that just came onto your bodies. “You broke up with me,” he emphasized on ‘you’. Like saying that meant it justified how he made you feel after, your face twists in distaste. 

 “Oh so now we’re talking about it.” You’re looking down at his arm, he’s big, like bigger than it was when you were both in college. It’s a drunk thought you wanna ignore but it’s imposing. You don’t think of it because you’re dissecting how attractive he looks but it’s despite how he could overpower you, how typically you shouldn’t feel safe around a big man with anger issues and a fast car, you aren’t scared. Your safety is regretfully the farthest thing from the thoughts running through your brain right now.

When you pick up your head he’s already looking at you, the red light casts on his face, you can see everything now. The bump of his nose, the fleck of red on his irises, the way his monolids looked slightly hooded.

How can someone draw you in and simultaneously make you want to run far away? He doesn't make a move to detach himself from you. You try to shove him away, looking back at the still red light, then back at him. You push, he doesn’t budge. “Hey-“

“You ran from me, not the other way around.” Your lips part, you think you’re about to say something or scoff, but you can’t bring yourself to utter a sound.

“You don’t get to hold a grudge and make it sound like I was the one that left when you said you didn’t picture us like that.” A chill runs itself on your spine as he repeats verbatim what you said, a cold look on his expression. “Whatever that fucking meant,” He mumbled, arranging himself back on the drivers side, rolling the windows back up.

This was unfair, this was singling you out. But technically, he was right. You broke up with him and you never reached out after. But it wasn’t all your fault, that’s what you wanted to say. Despite everything you agreed to, it was out of how deeply you had felt for him.

 You trusted him that he wanted you just as much, but in time, you wanted more. But were you so wrong to want more than to be someone he came home to — without bothering to even so much as say hi to you around others? Were you wrong to not want to look like he just kept you around long enough ‘cause you’re a decent fuck? You swallow the words you couldn’t say, tongue thick in your mouth. 

It feels like you could breathe again when he pulled himself off you, but comfort doesn’t return immediately. The car moves forward and you’re back to sinking in your own pool of thoughts, completely disassociating. 

Sukuna looks back at you, noting how you’ve completely sunk back to your seat. You, who he remembered as someone so fired up and just earlier was laughing loudly, your presence now damp and the look in your eyes empty with all but 20 minutes alone with him. But he says nothing, his eyes on the road knowing he can never get it quite right when it comes to telling you how he felt. 

The road starts to make familiar turns, until the drive ultimately comes to a stop, slowing down in front of your apartment complex. You move around, making sure you have your bag and keys with you. When you held them in your hands, it still felt like you were leaving something behind. 

Your fingers ghost over the door lock, knowing if you flicked it open it would mean being obnoxiously loud in the silence. You don’t know how long you sat there, and he doesn’t unlock the door for you either. The thought that he’s letting you decide what comes next puts more pressure on you than you’d like to admit is actually there. 

“Were you—” It comes out hoarse with your voice high, your throat feels dry too. “I didn’t break up with you because I didn’t see you in my future.” He shifts, but you don’t even think of moving, tightly clutching your bag on your lap. “I didn’t think you did.” 

He’s quiet, allowing you to continue until you choose to let it settle. “I’m not sure I follow.” 

Your shoulders sag. This is unbelievable. You unbuckle your seatbelt and gather everything you own. Your throat constricts, “I don’t even know why I’m-“ When your hand finds the lock, it shuts back on its own. “What the fuck?” You turn immediately, hair whipping on your face. “Open it,” You’re tired, it seems to be more obvious to you when you’re pulling on the door the wrong way. “Open it!” 

He reaches for your bicep, you’re gonna break the handle. “Hey- Stop it.”

“Let. Me. out!” You smack on the window, you pound heavier with each word, it hurts the side of your fist. “You’re crazy!”  

“Oh I’m fucking crazy?!” He pulls you closer, away from doing anything even more damaging to yourself. “Whatever you have to let out, do it to me. Not the fucking car ‘cause it’s fucking pointless.” He spat, you don’t see the concern laced in his pointed eyes because his proximity is torture alone, eyes averted. 

Your nostrils flare as you breathe out a long sigh. “You were embarrassed of me.” It doesn’t come out as stern as you’d like it to be, the claim comes out as half a whisper. 

His hand loosens on you, but he doesn’t let go. You continue, “It made sense- it was the only reason that made sense when you couldn’t even look at me around our friends.” He finally lets go, hand resting on the back of your headrest.

“You said it was okay-“

Your voice can't help but raise in his wake, your heart beating faster than normal. “Of course I would! Would you have been with me if I pushed you to tell everyone? You couldn’t even do it earlier!” 

Sukuna’s hands find themselves planted on the wheel. He’s not even driving, but he feels like it’s the only thing grounding him at this moment. 

“You agreed to it! You didn’t say I should change anything, and we just kept going like before anyways—”

“—They knew we were sleeping with each other, I would’ve taken that!” Your voices overlap each other, both your defenses coming up to protect yourselves suddenly. “I would’ve taken being known as part of your body count. At least then I wouldn’t look so desperate. It was humiliating!” You unlock the door, thinking that you were gonna leave it at that. He locks it back, you throw glare at him.

“You don’t think it was embarrassing when you left ‘cause you told me there wasn’t a future for us? How fucking dumb I felt when you never showed up to gatherings and everyone looked at me?” You could’ve sworn a vein was appearing on his forehead, and judging from how he was putting his swear words to a minimum of two, he was definitely holding back.

“Don’t you dare twist this on me,”

“I was never fucking embarrassed of you!”

“You never fought me on it!” 

The yell leaves an imprint on the silence that follows. 

“I thought if I gave you an ultimatum, you’d back away. So I told you something I wasn’t sure was true myself, until you didn’t fight it. So maybe you were thinking the same and I just stuck with it.” Your words spilled, finally coming out of the confines you’ve kept it all these months. 

“I was lying to my friends,” You continued, the words unable to hold in your conscience. “I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. But I also couldn’t talk to you-“ Your voice cracked, “I was alone.” You couldn’t even look at him. You didn’t wanna be faced with any more disappointment. 

You wanted him to be distraught, to care that he hurt you, dragged your self worth without knowing, and you fed what was left of it back to yourself. But you weren’t sure if he did care, so you sat stiffly. 

“Why didn’t you tell me then?” He asks, hesitant. 

You reply without the ability to filter yourself, “ ‘Didn’t wanna look insecure.”

“But you were.” He answers, and it still stings. Of course I was. 

“Could you blame me?” You shift in your seat, putting your phone inside your bag, you fish out for your keys you threw back inside during your earlier fit. It takes you longer than you’d like to admit. You find it again but you stay there. Waiting. 

You don’t know why you stay longer than you should, no, you do. You steal a glance at him, and his body is still, contemplative. You unlock the car door, and it doesn’t click back to lock. A part of you that you refused to acknowledge still waits for him, but your heart is already heavy with rejection, with the weight of his silence. 

You say nothing, the words are lodged in your throat. You’re quick to get out of the car, the crisp air bites your arms and you realize you left your jacket halfway to the entrance of your complex but you keep walking.

Your heels click on the pavement, arms crossed over your chest like you’re holding yourself together. You feel a sting in your eyes — this feels too final. Your lip wobbles but you don’t look back, you’re drawing a line in the sand. 

The keys fumble in your hand, your sight gets blurrier and blurrier. 

“You’re a fuckin’ baby, you know that?”  You stop breathing, fingers caught mid-twist on the door knob. You look up in surprise, your eyes wide and glossy. The sight tugs on Sukuna’s chest. 

He raised his hand, your jacket hanging off his fist. “You hate me so much you couldn’t even get back your jacket?”

Your body shivers when a faint gust of wind blows at you, and it feels like that might be enough to take you down like a pile of sticks. “F-fuck you.” Your teeth chatter, and you go back to trying to open your door. 

There’s two steps that shuffle behind you, a warmth on your back makes itself known. The keys cease its movement. Your head comes down on the door in a thud, still you don’t look back. “Can you please…” You start, but you aren’t sure what comes after. 

Sukuna’s hand wraps around yours on the door knob, he gently pries it off and takes the keys himself. You let him do so, fingers pliant. The touch is warm, intimate — it doesn’t help the twist in your gut.

“I didn’t know how to want you, but I knew how I felt.” He starts, the words coming out hesitant but like release at the same time. 

“It felt kinda like nothing would go wrong if I kept it between us. And it didn’t matter to me ‘cause you were,” He hesitated, fiddling with the keys himself till he found the right one. He twists it, the lock clicking. “You’re all I needed.” His breath is on your hair, arms caging you by the doorway.

“I thought if I gave you enough attention, it would be enough to keep you satisfied. And I know now it wasn’t enough. But I didn’t want to lose you then but I’m—yeah, I still did.” He takes a step back, his warmth leaving with him. The door swing opens with a light push of his fingers. 

He finds himself in the same position as you, breath stuck, body rigid. You turn around, he looks like he’s holding himself back on something with his fists closed tightly, your keys still between. 

“I wasn’t sure what I should’ve done. I never wanted you to be alone.”

The silence that passes is louder than any yell you threw at each other. You both stood there, a step away from each other. The door was now open, but it's for you to go in, not him. 

“Is that an apology?” You whisper, he looks down from the ceiling and locks in on you.

“I’m sorry.” He grunts, a foreign word paired with his voice. But it isn’t forced, it’s laid out for you to take if you wanted it. Your heart pounds in your chest, you don’t take your eyes off him. He takes a deep breath and for the first time he looks as uncertain as he actually feels. The words force itself out of him once more, “I’m-“

He blinks and your lips find his. It’s half a second that he doesn't kiss back until he finds your waist and melts into you, eyes shutting. You’re rough, hands coming up his hair and tugging him deeper onto you.  Strangely he’s soft, allowing you to pull him in. His hands however are holding onto you like a lifeline. Feeling your body, from your face to your hips, like you’re anchoring him to the ground. 

His hand is on the back of your thigh and squeezing, it’s when you gasp as he lifts you when his tongue finds itself in your mouth. Your arms are around his neck when you part from each other. 

Sukuna's eyes are half lidded, gazing up at you. Your thumb grazes his cheek, tracing the ink on his face before coming back down to kiss him, you want him closer.

This kiss is different, slow like you’re tasting him. He walks into your apartment while you’re still on his lips. You don’t see the door shut but you hear it. He blindly navigates his way into your apartment like the back of his hand, the only light coming from the dim moonlight cast behind the thin curtains. 

 He’s on the edge of your bed when you open your eyes, your breaths mingle against each other. You tug at the bottom of his black shirt, palming the expanse of his hard abdomen underneath. You pull off his lips with a whine, “What is it, baby?” 

He holds your face, cheeks warm at the nickname. He takes you in when you inch closer, trying to close the distance, your lips puffy and bitten to a flushed red. 

Both your brains struggled to connect your thoughts and feelings at this moment. Every graze of his fingers, and squeeze is out of disbelief, making sure that the other is truly there. 

You peel your own shirt off, leaving you in nothing but your bra and pants. His throat bobs and  you feel him harden underneath your thighs. 

You haven’t said anything since you entered your home. Sukuna is searching your face, a little too close to scrutiny. Your brows pinch together, but still you reach for the back of your bra. 

Before you let it fall, his hand finds yours that’s keeping your strap from unclasping. He’s waiting for you to say something, trying to get a read on you. You’re doing the same when he pulls you closer, his lips landing on your cheek, your neck, and to the skin above your chest. He picks his head back up, his eyes hazy and dilated. 

The hand on your back tightens atop yours, silently urging you to make your discomforts known, if it’s there. He’s patient now but his restraint is hanging by a thread and you, the blade that cuts it clean. 

You let go, bringing his hand down from your back to let the piece of garment fall. The weight of his stare is heavy on you, looking down at your soft breasts, nipples stiff and pointed up from the cold. Sukuna stops a groan from escaping his throat.

His head dips, mouth finding your collar bone while his teeth grazes them before biting down. Your hands come up to hold his head, whining as he sucks and licks the spot to soothe. But still, he isn’t dipping down to pay attention to your breasts nor is he squeezing you on the spots you want. Its easy to tell when he’s holding back.

He lets go, a bruise forming above the wet spot of your chest. You’re biting your lip, hands planted on his thighs and you’re leaning forward to balance yourself. It’s getting harder to keep this shit gentle when you’re pressing your tits together for him.  

“I don’t,” He swallows hard, “I don’t wanna fuck you.” He says, the words are bitter in his mouth. Liar.

A smirk finds itself on your lips, nodding. You don’t push him. Sukuna watches as you lift yourself off his lap, now standing between his legs. His hands work on their own as they find a place on your bare waist, but he stops the urge to plant your ass back on him. 

A gentle thud signals your pants are now at your feet. He scans your body from down up, you feel his eyes on your calves to your thighs. “You don’t wanna touch me?” You poke, stepping out of the pool of fabric. 

A hiss comes out of him when squeezed his cock, straining underneath the uncomfortable denim of his jeans. You know he won’t beg you, or plead, but you made a compelling argument. 

“Well, I want you.” You continued, looking down when you’re suddenly aware of how you were in nothing but your thin pink underwear. Your hand finds the hem of  his shirt, tugging up like you did earlier. “Do you still want me?” The words are half part of the tease, what it could possibly mean lingers in the air. 

The way he peers at you isn’t primal, it’s many things you know he won’t be able to tell you. But the answer lands when he takes your hand, guiding you to lay on the bed gently. You land on the pillows, sprawled out while he finally sheds his shirt and jeans off. It’s your turn to gawk, the familiar sight of the thick black bands decorating his skin, still there. It’s still him.

It’s not long until his lips land on yours, hungry and exploring. He kisses down to the skin above your stomach, his tongue sticking out to lick up to your breasts. Your shudder, eyes fluttering shut when his lips latch onto your left nipple and sucking. He’s taking his time before finding the neglected one on the right. Heat builds in your stomach, the fabric of your panties clinging to your folds. 

His lips pop off your chest, nose dragging down to your navel, then landing on your underwear. You bite your lip while you’re looking down at him. He steals a glance at you, winking. “You’re an idiot,” The laugh that bubbles dies down into embarrassment when you hear him inhale sharply, taking in your sweet scent. 

The deep groan from his chest has your stomach doing flips. Almost immediately, the flimsy fabric of your panties are gone.

The first taste of your pussy has him feeling like he found water after days in the desert. Eyes rolling back underneath his lids, then he sucks on your clit — harsh like he’s trying to get something out of it. 

You yelp, your thighs attempt to close around his head but his grip is unyielding as the way he laps at your core hungrily.

It’s taking more effort to stop making so much noise, your own palms coming up to muffle your mewls. Sukuna notices almost immediately, but he doesn’t stop you, instead he takes it as a sign to press his face harder, head moving side to side. 

His eyes are wide, a crazed look in them, lips impossibly secured on your cunt. There’s a rough squeeze on your ass, tilting your hips upward to meet his need to go deeper, like devouring you whole isn’t enough. 

Sukuna leaves open mouthed kisses on your quivering nub, pulling off it before spitting square on the sensitive flesh. “Y’ gonna keep quiet all night?” 

He spreads the fluid on your cunt like butter on his meal, middle finger sinking in while his other hand rubs on your poor clit.  Your mouth parts, a shock makes its way through your body, feet twitching. “Ry-ryo, I’m-“

His eyes are glued to how your hole grips around his finger. “No one been fucking this pretty pussy in a while, huh?”

You shake your head, your stomach tightening with each speeding thrust of his thick finger. Your insecurities now forgotten, hands falling to tug on his pink locks. To pull him closer or farther from you, you aren’t sure.

More whimpers spill out of your throat when he adds another digit, fast and unwavering. “I-I can’t—“

He watched you with unbridled attention, mouth parting as you groped your own tits and rode his fingers. “You wanna cum?” He asks, breathless. 

The voice you let out is now high and whiney, “Yes, yes, yes—” on the verge of a sob.

The plea runs down like oil on his back, his cock twitching painfully in his boxers, soiled with pre. He goes back to licking up your little clit, lost in the sounds he could emit from you or your body. It’s when he curves his finger upwards, enough to brush the spongey part inside of you, hitting it over and over again, that your legs start to shake. Your hips grow erratic, whimpers spill from you like a damn bursting open. He lets you ride it out, brushing your hair and sweat out of your face as he slows his fingers, your warm body quivering underneath him.

He sits back, watching you heave, legs spread open. You hum, legs shutting before falling to one side, your gaping cunt clenching at nothing, presenting itself to him. A sigh leaves you, “Thanks,” It makes him chuckle, followed by your own. The atmosphere is light for a moment, both of you catching your breaths when you hear clicking at the edge of the bed.

Sukuna’s sitting up on his knees, his presence abundant and just big, you think to yourself when you fix your sights on his cock. Finally free from the confines of his gray boxer shorts, an angry red tip leaking as he jerks his shaft. You realize you’re gawking and your gaze lifts to his.

“Polite as always.” He replied as if he wasn’t jerking his cock in front of you, to you. He’s using the hand he used to play with you earlier, your juices spread on his cock like a personal lubricant.  

There’s a tug on your ankle, you’re pulled away from the comfort of your pillows and now close enough that the smooth skin of your ass brushes against his balls. The same hand leads your legs to fold sideways. He hovers above you like a weighted blanket, his lips finding your jaw, then your lips.

“It’s a shame,” he mumbled against you, tip already lining up at the entrance of your drooling pussy. “I’m not as nice.” 

You both gasp in each other’s open mouths when he finally sinks in, slowly pushing, inch by inch. His head falls against yours as he holds himself back from bottoming out too fast.  

“Oh fuck”  

One of you cursed, but you weren’t sure who it came out of. The contents of your head now reduced to something lesser than mush. Unable to comprehend anything beyond sensations. Finally, he bottoms out fully, frothy ring of white developing at the base of his cock with each shallow thrust. 

Then he pulls out halfway, before pushing back in all the way. Your breath is caught in your throat, nails digging into his forearms holding your thighs. Slow and deep. Pulling back before plunging himself back to your aching heat. 

Again and again.

The pounding resounds in the walls of your apartment, heavy and accompanied by his throaty grunts and your uncontrolled whimpers. He kisses you, tender. A stark difference to the obscene arrangement he’s fucking you in. His balls are hitting your thighs repeatedly, forearm supporting under them and keeping you folded sideways. Every breath that leaves him grazes your skin, directly groaning into your ear.

The room disappears in and out from your vision with each roll of your eyes, each thrust compressing you closer between the sheets and his chest. Each push feels like he’s driving you to the edge, no, insanity. 

Because that’s exactly what this is. Seeing your ex on a whim, confronting him drunk, making him plead for forgiveness. 

Now he’s flipping you on your back, asking if he could show you how he could fuck inside deeper, and you’re digging your nails into his arms when your knees touch your shoulders.

Yeah, insanity.

A sob eagerly pushes its way out of your throat when he bottoms out in the new angle, the headboard bumping against the wall with the force of his hips. He’s on his knees, thrusting into you with his arms hooked under your legs, palms on the meat of your ass to bring your hips in to fuck on his cock.

Each loud cry prompts him to go even faster, testing how much more you could take, how much more noise he could get out of you.

Noises jolt out of you with each time the blunt head of his cock drives deeper, “H-harder.” 

His heart is pounding twice a second but he doesn’t falter, picking up his pace when he feels you clench around him. “Fuck, you’re so fucking gone.”

“I want more, Ryo—” 

“don’t-This is more.” Sukuna’s hips stutter, iron grip squeezing your flesh at the request. His tone is concerned, yet strained. Holding back on something you both want. He thumbs your clit, eliciting a cry out of you. But it’s not enough, it doesn’t feel enough. You need to be impossibly closer.

You’re shaking your head, stomach clenched as the heat builds up inside of you, but you don’t want it like this — Sukuna’s thumb rubbing hastily on your sensitive nub. Your desperation grows palpable, hips meeting his after each thrust, thirst still unquenched. 

He lets out a frustrated groan that you can only describe as guttural, resolve unravelling as he watches your tits bounce as you eagerly try and take more in. “I’m gonna- I don’t wanna hurt you.” He pants, leaning forward, your legs bending a little more towards you.

“No.” You choke out, “Don’t hold back-” There’s now a hold under your thighs, keeping you from moving out of your position. Your hands are clutching his thick biceps fervently, pulling him down to put his weight on you. Folding yourself in half for him, his hips slowing, thrusts turning deep and languid. “Don’t hold back on me, please.” You gasp out, an earnest request, voice teetering off aroused and closer to pleading.  

The air shifts and it’s easy to point when the rest of his resolve releases from the tension in his body.

“Okay, okay baby. Shit.” Throat bobbing before reaching out for you, “C’mere,“ He brings your face to him by the back of your head, lips sloppily meeting each other, tongue prodding past your warm, parted mouth. You’re barely able to kiss back, mewling against him when he pulls back slowly, before bottoming out all the way to your stomach. 

It’s not long until he’s picking up the pace, repeating the motion in a fast, unwavering tempo. He’s growing more vocal by the second, and you’re deduced to nothing but a mushy, crying, wet mess underneath him. 

“I thought you wanted more?” You don’t—can’t reply, something between whimpers and wet chokes only leave your parted mouth. “I gave you more, now you can’t even thank me?” The sound of his deep chuckle that follows after, reaches all the way to your pussy, getting wetter and wetter around him with each mean tease he sends your way.

Your legs are numb now, the only sensation left is the one building up in your core. The pads of his thumb brush away the stray tears running down the side, you’re biting your lip and pulling him in closer by the arms slung around his neck. “Th-thank you, Ryo.” It comes out as half gasp and a mewl, your breathing uneven and failing to regulate yourself at the stimulation from within. “So good, ’s really—more”

There’s nothing but a deep, guttural noise that returns to you. He feels your thighs struggle to hold yourself with his weight on you, holding himself above you, carrying your hips and letting your legs slacken against your side.

“You’re shaking so much.” Your muscles lessen in tension, heart tugging at the consideration.

 But you tuck that nervous, unstable part of you away, not ready to confront these feelings fully. You’re unable to look at him, head falling at the side. His lips fall on your cheek, wetly dragging them across till they’re hovering over your ear,

“Keep acting this nice I might do anything you want me to.” 

“Sh-shut up,” You mouth off, tightly shutting your eyes so as to not meet his taunting crimson ones. He can’t help the grin that tugs on his face, watching you get bashful over him mocking you. He remembers how easy it is to get to you, a trait typically bothersome for others, on you it’s wholly endearing. Despite your words though, you’re clenching around him, pulsing, wetter, and wetter still. 

He continues to press on, hips slowing down to start driving into you deeper, a dull ache hitting your cervix. “You missed this,” He bends down, closer against your face, smushing you who’s still turned away, pressing against the mattress.  Like he’s trying to merge your bodies together. “Admit it, you fucking missed this.” Continuing on his pace, grunting when you clamp down on him, “I can fucking feel you— Say you missed me, c’mon.” 

“I-I’m, Oh my,” The words float around your head, unable to connect as a full sentence when he speeds up.  You struggle, trying to keep up with both chasing your orgasm and his foolish requests. “Imissedyou, oh shit, I’m so close.“ You’re reaching down with your fingers, aiming for your swollen clit when a much larger, iron clad grip, sticks your hand to the bed. You feel like crying.

“What d’you say? A little clearer for me.” He pushes, unsatisfied with your answer. 

“Fuck you!” Your free arm lands on his leg, quads flexing as they’re put to work. Your nails claw into them, the flesh of his hard thigh burning with reddened marks. 

Still, he doesn’t let up, “I don’t think you want me to.”  He takes carrying your weight for his own advantage, dragging you body down on his shaft, up and down like he’s using you to jerk himself off.   

Amidst hot, bursting sensations within, the constant hesitation you seem to bring into everything peeks through. 

The words play in your head, and you waver. Your guard coming up, “I-I miss your cock then—fuck!” The curse spills out after a hand comes down on your puffy cunt, your nerves triggering small shocks all the way to your toes.  He’s really  pushing it out of you. A notch grows between his brows.

You feel so much all at once. Your physical feelings and emotional sentiments  clash with one another, making you unable to decipher what you want quickly — your emotions are unpacking at the most inconvenient of times. 

A taunt now left  feeling a lot more like a weighted decision. 

You look for an answer in his stare, he’s already focused on you and maybe equally nervous, reaching to see if you’ll meet him halfway.

Tears prick your eyes at the intensity of it all.

You reach for his face, and it feels like coming back to earth. “I miss you—I-I missed you.”  And he’s toppling over, your gravity pulling him in.

He lets out a breath, “F-fuck, I know,” It comes out closer to a snivel than a whisper, tucking himself in your neck and breathing in you scent. It’s grounding enough that he lets out a groan. “I missed you too.” 

His hips grow erratic, member throbbing in your walls, pre-cum mixing with the mess of your sopping cunt. He can’t last. The shame that comes with the fact doesn’t reach him though as he’s lost in the persistence of feeling you cum around his cock, rolling his hips, pink tufts on his pelvis rubbing against your mound. 

The knot in your core tightens even more, back arching off your bedsheets as his engorged tip rams upwards, grazing your cervix repeatedly. Your orgasm crests over like a thousand shocks, toes curling and twitching as you ride it out. He’s pulling out after, leaving your hole gaping, and hastily pumping up and down on his cock, drenched in your fluids. 

Curses spill out of him, watching your chest heave in the dim light, never averting his gaze before he shoots white spurts of his cum all over your stomach with a breathy moan.

Your vision comes and goes afterwards, hardly able to keep your eyes open. One moment he’s wiping on you with his soiled shirt, the next he’s pulling your covers over you and placing his arm around your waist.

Before sleep comes over your consciousness, a peck lands on the side of your head, soft and lingering. He mumbles something to you, you don’t catch it. The world around you already turning black, head quiet.

***

The sun peaks through the blinds, a warm glow casts on your naked back. Sukuna observes, fingers brushing against the yellow and purple blooming on the skin of your waist. There’s a faint buzzing that interrupts his quiet morning, continuous and irritating. He reaches over to your bedside table, careful to not dip your side of the bed too much.

“I knew you weren’t gonna call me last night! I was getting worried he’d drive you off the highway or something.” Before the voice could continue, there’s already another distant, feminine one, muffled and saying something along the lines of ‘Is that her’ or ‘Did you tell her?’

“Yeah! ‘m about to ask!” Sukuna’s face pinched at the clear yell, pulling the phone away from his ear.

 It’s early as fuck. 

There's a noise on his end, dishes clanking and clothes shuffling. “Since you're done ghosting us, I wanted to check if you were free next week? I promise, I won’t force you in a car with Sukuna’s grump ass agai—“

“Yeah, we’ll see if we can go.” Before Suguru could say anything, the grump hangs up with a furrowed brow, sliding your phone back on top of your drawers. 

He sat back on your headboard, contemplating the unfamiliar, light feeling fluctuating in his chest. He finds the culprit, stirring in her sleep, arm reaching out slowly for the warmth that left behind her. 

You peel your eyes open. taking in the morning light, blinking. Your hair falls down to your side when you turn, shamelessly gawking when you first take in his bare chest and only then do you peer back at his focused stare.

You tuck a hand underneath your head, challenging his focus.“What?” your voice comes out laced with traces of sleep.

“Geto’s asking if we’re free next week.” There’s a comfortable silence between you two, one that soothes over the warmth in the air. You’re first to blink, a smirk pulls on your lips at the sight of a grin on his.

“Only if you take me there.”

©chuuren all rights reserved. do not copy, plagiarize, translate , or modify any of my works. i only post and interact on tumblr and ao3. do not put this in ai.

[mightyjo]

just say goodnight n go — kim ryul

genre : fluff, romance, friends to lovers, ryul × reader

summary : oh why'd you have to be so cute? it's impossible to ignore you. why must you make me laugh so much? it's bad enough we get along so well. just say goodnight n' go

inspired by : ariana grande's song goodnight n go !

warning(s) : none :D

· · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · ·

the problem with ryul is that he made everything feel like flirting.

maybe it was the way he leaned too close when he looked at your phone, his shoulders pressed against yours like it belonged there, how he'd grin after saying something ridiculously stupid just to hear you laugh, and how he somehow always found excuses to touch you like flicking your forehead, fixing your hair, tugging your sleeve when you walked too far ahead.

it's getting exhausting (for your heart) and unfair. because every time he does those kinds of things, you get flustered, but kim ryul acts like this towards everyone, doesn't he?

"why are you staring at me like that?" you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

a lop-sided grin spreading across his face. he didn't look away. he just leaned back against his chair, scanning your eyes with an annoyingly amount of mischief.

"is it working?" he asked.

"is what working?"

"the staring." he stood up and stepped closer to your direction.

your breath hitched slightly as he stopped right in front of you, too close, as usual.

"you look nervous," he murmured.

"i'm not."

"you are."

"no, i'm not." LIES, you are nervous.

he hummed, tilting his head a little like he was studying you.

"your ears are red."

"...shut up."

he laughed softly, satisfied, like he just proved a point.

and there it was again.

that stupid feeling in your chest.

· · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · ·

you were both sitting on your bed now, backs pressed against the wall, legs stretched out in front of you, a random movie playing in the background that neither of you were actually paying attention to. it had been on for what, liks an hour? maybe more? and somehow, you still had no idea what it was about because the two of you kept getting distracted, talking over it, pausing it, then forgetting to press play again.

and at some point, the conversation had completely derailed into nonsense.

like actual nonsense.

something about whether cereal counts as soup. (it doesn’t.)

"you’re wrong," ryul said, nudging your shoulder.

"i’m literally right. i'm always right."

"nope. liquid base. solid contents. that’s soup."

"then by your logic, boba is soup."

he turned his head so fast it almost made you laugh.

"...don’t start."

"i’m just applying your logic."

"you’re twisting it."

"no, you just hate being wrong."

he scoffed, but there was already a smile creeping onto his face, like he knew exactly where this was going and didn’t mind it one bit.

and you noticed it again.

how easy this was.

like talking to him didn’t require effort, like laughing with him came naturally, like the space between you always somehow disappeared without either of you noticing.

and maybe that’s why it felt dangerous, because it didn’t feel like something you could control.

"what?" you muttered.

"...nothing."

he didn’t look away.

you swallowed.

"ryul."

"hm?"

"it’s late."

"so?"

"so… go home."

he blinked once.

then leaned his head back against the wall, sighing dramatically.

"wow."

"what?"

"you’re kicking me out now?"

"i’m not kicking you out, i’m telling you to go home like a normal person."

"i am a normal person."

"no, normal people don’t stay until 2 a.m. just to argue about cereal."

"...it’s important."

you rolled your eyes, but you didn’t miss the smirk that’s still on his lips.

or how he didn’t move. at all.

"ryul."

"yeah?"

"...just say goodnight and go."

he turned his head slightly, looking at you again.

"what if i don’t want to?"

your heart did something stupid. like completely forgetting how to function.

"then that’s your problem," you said, a little too quickly.

he smiled faintly.

"you’re mean."

"you’re annoying."

"and yet you let me stay."

"...barely..."

he let out a soft chuckle, then shifted closer. his shoulder pressing against yours again.

"you know," he started, voice quieter now, "you could just say you like having me here."

you froze.

"...i don’t."

"liar."

"shut up."

he laughed under his breath.

and then, he stood up.

finally.

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

"see? was that so hard?" you muttered.

he stretched his arms above his head, then grabbed his jacket.

"yeah, yeah."

you walked him to the door, trying to ignore the weird feeling creeping up in your chest. like something was about to happen.

he opened the door, but didn’t step out. instead, he turned back to you.

"goodnight," he said.

"goodnight."

he didn’t move.

you frowned slightly. "ryul—"

"hey."

"...what?"

he hesitated. just for a second. which was rare.

then—

you stepped forward.

and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

your heart immediately started racing like you just did something illegal.

"...there," you muttered, avoiding his eyes. "goodnight."

silence.

you dared to look up.

ryul hadn’t moved.

completely frozen, hand still on the doorknob, eyes wide in a way you’ve never seen before.

"...you just—"

"don’t make it a big deal," you cut him off quickly, already embarrassed.

he blinked. once. twice.

then a slow grin started forming on his face.

"wow."

"shut up."

"you kissed me."

"it was on the cheek."

"still counts."

you groaned, trying to push him out the door. "just go home."

but he didn’t budge.

instead, he leaned down slightly.

and before you could react, he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. mirroring you.

"...now it’s even," he murmured.

your brain short-circuited.

"ryul—"

"goodnight," he said again, this time softer, a little smile still on his lips.

and then, he finally left.

leaving you standing there, frozen in place. your cheek still warm. heart beating way too fast.

because now, everything definitely changed. and honestly? you’re not sure if you want it to go back to how it was before.

(but also… you’re kinda screwed.)

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i’m backkkkk!! thank you guys so much for all the love on my jeno drabble exactly a month ago 🥹 i seriously didn’t expect it to get that many likes, it made me so happy hehe.

i’ve been so obsessed with lngshot latelyyyy, especially ryul & ohyul, so i decided to write a little something!

love you guys, hope you all enjoy this one too <3

[yamijjwy]

DOWN BAD — somehow it came to me how Ryul is the type of boyfriend who'll tuck your hair while you're in the middle doing something. doing something? ranting about something? he's listening, of course, just not much without hooking two fingers on your ear, pushing your bangs behind your ear with a lovesick smile.

★ bf ! ryul × fem!reader ( topless ryul, no warnings )

wc : 1.1k (english is not my first language! bear with me)

The dorm was quiet, the sound of the air conditioner made constant hissing noise, and the rattling sound vibrated through the floorboards. Breaking the silence, the door swung open, four boys entering the threshold of their dorm one after another.

They just finished another recording session with Loco, one of Jay Park's close friends and member of his old label, AOMG. It wasn’t anything major, just a few riffs, some freestyle rhymes here and there, and maybe a bit about dear CEO-nim catching up with an old friend. Somehow, though, that small gathering ended up at the korea zombie guy's gym, which, unfortunately for the boys, didn’t turn out well in their favor.

Ryul took off his shoes and tosses it to the floor with a thud. Woojin and Louis followed after, groaning in unison while both plopping on the floor.

"I think I'm going to die," Louis grunts. He places his cap on his head. Woojin, on the other hand, already looked like he was about to pass out, eyes half-shut. Ohyul already took of his shirt and went straight to his room, the slight bang of his bedroom door bang rattled the hanged frames.

Ryul messes his hair, hand going through his scalp. He turns around to his own room. He was spent, completely worn out. The tiles felt cold under his feet as he trudges.

Then he heard it.

Faint continuous beat, the familiar melody ringing in his ears. The two last lines from his verse gets louder.

"I wanted more love, i'll never make the same mistake again" "when I see you, it's always the same reason, baby girl, your face is like art"

He smiles. Did she convince the manager again?

He opens the door, fingers tightly twisting the knob as he closes it behind him. The heavy shuffle of his feet follows immediately, grateful to be freed from earlier's relentless footwork at the gym.

Ryul slides next to you, eyeing your sleeping form with fascination. He whispers, careful not to startle you, "Pretty?"

She stirs, hair sticking to her forehead and the back of her neck. The current heat was bothering, and all she wanted is to just laze around.

She stretches, shifting her body as she meets his eyes. Her arms rests above her head, the other one automatically reaching for his ear. One eyebrow arches, "Why is your ear cold?"

"CEO-nim."

"Huh?"

He sat up, slowly takes off his top and make his way back to the bed as he slide himself on top of you. His broad shoulders, covering most part of yours. It would've been a bother since it was hot, but for some reason, his cold bare torso made it more bearable.

"They made us do drills," he starts ranting, "I thought our faint plan would work but fuck it, it backfired." he sighs while he starts kneading your waist, slow circles around the skin. "And then they made us do ice bath. ICE BATH."

You lifted yourself back to stare at his smushed face on your chest. he looks up to you.

"So that's why you're oddly cold." You chuckled, the vibration making his body relax even more. Just as he reaches up for a kiss, the door creaked, Louis grunts followed after.

"Y'all better not kiss right now." He deadpans, snagging his headphones off the nightstand.

"This is my room." Ryul groans, throws one pillow at the younger boy. You snicker even more at Louis funny face as he walked out of the room.

He looks at you, blinking.

He couldn't help himself but he reaches up, tucking few strands of your hair behind your ear neatly. That cold sensation of his fingertips meeting the tip of your ear. You stop laughing.

"What?" you ask, placing your hand on his cheek and softly rubbing him.

He just shrugs, trying to choose between whether to laugh or be endeared. Your bangs was sticking out in different directions, probably from sweat build up. He just want to pull you closer and kiss the shit out of you, but instead, he decides to be a menace.

"You look like someone who got thin noodles for bangs." he says, cupping your chin as soft giggles escapes from him.

You pulled away, facing the other side, feigning the exact expression you use to wear when he says something stupid.

"Excuse me? It's freshly cut! That's why it's still not behaving...stop being such a hater, Ryul." you cover your forehead, mumbling, "And these are sidebangs, not full bangs."

He laughs, gently swatting your hand away.

"Well it looks like it, can't blame a man for noticing your failed hairdo attempt. You didn't even properly properly clean the sink last night." He takes another strand of your hair, twirling it around.

"Unbelievable." You yeet him out on top of you.

You roll your eyes, attempting to fix your bangs again, and as you try to fix your middle part, you felt him staring again, like he didn't just personally riled you up to push him out of bed.

You snubbed him when he tries to pull you down with him, dodging his arm. You grabbed the scissors and comb next to the hand mirror and hwad towards the bathroom.

When you walked out of the room, he just smiles and follows without even putting on his shirt.

The bathroom was snug, light flickering above you as you face the mirror. He lets out a small snigger, body leaning on the doorframe, and while you wet the comb and brush your bangs, he moves.

He smiles at the sight of you, pulling himself away from the doorframe and stand behind you, grinning like something was funny. You, on the other hand, shots him a look.

"Don't even—" the heat in your voice dies down when he clasped his fingers on yours, taking the comb away.

Ryul turns you around to face him.

Begrudgingly, your body follows, looking at him with an expectation of laughing at you again.

"Whispy, layered or side swept? Choose one." he says with a grin, dragging the comb once.

You blink, eyebrows knitting together.

"Let's fix it." he whispers. His expression, previously teasing, now focused. He follows your face, the subtle pout of your lips, the wide blown eyes, and the soft expression of confusion made him suck one of his cheek. Definitely nothing will make him drop everything like you do.

He places one kiss on your nose, sighing after, "Sorry for my earlier behaviour, baby. You are pretty, no bangs or with messed up bangs."

You open your mouth again to retaliate but he kisses you again, and this time, on the lips.

He whispers, in softness he knows you'll give in, "What do you say, let me fix it...pretty please?"

"Weirdos."

Woojin's voice cuts through. The bathroom door was still open and you could see the two younger boys gagging at you two, while Ohyul just stands behind them with a groggy face, fidgeting his rubiks cube with one hand without a care.

"Jealous? Go talk to ejeh or something."

And just like that, the door shuts close and he's back to fixing your hair problem.

back to masterlist

[lngshotty]

⌗ kim ryul - backseat heat

summary; after seven days without seeing each other, a ‘casual’ late night drive to look at the stars starts feeling a lot less casual, especially when he’s done pretending he didn’t miss you

warnings; fwb! suggestive, making out, grinding, petnames, jokes about jealousy, car scene

wc; 3,1k - requested

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you just settled into your bed, scrolling on your phone without a second thought, watching whatever tiktok was pushing on your fyp today, when it suddenly rings

a call from ryul.

you roll your eyes but can’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips

“yeah?” you say, picking up the phone a little too fast for someone who tries to play it cool

“get ready,” he says, low and teasing, a little too smooth, and it’s already making your pulse skip a beat

“i’ll pick you up in 15, don’t make me wait”

“ryul,” you whine, though it’s more flustered than annoyed, “it’s like midnight, what if i don’t wanna come out”

“sure baby, you can tell me that to my face in a bit” he replies casually, that mix of smug and fond in his voice that always makes you feel a certain way, even over the phone

you chuckle, “where are we going?”

“see-“ he says, “you can’t resist me” you can hear the smirk in his voice

you roll your eyes, even though he can’t see it, giggling as you said your goodbye before hanging up

15 minutes later, you stepped outside, the chill night sky immediately hugging around you like it welcomes you outside at this hour

and there he is

leaning casually against his car, keys in his hand and that familiar smirk plastered across his face

“you look good,” he says simply, like it’s both a statement and a little claim

“yeah, yeah,” you roll your eyes, though you can’t hide the grin, “let’s go, mr. late night chauffeur”

“only for you tho,” he corrects, opening the door for you, “for a sec i thought you’d stand me up”

“aww was ryullie worried” you teased, sliding into the passenger seat like you own it,

“you’re lucky you’re cute” he grins, letting your comment slide with a smirk that feels a little too personal as he gets in the car himself

the drive is easy and warm

city lights blur past the windows and the hum of the engine fills the comfortable silence between you

the music was low, playing one of the playlists that he made specifically for your ‘hang outs’ even though he claims it’s just a regular one

“so,” you say after a while, voice teasing, “how was france and london?”

“it was ok,” he says, his eyes forward but lips twitching at the corner, “the guys were fine, but not nearly as fun as you”

“oh really? i’m the fun one?” you laugh, “i thought you were all charms and parties”

“i am” he deadpans, “but louis is not the same company as you”

his head turns to look at you, his gaze dragging over you from the corner of his eye, one of his hands slides off the steering wheel, settling on your thigh like it belongs there

his fingers flex once

not rough or rushed, more like a grounding squeeze, just enough to make your breath hitch a little

“sure thing-“ you said, your voice a little softer than you intended it to be and he only smirks, subtle and knowing, like he can feel exactly what the small touch does to you

(and him)

and for a sec it’s just the two of you, city lights out the window, with the faint hum of the music and the warmth of him next to you

when you finally pull up to your usual spot overlooking the city skyline, you step out the car first

the night air is cool against your skin, city lights stretching out in the reflection of the water

you take your phone out to take a couple pics, adjusting the angle and lighting to get the perfect pic

you don’t hear the door shut behind you

but you do feel him.

his arms slide around you from behind, warm and familiar, pulling you back against his chest

you gasp softly, half startled and half laughing, your phone lowering slightly

“ryul” you mutter in protest, but you don’t try to move away

he just hums, his chin coming down to rest on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck, “what? i’m appreciating the view”

“the skyline is that way” you tease, nudging him lightly

“i know” he replies easily, his hand tightening just slightly at your waist, holding you there for a sec longer, “i’ve got a better one right here”

you roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away, “you’re so predictable” you laugh

“mhmh but you like it” he murmers, squeezing you once more before relaxing his grip, but not letting go completely

you lean back into him without thinking

the two of you are just standing there for a moment, you can feel his chest rising and falling against your back, the city and water glowing infront of you

“i missed you” he murmers softly,

you only hummed in response

he smirks and tugs you back towards the car, “cmon” his voice low and teasing,

you giggle softly, “no, i wanna enjoy the view” shaking your head, releasing yourself from his grip

“yeah-“ he says, grinning widely, “well, i wanna enjoy mine too” his voice dipping just enough to make your stomach flip

“you can enjoy yours while i enjoy mine” you stated teasingly, stepping back slightly as he moves closer towards you again

“i don’t like an audience when i enjoy mine” he grins, his hand grabbing your wrist, pulling you back towards the car

you gasp, hitting his shoulder with your free hand, “don’t say stuff like that”

he only laughs, opening the passenger door for you to sit down again, “oh cmon baby don’t play sweet now”

“we’re in public” you laugh, shaking your head

“public is subjective,” he says, grinning wickedly, “and besides, that didn’t stop you last time”

you sink back into the passenger seat, the city lights painting patterns across your face, and ryul doesn’t even try to hide the way he’s looking at you

he keeps stealing glances like he’s trying to memorise every detail of your face

his hand brushes against yours as he reaches for the snacks, his fingers lingering a little too long

you feel it, and you smile to yourself, knowing exactly what he’s doing

“yk- i never realised how long a week actually is” he says, voice low and teasing but not quite joking

“it’s always been 7 days” you tease, your eyes finding his for a split moment before you turn to look outside at the water again, trying to hide the grin on your face

he lets out a quiet laugh, “7 days too long without you” he says simply, eyes locked on you, his hand coming to rest on your thigh, light at first, just grazing the fabric of your pants

you shift slightly, humming as you lean back casually; “friends don’t miss each other after a week”

his head turned sharply at that, “to my defense you stopped replying to me after 3 days”

you shrug, “i was busy”

“with who?” the question comes out fast

too fast

you smirk, glancing down at his hand on your thigh before looking back up at him, “don’t sound so jealous”

“i’m not jealous”

“sure-“ you giggle

“with who tho?” he tilts his head towards you completely, his hand gradually moving up on your thigh

you hum, tilting your head towards him innocently, “did you miss me that much?”

his fingers tighten slightly on your leg, not rought, but enough to betray him

“don’t start” he warns, but his voice is lower now

you shift deliberately, crossing one leg over the other so his hand has to move even higher to stay there

and he doesn’t hesitate

“you do this on purpose” he mutters

“and yet,” you clean closer, “you still call me as soon as you get back”

he exhales, “yeah” he admits, no ego, no pretending, “i missed you”

you only hum softly

“you disappeared on me” he mutters,

you laugh, “i didn’t disappear! i have a busy life”

“funny how your life suddenly gets busy when i’m out of town”

you grin, “gotta keep myself busy somehow when louis is not here to hang out with”

“oh fuck off” he scoffs, “you pick louis over me?”

“i never said that” you laugh quietly, “maybe i like keeping you humble”

“you don’t keep me humble,” he mutters, “you make me crazy”

you chuckle under your breath, “don’t get sulky now”

he scoffs, “i’m not sulking”

you only giggle, leaning closer only slightly but he immediately notices the shift,

his gaze drops to your lips before coming back up to your eyes, his jaw tightens, but there’s a little smile fighting it, “i’ve been thinking about this tho” looking at you with that sharp, confident gaze

“about what” you tease,

“you,” he says simply, like that explains everything, he pushes your leg off of his hand, freeing himself from your grip, before sliding up your thigh again, more daring this time

“ryul,” you warn, “we’re in a car,”

“idc where we are,” he replies smugly, “we could’ve been on the fk moon, that wouldn’t stop me from wanting you”

his thumb brushes dangerously close to your private part, teasing closer and closer, “and i know you want me too”

you bite your lip, leaning back, trying to play it cool, “that sounds dangerously close to attachment”

“did i lie tho,” he murmers, but he’s smiling now, softer, “i hate not having you around”

“good” you whisper, turning your head to look at him, “stop looking at me like that” you said

“like what,” he asks, already leaning closer,

“like you’re gonna start begging” you tease

“i’m not begging,” he shoots back, “i just know what i want”

his gaze drops from your eyes to your lips

he doesn’t wait a second longer and before you know it his lips were on yours

it’s hungry and messy in the best way, almost claiming,

your teeth glazing softly at first, with a little desperate edge to it, just enough to make you gasp

one of his hands comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your head just slightly to deepen the kiss, while the other traces your waist in slow circles

he hums low against your mouth, a sound half frustrated, half needy as his tongue teases yours

he leans back a little, his elbow bumping into the steering wheel in the process, making him swear under his breath

you laugh, “smooth”

“this seat is a joke,” he mutters against your lips, shifting slightly, clearly uncomfortable, “come to the back”

you pull back enough to look at him, blinking innocently, “the backseat? how classic”

“don’t act so classy,” he jokes, his jaw tightens,

he kisses you again, deeper, almost like he’s trying to prove something

his hand coming back to your thigh, thumb pressing slow circles that make you gasp softly into his mouth

“i can’t do this here,” he groans, leaning back into his seat, “i need more space”

“someone is impatient” you say, leaning in just enough to brush your lips over his without actually kissing him

he lets out a short, almost disbelieving laugh, “impatient?”

“yeah,” you say, “maybe i do like the front seat, what makes you think you deserve the backseat,” you add teasingly

that one lands

his eyes darken immediately

“okay,” he says quietly, “fine”

you blink at him, “fine?”

“challenge me”

you grin, “what?”

he leans back again, one hand still gripping your thigh

“if i can keep kissing you here,” he says, his voice a little lower and more controlled, “without losing my mind completely, then we stay,”

you raise a brow, “and if you can’t?”

“then you’re coming to the back without complaining”

you chuckle, “that sounds like a lose-lose”

“i’ve waited a week,” he murmers, “i’m not playing fair”

“3 minutes,” you say, “no complaining”

“done”

his mouth crashes into yours again

it’s slower this time, more controlled

his hands don’t rush, don’t grab

he moves carefully, tracing, squeezing, testing your reaction instead of his own

two minutes.

you try to stay composed,

you really do,

but when his lips drag down your jaw, and he murmers, “stop holding back, you’re not fooling anyone” your fingers curl into his hair instantly

his breathing is heavier now and you can feel the tension in him, almost like restraint

“still good?” you tease

he kisses you again, instead of answering you

his hand tightening at your hip

two minutes & 30 seconds.

“ryul,” you sigh into the kiss

“don’t” he warns

you tug at his hair, making him groan into your lips

“fuck, you win” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you

you chuckle, “already?”

“get in the back,” he mutters, pushing his door open, “i’m not gonna waste another second pretending this seat is enough”

you laugh softly as he steps out, circling around the car, opening your door like some ridiculous gentleman

“you almost had it,” you teased as you accepted his hand he held out for you

“shut up,” he laughs under his breath, opening the back door for you as well, “get in”

the second the door shuts after he got in, the air feels more sealed

you barely have time to turn before his hand is on your waist, pulling you toward him

there’s no console between you now, no steering wheel in the way, just him and you

and the need that’s been building up all week

“happy?” you tease, as he moves you to straddle his lap

“very,” he says, his hands slide to your hips, holding you in place, shifting just slightly in his seat so you’re pressed against him perfectly

you giggle breathlessly as his mouth trails down on your neck, up to your jaw, before locking with yours again, claiming every inch of you with a heat that makes it impossible to think about anything else

his hands roam bolder now and your fingers curl into his hair as you shift on his lap slightly, and he groans into your mouth at the contact

“don’t move,” his voice came out low and husky

you pull back enough to look at him, “fr?” you roll your hips into his again, teasing and testing

his hands grip your hips instantly, stilling your movements firmly, “stop-“ he groans again

you laugh softly, “ok mr.i’ve-been-waiting-all-week,”

he looks up at you, like he can’t believe you’re still trying to mock him in this moment, his gaze was dark and needy, matching the grip of his hands on your sides, “i don’t wanna finish in like 2 minutes,” he murmers, almost to himself

you gasp playfully, “2 minutes!?”

“oh shut up,” he grins, before his lips crash on yours again

you can’t help the laugh that actually comes out more like a moan, your fingers grip his shirt, tugging him closer

his hands slide down to your ass, grabbing you through your pants, firm and steady

and you arched back slightly, testing him

he chases your lips immediately, kissing you intensely

his tongue slides against yours, fighting for dominance, like he’s trying to prove something, as he explores the walls of your mouth

one of his hands comes up to your throat, hovering for a split second, like he’s giving you a chance to stop him, before he wraps there gently, his thumb pressing enough to make your breath hitch

you moan into his mouth, and he feels it, he always feels it

the tension only builds as you keep rolling your hips into him, slow, deliberate, grinding down in a rhythm that makes his grip tighten at your waist

you’re heavily breathing into each other’s mouth now, messy, heated, absolutely no space left between you

at first, when you pull back slightly to tease him again, he doesn’t chase it

but the second you lean back with that look, that smug, little smile, he’s already surging forward, chasing your mouth, whining softly under his breath at the loss of friction

“stop playin’-“ he mumbles against your lips, voice strained

every small motion of your hips against his draws something out of him, a low groan, a curse under his breath and his head tipping back against the seat for half a second before he forces himself up again

his hands slide down to your hips, then lower, fingers digging in with more purpose now

he guides you down harder this time, matching your movement with a rough upward press of his own

“fuck,” his voice is low, breath catching, jaw tightening

you grin when you feel him beneath you, solid and desperate, pressing into the heat between your bodies through layers of fabric

it makes you roll your hips again, slower now, savoring it

he inhales sharply and you moan softly on purpose, just to see what it does to him

and obviously it works,

his spine straightens, hands tightening almost instinctively, pulling you down flush against him as his mouth crashes into yours again

this kiss is different, less playful, way more urgent

his teeth catch your lower lip, tongue pushing in deeper, breathing uneven and heavy

“you’re killing me,” he murmurs between kisses, dragging his lips down your jaw

you laugh softly, breathless, still moving against him

and that’s when something shifts,

his hands stop just guiding, they take control

his fingers press firmly into your hips, setting the pace himself now

slower. deeper. more deliberate.

he lifts you slightly just to pull you back down again, forcing a sharp exhale from your lips as you feel his growing buldge pressing into you

the air in the back feels thick, heavy

he groans, his forehead dropping against your shoulder, grip tightening as his control slips just enough to make it obvious how close he is to snapping

it doesn’t take long before his lips find their place on yours, again, more messily now, swallowing the small sound you make when he presses up into you harder than before

by now the windows are starting to fog

the city lights flicker through the fogged windows, the car rocking subtly with your breathing and movement

his breathing is rough, lips trailing along your neck, teeth grazing lightly as his hands slide under the hem of your top, fingertips brushing your warm skin

not enough to cross the line, yet, just enough to make your pulse race

“i need you now,”he murmurs against your throat.

you only hum in response

and that tiny sound is all he needs,

his hands slide up your sides, pushing your shirt higher, palms hot and firm against your bare skin now

the friction between you grows slower but heavier, more intentional

he stills your hips suddenly, holding you in place, breathing uneven

his eyes drag over your face like he’s trying to decide how much longer he can survive this

and when his hands slip even further, guiding instead of asking, the rest of the night becomes less about teasing

and more about giving in

because as far as he’s concerned, seven days was more than patient enough

and he’s done pretending he didn’t count every single night without you

mlist ツ

[lngshotty]

⌗ kim ryul - a month of self control

summary; ryul talks big and you don’t believe him. one bet later, and suddenly he’s trying to survive a month with you without giving in.. but the longer it goes on, the harder it gets

warnings; fwb, tension, teasing, sex ban, party scenes, grinding, making out, neck kisses, petnames

wc; 5,7k - requested

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it starts, like most bad ideas do; with ryul talking too much.

you’re not even part of the conversation at first, you’re half listening from the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a drink in your hand while his friends sit sprawled across the living room,

someone says something, something stupid, and ryul laughs, loud and easy, like he always does when he thinks he’s about to win an argument, (which he genuinely always thinks he does)

“i’m serious,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair, “i could go a month, easy,”

you pause mid sip,

..oh?

“a month?” someone snorts, “you? yeah, right,”

ryul just shrugs, all confidence and ego, “what? you think i’m weak or something?”

you don’t even realize you’re smiling yet,

“i don’t need it,” he keeps going, digging his own grave, “i have self control,”

“you have self control? yet you’re always with yn,” his friend points out,

“of course i am,” ryul shrugs, like it’s obvious, “you’d be too if you had her,”

you set your glass down very carefully,

because now you are listening.

later, when everyone’s gone and the apartment is quieter, you bring it up,

you’re sitting on his couch, legs tucked under you, scrolling through your phone while he’s in the kitchen grabbing water,

when he comes back, he tosses the bottle onto the coffee table and drops down beside you like he always does,

too close to be accidental but too casual to comment on..

“so,” you say, not looking up, “a month?”

he chuckles immediately, “don’t start,”

you glance at him, eyebrow raised, “no, no, i’m impressed fr, didn’t know you had that kind of discipline,”

he narrows his eyes, “i do,”

you hum, not really convinced, “mm,”

and that does it,

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

you shrug, still way too calm, “nothing, just- i don’t believe you,” you smirk

there’s a moment of silence, then he lets out a short laugh, “you don’t believe me?”

“not even a little,” you say sweetly,

“wow,”

“what?” you finally turn toward him fully now, resting your chin on your hand, “you’re telling me you could go a full month and not fold? not even once?”

“yes,”

“with me still around?”

he hesitates, just for a second, but you catch it,

and you grin to yourself,

“yeah,” he says quickly, “easily,”

“okay,” you nod, “prove it,”

he blinks, “what?”

“prove it,” you repeat, “a month. you and me,” you tilt your head, “but no hooking up,”

his expression shifts, suspicion creeping in, “that’s your condition?”

“mmhmm,”

“and you’re just gonna behave?”

you just smile,

which is answer enough,

he exhales through his nose, already regretting this, but his pride won’t let him back down now, “fine,”

“fine?”

“fine.”

you extend your hand, “bet,”

he looks at it, then at you, “what do i get when i win?”

“when?” you echo, amused,

“when,”

you think for a second, then lean in just a little, close enough that his attention drops to your lips automatically,

“you can pick,” you say softly,

he swallows,

“..and when you lose?” he asks,

you lean back again, “you admit i was right,”

he scoffs, shakes your hand, “easy,”

you squeeze once before letting go, “we’ll see,”

the first night after the bet starts feels.. exactly the same?

which is the problem,

you’re back at his place like nothing changed; shoes by the door, his hoodie already on you without asking, some random show playing that neither of you really care about,

it’s a routine at this point,

ryul drops onto the couch beside you, close enough that your thigh presses against his instantly,

there’s no weird distance, almost like the bet doesn’t exist,

you glance at him sideways, “thought you were gonna keep your distance,”

he snorts, leaning back like he already owns this things, “why would i?”

“self control,” you remind him lightly,

he turns his head, eyes dragging over you in a way that’s way too slow to be innocent, “i’ve got it baby,”

you hum, “sure,”

he just smirks and reaches over, tugging lightly at the sleeve of the hoodie you’re wearing, his hoodie, “you steal my clothes and then doubt me? crazy,”

“you let me,” you point out,

“yeah,” he shrugs, hand not moving away, fingers still mindlessly playing with the fabric near your wrist, “i’m generous,”

you bite back a smile,

a few minutes pass, but it doesn’t take long before things slip back into your usual routine,

his arm ends up casually slung along the back of the couch, fingers brushing your shoulder,

yours rest against his thigh like it’s second nature, outlining the letters on his pants absentmindedly,

every now and then he glances at you, not subtle at all, just quick little looks that linger a second too long before he looks back at the screen,

like he’s checking something,

and you notice, so you shift a little closer,

just enough,

his hand slides from the couch to your shoulder properly this time, thumb brushing back and forth like he’s not even thinking about it,

“you’re very touchy for someone on a ‘break,’” you mumble,

he laughs under his breath, “i got this,”

“oh, we’re bending rules already?”

“not bending,” he says, squeezing your shoulder once before letting his hand drift down your arm, “i can touch you, just not have you,”

you tilt your head, watching him now instead of the tv, “mm, sounds like excuses,”

“sounds like you’re trying to get in my head,” he shoots back,

you smile, “is it working?”

he meets your eyes, completely unfazed,

“not even a little,”

bold, but you like that, so you push just a little,

you lean into him more, resting your head against his shoulder like it’s nothing, your hand shifts on his thigh, fingers pressing slightly before going still again,

he doesn’t react right away, just keeps watching the screen,

but his jaw tightens for a split second,

it’s small and easy to miss.

you don’t say anything, you just stay there, and after a moment, his hand comes up, hooking under your chin, tilting your face toward him,

“you’re trying something right now,” he murmurs,

you raise a brow, “and?”

he huffs a quiet laugh, eyes flicking down to your lips, “and ut’s not subtle,”

“good,” you smile, “i wasn’t trying to be,”

his eyes flicker down to your lips again and then he kisses you,

like he always does; confident, unhurried, like he knows exactly what he’s doing,

no hesitation or second guessing at all,

his hand slides from your chin to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he deepens it just slightly, testing the line without crossing it,

you kiss him back just as easily, but slower, your fingers curl lightly into his shirt, tugging him closer for half a second,

and he lets you, that’s the thing, he leans in and follows, almost like he forgot,

but before you can deepen it more, he stops.

just barely, you actually feel it more than you see it, that small shift, that pause where he pulls himself back without actually pulling away,

his so called ‘discipline’,

you pull back first this time, just enough to look at him,

“..that’s it?” you ask softly, amused,

he exhales a quiet laugh, forehead almost bumping yours, “yeah,”

his hand drops from your face, but instead of moving away, it settles on your waist, as casual as ever,

“you’re gonna have to try harder than that,” he adds, voice low, a little amused,

you raise an eyebrow, “don’t be so cocky,”

“i’m not,”

his grip on your waist tightens just slightly, just enough to say he’s actually so sure of himself,

you lean back into the couch again like nothing happened, but your foot hooks lightly around his ankle this time, like you’re keeping him right there,

“all that big talk,” you say, almost to yourself.

ryul chuckles, shaking his head, but he doesn’t move away,

if anything, he settles in closer and you glance at him, smiling,

“we’ll see how long that confidence lasts,”

he looks at you again, that same cocky expression settling back into place like it never left,

“a month,” he reminds you,

you tilt your head,

“we’re still on day one big guy,”

a week in, group hangouts turn out to be his safe zone, or at least ‘safer’

there’s noise, distractions, people constantly talking over each other,

someone always handing him a drink, pulling him into a conversation, dragging his attention somewhere that isn’t you, and he uses it of course,

he sits across the room instead of next to you for once, stretched out in a chair with one of his friends, laughing at something dumb like everything is normal,

like you aren’t watching him and like he doesn’t keep glancing over anyway,

but you stay where you are, tucked into the couch with the others, talking and laughing, existing just out of reach,

it’s subtle but it works,

“yo,” someone suddenly says, looking between the two of you, “why are you two sitting so far apart?”

you don’t even look up, but you feel the shift in attention,

“yeah,” another voice joins in, almlst amused, “did something happen or what?”

you glance over,

but ryul just leans back in his chair, completely relaxed, like the question doesn’t mean anything,

“nothing happened,” he says, casual, and his eyes flick to you for half a second,

“we’re good,”

you raise a brow slightly, but you don’t say anything,

he just smirks faintly, like that settled it,

but later, when you’re leaving his hand finds your lower back for a second, guiding you past someone in the doorway,

it’s quick and familiar, a tiny bit unnecessary, but just enough for him to ease himself a little

7 days in, your phone starts ringing as soon as you step foot inside your own home,

and of course, it was ryul, asking you to come over,

by the time you get to his place, iyou don’t knock, you never do actually,

you just push the door open and step inside, heels clicking softly against the floor,

“ryu-“

you turn around towards the hallway but he’s already there, like he was waiting,

he rounds the corner from the living room, phone still in his hand, and whatever he was about to say-

just stops?

it’s not subtle this time,

his eyes drag over you slowly, taking in everything; your dress, the way it fits, your hair still done, your makeup just slightly softer now but still there,

and you watch it happen,

the small pause, the shift in his face,

you lean lightly against the door after closing it behind you, “what?”

he huffs a quiet breath, like he’s resetting himself, stepping closer slightly, “you just came from dinner?”

“mm,” you hum,

“dressed like that?”

you tilt your head, “like what,”

“nothing,” he says easily, but his hand is already on your waist, pulling you in just a little,

liar.

you barely get another word out before he leans down and kisses you,

it happens so fast and easily, like he didn’t even think about it,

his hand slides from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer, fingers pressing in like he needs to check if you’re real or something,

your hands come up automatically, resting against his chest,

but he doesn’t keep it light,

he never does, and the kiss lingers longer than it should,

his other hand drifts, slow and natural like he’s not even aware of it, along your side, brushing over the fabric of your dress, then settling at your hip,

it feels familiar, too familiar and for a second, it almost feels like nothing’s changed,

until you pull back just slightly,

his lips follow yours like a magnet,

then stop, and you see it, that small pause where it clicks again,

the bet.

you smile, “missed me?” you murmur,

he lets out a quiet laugh, thumb brushing once against your hip before his hand drops, “you wish,”

you raise a brow,

he just smirks like he didn’t just get caught,

“you look good,” he adds, more casually this time but his eyes give him away,

you hum, stepping past him, “i know,”

you don’t give him time to settle,

you move around his place like always, dropping your bag, fixing your hair in the mirror, adjusting the strap of your dress just slightly,

very aware of him watching but he tries not to make it obvious,

he fails of course,

so he does what he always does when something gets a little too close; he distracts himself,

“i’m getting on,” he mutters after a minute, grabbing his controller and headset,

you glance at him over your shoulder, “already?”

“they’ve been waiting,”

“mm,” you say, turning back toward the hallway, “okay,”

you pause at the bathroom door, then look back at him,

“i’m gonna take a shower,

he nods once, already half focused on his game and you linger a second,

“you can join, you know,”

he freezes for half a second, barely noticeable, before scoffing quietly,

“nah,” he says, not even looking at you now as he puts his headset on, “i’m good,”

you smile to yourself, “your loss,” and then you disappear into the bathroom,

by the time you come back out, the apartment is filled with noise,

his game, his friends talking through the headset, the sound of buttons clicking rapidly under his fingers,

he’s relaxed again or at least pretending to be,

you lean against the wall for a second, watching him, then you walk over,

and without asking you climb onto his lap, it’s natural and easy, like it’s second nature, like you’ve done it a hundred times before, because you have,

he reacts instantly, hands coming up to your waist to steady you as you settle, adjusting slightly so you’re comfortable,

“you don’t-” he starts, but it trails off when you shift, getting properly settled,

you hum softly, leaning back into him, “what?”

he exhales through his nose, but there’s a hint of a smile there as he readjusts his grip on the controller, “nothing,”

his hands don’t move away,

you let it sit for a moment, let him get comfortable again, then you lean your head slightly to the side, giving him access without saying a word,

he notices, a small second passes, two..

then he dips his head, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, then another, closer to your jaw,

casual but dangerous,

you tilt your head just a little more, your fingers lightly rest over his forearm, tracing nothing in particular,

he keeps playing, keeps pretending this is easy, so you test it,

your lips brush his neck, slow and barely there, but his reaction is instant,

a sharp inhale, almost swallowed down as his grip on your waist tightens before he forces it to relax again,

“don’t start,” he mutters under his breath, eyes still glued to the screen,

you smile faintly against his skin, “i’m not doing anything,”

but you pause, just long enough for him to think you’re done,

then you do it again, slower this time, more intentional,

his head tilts back slightly before he catches himself, jaw tightening as he exhales through his nose,

someone says his name through the headset,

and he answers, barely tho,

you shift on his lap so both your legs are on either side of his, straddling him in his chair,

and this time, he reacts

his hands press into your waist again, fingers tightening as if to keep you still, but they linger there, holding you in place a second too long,

“stop moving,” he mutters, more to himself than you,

you press another kiss just below his ear, softer this time

your kiss along his jaw, back down to his neck, pressing small open mouthed kisses on the exposed skin,

you hum softly, the feeling sending immediate shivers down his spine and as if that’s not doing its job yet, you move your lower body,

the sudden movement of your hips rolling against his was enough,

“fuck-“ he breathes quietly, pulled out of his little gaming bubble,

grabbing a fist full of his hair, you slightly pull his head back, giving you a better angle to his neck,

one of his hands slide down to your ass, pushing you down against himself, and you respond immediately, rolling your hips a couple more times as his grip only tightens slightly,

it doesn’t take long before he leans forward, grabbing his mic,

“hold on,” he says quickly, and then,

click. muted. silence.

and within a second, his attention snaps to you completely,

his other hand immediately slides more firmly against your ass, pulling you closer as he turns his head, catching your lips without hesitation,

this kiss isn’t casual, at all

it’s been building and you feel it, the way he leans into it, the way his grip tightens, the way he forgets for a second,

you kiss him back just enough to keep him there, your hand sliding lightly up his arm,

your mouths are moving in an almost perfect synchronized way, and ryul sighs against your lips, pressing you almost impossible closer, wanting to feel you more and more

his hands roam up and down your sides, slightly lifting up your shirt in the process,

his fingers feel soft yet so warm as it comes in contact with your bare skin, an almost tingling sensation at the little touch of skin to skin after what feels like forever,

tbh you don’t even know how many minutes have passed,

for a moment, it’s like the bet doesn’t exist at all, like he’s already lost and doesn’t care,

but then.. he stops, it’s not as clean this time, there’s not as much control,

he pulls back just slightly, breath uneven, forehead hovering near yours as he exhales,

you can feel how close he was to not stopping, his hands are still on you, still holding you, his fingers pressing into your skin like letting go would be worse,

he mutters something under his breath, shaking his head once, like he’s forcing himself back into place,

it takes a second before he looks at you properly again, his lips still a little red and swollen, his eyes holding that same strong gaze as he always has,

“we’re not doing that,” he says, quieter now, but firm,

you tilt your head, lips still too close, “doing what?”

he lets out a short, breathless laugh, “you know what,”

there’s a small pause, then just a little smug again, trying to take his control back, “nice try tho,”

you smile slowly, because you know he almost didn’t stop,

and when he unmutes his mic, going back to his game like nothing happened,

he holds you close and firm against him, not letting you move, not quite trusting himself tbh,

he’s still holding on, but it’s definitely getting harder..

by the time you end up in his bed, it feels routine like it always does,

you don’t even question it anymore, just slipping under the covers, turning onto your side, back facing him like it’s second nature,

“you take up too much space,” he mutters as he climbs in behind you, voice rough with sleep and something else,

“you have a whole bed,” you mumble back,

“yeah,” he says, shifting closer, “and you’re still in my spot,”

you only chuckle softly,

there’s space between you at first, not much, but enough to say this is different now,

enough to remind both of you about the bet and the distance that should be kept..

it stays like that for a minute.. maybe two,

then you shift, just slightly, your back brushing his chest like it was accidental, but it isn’t,

his reaction is immediate tho,

his arm slides around your waist without hesitation, pulling you back into him until there’s no space left at all, like his body decided before his brain could catch up,

he shifts slightly so your body fits into his like it belongs there,

it’s natural and easy.. but also dangerous,

you stay still for a second, feeling the way his hand settles against your stomach, fingers flexing once like he’s grounding himself,

his breath hits the back of your neck, slow at first but not for long,

you move again, subtle and gentle, your leg shifting back just enough to brush against his,

his grip tightens immediately,

“..go to sleep,” he murmurs, voice low, a little rougher than before,

you hum, like you’re already half asleep,

he lets out a soft breath against your skin, something between a laugh and frustration,

but he doesn’t move away, if anything, he pulls you closer, like he’s giving in to this part, at least

and for someone who said this would be easy,

.. he stays awake a long time

that next day, he insists on coming to your place,

he wasn’t supposed to stay over, but he did and now he’s in your kitchen, watching you like he’s trying to figure something out,

you’re wearing one of his shirts, moving around like he’s not even there, just doing your thing, like this isn’t new,

“you’re staring again,” you say, glancing over your shoulder,

“can you blame me?” he replies, pushing off the wall and walking toward you,

“yes,”

he huffs a quiet laugh, stopping just behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him against you,

“you look like this,” he says, gesturing vaguely, “and you expect me not to?”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t move away, “it’s just a shirt,”

“yeah,” he murmurs, closer now, his hand brushing your hip as he steps in, “my shirt,”

the touch lingers longer than it needs to,

and you turn slightly so you’re face to face, closer than necessary,

and his gaze immediately drops to your lips before coming back up to your eyes,

and before you can react, his lips were on yours,

but compared to the other rather.. intense kisses you shared the last few days, this one is a lot slower,

soft and gentle, less about habit, more about.. something else?

his hand settles at your waist, pulling you in just enough to feel it,

you kiss him back, just as slow and quiet, and for a second, it feels different..

it’s not rushed, there’s no teasing, it’s something softer, something that lingers in a way it hasn’t before,

he pulls back eventually, but not far, his forehead almost rests against yours as he exhales,

“..you ever think we’re making this harder than it needs to be?” he murmurs,

you blink at him, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he shrugs slightly, like he didn’t just say something that sounds a lot like a question,

“you know, like.. us?” he murmers quietly,

“what do you mean?”

he sighs softly, shaking his head, his hands still on yours waist, “nothing, nvm,”

there’s a pause, then he steps back, like he caught himself,

and just like that.. the moment’s gone,

but not really..

the next time you’re out with friends, it’s louder, more crowded, harder to keep track of where everyone is,

by now, it’s obvious something’s off, not to everyone, maybe.. but enough people notice,

and you definitely do, because ryul isn’t even pretending anymore,

he’s literally everywhere you are,

not in a clingy way, he’d never let it look like that, but every time you pass him, his hand finds you,

your waist, your lower back, your arm,

quick touches, like habits he can’t break, like he’s not even thinking about it anymore,

“bro,” someone laughs at one point, watching him track you across the room, “you good?”

“yeah,” he says automatically,

but he’s not even looking at them, he’s looking at you, again,

you notice, so you make it worse,

you don’t go to him, you just pass by him,

once, twice,

each time just close enough that he can reach you if he wants to, but not letting him do it quite yet,

until eventually,

he does

as you walk past him, his hand catches your wrist mid step, stopping you completely before you can slip past again,

“where do you think you’re going?” he asks, voice low, almost amused, but there’s something tighter underneath now,

you glance down at his hand, then back at him, “i’m getting a drink,”

“mm,” he hums, not letting go, his thumb brushes over your wrist slowly, unnecessarily,

you tilt your head, “you gonna let me?”

he doesn’t answer right away, just looks at you, like really really looks at you,

and then, without breaking eye contact-

his hand slides from your wrist to your waist, pulling you closer until you’re standing right infront of him,

“ryul,” you murmur, but there’s a smile there,

he exhales quietly, like he’s already losing patience, with you, with himself, with this whole thing he himself started,

“stop walking away from me,” he mutters, “i haven’t seen you all night,”

“make me stay, then,”

bad idea,

and you see it happen, the small shift, something in his expression tightens just slightly before he moves,

his hand presses at your waist, guiding you down, until you right onto his lap, straddling him, smooth enough that it doesn’t draw too much attention,

even though you’re in a room full of people, it just looks like another casual moment, except it’s not..

because the second you settle, you feel it, the way his body reacts instantly,

the way he goes still for a second before forcing himself to relax again,

you grin immediately, and his grip on your waist tightens as you push yourself down on his .. not so subtle tent in his pants,

but he doesn’t push you away, he’s just holding you there,

“don’t do that,” he breathes under his breath,

you lean in just slightly, close enough that your voice doesn’t carry,

“thought you had self control,” you smirk,

his jaw tightens, “i do,”

you shift, subtle but not really, just enough to press closer, to make it impossible to ignore,

his fingers dig into your waist for a second before easing, like he’s trying not to react,

and failing..

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he says quietly,

you hum, “and what exactly am i doing?”

he lets out a short breath, head tilting back for a second like he’s trying to reset, but when he looks at you again, it’s different,

it’s less controlled,

“you’re gonna make me lose,” he mutters,

you smile slowly, “sounds like you’re already losing,”

and .. that does it,

his hand comes up to your jaw a second before you even realize what he’s about to do,

not rough, but firm enough that it stills you,

his thumb presses lightly just under your chin, tilting your face up toward him while his other hand tightens at your waist, pulling you closer, even closer than before, like he’s already forgetting where you are,

for a split second, he just looks at you, eyes flicking between yours, then dropping, slowly to your lips,

you can feel the small hesitation, not doubt, just that thin line he’s been trying so hard not to cross,

you don’t help, if anything, you lean in just a fraction, barely noticeable,

but that’s all it takes,

he closes the distance in one smooth motion, kissing you like he’s been thinking about it for too long,

his grip tightening at your waist as your lips meet, like he’s grounding himself in it, like he needs to,

you kiss him back just as easily, matching the energy, letting it linger,

until it deepens, almost unconsciously,

his head tilts slightly, his thumb shifting along your jaw as his other hand pulls you closer against him without thinking,

like he forgot, like he actually forgot for a second,

and the dangerous part?

he doesn’t stop right away.

there’s a moment, clear as anything, where he leans into it more, where the kiss slows just enough to feel intentional, to feel like it’s turning into something else,

his grip tightens again, holding you there, keeping you right where he wants you,

and for that second, he’s gone, completely,

you can feel it in the way he doesn’t pull back, in the way he lingers, in the way his control slips just enough to show,

then it hits him all at once, his breath catches slightly against your lips as he pauses, just barely, and you feel the shift before you see it,

he pulls back a fraction, not far, just enough to break it, but his hand doesn’t leave your face, his other one doesn’t leave your waist,

he stays close, forehead nearly touching yours as he exhales quietly, like he’s trying to steady himself,

almost like he’s annoyed at himself.

“..yeah,” he mutters under his breath, almost a laugh, but not really,

his thumb brushes once along your jaw again, slower this time,

then he leans back just enough to look at you properly, something in his expression tighter now, less controlled than he wants it to be,

“you’re actually a problem,” he says quietly, but his hand is still on you, like he hasn’t fully let go yet, like he’s not sure he can,

the room comes back into focus around him, all the voices and laughter,

all the people,

“…shit,” he exhales under his breath, running a hand through his hair as he leans back slightly,

but his other hand stays on your waist, doesn’t move, like letting go would make it even harder for him,

“go get your drink,” he mutters, quieter now, “before i stop you again,”

you slide off his lap slowly, on purpose, and he watches you the entire time,

like it takes everything in him not to pull you back,

his eyes follow your every move for the rest of the night.. and slowly but surely, he can feel himself getting more and more troubled by this whole thing

.. that he started himself

by the time you’re back at his place, it’s late but tonight feels different,

he’s already off, you noticed it the second you walked in, the way his attention sticks to you longer than usual,

the way his hands linger when he touches you, the way he’s just .. not as controlled as he’s been trying to be,

you being you, you push it, obviously, you always do,

and when you eventually disappear into the bathroom, turning the shower on, you don’t think much of it,

until you do,

because not even a minute later the door opens,

you don’t turn around right away because honestly you don’t have to, you can feel his presence and the shift in the air,

“..you’re joking,” you say lightly, glancing over your shoulder,

he’s already stepping inside, his clothes somewhere on the floor, closing the door of the shower behind him like he’s made up his mind,

there was no hesitation or pretending left in his body,

“you said a month,” you add, turning slightly to face him now, arms crossed loosely, “what happened to all that confidence?”

he lets out a quiet breath, dragging a hand through his damp hair, eyes already on you,

“shut up,” he murmers

you raise a brow, that was, what- two weeks? not even?”he huffs a short laugh, stepping closer, “you’re counting?”

“of course i am,” you say sweetly, “i didn’t think you’d fold this fast, though, kinda disappointing,”

he stops right in front of you now, close enough that you have to tilt your head up slightly to look at him,

“disappointing?” he repeats, low,

you just hum, you glance at him, just a little smug, “thought you had self control,”

there’s a pause, then he laughs, quiet and almost disbelieving,

“yeah,” he says, shaking his head slightly, “well, that was before you decided to make it your personal mission to ruin it,”

you smile, “so it’s my fault now?”

“yeah,” he says immediately, stepping even closer, “it is,”

your brows lift, “wow,”

“you show up like that,” he continues, voice lower now, more focused, “keep pushing me every chance you get-“ his hand comes up, settling at your waist again, but this time, there’s no restraint behind it,

“-and i’m supposed to just what? ignore it?”

you tilt your head, teasing still, “you said you could,”

he exhales, a quiet laugh slipping out as his grip tightens slightly, “yeah,” he murmurs, “turns out i can’t,”

he looks at you, then softer;

“not with you,”

that’s the moment it shifts, fully,

because this time he doesn’t stop himself, he doesn’t pull back,

he just leans in, closing the distance like he’s done fighting it,

like he’s done pretending he has any control left at all, and yeah,

he lost,

but at this point?

he doesn’t care anymore

his hand tightens at your waist, pulling you closer like there’s no space left for second thoughts, like if he lets you go now he might actually regret it,

his forehead brushes yours for a second, breath uneven, a quiet exhale leaving him like something finally snapped into place,

you don’t move and neither does he,

there’s this heavy pause, thick with everything that’s been building for weeks, where neither of you says anything, but it’s all there anyway,

his gaze drops again, slower this time, more deliberate, like he’s not even trying to hide it anymore,

the water hits the both of you as the shower starts to slowly steam up the air more and more,

“so,” you murmur softly, lips barely brushing his, “now what?”

there’s a beat, a small one, but heavy,

his eyes drop to your lips again, slower this time, like he’s not even pretending to look away anymore, then back up,

and something in his expression settles, like he’s deciding,

his thumb presses into your waist just slightly, but almost claiming,

“now?” he repeats quietly,

a faint, almost amused breath leaves him, “now you,”

it’s not teasing anymore or something he’s playing off, it lands differently,

and by the way his hand tightens, the way he pulls you just a little closer again, the way he leans in like there’s no second guessing left,

makes it very clear,

whatever he was holding back before?

he’s done with that,

completely

mlist ツ

🏷️ ⭒ @reysblr @fineshyt-kai @cortis0lll @unemployedcarat @seombaby @loveforlngshot @haitanigigi @koufaxx @myen2rude @lcvehyeon @next2yul @yuesning

[yamijjwy]

DOWN BAD — somehow it came to me how Ryul is the type of boyfriend who'll tuck your hair while you're in the middle doing something. doing something? ranting about something? he's listening, of course, just not much without hooking two fingers on your ear, pushing your bangs behind your ear with a lovesick smile.

★ bf ! ryul × fem!reader ( topless ryul, no warnings )

wc : 1.1k (english is not my first language! bear with me)

The dorm was quiet, the sound of the air conditioner made constant hissing noise, and the rattling sound vibrated through the floorboards. Breaking the silence, the door swung open, four boys entering the threshold of their dorm one after another.

They just finished another recording session with Loco, one of Jay Park's close friends and member of his old label, AOMG. It wasn’t anything major, just a few riffs, some freestyle rhymes here and there, and maybe a bit about dear CEO-nim catching up with an old friend. Somehow, though, that small gathering ended up at the korea zombie guy's gym, which, unfortunately for the boys, didn’t turn out well in their favor.

Ryul took off his shoes and tosses it to the floor with a thud. Woojin and Louis followed after, groaning in unison while both plopping on the floor.

"I think I'm going to die," Louis grunts. He places his cap on his head. Woojin, on the other hand, already looked like he was about to pass out, eyes half-shut. Ohyul already took of his shirt and went straight to his room, the slight bang of his bedroom door bang rattled the hanged frames.

Ryul messes his hair, hand going through his scalp. He turns around to his own room. He was spent, completely worn out. The tiles felt cold under his feet as he trudges.

Then he heard it.

Faint continuous beat, the familiar melody ringing in his ears. The two last lines from his verse gets louder.

"I wanted more love, i'll never make the same mistake again" "when I see you, it's always the same reason, baby girl, your face is like art"

He smiles. Did she convince the manager again?

He opens the door, fingers tightly twisting the knob as he closes it behind him. The heavy shuffle of his feet follows immediately, grateful to be freed from earlier's relentless footwork at the gym.

Ryul slides next to you, eyeing your sleeping form with fascination. He whispers, careful not to startle you, "Pretty?"

She stirs, hair sticking to her forehead and the back of her neck. The current heat was bothering, and all she wanted is to just laze around.

She stretches, shifting her body as she meets his eyes. Her arms rests above her head, the other one automatically reaching for his ear. One eyebrow arches, "Why is your ear cold?"

"CEO-nim."

"Huh?"

He sat up, slowly takes off his top and make his way back to the bed as he slide himself on top of you. His broad shoulders, covering most part of yours. It would've been a bother since it was hot, but for some reason, his cold bare torso made it more bearable.

"They made us do drills," he starts ranting, "I thought our faint plan would work but fuck it, it backfired." he sighs while he starts kneading your waist, slow circles around the skin. "And then they made us do ice bath. ICE BATH."

You lifted yourself back to stare at his smushed face on your chest. he looks up to you.

"So that's why you're oddly cold." You chuckled, the vibration making his body relax even more. Just as he reaches up for a kiss, the door creaked, Louis grunts followed after.

"Y'all better not kiss right now." He deadpans, snagging his headphones off the nightstand.

"This is my room." Ryul groans, throws one pillow at the younger boy. You snicker even more at Louis funny face as he walked out of the room.

He looks at you, blinking.

He couldn't help himself but he reaches up, tucking few strands of your hair behind your ear neatly. That cold sensation of his fingertips meeting the tip of your ear. You stop laughing.

"What?" you ask, placing your hand on his cheek and softly rubbing him.

He just shrugs, trying to choose between whether to laugh or be endeared. Your bangs was sticking out in different directions, probably from sweat build up. He just want to pull you closer and kiss the shit out of you, but instead, he decides to be a menace.

"You look like someone who got thin noodles for bangs." he says, cupping your chin as soft giggles escapes from him.

You pulled away, facing the other side, feigning the exact expression you use to wear when he says something stupid.

"Excuse me? It's freshly cut! That's why it's still not behaving...stop being such a hater, Ryul." you cover your forehead, mumbling, "And these are sidebangs, not full bangs."

He laughs, gently swatting your hand away.

"Well it looks like it, can't blame a man for noticing your failed hairdo attempt. You didn't even properly properly clean the sink last night." He takes another strand of your hair, twirling it around.

"Unbelievable." You yeet him out on top of you.

You roll your eyes, attempting to fix your bangs again, and as you try to fix your middle part, you felt him staring again, like he didn't just personally riled you up to push him out of bed.

You snubbed him when he tries to pull you down with him, dodging his arm. You grabbed the scissors and comb next to the hand mirror and hwad towards the bathroom.

When you walked out of the room, he just smiles and follows without even putting on his shirt.

The bathroom was snug, light flickering above you as you face the mirror. He lets out a small snigger, body leaning on the doorframe, and while you wet the comb and brush your bangs, he moves.

He smiles at the sight of you, pulling himself away from the doorframe and stand behind you, grinning like something was funny. You, on the other hand, shots him a look.

"Don't even—" the heat in your voice dies down when he clasped his fingers on yours, taking the comb away.

Ryul turns you around to face him.

Begrudgingly, your body follows, looking at him with an expectation of laughing at you again.

"Whispy, layered or side swept? Choose one." he says with a grin, dragging the comb once.

You blink, eyebrows knitting together.

"Let's fix it." he whispers. His expression, previously teasing, now focused. He follows your face, the subtle pout of your lips, the wide blown eyes, and the soft expression of confusion made him suck one of his cheek. Definitely nothing will make him drop everything like you do.

He places one kiss on your nose, sighing after, "Sorry for my earlier behaviour, baby. You are pretty, no bangs or with messed up bangs."

You open your mouth again to retaliate but he kisses you again, and this time, on the lips.

He whispers, in softness he knows you'll give in, "What do you say, let me fix it...pretty please?"

"Weirdos."

Woojin's voice cuts through. The bathroom door was still open and you could see the two younger boys gagging at you two, while Ohyul just stands behind them with a groggy face, fidgeting his rubiks cube with one hand without a care.

"Jealous? Go talk to ejeh or something."

And just like that, the door shuts close and he's back to fixing your hair problem.

back to masterlist

[kamiflix]

▶︎ Luv Punnani (starring . suguru geto)

synopsis . Your boyfriend gives you a “pussy inspection” content . afab!reader, established relationship, fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), pussydrunk!sugu, eater activities, begging, teasing, etc. (this is a repost from kamitv — if it looks familiar, that’s why)

Your pussy inspecting boyfriend Geto who uses two thick thumbs to spread your drooling folds apart, eager to watch the mess you’re making of yourself slip down along your slit.

Quick with a smile and a low hum of, “Such a messy fuckin’ girl f’me. All wet like this for what?” He’s so mean with the way he teases you, letting his warm breath slap against your parted pussy just to watch the way you twitch.

He’ll let his thumb glide down your opening just to collect the honeyed wetness that gathers against you. Practically drooling himself, his lips part ever so softly and his eyes take in that sexy trickle of wetness slithering against his skin.

"What am I gonna do with you, huh?" He'd whisper mere inches away from your cunt before dragging his eyes upward to get a look at your expression. Yet, to his dismay, you've got your hands over your face. How rude.

Frowning, your boyfriend redirects his attention back down to your hardly touched cunt that's just gushing in sloppy wet arousal. And with a slight cock of his head, Geto lets off a scoff, "Ohhh, I see. She's embarrassed today."

You keep your head all tipped back against the pillows and your hands remain over your face, lips parting with a heavy sigh whilst he shifts one of his hands over just to push his middle finger up along your slit.

"Sugu, you know I hate when you stare." You whine, a sound of which is cut off by that same finger of his slotting deep into your greedy hole with the filthiest squelch simpering into the air.

The smirk on Geto's face widens and he watches the way your pussy leaves his single digit lathered in filth, "Yeah, 'n I hate when you don't stare. You won't even look at me." He hums casually while easing his finger right back in and biting back a groan at how pretty your cunt looks taking just his middle finger.

You whine again. It's so annoying when he teases you like this—barely giving you what you want and staring at your cunt with that starved look in his eyes but never satisfying the desperation you know lays heavily on his tongue. Then he has the nerve to remove his finger from you entirely.

Following this motion with his index holding your lips open just to swat his thumb over your clit and again watch the way your cunt sobs so desperately for further stimulation.

You finally remove your hand from your face and look down at him, "Suguru." You tried to keep your tone as commanding as you could but you can't help the airiness that your voice carries when he's circling your clit so gently with the pad of his thumb.

Those gorgeous violet eyes of his flick up to you and he lifts his head a bit, "Yes, pretty?"

"S-Stop teasing me," You breathe out.

Geto scoffs and you feel his breath fan over your cunt again, "I'm not."

You've got a pout tugging at your lips but you try your best to glare at him and stop the shakiness in your voice, "Yes you are."

His brows raise a bit and he lifts his thumb away from your clit entirely, leaving you twitching a few inches away from his touch. "Oh, so you want me to stop then?" Geto taunts.

"N-No," There goes your whine again, which is quickly followed by a cocky smile from your boyfriend and him readjusting his touch on you.

Geto moves both his hands to your legs and spreads you even wider for him, holding your body in place as he presses his hips down into the mattress a bit more to soothe the throbbing ache of his cock. "Then what do you want, princess? Tell me," He requests all too sweetly.

Just as you open your mouth to reply, he's moving one of his hands back to your cunt again and prodding your entrance with his middle and ring finger. "I—“

"Speak up," Geto cuts off rudely, easing his finger into you again and watching the way your lashes flutter in satisfaction.

"That," You gasp.

Innocently, your boyfriend tips his head to the side as if he hadn't a clue in the world, "What? You're whispering." He tells you, pretending to not have heard you at all.

You roll your eyes a little and end up moaning out your next words due to the rude upward curl of his fingers inside you, "Your fingers-, fuck."

He chuckles at your reaction, "I said speak up, not sing to me."

Then his fingertips begin to rub right against that spot inside he knows drives you insane, feeling the way you gush around him and how deeply your pussy swallows him in.

You tip your head back again and groan, "You're so annoying."

"Even when I do this?" Geto scoffs, finally starting to fuck his two fingers in and out of you, "Does this annoy you too?" He teases, smiling like an idiot in love as he glances down to watch himself work your insides to tears.

Moaning, "Shut upp," You feel him tug his fingers out with a messy wet pop ringing into the air and when you look back down at him, he's already got his own fingers shoved into his mouth—sucking your taste off his skin with his eyes lulling into the back of his skull as he groans.

After his little whorish display, Geto pulls his fingers from his mouth and swats his tongue over his lips to savor your taste. Following all this with a knowing look in his eyes, "Shut me up, c'mon."

Which is how you ended up with your fingers weaving throughout his long messy black hair, his mouth clinging and sucking on your pussy like he was stuck. Suckling your taste deep down into his throat and moaning in between your weeping folds as he held your shaky legs apart.

This was his favorite part of "inspecting" your cunt, really. Y'know, diving in tongue first to feel and maybe taste anything different.

Your nails would scrape against his scalp each time his tongue seared graciously against your gummy walls, dragging your taste all around and into his mouth with his brows frustratedly scrunched up. Geto could never fully understand how sweet you were.

Once his tongue was on you, it was hard to get him off.

And you know this. That's why you keep your hand clinging onto his hair as you moan, "You wanted t-to do this ah, anyway."

Geto's lost by this point and his mind feels as though your taste was the only thing he could fathom properly at this moment. "Mmgh.. mhm." He moans like some slut into your cunt, "Fuck," He only ever breaks his lips away to slur his words out against you, "Gimme more."

"Sugu," You cry out, feeling your legs twitch to clamp around that pretty head of his.

"Louder, pretty girl," He'd grunt, full-on humping the bed as he eats you out. Something about feeling his cock rub so deliciously against the layers of fabric below while he gurgled that honeyed slick from your pussy into his mouth was absolutely blissful.

And then you'd try to get all bossy with him, furrowing your brows and breathily talking to him, "D-Don't tell me what to do while you're—“

"Hmm?" Geto cuts you off again, humming directly into you before lifting your hips up against his face. He was second away from flipping the two of you over because god he needed your pussy dragging all over his face at this point. "While I'm what?" He pants and lifts his mouth away for a second with strings of slick dripping off of his lips, "While I'm makin' you feel good?"

Instead of responding to him, you let out the most obscene sound you think has ever left your throat. To which you slap your hand over your mouth immediately because fuck was that embarrassing.

"Huh?" Geto looks up again and his whole face droops. Eyes growing desperate and tone dripping in need, he ends up whining himself, "Ohhh, don't do that. Lemme hear you."

You just shake your head at him and that only makes a very faint noise dance at the back of his throat. If you weren't so drunk on pleasure, you probably would've been able to catch the whimper he'd let out.

"No?" Geto frowns, holding eyes with you as he presses his lips to your clit, "C-C'mon, please?" Now that was a bit unexpected. Your boyfriend rarely stutters around you. Let alone beg you like this, "Lemme hear you say my name again. Please?"

That's the last plead he lets off before latching his mouth back onto your pussy, lewdly french-kissing the depths of your cunt while keeping his eyes on you. Those violet-shaded eyes were filled with so so much need. You'd have to be a villain to say no to that look.

Hence why you, unexpectedly, end up choking out his name when he dives his whole face in deeper—the bridge of his nose rubbing sinfully against your clit and jaw falling further open just to suck every drop of your arousal into his greedy wet cavern.

"Suguru, ohmygodd," You breathe out, head falling back once more and hand clinging onto his hair for dear life.

You weren't sure if you wanted to push him away or tug him even closer at this point.

Geto groans and you can feel him smile before he pries himself away just to praise you, "Atta' girl," He purrs.

Then your boyfriend quickly shoots a fat wad of spit onto your cunt and talks to (what he likes to call) her, "Now I wanna hear you say my name," He whispers, "Can you do that f'me?" Leaning down to press a kiss into you, just to mix his spit with the overall mess, "Yeah?"

You roll your eyes at his antics, "Sugu, s-stop doing hah-, that—“

Again, your sentence is cut short, this time because Geto's greeted your pussy with a mean slap.

"Shhhh, I can't hear my girl," He scoffs, rubbing those same fingers he'd just slapped you with all over your folds, "What was that, pretty?" He coos.

You wanted to roll your eyes at him again but it was kinda hard to when he starts ogling your cunt's next wave of throbs and twitches.

Smiling now, "Yeahh? You're about to make a mess on me, aren't you?" Geto purrs again, "Go ahead then, lemme see you do it. Put on a pretty show f'me, baby."

And while he's busy talking your cunt through his needy hand motions, you're losing your mind as your orgasm approaches. Back arching up off the bed, a string of moans flying past your lips, and legs shaking against his other palm, "Fuuck."

Geto nods once he quickly readjusts his hand and starts coaxing your orgasm right out of you, diving a rude three of his fingers into you and thrusting them in deep. "Uhuh, jus' like that," He whispers hotly, watching the way you're quick to coat his fingers in that gorgeous mess he was looking for. "Fuck, you're so sexy."

You don't even get a second to recover or breathe because without warning, Geto's snatching his fingers out of you as if he were jealous of them and then planting messy kisses all over your folds. Then he's slithering his tongue out and dragging it all up and down your slit, gulping your orgasm right up and throwing you into overstimulation.

"Sugu!" You gasp, now pushing on his head instead of tugging on it like before, "O-Okay, p-please," Your whines seem to fall on deaf ears for a while because Geto doesn't budge one bit.

He's normally not such a messy eater but right now he was lapping at you like some dehydrated dog and with the third push from your hands, you hear the way he whimpers. You taste so good he could cry--not that he'd ever tell you that...

Instead, he shows you (without the crying, for now) by placing his hands back on your hips and tugging you harder against his mouth. Shaking his head into you, grunting, groaning, and moaning. Geto was a lost man almost every time he ate you out.

And unfortunately for your poor overstimulated cunt, tonight was no different.

It takes you a looong while before you manage to push him off of you and snap your legs shut so that you can breathe. The only reason you were even able to being that he lost a bit of his strength somewhere throughout cumming in his pants.

By this point, both of you are panting and sweating like you'd just ran a damn marathon. Geto's the one to break the silence right after casually wiping his mouth off with his forearm, "So mean." He mumbles, "Pushin' me away like that."

Your words are a bit slow to come out but, you manage. "...You were trying to kill me."

Geto chuckles at your dramatics, "You could've let me continue for a few more minutes."

"I would've died," You shudder a bit, still clearly being ever the drama queen he knows you to be.

With a sassy roll of his eyes, "Just say you hate me." Geto huffs.

"You're so annoying," You reply.

He snickers but leans over to kiss your leg, "I love you."

You're a bit more calm now so you manage a sigh and a smile creeps up on your face, "I love you too, Sugu."

"Right so uh," He moves to scratch the back of his neck, "Round two?"

"No."

banner art by Rororogi Mogera || perm sugu tags (1/2):

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[c1nnam0roll-08]

✧DADDY'S HOME ｡･:*˚:✧｡

✧Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x fem!reader

✧Synopsis: The hot single dad, Toji Fushiguro, needs someone to watch his baby while he goes out on missions. You, the college student down on her luck, needs some extra cash. What was meant to be a strictly mutually beneficial arrangement, quickly gets complicated when the older man can’t keep his dirty thoughts and wandering eyes in check. 

✧Content Warnings: age gap, baby megumi, daddy kink (sorry), oral (f rec), vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, creampie, breeding kink (if you squint), rough sex, running from it, multiple orgasms, squirting, pet names, lowkey abuse of power, dacryphilia (if you squint), masturbation, folding under no pressure, slight canon divergence, Toji is a bum (duh)

✧Word Count: 6.1k (sorry)

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅

The loud bell rings as you walk into the run-down ramen restaurant. You’re already annoyed, getting ready to spend your last bit of money just to eat for the day. You shuffle up to the counter, quietly counting out your spare change when a string of soft babbles catches your attention. 

Glancing around, you search for its source—your heart warms when you lock eyes with the cutest baby you’ve ever seen. He beams at you, all gummy smiles and bright eyes, perched on the shoulders of who you assume is his father. His chubby hand reaches out to you with a wave. You can’t help but smile back at the little munchkin before turning back to the counter to place your order.

“Oh shit- I’m sorry-“ you’re recounting your change over and over only to find out that you’re short a couple hundred yen. “Don’t worry about it- I’ll just go.” you flash the worker an apologetic smile before turning to leave—you bump into a solid chest, letting out a quiet squeal before looking up to excuse your clumsiness.

“Too broke for food?” the man asks, who you quickly realize is the father of the baby who had been ogling you earlier. The child is perched on his hip giggling at you. 

“Uhm- yeah, college tuition, y’know-“ you laugh off your own awkwardness before moving to leave, but a harsh tug on your hair pulls you right back. 

“Heh- sorry about him, just misses his mom I guess-“ the man mumbles, before unlatching his son’s hand from your hair. “Sit down, I’ll get you something.” he says firmly, leaving you no room to protest. 

You reluctantly move to the man’s table and take a seat, mouth watering as you await his return with your precious meal. You haphazardly glance around the run-down restaurant before you settle for watching the horse race on the box TV. You jolt when a bowl of ramen is placed in front of you, your savior moving to sit down next to you. 

“Thank you-“ you hesitate, waiting for him to give you a name.

“Toji.”

“Toji, you really didn’t have to do this.” you say gratefully before digging in, your growling stomach becoming increasingly uncomfortable. 

“Don’t worry about it, It’ll all come back to me soon enough.” Toji says, his eyes locked on the horse race, a ticket in between his fingers. 

A gambler, then.

“What’s his name?” you ask, referring to the smiley baby that’s still reaching for you, wriggling in his dad’s arms. 

“Megumi.” Toji answers, still watching the race before his phone rings. “Sorry, I gotta take this, could you hold him for me?” He quickly hands Megumi over to you before you can even answer, standing up and walking out the building. 

What the hell?

You huff, accepting your fate as you rest the baby on your lap—you practically inhale the rest of your meal while fighting off grubby hands. 

“Your dad is a pretty weird guy, huh?” you ask the baby, not expecting an answer but what else can you do to pass the time? Megumi just babbles in response, bouncing happily on your lap. His black, spiky hair tickles your neck as he pushes off your shoulder to stand wobbly on your knees, looking behind you in search of his dad. 

“Sorry about that, work was calling.” Toji strides back in, sitting next to you again. He rests his face in his palm as he looks between you and his son. Megumi is nuzzling against your shirt, yawning tiredly. “He likes you.” he says simply, gaze never wavering. 

You can only nod as you take in Toji’s striking looks—tired eyes, silky black hair that falls over his forehead, and the scar across his lip. He looks dangerous- hot, but dangerous nonetheless. 

“What do you do for work?” you ask, trying to strike conversation. Toji doesn’t answer right away, clearly thinking before he speaks. 

“Odd jobs.” 

“Hmm- so mysterious for what?” you laugh it off, slightly skeptical about whether or not you should be talking to the guy. 

“What do you do for work?” he counters, voice slightly bored. 

“I was fired. Too busy with school to make it on time for every shift.” you answer, slightly embarrassed but he doesn’t look like the most successful guy either. 

Toji just looks at you, deep in thought as you gently bounce the now sleeping baby in your lap. 

“You need another job?” he starts, like he’s about to offer you something. 

“What kind of question is that-“ you choke on a loud laugh when you remember the sleeping baby on your lap. “I can’t even afford food right now.” your voice back down to a quiet mumble. 

“You wanna watch Megumi for me?” he offers sincerely before elaborating. “I’ll pay you for it—the kid likes you anyways and I have nowhere else to take him, I’ve got a big job coming up.” 

“I’m sorry- but, I don’t even know you. And why would you trust me with your kid?” you’re in disbelief at his bold proposition. 

“Beggars can’t be choosers, I’m sure you know that too.” Toji just huffs, you can tell he’s getting impatient. 

You pause to think for a moment. He is right, you won’t be able to eat at this rate, never mind affording student housing. If Toji pays you enough, assuming you’re watching Megumi for him for a large majority of the time, you could have enough money to get back on your feet—at least until the semester is over and you can work again. But what kind of lousy dad does he have to be to even consider this? 

“Fine. Where would I be watching him, and for how long?” you ask, trying to gauge how much work this is going to be. 

“You can stay at mine or yours, doesn’t really matter to me, just keep the kid alive and well.” He's got a subtle smirk on his face now, looking you up and down. “You’ll have to stop by and get his bottles, diapers, and whatnot anyhow, might be easier to stay at mine but up to you. This job could take a few days.” 

You don’t really want a crying baby in the dorms, the thought of dealing with the complaints and questions is already stressing you out. 

“I guess yours is fine. I’ll need the address though-“ 

“Give me your phone.” 

You sigh before reaching into your pocket, pulling out your shitty flip phone and handing it over. Toji snatches it and saves his number to it, texting the address and handing it back to you—your hands brushing for a moment before you grab it from him.

“Come over tomorrow night, I’m leaving early the next morning.” he grumbles, reaching out to grab his sleeping son from you. 

“Okay, but I have a lecture the morning you leave-“ you start, gently transferring Megumi back into his father’s arms. “I don’t know what I should do with him.” 

“Skip it, or take him with you-“ he pauses to look at his son, a small smile flits across his lips—its barely there, but you catch it. “If he’s tired enough, he’ll sleep through the whole thing. Do what you will with that.” he says, standing up to leave. 

Talk about a crazy job interview.

The following day, you find yourself outside Toji’s sketchy apartment building—trying to convince yourself that this is a perfectly safe and sane thing to do. But in Toji’s words- "beggars can’t be choosers.” you suppose. 

You’re buzzing with anxiety the whole ride up the shaky elevator, clutching on your overnight bag every time it rocks. You make your way down the smoke stained hallways until you’re face to face with Toji’s front door. Bracing yourself to be murdered, you raise your hand to the door and knock. 

The door doesn’t open, only a fleeting shout of “it’s unlocked!” reaches your ears. When you push the door open, you gape at the state of the place. 

It’s cluttered, to put it lightly—dirty dishes are stacked on the counter, tracks of mud on the floor, baby toys scattered across the living room carpet, and loud rock music is blaring from a fuzzy radio. Toji and Megumi are nowhere in sight so you gently close the door behind you, take your shoes off and move further into the apartment in search of your new employer. 

“Toji?” 

You round the corner to the hallway, passing by a couple closed doors until you reach the bathroom—the door is wide open and the lights are on, small splashing sounds and babbles can be heard from inside. 

Toji is bathing the chubby baby with a scowl etched on his face—his sweater is soaked with water and the floor is wet. You can’t help but laugh at the sight until you realize that this is exactly what you’ll be dealing with over the weekend.  

Megumi’s devious behavior is halted the second he sees you in the doorway, that same gummy smile washing over his features. Toji sighs in relief once his son finally stops squirming and splashing—he turns his head to look at you like you were an angel that came to save him from the pits of hell. 

“Thank fuck-“ he groans before lifting Megumi from the water and wrapping him in a towel. “Little miss babysitter is here to take you from me.” he jokes, planting a kiss on his son's wet forehead. 

You hardly get the chance to set your bags down before Megumi is shoved into your arms, Toji already bending to grab your luggage and carrying it off into one of the rooms down the hall. 

“Hey gumi-“ you coo, brushing his wet hair from his forehead. “your dad is leaving you for a while, I guess you’re probably used to that though?” you giggle at your own joke. 

“The kid is fine.” Toji grumbles from behind you, not amused by your comment. “Your shit is in Megumi’s room, there’s an air mattress on the floor for you.” His hand grazes your back, guiding you down the hall. 

The room is expectedly small—Megumi’s crib pushed against the far wall, your mattress clearly cramped inside the tight space. There’s a basket on the floor with the baby’s clothes in it, and beside that is a large stuffed bunny. 

“Awww- you want the bun-bun, Gumi?” the baby in your arms is reaching for the stuffed toy like it’s life or death. “Let’s get you dressed first, okay?” You kneel to set Megumi on the floor before picking a onesie from the basket. 

“I’m going to bed, gotta leave early-“ Toji says from the doorway, eyes trained on your maternal display. “There’s some cash on the counter, should last you for the days I’m gone-“ he pauses again, holding his breath, shocked by the unforeseen tightening of his pants. “Megumi’s formula is somewhere in the cupboards- I’m sure you’ll find it-“ you’re still occupied with his son, giving light nods of your head to let him know that you’re listening. “Make sure to lock the doors and whatnot-“ he trails off, lips parted when you pick up the now clothed baby moving to sit next to the bunny in the corner. 

“Cool, thanks-“ you pause to set down his son next to the plush. “I’ll be careful, I promise.” you’re looking at Toji now, a reassuring smile on your face. “As long as you pay me, I’ll make sure Megumi doesn’t die.” you joke, warm giggles radiating throughout the small room. 

Toji can’t breathe.

“You okay, old man?” 

“Shut up- I’m only twenty-eight.” he grumbles, quickly recovering from his stupor to defend himself. 

“Older than me- heh- you probably wish you were nineteen again.” you’re still giggling, unaware that Toji is trying to shoot his own dick off for having the hots for a damn teenager. 

“Yeah, no- I’m going to bed-“ he rolls his eyes, turning around to leave before saying one last thing. “Thanks for your help, doll.” he says, leaving the doorway and walking down the hall.

“Goodnight, Toji.” you call before he closes his bedroom door.

You nearly have to slap away the heat rising to your cheeks—the pet name caught you seriously off guard. But luckily for you there is a distraction in the form of a babbling baby right next to you. 

“I think it’s time to put you down, Gumi.” you sigh, easily catching on to Megumi’s drowsiness. He’s yawning, cuddling up to the stuffed rabbit, eyelids heavy. 

You pick the baby up, laying him on your chest and start rubbing his back to soothe him. After a few minutes, soft snores reach your ears and drool stains your shirt. You carefully stand up, moving over to his crib and gently lay him down. You let out a breath of relief when Megumi doesn’t stir. You guess Toji’s bit about his son being a heavy sleeper is true. 

A room over, Toji is standing under ice cold water—becoming increasingly annoyed when his erection doesn’t calm down like he had hoped. He groans before reluctantly reaching down to fist his strained dick. For some unknown reason, the nineteen year old babysitter he met yesterday being all motherly to his kid was really reminding him of his year long celibacy. 

Toji would have preferred not to jerk off to a random girl who’s putting his son to bed next door, but beggars can’t be choosers. 

This bounty better get his head on straight before he comes back.

You groan when you awake to loud cries right next to you—Megumi is holding on to the bars of his crib and wailing. You look to the alarm clock on the windowsill- 

4am

“What’s wrong, Gumi?” you’re quick to stand up and hover over the baby’s crib. “Are you hungry or something?” you reach in to grab him, placing the crying child on your hip before walking outside to the kitchen. 

You scour through the cabinets until you find the formula—it’s then that you realize that you have no idea how to make a bottle. You’re gonna have to wake Toji, if he’s still even here? Just as you’re about to make your way over to his bedroom door, Toji walks out and you swear your jaw hits the damn floor. 

That ratty sweater of his must be deceiving because what you’re looking at right now is not what you expected. His tight black compression shirt does little to hide his built frame—highlighting his biceps the size of your head, and the faint outline of his defined abs show through the fabric. You must have been staring for a beat too long because the crying baby breaks the silence with a loud shriek.

“Uhm- I’m sorry I-“ you’re shameless gawking had wiped all thoughts from your head it seemed. “I don’t know how to warm Megumi’s bottle-“ you’re rambling, tripping over your words. “If he’s even hungry-“

“Relax.” 

Toji is making his way to the kitchen before you can even blink—you watch intently as he measures some of the formula before mixing it with warm water in the bottle, he shakes it with his finger blocking the nipple. Then he turns on the tap to the hottest it will go and lets the bottle sit under the steaming water for about thirty seconds. 

“Thank you. I should’ve asked you to show me earlier.” you apologize before taking the bottle from his extended hand. 

“Don’t worry about it.” he says, gaze lingering as you cradle Megumi and bring the nipple of the bottle to his mouth. The baby’s wailing is silenced the second he takes his first big gulp.

“Isn’t he a little old for bottles though?” you ask sincerely, considering you assume Megumi to be about a year old. 

“I’ve been meaning to wean him off of them but it’s just more convenient and less messy.” he answers simply, eyes still trained on you. You hum, moving to sit down on the squeaky bar stool by the counter. 

“Don’t you have an odd job to get to?” you giggle, raising your gaze to look at him, locking eyes. 

“Shit- yea I do-“ your comment snapping him out of his trance. “I should be back in a couple days-“ he turns to look at the time before groaning. “Lock the-“

“Lock the doors, yea, yea.” you finish his sentence for him, prying the bottle from Megumi’s lips and sitting him up in your lap. “Wave bye, bye to daddy.” you take his son’s hand in your own and raise it in a mock wave. 

Daddy. 

Hearing that word from your lips has his pants tightening all over again. You’re trouble. This bounty needs to knock some sense into him. Toji basically sprints out the door without looking back. 

“Damn, guess daddy didn’t wanna wave back.” You joke, looking down at the hiccupping baby on your knee. 

You had managed to sleep for the remaining hours before your morning lecture, believe it or not. And just like Toji said, Megumi dozed for the whole duration of it. You got the odd compliment on his chubby cheeks and a fair amount of questions but it went smoothly for the most part. 

You half expected Toji to be texting you about his son’s well being, but got nothing but radio silence. Not that you’re surprised, although you tried to be optimistic about his parenting. 

Once you get back to Toji’s apartment, you’re relieved by the fact that it’s now officially the weekend. Not that you could party or anything—you’ll be playing housewife, but you find yourself being okay with that considering that you’re warming up to baby Megumi. 

You’re starting to hope that this won’t be a one-time thing, especially if Toji ends up paying you well. You like your little role as babysitter, and the fact that Megumi’s dad is nearly as cute as he is has nothing to do with it, you swear! 

The weekend rolls by with very few hitches. Sure, Megumi had his moments—there were a few diaper mishaps and some dramatic crying but he was well behaved, for a baby at least. 

It wasn’t until “mama” slipped into Megumi’s vocabulary that you started to worry. That was a serious problem—you dreaded the moment he might say it in front of his father when he returned to release you from your duties. You weren’t his mother, and you weren’t involved with his dad either.

You had tried to get Megumi to start saying “dada” instead, but he would always respond with the dreadful “mama”—pointing to you every time. You were just a broke college student filling in as a babysitter for the weekend, but apparently to Megumi you were his long lost mommy. 

By the time Sunday rolled around, you were awaiting Toji’s return. Not that he had given a specific day or time he’d be back, but you had assumed that the approximate time was coming to an end. You had waited all day, tending to Megumi’s needs and playing with him until the both of you were exhausted. 

You had passed out on the couch with Megumi asleep on your chest when Toji finally made it back. You didn’t hear the door open or feel Megumi being lifted off of you. It wasn’t until you heard a small cry of “mama” coming from the hallway that you stirred. 

“Gumi?” you call, voice slightly hoarse. You rub the sleep from your eyes, jolting when the couch dips from the weight of Toji sitting by your feet. 

“He’s in his room. He’s fine.” his gruff voice assuring you of the baby’s safety. 

“What time is it?” you ask, moving to sit up.

“Midnight.” 

“Okay, I guess I’ll get going.” you try to stand up but Toji grabs your hips and sits you back down—with a little more force than you would have liked.

“Don’t bother, it’s too late. You can go in the morning.” he’s looking at you now, holding you in place with his intense gaze. 

Now that you’re really looking at him, you notice a small gash on his forehead—blood drips from the wound, soaking his brow in red. Your face contorts with concern and your hand reaches out before you can stop yourself. 

“What happened?” you ask. You knew that Toji probably had a dangerous job but this is physical proof. 

“Nothing.” he grunts, leaning further back into the couch. 

“Fine. Don’t tell me. But you still need to clean it.” you say, rising to your feet and striding to the kitchen to wet a cloth. 

“M’fine, doll.” he’s insistent as you stand in front of him with the fabric in hand.

“Don’t care.” you lean down to tilt his head towards you. He scowls as you wipe the blood from his forehead—he lets you fuss over him with a strange willingness despite his earlier dismissal. 

His head still isn’t on straight, evidently.

But how could it be when you’re leaning over him— soft tits spilling from your tank top, cleaning his wound with a dedicated focus only a mother could have. 

“Mama, huh?” 

You freeze. Instant embarrassment washing over your body as your face goes blank. You forgot that Megumi had called you that when he was taken from you. This is bad. 

“I- I’m sorry-“ your gentle rubbing on his forehead stops as you stutter out an apology. “I tried to get him to stop saying it-“ you’re buzzing with nervousness, your heart beating far too fast. 

“Don’t blame him-“ his hands raise to rub invasive but comforting circles on the sides of your thighs. “I’d do the same if I had a pretty girl taking care of me-“ he huffs a low laugh. “Gets it from his dad.” his suggestive joke shocks both you and himself. 

If you thought your heart was beating out of your chest before, then you’d be mistaken. 

“Oh, so I’m pretty?” you tease, a small smile flitting across your lips. You continue cleaning his gash with a newfound confidence. 

“Something like that.” he smirks in return, his hands on your thighs moving up to your hips. 

“Watch it, old man-“ you grip his jaw, turning his head to get a closer look at his wound. “I’m just a babysitter y’know-“ you brush some hair away from his forehead. “And you’re a daddy.” you whisper, slightly unaware of the effects resulting from your choice of words. 

“Christ- you can’t say shit like that, doll.” Toji groans, his grip on your hips nearly bruising.

“Huh? Why not? It’s true, you have a kid.” you giggle, still choosing to play innocent. 

“You get a kick out of teasing men a decade older than you or something?” he winces slightly when you pull the rag away from his wound and set it down on the coffee table. 

“Not particularly, but I suppose you’re good looking enough to warrant it.” your heart hammers in your chest as you dare to settle on Toji’s lap. 

Any ounce left of Toji’s self control flies out the window.

“That desperate for me, doll?” he lets you climb on his lap, his hands move from your hips to your waist and squeezes. He has to bite back a groan when your core presses flush to the bulge in his pants.

“Maybe-“ you throw your arms around his neck, voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “But you still haven’t paid me for childcare yet.” you giggle, a nervous smile on your face from your bold musings. 

“You’ll be paid, it just depends on what you’ll take as payment.” Toji’s voice drops an octave with his suggestive comment, looking right into your eyes as he experiments with a slow grind up against your clothed cunt. 

“Mfm- I thought I was getting cash.” you fake pout, leaning your head into the crook of his neck to break the intense eye contact—you didn’t want him to see your flustered face turn red. 

“Mhm- I did say that, but think of this as a tip for your great service.” Toji sinks his fingers into the base of your scalp, pulling you from his shoulder and towards his mouth with a harsh tug. 

Your mouths clash, he wastes no time before he’s shoving his wet tongue down your throat—it’s invasive, it’s dirty. All you can do is yelp in surprise against his mouth, nails running through the sweat slicked hair at the back of his neck. 

Toji’s grip on your waist loosens before he’s moving down to palm your ass, squeezing the fat in handfuls—he’s moving your hips in slow grinds against his painfully hard dick. He pulls away from your lips, a filthy string of saliva connecting your mouths—he’s kissing down your neck, making sure to leave purple bruises in his wake. 

“Shit- I knew having a pretty little thing like you around would be a bad idea-“ he’s breathing against your neck, pausing briefly before licking a filthy stripe up to your jaw. “loving up on my son like he was your own-“ he leaves kisses along your cheeks before pecking your lips.

“Why’d a broke bastard like you buy me food and offer me a job in the same breath-“ you're cut off by your own moan when Toji reaches down to cup your cunt in his large palm. “What was your- mfm- motive, Toji?” 

“Let’s just say I enjoy a good gamble-“ he groans when he feels your slick seep through your pajama pants. “And I knew it was all gonna come back to me-“ his free hand sneaks under your shirt to tease one of your nipples—pinching and squeezing. “In one way or another- heh.” 

You just hum, raising your arms so Toji could take your shirt off—far too horny to dwell on his childish gag and vague motivations. He takes a pebbled nipple into his mouth, suckling on it before biting down lightly. 

“Shit-“ you groan, running your nails through his hair.

You reach into Toji’s pants to free his aching cock, but immediate need washes over you when you see the sheer size of him. Hesitantly, you wrap your hand around his girth (barely encompassing the whole thing) and run your thumb over his glossy tip. 

“Damn, doll-“ his breath hitching as he watched your smaller hand stroke him. 

“Why are you so b-big?” you stutter much to your dismay, Toji’s hand on your cunt suddenly massaging your clit through your pants.

“S’cause I’m a big man, baby.” he says like it’s obvious—which it is, you asked a stupid question. 

He kisses down your sternum, his hands tugging on the waistband of your pajamas—he looks up at you, awaiting permission. You nod, releasing his cock to stand and let him pull your pants and underwear down. 

“Sooo wet, doll-“ he groans as he sucks bruises into your lower tummy, making his way down to your visibly dripping pussy. 

“Fuck-“ you cry out as quiet as possible once Toji takes your swollen clit into his mouth and hollows his cheeks, creating an intense suction that has you weak in the knees. His large hands keep your hips still as you stand in front of him, clawing at his black compression shirt that’s clinging to his sweaty shoulders. 

Loud slurps can be heard coming from between your legs as Toji tortures your poor clit. He grabs the back of one of your knees, pulling it up until your foot rests on the couch cushion next to him—this position reveals the rest of your cunt to the open air, allowing Toji to sink a thick digit inside of you. 

“Oh- what the fuck-“ you whine a little too loud—you’re concerned about waking Megumi until you remember he slept through an entire college lecture. Toji is pumping his finger inside of you at a nearly cruel pace, the suction around your clit never letting up. 

“Keep doing that s-shit and I’ll cum too- ngh- fast!” you feel your tummy tightening with every pound to the spongy spot inside and suckle on your sensitive bud. 

“No such thing as too fast, baby-“ he replaces his mouth with fast flicks of his thumb while he speaks. “And I told you to consider this a tip, remember?” he laughs before diving right back into the mess between your legs. 

“Oh my- god- cumming!” you cry out, hips stuttering, jaw unhinged, and warmth spreading throughout your lower body. 

Toji just groans, slipping a second finger inside of you and nearly doubling in speed. He milks every last second of your orgasm with his superhuman dexterity, catching all of your juices in his greedy mouth. He slaps your ass before pulling away when you start tugging on his hair, urging him to stop. 

“So good for me, doll-“ he places sweet kisses on your raised thigh, rubbing your hips with soothing circles as your lower body jerks a few final times. “pussy tastes so damn sweet.” 

“Please- please fuck me.” you’re panting, but insatiable—desperate to be filled up by the man sitting in front of you. 

“You’re so cute when you ask nicely, baby.” his hand runs back up your thigh, thumb brushing your clit once he reaches the apex. “I wanna hear you ask again.” 

“Please- need to be f-full- please fuck me!” the tight circles on your overstimulated clit abruptly stop, making you whine at the loss. You pout, looking at Toji with confusion.

“I think you’re missing something, doll.” he urges you to try again, you’re already thoroughly embarrassed at this point, so what’s the point in being shy now? 

“Please…daddy?” 

“Ding, ding, ding.” a shit-eating grin overtakes his face—the next thing you know, you’re being thrown over Toji’s massive shoulder and taken to his bedroom down the hall. 

He throws you down, not very gently, on his bed before spreading your legs to look at your sloppy cunt. He admires the view for a few seconds before stripping himself of his blood-stained shirt and pants. 

Your cheeks flush red as you watch him strip—sure, his tight shirt did little to hide his physique but seeing it in the flesh had your poor cunt clenching around nothing. His muscular pecs, sweat glazed abs, and a scruffy black happy trail highlighting his v-line were just appetizers to the main course—the dick nearly the size of your forearm. 

“What if it doesn’t fit?” your horny ignorance from earlier is long gone once he’s on top of you. His cock resting on your tummy, spanning all the way up past your belly button. 

“What happened to all that begging, doll?” he mocks you, gathering slick from your hole and dragging it up to lubricate his dick. “Did the little girl finally realize she should be fucking boys her age and size?” Toji laughs, lining himself up to your cunt and awaiting your verdict. 

“No- no I can take it-“ you cup his face in your hands, bringing him down for a chaste kiss. “Just go slow, please-“ you whisper, hands bracing on his shoulders.

You wince when Toji sinks the first inch inside your tight rings of muscle—the stretch is brutal but you have a point to prove. He spreads your legs further, pushing your knees up to the sides of your tits so he can thrust deeper. 

“So tight, baby-“ he lets out a breath before continuing to plunge in more of his dick. “You gotta let me in, relax.” he lets go of one of your legs to rub at your clit. 

“Mfmm- I’m trying-“ you whimper, grip on his shoulders tightening when he pushes in another brutal inch. He’s so close to bottoming out, he just needs you to go slack. 

“You can do it, doll.” he reassures you, leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss, circles on your clit doubling in speed. He bottoms out with a loud groan into your now slack-jawed mouth. 

“Fuck-“ you can feel Toji nudging your cervix with unrelenting pressure, your walls stretched thin to accommodate him. 

You swear you can feel him in your damn lungs.

“There you go-“ he grunts, rolling his hips into yours with a deep grind that makes you mewl. “Taking daddy’s cock so well.” you nearly swat at him for his use of the title but you don’t get the chance—he suddenly pulls all the way out to the tip and slams back in with a single thrust. 

“Oh- fuck!” you nearly scream, a single glossy tear falls down your cheek when he hits the back of your cunt with inexplicable force. You’re clawing for purchase on his back, legs closing around his hips—not entirely sure if you want him to leave or stay. 

“So pretty like this, doll-“ Toji’s eyebrows furrow in pleasure, the scar on his lip quirks to the side in a subtle smile. “Almost as pretty as when you’re taking care of my- ngh- baby-“ the pace of his deep, long thrusts pick up every time he feels you clench around him. 

“You’re s-so deep, Toji- shit!” you don’t think you’re able to breathe anymore, the constant thuds against your g-spot and cervix are quickly becoming too much. You plant your palms on his hard abs, trying to push him away.

“Nuh uh, none of that-“ he pulls out and flips you flat on your tummy before you can even protest—he forces himself back inside with a single languid thrust. “You wanted it, so you’re taking it, baby.” 

Your cries of pleasure are muffled by the pillow that you’re being shoved into—you’re stuck in a mean prone bone, stuffed to the brim. Toji’s entire body is splayed on top of yours, pinning you down and leaving you nowhere to run. 

“Take it for me, doll.” his hips slap against your ass with every pound to your deepest and most hidden spots inside of you. “You can do that, right?” he asks, kissing the top of your head tenderly. 

“Mhmm! Mhmm- I can, daddy!” you’re cock drunk beyond belief, willing to say anything and everything as long as the coil in your belly releases. 

“Can feel you- ngh- squeezing me, baby-“ Toji knows you’re about to cum and he’s not far behind—he sneaks one of his strong arms underneath your to rub your neglected clit in rapid side to side motions. 

“Oh- fuck! M’cumming!” you squeal, hips fucking back to meet Toji’s rough pounds. You shake underneath him like you’re being exorcised, your hand reaching behind you to claw at Toji’s thigh to ground yourself. 

Your juices spray the sheets wet—Toji’s pelvis isn’t safe from your geyser either. All he can do is groan at how hard you’re clamping down on his cock, whispering sweet-nothings in your ear as you come down from your high. Toji rolls his hips in a few more deep grinds before overfilling your pussy with his sticky cum, staining your insides white. 

“God damn, doll-“ he’s panting against the top of your head, hands rubbing up and down the sides of your waist to help you relax. “you okay?” he whispers, in an effort to be considerate.

“Mhmm-“ you whisper back, nodding your head against the pillow. 

Toji pulls out slowly, eyes locked in a trance as he watches his cum leak out of you in creamy dollops. 

“So pretty-“ he groans, spreading your pussy lips apart to see your hole flutter as more and more of his cum drips down your cunt. He brings two fingers up to your pussy, gathering some of his lost seed and pushing it right back in. 

“Ah- M’sensitive-“ you yelp meekly, propping up your upper body to your elbows. 

“Sorry, baby.” he stands from the bed, leaving the room before he returns with a wet cloth to clean you up. It’s the least he could do after you tended to his wound earlier. 

Toji grabs your hips and flips you over on your back—he spreads your legs and wipes away the mess. He throws the rag away behind his back with a dramatic flair that makes you giggle, leaning down to press one last kiss to your lips.

Wailing.

“Shit- Gumi woke up-“ you move to stand but Toji pushes you right back down, not very gently—as per usual. 

“Daddy’s got it-“ he huffs a knowing laugh and winks at you. He pulls on some stray sweats from the floor before he stops in the doorway. “Would the little miss babysitter stay around for a while?” he asks, looking at you from over his broad shoulder. 

“I don’t know, are you gonna pay me?” you giggle.

“I can’t afford that shit-“ he chuckles in return. “free housing and infinite orgasms should be payment enough, doll.” 

(c1nnam0roll-08 / 2026)

[minkieater]

⋙ hold it down, DARE.

⪼ quarterback!mingi x fem!reader | PART TWO [FINAL] 14.2k ⪼ this is the second half of my very huge and massive installment for @sungbeam ‘s live alive collab ⋆˙⟡ thank you beamie duckie for putting this together! genuinely so happy and grateful to be in a collab beside so many other talented writers, i've met so many wonderful mooties & friends through this whole process, and im so glad to be beside them in such a banger ass collab!!! be sure to check out everyone else's bangers fr ⪼ smut minors dni 18+ | p in v, fingering, dirty talk, you and mingi are both sluts, wooyoung lore, LOTS of cursing, insults, toxic til it's not. i don't want to spoil too much but they're in college so they drink and do college kid shit. if you made it this far thank you so, so much for reading, sorry i had to split it lol, this fic is genuinely my baby and everything i could ever want in my life. i hope you enjoy xoxo

When was the last time you cried? Like seriously, actually bent over and cried real tears into your palms? When was the last time it was at the hands of a man? Did you even have something to cry over?

It was too confusing, you didn’t have the energy to pick it apart while heaved sobs rip from your throat. Was this a release? Too much emotion built up inside, with nowhere to go? The tears began after picking an argument with a still-drunk Yeosang in the car, pointless, yet you still left him to fend for himself while you ran up the steps to your apartment, still fighting to keep the sobs inside. 

Alone in your living room, sitting hunched over on the couch, face in your palms, you cried. 

And cried, and cried, and cried. 

Your phone lights up, sitting face-up on the coffee table, multiple notifications from the square, pink icon that’s been draining your battery all fucking day. You can only imagine what they say, what vile fucking things are waiting for you, all from real accounts, real people who hate you because of Song Mingi. 

Maybe it’s masochism, or maybe you need to keep the release flowing, a devil on your shoulder tells you to unlock your phone and read. You make it through three before your shoulders shake all over again, your phone falling to the floor, you have half a mind to smash the screen so you can’t look even if you wanted to. Curling up onto the couch, you let yourself cry, you sink into the feeling, into the emotion; if you let your brain wander enough, you can still feel his covered palm on your skin, his lips on yours, you can still see his eyes, how he looked at you. So fond, affectionate, so fucking different from any man who has ever looked at you, ever.

There’s a knock at your door, rendering you quiet, sniffing up snot that dared to fall. 

“Hello?” You call out, sounding so unlike yourself you cringe.

Three presses of someone’s knuckles at your door again, you whimper as you push yourself up off the couch to open it. Hand on the knob, you close your eyes, sucking in a deep, grounding breath. You hope you don’t look insane. 

Just as another knock sounds, you open it. Standing with his fist out, he wears a blank face, one that warps into confusion then concern as he looks you up and down. “Are you okay?”

“What the fuck are you doing here, Wooyoung?”

“I came to get my hoodie,” he shakes his head like that was beside the point. “What’s wrong? Are you crying?”

“Have you gotten your eyes checked recently?” You sniff again, wiping at your nose with your bare wrist. It’s clear you’ve been crying, are crying, sounding nasally on top of your appearance, you can’t be bothered to care. “What do you want, for real? I know you’re not here for your fuckass hoodie.”

“I broke up with Winter,” he admits easily, too fucking easily. 

There’s no feeling in your gut, no excitement, no disappointment, there’s nothing. Your face reflects it, shoulders shrugging, free arm flying to say okay? You feed him an irritated laugh, “Congratulations?”

“I broke up with her because I miss you,” he tries again, “she isn’t you.”

His hair is messy, undone. Clothes dark, hanging off him, like he rolled out of bed to come here. You study his face, his mismatched eyes, the dot of espresso that sits on the apple of his cheek. There’s nothing unclear about the way he’s looking at you– there’s the hinge in his jaw, his dilated pupils, his slouched shoulders, deflated. Like he didn’t want to admit it, but here he is. 

“No shit,” you sniff again. “What was the plan? You come here, confess your bullshit to me, I take you back, and we live happily ever after?”

“I’m not going to give you a bullshit speech,” his gaze averts to the floor, “I know you have a boyfriend. I just wanted you to know, I needed to get it off my chest.”

You laugh again, and it’s accompanied by disbelief and shock, but what rings truest is understanding. You lean into your door, still wide open, “You don’t have to lie. She found out, didn’t she?”

He glances up, “You’re the only one who gets it.”

“I’m the only one who put up with it,” you correct him, “those days are over.”

“Why are you crying?” He asks, straightening again. “What happened?”

“Nothing you give a fuck about.”

He takes a step forward, hands reaching out, but he doesn’t touch you. “I care about everything that involves you. What happened?”

You hold his stare, your jaw locking. Familiarity, routine. Pattern. 

“If I asked you,” your voice comes out shaky, you clear your throat, “to fuck me, would you do it?”

“You have a boyfriend–”

“Would you fucking do it?”

His hand wraps around your jaw, searing your skin, lips smashing onto yours like he was fucking waiting for it. It’s blinding, dizzying how he pushes you backward, kicking the door shut behind him, lips rough and tongue taking, your mind shuts off in a second’s time. Muscle memory kicks in, Mingi’s jersey on the floor, mini skirt hiked up to your waist, panties pushed to the side, this is it. This is everything.

This is all you’ll ever get, and you’ve made peace with it.

“Are you coming tomorrow?” 

Inside, at the very edge of the tunnel, tucked off to the side to avoid lingering eyes, Mingi’s vibrating with excitement, he can’t believe Winter is here and wearing his fucking jersey. He was already excited because they won their game; even if he knew they’d win and it was no surprise to him, Mingi played such a perfect game he was high off adrenaline, off arrogance, like absolutely nothing could go wrong. 

“Of course,” her back is against the wall, her head tucked right under Mingi’s outstretched arm. She wears a cute, dainty smile, almost innocent, it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. He has to fight his instinct to not tell her about the life he’s imagined for them. “I broke up with Wooyoung, by the way.”

This might be the best day of his fucking life.

“I’m… sorry?” He eases a smile, one that turns into a full-fledged grin when he sees how Winter smiles back.

She giggles, “Don’t be sorry. That night at the bar, she was right.” Winter bites her lip and Mingi wishes he could bite it for her. “Will she be there?” She asks, “Your girlfriend?”

“Huh?” Mingi’s brows furrow, then he remembers the bar, and then a picture of you in his passenger seat rushes through his mind. “Oh. I don’t know, I haven’t talked to her yet.”

“I saw her in your jersey,” she tilts her head to the side, a manicured nail between her teeth, “unfair, she gets the real one, and I’m stuck wearing this.”

“Not for long,” it rushes out of his mouth before he can think about it. He chuckles, nervously, “I mean, like, things aren’t really that great between us right now.”

“Oh, really?” Her brows lift in soft surprise, “She seemed kinda… mad, when she saw me in this. I told her I’m a huge fan, but she didn’t seem to like that answer. Does she get jealous often?”

Mingi’s brows furrow, head cocking to the side. Jealous? Mad? 

“What do you mean?”

She giggles, a hand covering her mouth, “I don’t want to paint her in a bad light, or make you guys argue or something.”

“We won’t,” he pulls his arm back to his side, sounding assured, “tell me.”

“She asked me why I was wearing your jersey,” she looks down at her shoes, then back up to him, “she looked really mad, Mingi, like she was seconds away from ripping it off of me or something. I was kinda scared.”

“Huh,” he looks away, he isn’t sure where. You were already acting off when you came down to the field, he could feel it, he could see it on you. How you forced a smile on your face, faked laughter, looked like Lucifer had come to pull you back down to Hell before he kissed you. 

For some reason in his stupid fucking mind, he thought kissing you would make it better. That you’d laugh, call him an asshole, brush it off like it was nothing– selfishly, he wanted it to make it better, he wanted to be the reason why. He wanted to see your smile, the real one, not that fake shit you were putting on so no one would shoot you a second glance. 

You looked like he hurt you instead. He supposes it’s time to break up anyways, if the conversation he’s currently having is any indication, there’s no real reason for you to be together anymore if everything had already worked out. But fear lingered, in the way you looked at him, in how you jumped away from him like he burnt you, it stuck heavy in his mind, scared that you wouldn’t be friends after this. He’s afraid you’ll never speak again. He’s terrified you’re the first real friend he’s ever made.

“I’m okay, though,” she brushes a hand on his chest and he doesn’t like how it feels. “She left me alone after that, that’s why I waited until she left to come see you.”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he’s speaking, not thinking. “And no, she doesn’t do that often, I don’t think she’s feeling well today.”

Should he not have kissed you? Did that make everything worse? Did he cross a line, for real?

“I hope she feels better,” Winter smiles, showing off the pearly white teeth hidden behind her glossy lips, “are you doing anything tonight?”

“Yeah, I– um,” he looks around again, moving backward so her hand falls from his chest. Are you mad at him? Should he apologize? “The team is going out to celebrate tonight, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, you deserve the celebration for how well you played. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” it’s mindless, absent. 

He walks back to the locker room with furrowed brows and tunnel vision. Opening his locker, pulling out his phone, he doesn’t even take his jersey off before texting you. 

mingi: were having a party tomorrow at the house to celebrate mingi: if u wanted to come mingi: and im sorry for kissing u mingi: idk if i shoulda done that mingi: im sorry mingi: if u want we can break up tomorrow at the party mingi: a lot of people will be there

You stare at the pictures Yeosang sent you. Minutes go by, maybe an hour, you aren’t sure, but you’ve zoomed in on every inch of each picture, and the looming cloud of dread won’t dissipate for shit. You weren’t imagining how he looked at you, how he held you, it was eternalized in pixels on your screen. 

The more you stared, the more you hated it. 

“What’s that?”

You lock your phone, throwing it on the nightstand beside you. “Can you get the fuck out already?” 

He smacks his teeth, “We haven’t had a sleepover in so long, why so mean?” 

“I don’t like you,” you finally turn your head to see him. Eyes low with sleep, dark hair frizzy and sticking out in every which way, shirtless, littered with marks you’ve never been allowed to give him before. “I don’t want you here.” 

“Then why’d you let me stay?” 

“Because you did me a favor,” you run your hands over your face, rubbing at your swollen eyes, “but I have to prepare to break up with my boyfriend tonight, so unless you’re helping me come up with a plan, go.” 

“Just tell him you cheated,” he shrugs, and when you look at him he’s wearing the nastiest of smirks. “Worked for me.” 

“You didn’t even tell me, you fucking asshole,” reaching over, you smack him dead in his chest. “Get out of my apartment.” 

He laughs, slowly sitting up, giving you a pretty view of his spine, the tattoo that sits at the top, the muscles in his shoulders. You hum, head tilting as you stare, he really is pretty. You missed the sight. He turns his head halfway, “Have a smoke with me before I go.” 

You keep your eyes glued to him for a moment, his eyes peeking over his shoulder, he’s still shamelessly naked in your bed. So many things, Jung Wooyoung is, but most of all a complexity you don’t think you’ll ever fully understand. 

You sigh, soft, pleasant, almost. “Okay.” 

On the balcony, you’re in Mingi’s jersey you picked up from your living room floor, the first thing you saw when you realized you needed something on your body to go outside. He’s across from you, boxers on his hips, shirtless, comfortable. Always comfortable with you. 

He turns around to face you while your lips wrap around his cigarette, a Marlboro Red, he takes a second to watch you. His eyes don’t follow the smoke as it leaves your lips, they stay on you, analyzing, thinking. 

“What’s up with you?” He finally asks. “Don’t bullshit me.” 

Face going unchanged, you respond, “I think I like him for real.” 

He stares a second before breaking out in laughter. Hand clutching his stomach, his brows furrow, “So you slept with me because you like your boyfriend?” 

“I slept with you because you’re the opposite of him,” you reach out your arm, two fingers sliding the tobacco into his, “he freaked me out. He kissed— kisses me like he cares about me.”

“I don’t kiss you like I care about you?” 

“You kiss me like you’re saving the nice shit for her,” you huff, craning your neck, stretching your aching muscles. You really went too long without getting laid. 

Wooyoung’s brows wiggle, shoulders shrugging as he brings the cigarette up to his lips like he couldn’t argue with you even if he tried. “You don’t make sense.” 

You sigh, turning to face the balcony, the neighborhood below. So quiet, it was busier closer to campus; here, it was nothing but peace. Warm, not quite humid yet, a clarity in the air you haven’t felt in so long, you let the sunshine beat on your skin, the kelly-green polyester covering it. 

“You don’t need to understand,” you reach out your fingers, he places the cigarette between them. “Being with him is too much exposure, too many eyes on me. You should see my Instagram DMs.” 

“Bad?”

“Worse than bad.” Tilting your head, blowing smoke from your lips, you ask, “Wanna come with me tonight?” 

“To watch you break his heart?” 

“Something like that.” 

“I’m game,” he takes a step toward you, leaning over the balcony, shoulder touching yours. “Did you know Winter has a thing for him?”

“Yes,” you laugh a little, “you’re late to figuring that one out.” 

He stayed until the cigarette burnt down to the filter, shoving it in the ashtray you bought and kept on the small table in the corner, solely for him. You stayed on the balcony for what felt like forever after he showed himself out— sitting with yourself and your thoughts, flooded with Mingi, the inevitable end a part of you had begun to think might not actually come. 

FIFTH OUTING: THE BREAK UP, FOOTBALL HOUSE. 10:21 PM

Mingi has always been grateful for his height. It’s helped him tremendously, helping his mother much smaller than him, in football, with women. He remembers being a kid and being giddy about holding the caboose of his class’s line because he was the biggest. 

He thinks he’s never been more grateful than he is right now, facing Seungmin, looking over his brown head of hair clearly, effortlessly— you, in his living room, dancing like you didn’t give a fuck. Hair let loose behind you, your top clinging to your body like it was painted on, jeans hugging your swaying hips in a way that made him jealous of black denim. 

You greeted him like you weren’t here to break up with him, a soft hey rolling off your tongue, cheeks already flushed with liquor, shoulders already slouched. Mingi put his beer down on a table littered with empty bottles and hasn't once thought about picking it back up. 

You told him he looked good, apologized for his jersey smelling like cigarettes, which made him quirk a brow in confusion, but he forgave you in the same breath with a little laugh as you stumbled over your feet. 

Drunk. Cute. 

You didn’t mention the kiss, didn’t mention breaking up, you didn’t mention anything that happened in the last twenty-four hours. Mingi wasn’t going to remind you, not when you’re blissfully boneless, a smile permanently etched onto your cheeks, there wasn’t a line in your face to be seen. No worries, no stress, no anger, unaware like it was purposeful. You seemed like you needed it. 

“Hello? Mingi?” 

He blinks into focus, eyes back on Seungmin before him who wore furrowed brows and tilted jaw, staring at him expectantly. 

“Sorry,” he laughs a little, jutting his chin in the direction of you, making Seungmin turn his head. “Look at her.” 

“You’re sick,” Seungmin looks only for a second before turning back to Mingi whose eyes are glazed over, the younger man’s face rendered flat. “Obsessed.” 

Mingi giggles like he’s proud of it. No denial, no rebuttal, he thinks he might be, just a little, maybe infatuated was the better word. Especially since you’re not mad at him. The nerves he’s felt from last night leading up to when you walked through the door of the football house were full-bodied, eating at every vein below his skin, every organ felt like it wasn’t working right. 

You answered his texts, which should have eased him at least a fraction. 

princess: i kissed you back did i not princess: moron princess: ill be there  princess: and im breaking up with you btw

He couldn’t figure out a response, mostly because a huge part of him wanted to stall breaking up, but he couldn’t figure out why. Or he wouldn’t let himself, he should say, because the answer was staring at him in the fucking face: he likes you. He knows he does, Yeosang’s show confirmed it, forced it to the front of his mind, a life-altering observation— he’s so fucked. 

This is an arrangement. An even exchange, he gets Winter, you get whatever the fuck your plan with Wooyoung is. It dawns on him that he’s never even asked, there are so many things he wants to ask, so many things he wants to say, he doesn’t have enough time to say them. You made it clear yesterday that you wanted to break up. 

“Go get her,” Seungmin huffs, “I know you want to.” 

“I don’t dance,” Mingi looks at Seungmin like he’s crazy.

“Why else did you ask Woozi to DJ then?” 

“Fair.” 

Seungmin turns on his heel, toward the kitchen, maybe. Mingi takes one step before he stops in his tracks, eyes blowing wide, body running ice-cold. 

Like a shadow, he was at your back, hands on your hips, smiling like he was supposed to be there. Like you were allowing it. You clearly were, head tilted backward, smile wide as a laugh he couldn’t hear rolled off your lips. God, Mingi can’t even say his name— he’s a roach, a fucking rat that’s lingering around Mingi, waiting for the opportunity to give him diseases or something. 

He finds his feet moving, not aware of himself body slamming people who were minding their own damn business, certainly not aware of the anger that hung in the hinge of his jaw, in his clenched fists. He pulls you by the wrist, your name on his tongue, you barely notice. Hazy eyes finally landing on him, your smile widens, sparkles in your eyes shining brighter, your fingers tighten in the fabric hanging off his shoulders. “Mingi!” 

He eyes Wooyoung over your head, face flat, unimpressed, pissed off. Wooyoung’s smirk is cynical, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing, what’s happening. Mingi feels left out and he doesn’t fucking like it. 

“Where have you been?” You’re whining, head tilted to the side, lips pouty even if your body sinks into him more than it ever has before. You’re drunk. 

Mingi eyes dance over to Riyo and Jia, two of your friends, he thinks those are their names. One red-haired and wide-eyed, body rigid with fear as she meets Mingi’s gaze, the other dark-haired and panicked like she was already searching for a distraction, a way to get you out of this situation. 

Wooyoung speaks up before Mingi can get a word out, “Did you two break up yet?” 

Yet. His jaw clenches. Riyo and Jia turn confused. 

“We’re not breaking up,” Mingi responds, “fuck are you talking about?” 

“I need another drink,” you turn around, back leaning into his chest, laying your whole weight on him as your arms reach down to his thighs, palms splayed flat over denim for purchase. “Can we go find cutie Kai? He’ll get me one.” 

He can’t even focus on your hands on him, how mindless you are, he’s so fucking irritated. He ignores you, asking Wooyoung again, “The fuck are you talking about?” 

Wooyoung’s brows raise, smirk growing like he was about to drop a bomb. “Interesting, that’s what she told me this morning,” he takes a step closer to you, “right, baby?” 

“Huh?” You ask, body swaying, Mingi uses two hands on your waist to keep you steady. 

“You’re breaking up with Mingi,” Wooyoung repeats, “that’s why we had sex last night. Right?” 

Sorry if your jersey smells like cigarettes. 

He pushes you forward like you fucking burned him, just enough for you to fall into Wooyoung’s chest instead. Jia and Riyo are side-by-side, watching everything unfold like it was a train wreck they couldn’t look away from. 

“Wait,” hands braced on Wooyoung’s chest, you turn around, eyes wide and lips trembling. “Hold on a second.” 

Wooyoung pulls you into him, arms slithering around your torso like he knows every inch of your body. It makes Mingi sick, or it would if he could feel anything, his body’s numb like it didn’t belong to him anymore. 

“You fucked him?” His voice is pitched like he didn’t believe it. “He cheated on you,” Mingi feels like the three of you are alone, like this isn’t a party full of one hundred something people. “Twice.” 

“I know—”

“Then what, you don’t give a fuck?” His voice is raised, he doesn’t care. “What the fuck was the point then, huh? What the fuck was the point if you were just gonna go back to him?” 

Wooyoung cocks his head, “The point of what?” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Mingi blurts, “I’m not talking to you.” 

“Mingi,” your jaw drops, “I don’t—”

“You couldn’t wait?” Mingi asks, “Couldn’t at least have the decency to break up with me first before running right back to him?”

“I’m sorry!” 

The apology off your lips makes him stand straighter. It’s pleading, like you’re just asking him to be quiet, to stop, but it seems to screw his head back on his body, his consciousness forcing itself back into his six-foot build with vengeance. 

You call after him as he turns around, walking away as quick as he can, fingers tapping at his sides just to remind himself he has them. This can’t be real, he’s gotta be dreaming, there’s no way in hell that just happened to him. 

Is he just gonna leave you with Wooyoung? Drunk as you are? Is that why you’re so fucking hammered in the first place? You seemed so comfortable in his hold, Mingi wonders if that was you or the alcohol, he could see it in your eyes, the fear of being caught. The confusion, like you didn't understand why Mingi was so angry. 

You probably didn’t. You probably thought he wouldn’t find out, because why would he? You were supposed to break up tonight, be done with each other. A chapter closed. Mingi feels like turning on his heel and pulling you away from him, just to ask you every fucking question he’ll never have the chance to. 

He feels like apologizing. 

He feels like confessing. 

But he’s so fucking pissed he bullies into the kitchen instead, eyes on alert, searching for something he can’t place, anything that will rid him of this dirty fucking feeling. 

It’s full circle, he thinks, as his eyes land on Winter. Sitting on the counter, two guys in front of her, clearly chatting her up. 

Nah. 

Forcing a smile when he gets close enough, his voice carries a warning to the two unnamed, no-faced men. “Hey, beautiful.” They scatter. 

“Should you be calling me that?” She teases, hands gripping the edge of the counter, leaned forward, feet kicking where they hung. Hair pulled up, tiny top, little shorts, she looked bare-faced, natural. Pretty. Good enough. 

“I can’t be honest?” A cocky smirk, a character he hates playing. Approaching her pinned knees, they open, letting him step between them, he takes the silent offer. 

“You can be honest,” she nods, batting her lashes. “But I would rather you be mine.”

He has to force the twinge of disgust out of the back of his throat, tasting like coke-drip and disappointment. He didn't feel this way talking to her last night, Mingi blinks at her before a slow chuckle rolls off his lips. “Smooth.”

“Vodka makes me bold,” she shrugs, winking. “Problem?”

This could work. He could make this work. He has to make this work, actually. “I’m supposed to be the bold one,” he hums, palms landing on her bare knees, so soft beneath his burning skin. Her eyes drop to where their skin meets, but she makes no move to stop him. 

“I didn’t think you were available enough to be,” her eyes flicker upward, “do you have good news for me?” 

He nods, “You won’t believe it, actually.” 

Her brows furrow, smile faltering a little. “What?” 

“Don’t worry about it, nevermind,” Mingi shakes his head, “we don’t have to talk about her, we can talk about us now, finally.” 

They talked. And talked, and talked and fucking talked, Mingi heard every other word, something about her classes and school-air fucking up her makeup. Something about Wooyoung, he thinks, he tuned out after he heard that godforsaken name. Mingi didn’t really care, he wanted to kiss her, to fuck her, he hoped you’d find out and feel as shitty as he did right now. 

The tips of Winter’s sandals toyed with his pants, his hands planted on the counter, on either side of her thighs. He was so close to scoring he could taste it, this was the right outcome, the whole purpose. This is what he should have been focused on the entire time. 

“Bro,” Jaemin snaps him into focus, a pest at his side, a hand on his shoulder. “Your girlfriend’s on a table.” 

“Not my girlfriend,” Mingi shoves his hand off, but then the words sink in. He cranes his neck, “A table?” 

“She’s dancing on a fucking table,” Jaemin confirms, laughing like it’s funny. Like you aren’t piss-drunk and surrounded by people who don’t care about you. 

Mingi doesn’t even look at Winter again before he’s moving. Rushing past bodies, physically moving them out of his way as he follows the sound of cheering into the dining room, he can see you over everyone’s heads. No, this is full-circle, he thinks for just a moment at the entryway, here you are, in his dining room where the plotting truly began, where Mingi first lost his mind over the girl he could give two fucks about right now. 

Dancing, swaying your hips to whatever song is playing, something pop with heavy bass from the early two-thousands, it’s deaf on his ears. Arms above your head, smile absent, eyes absent, you aren’t even in your fucking body and everyone surrounding you is cheering you on. Mingi’s sick and he can feel every tapered edge of it. 

Bodies are glued together, phones out, he smacks two out of the air as he forces his way past. He spots Jongho and Yeosang, the only two trying to get you down, arms reaching out in caution, faces stressed beyond what they should be at a party. 

Mingi meets the edge of the table and he catches Wooyoung out of the corner of his eye, standing up against the wall, watching, smirking. Like he was loving every second of this. Like you wouldn’t want to rip your fucking hair out when you wake up tomorrow. Somehow it pisses him off worse that he’s watching you like this was reality TV, as if you’re not a real person, someone he slept with last night. He shivers. Rage runs deep.

“Mingi!” Jongho yells across the table, “Thank god you’re here, please get her down.” 

Bare feet— where the fuck did your shoes go? Hair stuck to you, shirt splotched with wetness, probably liquor, maybe worse. There’s bottles on the table, grinders open and full of weed, puddles of water, beer, solo cups from a game of pong. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, panic, like he was responsible for you, for this. 

“Get down,” his voice stands out amongst the music, the cheers. Louder, heavy with direction, order. Like he’s on the field. 

Your head spins in every direction like you weren’t sure where the sound came from. Even now, irritated and shocked beyond belief, he softens at the sight of you. “Please, baby, get down,” his voice is layered with worry as you finally meet his gaze, eyes glossed over, smile lazy and gone. Holy shit. 

“You’re mad at me,” you drop down to your knees, pouting, fuck this table big enough to seat half the goddamn team, stopping him from pulling you away from each and every pair of eyes. 

“No I’m not,” he shakes his head, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “I’m not mad at you, I just want you to come to me.” 

On all fours, you start crawling across the fucking table, a lazy grin taking over like you didn’t have any eyes on you, so unaware that Mingi’s anxious. Head tilting, a split of consciousness entering your vision, you ask, “You want me?”

He swallows, nodding, a palm reaching out for you, “Yeah, I do.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a shadow of black leaving the room. He doesn’t look, keeping his eyes on you, each agonizing second of your arms and knees pushing you forward, not a semblance of haste to your movements. 

You reach out your arm when he’s close enough to grab your hand and he pulls you the rest of the way, hearing the slick sound of black denim sliding against shiny oak, he isn’t fucking thinking as he bends at his knees and throws you over his shoulder. You yelp, body deadweight over his back before your legs bend up in front of him, bare feet covered in a layer of grime, wet and sprinkled with god knows what. He sighs. 

“Put me down!” You yell, your tiny hands flat against his back, pushing yourself up. 

He turns, one arm holding your legs down, hauling you out of that room faster than he’s ever sprinted down a field. He spots Kai across the living room, a head of blonde hair standing tall over the crowd, the only face easy to spot at his full height. 

“Huening!” He shouts. Kai’s brows furrow when he sees him, bending into bewilderment when he sees you over his shoulder. “Get me my keys.”

“You drink?”

“Get me my keys, Kai.”

He feels you smacking his back, yelling something unintelligible as he hauls you through the living room, through the front door, the air outside no fucking relief to the sweat forming at the base of his spine. Down the lawn, to his car that’s parked at the edge of the street, he puts you down on the hood with a muddled grunt from the back of his throat. 

You lay back as soon as your ass meets steel. Eyes closed, head turned to the side, your arms straight out on either side of you, you heave a breath and mumble, “I’m s’fucking drunk.”

Mingi didn’t realize he was out of breath until he leaned into the side of the car, elbows resting on the roof plate. He laughs, a small one, full of disbelief and utter shock. “No shit.”

“You called me baby again,” your eyes peek open to point at him with a weak, bent arm, “you were nervous.”

Mingi feels seen. He squints, “You were gonna fall off the table, I had to get you down, of course I was nervous.”

“You like me,” you sing, arm falling back down to the steel with a smack, dopey grin on your cheeks. “You like me for realsies.”

Mingi snorts, pulling his arms off the roof of his car to step to the side, palms landing on the hood to lean forward. Your hand sways through thick air before your fingers wrap loosely around his wrist, “I like you too, even though you’re kind of rude.”

He wills his heartbeat calm. “You think I’m rude?”

“You’re so rude,” the words slur together, his lips tighten at the sound. You open your eyes again, “Wanna fuck on the car?” 

Mingi cracks a laugh, a belly laugh he couldn’t hold back, “What the fuck?”

You laugh with him, loud and obnoxious, the arch of your back lifting off the car, head turning to the opposite side before it snaps back to look at him. “Just a question,” you sing again, “jus’wonderin’.”

“Can I ask you a question?” He waits for your slurred mhm. “Did you really fuck Wooyoung?”

You suddenly frown, “Yeah, he caught me at a real vulnerable time. Do y’know what vulnerable means?”

He shakes his head, “Yes.”

“Means exposed. He caught me crying ‘cus you kissed me and you were nice and your Instagram army was calling me crazy shit.” Your eyes open all the way, “They’re wild on there, did you know that?”

“People are messaging you about me?”

You choke on a laugh, “So many people.” 

“Let me see–”

You scoff, “Fuck no.”

“Song!” 

He hears Kai shout from the tip of the lawn, Mingi turns and Kai throws his keys across the green, landing perfectly in Mingi’s palm like he aimed for it. “Thanks,” he yells back up, and Kai nods once before turning back inside. 

“Can you get up on your own or am I putting you in the car?” He receives nothing but a groan in response, a turn of your head in the opposite direction. He sighs. “Come on, you can’t even sit up?”

You turn your head back to him, “Why’d you kiss me?” 

“Because I wanted to,” he says it like it’s obvious. 

“They’re gonna kill me for it,” you grumble, “they’re gonna kill me and it will be your fault.”

“No one’s killing you–”

“Did you like it?” You’re blinking at him, knees opening and closing like you needed to move to remind yourself you’re conscious, "Kissing me?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow when you’re so–”

“Tell me now.”

Mingi sighs, taking his eyes off you to look at the trees across from the football house. Tall, shadows filling space between them, calm. The music inside is muffled, bass still vibrating the ground beneath his feet. The confession sits heavy on his tongue. Fuck it. 

“Yeah I did,” he says it in one breath before he looks down at you again. Your brows are upturned, a pout on your lips, watching him until you hear what he says, then you smile. 

“Yay,” the word is light, cute. Then you look as if reality snapped back into you, “Damn, I probably shouldn’t have fucked him, huh?”

Mingi snorts as he walks around the front of his car, grabbing you by your wrists one after another, pulling you upward. “No,” he says, shaking his head, but his smile stays, “you shouldn’t have.”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, then bring your hand up to your forehead, groaning. “Fuck, ‘m dizzy.”

“I’m taking you home.” He scoops you off his hood, an arm curled under your knees and another holding your back until he’s got you next to the passenger door, letting your feet touch the grass beside the curb. Opening the door, one hand still on your waist, he says, “Get in.”

Your body is a mess of tucked angles as you quite literally fall into his passenger seat, Mingi has to fasten your seatbelt for you when he finally gets in the driver’s seat. You smell like liquor, cigarettes, sweat– he rolls the windows down and you stick your head out like a dog. 

Twenty minutes to your apartment, no music, just Mingi and his thoughts. He thinks about her, his first girlfriend after he started becoming known, how the long-term relationship ended so soon after going public. Comments, DMs on every platform, it didn’t matter what revisions she made to her social media, the words still made it to her eyes, her ears. Nasty, disgusting, vile words and not one of them was true, Mingi hasn’t spoken to her since they broke up. She hates him, down to his core because of something he had no control over. It’s what put his wall up in the first place, made of brick, of steel, a wall so thick it didn’t let any emotion in, only desire. 

He can’t imagine what’s sitting in your phone. Terror lives in his grip on the steering wheel, white-knuckled, bottom lip tight between his teeth, brows furrowed in thought, in remorse. He didn’t think you’d be affected by his status since your relationship was fake, an oversight, one he regrets already. 

“You awake?” He parks just outside of your apartment, but your head doesn’t move off the window frame. 

“No.”

He reaches over, unbuckling your seatbelt, “Come on, drunkie.”

You moan something belligerent, picking your head up slowly, the seatbelt going over your head, stuck around your arm. Mingi can’t help but laugh as he rolls the window up, turning off the car, he expects to have to haul your ass inside. You let him, deadweight in his hold, your bare feet crossing over one another with each step, all the way up to the second floor. Thank god your building has an elevator.

“Key?” He asks. You point to the mat on the floor, eyes half open. He flattens his lips. “Yeah, we’re gonna have to change that.” 

You stand on your own long enough for him to get the door open, and he’s on alert this time, taking in his surroundings. The last time he was here he didn’t walk past the threshold, but now that he’s in, he can smell you everywhere. A large mirror next to the TV surrounded by plants, a tall lamp in the corner, a cozy couch set cream-colored. A coffee table filled with books, an unlit candle and his jersey thrown over it, your apartment screamed comfort, peaceful. 

His eyes squint at the Lego sets under your TV. An open shelved media console, a polaroid camera, a record player with flowers, a starry night painting, all Legos, it’s all he could pick out until you start moaning and groaning again.

“Uh-uh,” he grabs you by the wrist when you start making for the couch, “your ass is taking a shower. Where is it?”

You gasp, staring down at your feet, wrist limp in his palm. Your toes wiggle as you ask, “Where are my shoes?” You look back up at him wide-eyed, “I had shoes on, didn’t I?”

“I’ll find them at the house tomorrow,” he pulls you closer by the wrist, “come on, drunkie. Shower time.”

“I don’t like that nickname,” your top lip lifts, “you have better ones. Why are you here?”

“To get you into bed,” he starts leading you toward the entryway to his right, a small walkway he can only pray holds a bathroom at the end. “You smell like a brewery.”

You smile, following behind him like this was his apartment and not yours. There’s movie posters, framed paintings, decor on your walls he stores for later as more questions come to mind. He notes how clean and sophisticated you decorated, minus the closet door left open with clothes strewn about like you tore it apart before going out tonight. The bathroom tucked in the back corner is worse, makeup scattered across the vanity, pairs of shorts and underwear littered the white tile, you didn’t seem to mind as you walked in right behind him.

“Do I have to?” You sit on the closed toilet, back bending over the tank, head hitting the wall with a thump. 

He opens the shower curtain, turning it on, heating it up instead of answering. You giggle, more of a single sound of amusement, legs spread out in front of you, body molded to the shape of the toilet.

“Fine,” your grumble is somehow still amused, and Mingi swears it takes five whole minutes for you to stand up, toying with your skinny studded belt as your feet stumble over tile, fingers missing the prongs like you couldn’t get a grip.

He sighs again, sitting down on the toilet instead, “C’mere.”

Your hands find his shoulders for purchase, standing between his legs, body still swaying. He steadies you with two hands on your thighs and you lean into him, his touch, voice filled with pleased confusion, “You’re being nice to me.”

“I want to be nice to you,” he glances up at you, face flushed, eyes low, hair a mess. So vulnerable, a new word in his dictionary, to see you like this, for you to act this way in front of him. He wonders how much of it has to do with the messages in your phone. 

“Nice is scary,” you whisper as he starts undoing your belt, pushing the prongs out of leather, your grip stays tight on his shoulders. “You scared me when you kissed me.”

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he pulls leather through the loops of denim, throwing it on the floor. “Button?”

You nod, body swaying again, he holds you upright with his fingers tucked in the hem of your jeans. “No one has ever kissed me like that before,” you’re still whispering like you’re telling him a secret. He looks up after getting your zipper down, seeing your glassy eyes, your dilated pupils. Pretty. 

“I think that’s how you should be kissed,” the answer comes quickly, easily. Honest. 

Your hands find the hem of your top, pulling it over your head, throwing it to the floor beside you. He fights to keep his eyes on yours. Your forearms sit on his shoulders this time, finding them like magnets as you flip your hair over your shoulder, out of your face. He swallows, breath catching in his throat, “You should get in the shower, don’t waste water.”

“You didn’t like me when you met me.” It’s not a question, but an observation. A memory. 

He counters, “You didn’t like me either.”

“You were an asshole.”

“You’re sober enough to get in the shower–”

“What changed?” You ask, words sounding fragile, like you were scared of the answer.

“Everything,” he smiles halfway, leaning back an inch. The room feels hotter, steam taking up space, the sound of the shower hitting the tub a small hum, his ears ring with the quiet. “Most of all, me, I think.”

You’re looking at him differently, like you’re trying to figure something out. You reach up to his hair, pushing it out of his face, your touch featherlight, so delicate a shiver shoots through him like a firework. Your fingers glide over his temple, his cheek, you press your palm flat against his cheekbone, he leans some of his weight onto it, he lets you toy with him like he’s yours to do as you please. There’s a part of him that thinks he is, even if it’s fucked up, even if the two of you are still somewhere in purgatory.

“Pretty,” you mumble, a mindless word. “I can understand why they hate me.”

His bottom lip curls, “I’m so sorry–”

“No,” you shake your head. “Not your fault.”

His lungs twist hard enough to steal his breath. His hands find your hips, pulling you forward until his forehead meets the heat of your abdomen; so soft under him, fragile in his hold, you have no idea how long he’s waited to hear those words, no idea the weight they hold. No idea the guilt that lives glued to his spine. 

Your hands find his hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp, holding him against you like it’s where you wanted him, where he’s supposed to be. He thinks it’s where he’s supposed to be, too. He picks his head up only to place a kiss against your skin, a soft press of his lips over your stomach, it holds everything he can’t say to you right now. He hopes you can feel it. 

Your knees buckle a little, fingers stalling in his hair, he hears the breath you suck in, feels how you bend into him. “I’m drunk, don’t make me horny, I’ll jump you.”

He snorts, your words pulling a laugh straight from his gut, he leans back to look up at you, your fingers still in his hair. You’re smiling, lazy and stupid, but then you break away from him, thumbs tucked into your jeans like you’re about to shove them down. 

“Hold on, damn.” He stands on weak knees, quickly skipping out of the bathroom, he peeks his head back in just before closing the door. “Be careful. Shout if you need anything.”

“You’ll stay?” Your face is round with supplication. 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Hey.”

Your nose twitches. 

“Wake up, it’s after twelve.”

Your top lip curls. 

“Wake up, I’m getting bored.”

You peek an eye open as your whole face tightens up, hands finding your cheeks, rubbing your eyes awake. Your stomach hurts, your knees feel sore, you grumble out a curse as your body stretches itself into consciousness.

“She’s alive.”

You pause, peeking over your fingertips to Mingi sitting on the edge of your bed. Dark hair messy on his head, shirtless, a pair of your shorts painted onto his thighs. You’re too confused to laugh at the sight. 

“What the fuck?” You ask, voice laced with sleep, face scrunched up beyond recognition. “The fuck are you doing here?”

“Come on,” he frowns, “you didn’t even throw up, there’s no way you blacked out. Think, smart girl.”

You blink at him, letting the memories come back one after another. Wooyoung, shots, shots, shots, table, car, bathroom, bed. Mingi’s head on your stomach. Mingi’s lips on your skin. 

“Oh, shit.” You sit up on your elbows, eyes on your bedspread, still blinking crust out of your vision, “Oh, shit.”

Mingi huffs a noise of amusement through his nose, “Still confused?”

You shake your head, heart picking up speed in your chest. Your head feels heavy, stomach nauseous, limbs tingly with leftover alcohol in your blood. You look up at him, “Why are you still here?”

“You asked me to stay,” he shrugs, like that was the most normal thing in the world. Like he’s stayed over a thousand times before. 

“So you stayed?” Your brows stay knitted together, confused, confused confused confused. 

“So I stayed,” he nods, “how do you feel?”

“Like dog shit.”

“Sounds about right,” he’s smiling but he’s trying to hide it. It makes your lips twitch upward. “You remember dancing on my dining room table?”

Your eyes close, lips flat, brows raised. “Yup,” you nod, “unfortunately, I do.”

“Remember asking to fuck on my car?”

Your eyes shoot open, tone full of disbelief, “No.”

“You’re funny,” he chuckles, laying flat on his back at the edge of your bed. “You’re always funny, but you’re an especially funny drunk. It was cute when I wasn’t terrified you were gonna die.”

“The scaries are gonna haunt me for weeks,” you push yourself up, forehead meeting your palms. “Fuck.”

“I was hoping we could talk,” he sounds coy all of the sudden, nervous. Shy. 

You nod, “Let me shower again, eat something, drink a bottle of water. I feel like a fucking zombie.”

After cursing yourself out under your breath upon entering your messy bathroom, half your shower was spent with your forehead pressed to the wall, somehow cooling down your body temperature while steaming water soaked away all your shame. You ran through the events last night over and over, a little fuzzy at the edges, but each and every damning moment was crystal clear. You dried yourself off, completed your routine all with the same thought in mind: What the hell does he want to talk about?

It’s not like he likes you for real. You’d never work– your past is too messy, your current state is too messy, actually. He needs someone with a clean record, a nice, pretty girl who dresses in dainty clothes, someone who says please and thank you– that’s his goddamn destiny, a girl like Winter. Reserved, bashful, composed, you wonder if she’s ever said a curse word out loud, she’s nothing like you. She’s someone the internet would love, his coaches would love, his family would probably love, not that you know anything about his family.

You’re getting ahead of yourself— you’re spiraling. The only outcome of this conversation is that tension ran high, he was kind enough to take care of you when you were drunk, you’d go back to normalcy in an hour. Maybe Wooyoung’s free later tonight, he’d make a snide comment about you dancing on the table, you’d laugh like it was intentional. Like there weren’t videos of you on people’s phones that’d haunt you at two in the morning for weeks to come. 

“What’s all this?” You asked upon walking into the living room, Mingi stood beside your small kitchen table, rummaging through one of two plastic bags. 

“I ordered food,” he says, pulling out containers from the bag. Setting them down on the table neatly, one on top of another, neat. 

Your brows furrow, walking into the kitchen hesitantly, “Food?”

“I can’t cook,” he looks up at you with a half-smile, “no idea how. But you need to eat, I also got juice for you, and I found ibuprofen in your cabinet–”

“Mingi,” you shake your head, trying to gather your bearings, “what are you doing?”

He holds up a hand, flat palm facing you, features straight and unimpressed. “Don’t start with me, sit down and eat. We’ll talk after there’s food in your stomach.”

You must still be drunk. Limbs feeling heavy, you trudge into the wooden seat, the one with the broken bar that supports the legs. Breakfast food, so much breakfast food, your stomach hurts at the sight of oil and grease, but you need it, you need the juice, too– you sucked that down in record time. 

Silence, other than the sound of chewing and plastic ruffling, it was comfortable. Maybe a little awkward, unless that was your nerves talking which was absolutely plausible, you still sat in fucking confusion. Feeding you, catering to you, taking care of you like he did last night– and he still only had on your shorts. Your powder blue waffle shorts that fit you loose but clung to his muscled, golden, tan-lined thighs like they’d rip at the seams if he moved the wrong way. 

You hate that it’s nice having him here. You hate that you’re letting it happen. 

Pills swallowed, enough food in your stomach to take an hour to digest, the awkwardness grew after cleaning up the table. Both aimlessly pacing the kitchen, pretending to still have something to do, avoiding the conversation that needs to happen. Might as well get it over with. 

“Mingi–”

“Can I start?”

You sigh, pointing a finger in the direction of the living room. “Couch.”

Your stomach feels uneasy like you’d throw up every bite as you sit across from him, both taking edges of the couch like you’re scared to get close. You sit on a leg like it’d give you an easy escape if you needed it, despite it being your apartment. 

“I’m sorry,” he starts, voice small. Your brows furrow, ready to ask what the hell he’s sorry for, but his lips part instead. “I’m so sorry you were sent messages about me, this has happened before, my ex-girlfriend broke up with me because of them, because people didn’t leave her alone about me.”

“Mingi, it’s not your fault–”

He looks up at you and his glassy eyes kill the words on your tongue. His voice is small, layered with struggle, “We were together for a year. When I posted her, us, she broke up with me within two weeks. We never spoke again.”

Your jaw drops, “Two weeks?”

He nods, “I don’t even think we made it to the fourteenth day, I can’t believe I didn’t think that would happen to you. I guess I thought because our relationship was fake it wouldn’t, but no one knows it was fake, I just didn’t think, again. I let it happen again. I’m sorry.” 

Ah, and now everything makes sense. “You didn’t need to do all of this because you feel bad. I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself, I also know when things are out of your hands, and the messages are one-hundred-percent out of your hands.”

His brows furrow after a second, “I didn’t take care of you because of the messages, or because I feel bad. I took care of you because I care about you, I like you.”

“No,” you shake your head, “no you don’t. You might think you do, but you don’t.”

“Huh?” His eyes thin, top lip lifting, “Who are you to tell me what I feel?”

“I just know, I’ve seen your type, and it’s not me. Which is fine, I don’t–”

“You told me you liked me last night,” he argues.

Your lips flatten. “I was drunk.”

“Drunk words are sober thoughts.”

“What are you? Sixteen years old?” Your face twists, “I’m being realistic and logical, you’re acting on emotion.”

“Well I haven’t felt this much emotion since she broke up with me!” His hands fly up on either side of him, voice strained. “And I’ve missed it, I missed feeling this way. I want to keep feeling this way, about you.”

Your blinks are stuttered, slow. Your lips purse, he might have shocked you into silence. He runs a hand through his hair, face torn up into exasperation, he sighs, one deep and grounding. Looking at you again, he asks, “Do you really not want me? There’s not one bone in your body that wishes everything we’ve done the last few weeks was real?”

Your chest is tight. Your lips won’t move, your mind is blank.

“You don’t think you deserve it,” his voice switches to something calm, understanding. “Someone to like you, or care about you, I know. You’re used to guys like him, guys who use your feelings as ammunition. I won’t do that to you.”

You feel like stone. Stuck, still, eyes wide, unblinking. Fear simmers.

He shifts himself closer, eyes pleading. “I was sick when I found out you slept with Wooyoung, I’ve never acted like that before in my life, so jealous and angry, like he was taking you from me. I felt like you were mine, and he was trying to steal you–”

“I asked him to,” you finally speak, rushed and panicked. There’s nothing else left to argue with other than this. “I basically begged him.”

“You were upset,” Mingi shakes his head, “you told me. You said you were upset because of the messages and because I kissed you, you didn’t want to–”

“I needed to,” you try to swallow, throat squeezed tight, “I needed him to. He isn’t kind, he isn’t genuine, he doesn’t hold me like I’m breakable, he wouldn’t do all the shit you did for me last night. He isn’t you, and I needed the reminder. That’s what I deserve, not you.”

“Do you even know what you’ve done for me in the weeks we’ve known each other?” Mingi’s voice is pitched now, layered with raw emotion. “You’ve reminded me what freedom is like. That I can do whatever I want, I’m not a machine, or a puppet for someone else to use. You gave me back myself, is it so ridiculous that I don’t want to let you fucking go?”

“I’m scared,” you blurt it out, two words pulled from so deep in your psyche you can’t believe you said them out loud. “I’m scared to let myself feel anything towards you.”

“You already feel something towards me,” he argues, “a lot of something. You wouldn’t have slept with him if you didn’t.”

Stunned into silence again, your lips purse. He continues, “I’m not stupid. My vocabulary might not be as big as yours but I’m not stupid, I know you have feelings for me. You can’t hide that no matter how much you want to, how much you try to get it fucked out of you.” He shifts closer. “I’ll show you. Let me kiss you again.”

“Fuck no,” your brows furrow. 

He deadpans, “Let me fuckin’ kiss you.”

“Did you even brush your teeth?”

“Shut up,” he stands up on his knees, too big in front of you, chiseled body on display, your heart drops to your stomach. “Stop deflecting. I see through you now.”

“Mingi–”

His hands find the armrest behind you as you uncurl your leg from beneath you, trying to accumulate space, space you’re quickly losing as he leans closer. “You don’t have to be scared with me.”

Your breath is shallow and shaky, heart in your throat, eyes halfway out of your head. He keeps his face close, forehead a millimeter from yours, you feel his heat first. He’s so big, he swallows your figure, he’s too big for the fucking couch, it’s dizzying. 

“I’m gonna kiss you.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

He smiles before pressing his lips to yours, soft, so fucking delicate it takes you a moment to ease into it, to process that it’s even a kiss. Softer than it was on the field– his lips barely graze yours at first, as if he was testing the waters, like he wanted to feel your breath on his skin, wanted to feel your body say yes before your mouth said the word. Your lips part for him, soft and steady, molding to his, letting him guide, lead. 

He asks for entrance with his tongue, swiping along your bottom lip with a certain courtesy like even though you were following him, letting him show you, you still held the reins. Your insides feel molten, fingers grabbing onto your shirt like you didn’t know where else to put them, mind in a constant battle to pick every detail apart or shut off completely. It’s different– it might be everything, laying here and kissing him softly, lazily, like nothing else exists except for him, his weight, his mouth. He tastes like something new, something blue, a memory you’d come back to for a long, long time. 

He parts from you, lips swollen and red like he’d bitten them, he stares. Chocolate eyes big and round, pupils dilated, cheeks flushed a pretty rose, he looks at you like he’s just discovered you. Like even though he kissed you to prove something to you, it’s proven something deeper to himself. 

He doesn’t smile, still calculating, but in a quiet voice he asks, “Do you feel it too?”

Your fists are still tight in your shirt, you search his eyes, the way they fall to your lips, you don’t answer— you kiss him again, harder this time, faster, tongue passing through his lips like his mouth belonged to you, like you were running out of time. You shift down on the couch, pillow falling to the floor, his elbows bracket your head as your calves hook over his thighs, moving in unison like your bodies were acting without either of you thinking about it. 

Your hands find his hair when you wrap your arms around his neck, lifting yourself into him, pressing yourself against him, feeling the strength of him, it makes a tight noise leave your lips, one needy and begging. He rolls his hips into you on instinct and you moan into his mouth like you need him to do it harder.

“Fuck,” he curses into your mouth, lifting himself up on his palms, “wait— wait.” 

“What?” You follow on your elbows, bug-eyed, “Why? What happened?” 

He swallows, panting, running a hand through his hair as he sits back on his calves, your legs still thrown lazily over his thighs. The print of his length sits heavy and prominent with his legs spread in your cotton shorts, your eyes flicker back and forth to his face, mouth watering, patience already scarily thin. 

“This isn’t how this was supposed to go,” he shakes his head, chest splotchy, tummy expanding with each aborted breath he takes. “I want this, I want you, I want to do it right.” 

Your heart flutters in your chest, it’s at war with your dampening panties, your thighs that twitch as the words leave his mouth. His eyes drop to your figure, the big tee you wore hiked up to your stomach, tiny shorts clinging to your dampened core, he squeezes his eyes shut like it’d erase the sight from his memory. 

“You want to stop because you want to take me out on a date?” You ask, brows raised. “We’ve been on, like, two already. Maybe three or four if you squint.” 

He opens his eyes to narrow them, “You’re such a smartass.”

You smile at that, head tilting, cocky, “Clearly you like it, since you wanna date my smart-ass.”

His hands fall to your hips, tugging them towards him until your back is flat against the couch again, “I wanna do more than that.” 

“Then do it,” you huff, hips bucking into him, arms lifting to reach for him, “you’re the one who stopped.” 

“Do you ever shut the fuck up?” He asks, leaning forward enough to let you wrap your arms around his shoulders, he uses his hands at your waist to lift you up onto his lap. 

You gasp at the movement, at the fucking ease in which he maneuvers you, your knees land beside his hips before you answer. “If you want me to shut the fuck up then give me a reason to.”

“I lied, don’t want you quiet,” he’s looking up at you from this angle and the sight of him steals your breath, makes everything feel a little more real. He’s so beautiful and he wants you and fuck you want him, too. 

“Make up your mind,” you press yourself to his chest, keeping your faces close. “Y’know, you talked big game that night at the LAX house, been wondering if you could back it up.”

His hands tuck beneath your tee, fingers warm against your skin as they drag up your sides, palms landing heavy on your waist, it makes you shiver. He smirks, “Now you’re baiting me into fucking you?”

“Maybe,” your faces are so close your lips graze, “is it working?”

He kisses you again, more feverish than the last, hands squeezing your waist before they drop down to your hips, grinding you against him. You keep your arms folded around his neck, tongue slotting between his lips messily, teeth clashing together as you grind your core against his clothed length, roughly, purposely, letting him feel the arousal that’s bottled up inside. You part to empty strangled noises into each other’s mouths, eyes screwed tight, your hips move steadily in a rhythm guided by his hands. So hard, long and thick beneath you, you could feel him through your shorts, his shorts, there was no stopping. There was no pausing. 

His hands find the hem of your tee, you help him pull it over your head, his lips find your neck, your chest, your head tilts back to give him access, for small, pitched breaths to leave your lips, a song for him to hear. He groans when your hips slow into a nasty grind, his tongue pokes out to drag down your chest, over your heart where he places an open-mouthed kiss. He looks up at you to say, “This is mine now.”

Your heartbeat picks up, he smiles like he can feel it. Brows knitted together, face bent with intoxicated arousal, you respond, “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“We’re technically still dating,” his teeth catch onto the hem of the lace bralette you wore, tugging on it before placing a kiss right above, at the center of the valley between your breasts, “and we’re not breaking up.”

“Are you trying to gaslight me?” You ask, hips still moving against him, fingers knotting in his hair when your clothed clit rolls over the ledge of his tip, “ah– I think we had a very public breakup last night.”

One of his hands slithers over the curve of your hip, down between your thighs, two fingers adding pressure where you needed it. You choke on a moan, back arching, hips digging into the pressure as he grins wide, “I forgave you already. This is make-up sex.”

“More,” your fingers tighten in his hair, eyes squeezing shut, “Mingi.”

“Oh, I like that,” he circles his fingers twice over your clit, smirking, “beg a lil’ more, put that mouth to good use.”

Your eyes open wanting to scowl but your brows are knitted too deeply in pleasure, lips parted and glossy with his spit, you can’t force yourself to as his fingers circle over your clit again. “P-please,” you stutter over the word, hips rolling into his touch, “wanna feel you.”

His face contorts in pleasure like you were the one touching him, he catches your lips again, tongue slotting into your mouth as his fingers dive beneath your shorts. He groans into your mouth as he slips between your folds, feeling the wetness that seeped through your damp shorts, “So wet for me, princess.”

Your hips buck into his hand, body twitching at how thick his fingers feel at your center combined with that fucking word on his tongue. “Feels s’good, more, Mingi, inside.”

“Say please,” the words are muffled, lips still pressed to yours. 

You whisper, “Please.”

“Good girl,” he mutters, feeling you clenching around nothing as his fingers prod at your entrance. His eyes flicker upward, “You liked that? Being called my good girl?” 

You nod shamelessly, hips rolling into his fingers, beckoning him to put them inside. Slowly he inches forward and you gasp, breath catching in your throat, fingers tightening in his hair, he curves them with each inch he gives you, adding pressure on that spot as soon as he reaches it, you’re choking on your own pleasure as your hips grind to fuck yourself on his fingers. 

“So greedy,” he whispers, completely in awe, “look at you, baby, fucking yourself on my fingers. You gonna be good for me and cum on ‘em?” 

“Holy shit,” you whisper, hips stuttering, his words going straight to the pit in your belly. You’ve never had someone pay this much attention to you or your pleasure, never had someone even insinuate making you cum before they’ve taken their pants off. He crooks his fingers and you whine, “You don’t h-have to, ‘hmygod.”

“Yes I do,” his fingertips massage that spot, fucking into you in small, stuttered thrusts so he can keep pressure, “need you to cum around my fingers, then around my cock, gonna do that for me?” 

“Yeah,” you roll your hips faster, harder, meeting the thrusts of his fingers, his movement trapped within your shorts, the edge of his palm kissing your clit. It’s fucking dirty, nasty the way you’re moving, so shameless, if you weren’t so consumed by pleasure you’d be mortified at how easily he cracked your composure. 

“Yeah? You wanna cum around my cock?” He asks, tone arrogant because he knows the answer, “Gonna make a mess on me with this wet lil’ pussy?”

“Mingi,” you whine, “stop.”

“You like it, I can feel you clenching,” he grins, you open your eyes just enough to see it. Cocky, but he’s backing it up and fuck you might die if he stops. “So good for me, bet you’d take anything I give you, bet you’d ask for more.”

The pit of pleasure builds steadily in your gut and you bite your lip to try to keep your mewls inside. It’s futile when he kisses you, drinking up every wrecked moan you spill into his mouth, keeping his fingers moving at the same pace, the same pressure. The rough edge of his palm hitting your clit with each movement and it’s so fucking obvious he knows exactly what he’s doing, how to pull you to the finish line with ease. 

“Mingi,” you gasp out, limbs locking as you climb, “I’m close.”

“I know,” he presses his lips to your chin, under your jaw, “give it to me– cum for me, baby.”

Your hips stutter first before your orgasm crashes over you heavily, body twitching, rolling into him, he moves with you, keeping his hand steady as you ride out your orgasm, chanting praises into the space between you, encouragement that extends your pleasure, the feeling of euphoria that rocks through you never-ending. You keel after you finish, forehead meeting his, body deflating like he took everything out of you, he kisses your unmoving mouth, smiling into you when you don’t respond. 

“Did so good for me,” he pulls his fingers out of your shorts, bringing them up between your faces, slipping them between his lips. He moans in pleasure, “Mm, can’t wait to eat her. You’ll let me, right? You’ll ride my face if I tell you to?”

The pit in your stomach twists all over again, core clenching around nothing, he’s filthy. You love it. “Need you inside,” you mutter, voice tight with arousal but winded, “need to feel you, Min.”

His smile returns, “Can you handle it, big girl? Look at you after just two fingers.” You whine and he laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen, “I can’t believe you’re so easy. You’ve got such a fuckin’ attitude and now you’re whining and crying for my cock.”

“You asked me if I ever shut the fuck up,” you grind yourself against him, bleeding impatience, “do you?”

He makes a sound he keeps lodged in his throat, it makes you smirk. He answers, “Not if it makes you this wet. You soaked through your shorts, princess.”

“Stop calling me that,” you huff, “fuck me already, ‘m tired of hearing you run your mouth.”

His hands find your thighs, holding onto them tight as he lifts himself up, you fall backwards fast with a loud yelp, back hitting the cushions of the couch. He’s predatory as he leans over you, “This mouth can make you cum faster than my fingers did,” his fingers find the hem of your shorts, “wanna find out?”

“I want you to fuck me,” you lift your hips for him and he tugs them down to your ankles, “save your filthy fuckin’ mouth for another time.”

“There she is,” he stands on his knees, tugging at the baby blue shorts on his hips, “knew the brat was in there somewhere.”

“It only comes out when you’re a cocky motherfuck–” he tugs his shorts down and the word dies on your tongue. Bigger than he felt beneath you, thick, red, leaking, your mouth waters, back arching off the couch at the sight, “Damn.”

He’s smirking and you hate that his cockiness is starting to become sexy. “Gonna take it all like a big girl?”

You’re nodding, not even looking at him, you can’t take your eyes off his cock. Bigger than Wooyoung, than Hyunjin, he might even be bigger than Mingyu and that’s a feat. All you can muster is, “Hurry.”

He settles between your legs, your knees spread under his heavy palms, he licks his lips when he gets eyes on your center. “She’s so pretty, baby. Why didn’t you tell me? Woulda been fucking you weeks ago.”

“God, Mingi, shut up,” you buck your hips toward him, “get inside me already.”

“She’s soaked,” he wraps his fist around his cock, sliding it through your folds, rubbing circles over your clit that make you shiver, “so pretty, gonna ruin her. Can I? So you can’t fuck anyone but me?”

Impatience is a band that snaps hard, “Is that why you talk so much? You have a big dick that you don’t even know how to use–”

He wastes no time slipping back down to your entrance and pushing inside, just his tip has your body locking up, head tipping back, a tight, wilted noise slipping out of you involuntarily, it tells him everything you can’t say. He’s smirking even if he’s fighting to keep his own pleasure at bay, “Yeah? I don’t know how to use it? Say that again.”

He’s curved, carving into you like he’d make you take it even if you couldn’t, your walls suck him in like you were made for it, clenching around the width of him, mushroom tip kissing your cervix just enough that it’s pleasurable– you shake your head, biting your fucking tongue, nails clawing at the couch cushions because no one’s ever felt this good just sitting inside you. 

“Exactly,” he pulls out slowly, filling you back up just as slowly, letting you adjust to his length, his thickness, the perfection your mind couldn’t comprehend. “Lay there and take it like a good fuckin’ girl.”

“Fuck, Mingi,” it’s high-pitched, filled with anticipation and slight disbelief. You watch as his abdomen flexes, how his tummy fills with air and deflates, his jaw that goes slack with each thrust, he’s so sexy it hurts. “Faster.”

He picks up speed on command, palms finding your shins, pushing them back into your chest as his cock starts bullying into you, “Like that?”

You can barely choke out a yes, hands flying to his biceps, nails marking crescents into his skin, half-curses fly from your lips drowned out by tight moans, pitched noises when his tip drags over that spot inside you, repeating, “Mingi, Mingi,” like it’s the only word you know. 

“I’m here,” he leans down to press a kiss to the side of your knee, “I got you, know it’s big, baby, you can take it.”

You curse again as he fucks into you harder, back trying to arch but he has you pinned so deep you can’t move, “Mingi!”

He smiles, eyes half-lidded, “That all you can say? Fucked out already? Just started.”

You whimper, legs shaking beneath his palms, he lets go of your shins so he can lean down and kiss you, trading speed for a pace so deep and heavy you can’t kiss back. Moaning straight into his mouth, arms around his neck, you keep him close, legs hooked around his back, “Mingi.”

“Doing so good,” he kisses your cheek, your jaw, down your neck, “pussy so tight, baby, so perfect, gonna have to fuck you every day.”

You sound hypnotized, you might be. “Yes, yes, every day.”

“You know why?” He doesn’t wait for your answer. “‘Cause you’re mine.”

“Uh-huh,” you nod, and when he picks his face back up to kiss you, you kiss him back. It’s a mess of teeth and spit, too distracted and moving to be considered a kiss, but you’re lucid enough to tangle your fingers in his hair, for your hips to start fucking back. 

“Say it,” he whispers in your mouth, edged like a blade. It makes you moan. 

“Yours,” you’re chanting again, “I’m yours, Mingi, I’m yours.”

He groans, hips picking up speed all over again, he buries his head in the crook of your shoulder, lips mindlessly pressing against your skin, tongue poking out just to taste the sweat that's formed. He slips an arm between your bodies to press two fingers against your clit and you twitch, a sharp moan escaping you, bucking into him at a pace unsteady and uncontrolled as the pressure builds fast. 

“Mingi!” It’s loud and pitched, “Too much, too much.”

“No ‘ts not,” his words are muffled, lips pressed against your skin, “Take it, cum around my cock. Wanna feel it. Wanna feel you cum f’me, baby.”

Strangled noises escape you one after another, his fingers circling your clit with practiced movements like he already knew your body inside and out. He’s still talking as pleasure climbs, your fingernails clawing shapes into his back, his rhythm doesn’t change or falter for a second. His words feel mindless, babbles of praise, “C’mon, baby, cum for me. Need to feel you clenching around my cock, say my name, say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Mingi,” you don’t sound any more composed than he does, “Mingi, ‘hmygod I’m gonna cum, just for you, all for you.” 

He moans as your pleasure hits its peak, seizing beneath him, legs locking around his body, fingers raking at his back hard enough to leave marks, you’re a mess of moans and cries and whimpers, but he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t let up even a little. He’s cursing, hips jerking into you at that same fucking damning pace like his life depended on it, like he refused to give you anything but the entirety of your orgasm. 

You’re still shaking when he pushes himself up, body red and splotchy, veins swollen and prominent and everywhere. “Gonna flip you,” you think he might be saying it to himself more than to you with the way he moves you fully on his own, your front meets the couch with a squeak, body spent, head fuzzy. 

You’re flat against the couch, his legs straddle yours just below your ass, he spreads you to lean down and spit before he’s pushing inside once more. You curse sharply into the pillow, eyes rolling back, hands swatting behind you as he fills you up in one fell swoop. 

He shushes you, two hands grabbing your swatting arms by your wrists, pinning them at the base of your spine, “You can take it. Breathe, princess.” When he moves, you feel like you might never recover. Your wails are muffled by the cushion you buried your face in, the pleasure was different, more, deeper, the way his cock grinds against that spot inside you and you can’t get away– you feel the pressure build like it never stopped, steady, heavy, so euphoric you might not be in your body at all anymore.

“You’re perfect, oh my god,” you hear him behind you, “gonna let me fill you up? Let me mark what’s mine? Fuck, baby, need to fill this perfect pussy up, need to cum inside.”

You dig your fingernails into your palms, kicking at the armrest on the other side of the couch, grinding your teeth, you turn your head just to cry, “Yes, fill me up, inside,” your voice cracks, “please.”

“Clenching around me s’fuckin’ hard,” his voice is rough, “y’gonna cum again?”

You let out a noncommittal sound and he changes the angle ever so slightly, your vision blurs, breath taut in your chest, his cock drilling against that spot like he was aiming for it, you don’t know if the damp spot under your head was from tears or drool. Keeping the angle, the pace, he lets your arms go before leaning over, pressing a sloppy kiss to your shoulderblade, breath hot in your ear, “So fucking perfect, let go f’me, baby.”

The sound you let out in response was from the deepest part of your lungs, a sob, a prayer, you’re so close you can fucking taste it. He presses another kiss to the tip of your spine, leaning over your shoulder again, mouth opening, teeth grazing your skin– when you feel him clamp down in a bite you lose it, trembling, sobbing, fisting the couch cushions with his name on your tongue, “Mingi!” 

“Yes,” in awe again, his hips stutter, “there you go, fuuck– fuck, gonna fill you up, gonna make you mine.” You’re spasming around his length, hips bucking, trying to escape the unending pleasure as his thrusts only get heavier, sloppier, quicker. He keeps himself close, “My perfect girl, y’gonna take every drop? Fuck– fuck, gonna cum, baby, you want it?”

“Yes, Min,” you’re grabbing for him again, nails clawing at his thighs behind you, “fill me up, make me yours. Need you inside.”

One hand snakes under your jaw, turning your head he kisses you sloppily as his hips stutter, groaning a curse into your mouth as he twitches inside you, then he slows, warmth filling you up, ropes of his release heavy, hot, nasty. His breath is short, winded, exhausted, you don’t think yours is any more even. 

“Mingi,” it comes out like a whimper, you feel him twitch inside you, he lets go of your face. A lazy grin takes over your cheeks, eyes closing, “You weren’t lying.”

He laughs, a small, easy thing, lifting himself up. “Why would I lie?”

“Dunno,” you answer absent-mindedly, “make yourself sound better.”

“Baby,” his hands smooth over the skin of your back, he leans down to press a soft kiss in the middle of your spine. Mumbling into your skin like he was too shy to say it with his chest, “I don’t need to do that.”

You hum, “Of course, how could I forget, you’re the entire package.”

“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or if you’re fucking with me.”

“Good.”

He smacks his teeth, “I’m gonna pull out, ‘kay?”

You pop a brow at the warning, but as he starts to slip out inch by inch, you’re grateful for his thighs keeping you locked in place because the full-body twitch it gives you is lethal. You whine a little as his spent cock lays still-heavy on your ass, “How do you keep that thing hidden?”

He snorts, “Like in my pants?”

“That’s a weapon,” you’re still twitching beneath him, “and you just used it on me.”

He’s giggling as he shifts himself to be able to carefully flip you over, another movement he does with ease as if you’re some kind of toy. It still makes your stomach curl with warmth, body flushing hot as he lays himself down next to you, sliding an arm under your body, holding you close. “Smells like sex in here.”

You curl into his side, cheek pressed to his bare chest, eyes closing again. “Don’t care.”

“I really like you, you know,” his voice is low but steady, honest, “and I want to be your boyfriend.”

You pick your head up to look at him, his eyes big and round, glossed over like he was nervous to say the words. You reach a hand up, running your fingers through his chocolate locks once before cupping his cheek, guiding him down to press your lips softly against his. “You already are my boyfriend, moron.”

“I mean seriously–”

“And I mean seriously, you’re already my boyfriend,” you raise your brows in expectation, “so no more ogling girls at parties, no more calling me stupid names and no more Winter.”

“I thought you said you’ve never been anyone’s girlfriend before,” there’s a stupid smile on his face, “seems like you got the gist, princess.”

“What did I literally just say–”

“What about the messages?” His question is a little sturdier. 

Your brows furrow, “What about them? I already turned my requests off.”

His brows match yours, “That’s it? It doesn’t turn you off from being with me?”

“I fucked Wooyoung like, two days ago, Mingi,” you smile when he makes a face of disgust, “if you can mentally handle that, I can mentally handle being in the spotlight, as long as its smaller than yours. But if I can’t, I’ll tell you, and we’ll figure it out. Wait, what about your coaches?”

“That is such a non-issue,” he rolls his eyes, “who gives a fuck?”

You make a face of surprised agreement, bottom lip bending over, brows raising, “Sure. Who gives a fuck?”

He smiles, “Cool, I think that’s everything.”

“Cool,” you nuzzle yourself back into his chest, pressing a short kiss to his skin, “by the way, how long until we can fuck again? I’ve been waiting three weeks for this too, y’know.”

masterlist 🏈 part one

this is my soul project. ive never loved another mingi as much as i love this one. if you read all of this, genuinely thank you from the bottom of my fucking heart. i could write about him endlessly, my muse fr. i hope you enjoyed and pls dont hesitate to tell me all your thoughts 🩷

xoxo

[spideyyeet]

➷ FRATKUNA NEVER NOTICED YOUR OVULATION…UNTIL YOU GET HANDSY WITH HIM IN THE POOL [FWB]

[ TAGS ] — MDNI 18+ ONLY. NSFW. fwb. piv. raw. OVULATION. needy reader. EXHIBITIONISM. creampie. PUBLIC SEX. spanking. POSSESSIVE SUKUNA. CAUGHT. spitting. slight degradation. DUMBIFICATION. slight angsttt. dacryphilia. fingering. scent kink. overstim. wc: 14.6k

sukuna knows women. he knows how to please them. how to make them moan, whine, cry. but knowing how to please a woman doesn’t mean he knows women. aka a woman’s cycle. in simple terms, sukuna has mainly grown up with men, his gramps, his brothers, toji — all he knows is a girl has a period, but he has never bothered to stay with a girl long enough to actually address her period.

well until his fuck buddy, you, open your door for him.

his arm wraps around your waist, tugging you towards his chest, lips locking with yours in moments. “Mmm,” he groans, tongue pushing past your lips, just to feel you press a hand to his chest. your lips break, air filling his lungs in disdain, eyes narrowing at you for pushing him away.

“you didn’t text me, dude,” you say, letting him pull away to drop his backbag on the floor, plastic bag in hand as he kicks his shoes off.

“got outta the gym late. lost track of time,” he walks two steps to the kitchen pulling out two energy drinks, a protein drink, and a couple protein bars. “fuck,” he cups his crotch, palming himself through his low hanging sweats. he opens his shake. “accidentally swiped on that video ya’ sent me from the summer. I watched the whole thing between my sets.” his hand tips back, throat bopping as he chugs the shake, eyes closing as he sees the video play back in his mind, hand still on his bulge.

you’re leaning against the column between your smaller than small living room and kitchen, eyeing the way he’s shamelessly groping himself in front of you, men. you sigh, internally.

“hey,” he suddenly appears in front of you, towering. his musky scent fills your nose as he cups your neck, the other resting on your hip. he slowly lowers himself, tilting your chin up with a thumb as his lips connect with yours again. “haah,” he sighs, kissing your lips like it’s his saving grace, his sweats hang low on his hips as he presses himself against you. “remember that video?” he husks, “the one with ya’ spreading your legs out for the camera—“

you gently press a hand to his chest again, cheeks flushed, but stomach churning uncomfortably. “ryo—“

“wanna see this pussy,” he doesn’t even hesitate, he drops his head to your neck, kissing the exposed skin before dropping to a knee, hands on your hips. “wanna smell how good she is—“

“ryo,” you press a hand to his forehead, face aflame, as you push him back. your heart hammers as he frowns up at you, jaw tight and hands tightening around your waist. “I got my period yesterday.”

….

a silent beat passes.

then.

FUCK!

sukuna is horrible at controlling his face.

you immediately notice his dilated pupils dissipate, and the excitement die behind his eyes. your lips purse, making a my bad king type of face. but sukuna looks absolutely destroyed, his head drops forward, desperately trying to control his eye roll, but you catch it , along with the way he presses his face into your stomach, and groans. loud. uncontrolled.

“sorry…I forgot to text you, and you came all the way here,” you pat his shoulder apologetically, though you’re not super sympathetic since it’s not your fault.

“ya’ have cramps or some shit?” he grumbles against your sleep shirt.

“had crazy cramps this morning, but just like…not in the mood right now,” you cringe while saying it, but sukuna just sighs.

you bite your cheek as you watch him sit back on his heels. his black sweats straining against his thighs, his bulge shameless as it presses up against the material. your eyes flick over him again, wetting your lip as you reach for his hair. hesitant. but eventually…your manicured nails run through the slightly damp, salmon colored hair. you watch in silent awe as his lashes weigh down, and his jaw tightens like he’s holding himself back. your nails scratch his scalp, lightly, but enough to elect a raw groan from the back of his throat.

you bite your lip, eyeing the dark flush crawling up his neck, and dusting his cheeks a light pink. his large palm rests on your outer thigh and the other flexing as it grips his erection. how far will he—

“not cumming in my fucking sweats,” he suddenly barks, getting to his feet. your hand drops as he walks towards the bathroom, pulling his shirt over his head, he kicks the door shut behind him.

your lips purse again, biting your cheek as you hear the shower turn on. men.

that was how sukuna dealt with his fuck buddy being on her period. somehow always finding out last minute that you’re bleeding, and in no mood for action — except for those very rare occasions, well he can’t divulge too much now since you never want him to mention it again — and he’s forced to take care of his problem in your shower. his rough calloused palm — a contrast from your soft smaller ones — jerks his painfully hard throbbing cock to the images of you floating in his mind until he’s finally shooting his thick white load all over your shower wall. haze clearing up as he watches the cum slide down. and then he’ll step out of the bathroom, usually wearing a pair of sweats he’d forgotten here, along with a plain black tee, and crash on the couch as you do your homework. he’ll eye you a bit, but eventually shift his attention to the tv and knockout.

it would be difficult for those five to seven days, especially when you would be slightly more clipped with him, or just plain bitchy and short tempered (like him). but it’d get him all hot and bothered, especially since he can’t act on it.

that was sukuna’s perception of a woman’s cycle. before he never cared, now he cares just a little more because he can’t have sex with you when you’re on your period.

but as smart as sukuna is, it takes a little more brain power for him to realize what this is.

this being, how he’s wound up because he’s trying to get through this studying for an upcoming exam. he’s far from prepared for and the best way for him to study is to be around someone who takes it seriously— you. and yet…

and yet, you won’t stop moving!

at first you were sitting across from him in the library. then you shift to the seat at corner of the table, and then you move to sit directly beside him.

“you need help?” he suddenly cuts. you’re shifting beside him stops, brows pulled in confusion.

“was just uncomfortable, am i disturbing you?”

his brow twitches, but you were completely innocent. your brow pulled up, like he’s the crazy one, and not you, who’s moved around like ten times in the last hour!!

“just a little,” he mutters, putting his headphones back on and turning back to his work. luckily, you seem to have settled down, attention back on your own studies. engrossed in your review sheets and notes, as sukuna reviews for his own exam.

however, what the fratboy did notice was even when shoko stopped bye to chat, and utahime came to whisper some gossip to you between her class, you didn’t move once. his brow quirked briefly when utahime chatted across the table, and instead of getting up and going to the hallway to talk freely, you remain seated, right beside him, and right against him.

what’s going on?

“I swear I told the girl I didn’t even know who she was talking about it—but she didn’t even care. girl! I wasn’t talking to your ex,” utahime rambles in hushed whispers, similar to the whispered conversations at other tables.

your brows furrow in shock, “what the hell?? why the heck is she even confronting you in the middle of class though? that’s so weird.”

“that’s what I’m sayinggg!!!”

sukuna has every reason to snap at you both right now. to tell you two to shut the fuck up or go outside. seriously, it was distracting as fuck. but his mind was short circuiting and stumbling around all because of how fucking close you are to him.

his arms are leaning over the table, biceps bulging from his tshirt, scribbling practice equations and notes. and you’re leaning over in an identical position, but your side is fully pressed against his arm. your zip up hoodie resting around your hips after you’d shrugged it off, and your usual cold skin was searing hot against his. skin to skin. and it’s been like that for the past twenty minutes.

usually when your friends stop by to ramble you have the curiosity to step away so he can study. but not this time— well you did a similar thing a month ago too. sticking to him like glue. brushing your fingers over the veins of his forearm—

“okay, I’ll update you later, but thanks for letting me borrow your airpods!” utahime concludes her rant with finally returning your airpods and running off to her next class. sukuna lets out an air of relief, relaxing beside you.

finally, some peace and quiet in the library.

…shift…

well, it could only last so long.

his brows furrow as he glances over at you, your cheek is now resting on his arm, mindlessly reading your notes like this is normal. is it because he’s finally anxious about an exam after so long, that he’s noticing how touchy you’re being? or maybe you’re not in the mood to do your work and in the mood for something else—

tch, he doesn’t have time to find some room to fuck you in though. it’s the middle of the day and the library is packed. the last thing you’d want is for someone to see you both. however, he can’t even tell if you want any action right now. it just looks like you’re tired…and clingy…?

sukuna exhales, thumb pressing against his jaw in thought, while you shift again, oblivious to his internal turmoil, cheek smushed against his arm…

“you hungry?” he interrupts, desperate for his mind to quiet down.

“not really,” you mutter, focused on your homework.

his lips downturn, pen tapping the desk, “I’m gonna grab another celsius.” he suddenly stands, startling you for a moment, noticing the way your pretty lashes blink in surprise. you’re definitely just focused on school…but last month you were acting the same-ish…if he’s right, then when he comes back…you’ll…

he places a celsius in front of you, eyes flicking over you as he sips his drink. you hum in distracted appreciation, like you can’t even see him sliding back into his seat, legs spread, and arms coming up back to the table to grab his pen. but like glue, you’re sliding yourself right beside him, pressing your cheek to his shoulder, and taking a subtle inhale.

what the hell?!? it’s like he can predict you’re every move now?!

it didn’t stop there. the puzzle pieces are starting to come together slowly. especially when you subtly kept a grip on his arm muttering how he can finish studying at your place, without the distraction of the frat—which you rarely pressure him to do a night before an exam. except instead of going straight to the bathroom to shower, you followed him to your couch and sat beside him.

“do you mind if I turn on the tv?” you ask with such an unnerving amount of gentleness, glancing at him with your full undivided attention.

his brow quirks, why’re you looking at him like that? “it’s your place, woman.”

you hum, relaxing back, albeit pressed to his side and your knees tucked up, as he leans over on the coffee table (aka your only desk in your small ass apartment) reviewing more work. but just moments later he’s sliding to the floor for more comfortability—

“why’d you move?” your voice cuts through the quiet apartment.

“huh?”

sukuna glances back, brow quirked with confusion at the frown you’re wearing. “leaning over is fucking with my back,” he tsks, earning him an uncharacteristically quick attitude switch from you — your eyes roll, your entire body slumps further back on the couch that you’re basically laying across it, and your cute bottom lip juts out in an irritated, subtle pout. seriously? sukuna scoffs internally. you’re acting like such a brat??? for real this time.

your cheeks press against the cushion. your hypnotizing eyes flick between his, then eventually settle on his lips. they’re slightly chapped, pink…pretty…kissable…

“ya need something?” he snaps without any bite. you’re zoning out again. your eyes drift off, and your lips part lost in thought. “zoning out—“ are the words that you here before you feel an aggressive (light in his mind) flick to your forehead. “again!”

“ow!” you groan loud, face quickly turning and pressing into the cushion in annoyance. “what the hell!” your muffled yell barely comes out.

“what the hell me?” he tsks, rough hand landing on your head, and turning your face back for air. “I was talking and you did that shit again—“

“what thing?!” you scoff, brows pinched in anger as you stare into his eyes….his deep…dark…lidded…crimson eyes…..haah—

“that,” he exhales, hand softening on your temple, and irritation slipping away with your usual antics. “how do you even zone out that fast?”

your glossy lips part, manicured nail brushing your bottom lip, heat pooling between your legs, and eyes half lidded… “was thinking about your eyes.”

the softness of your tone was more shocking than the actual words that came out of your mouth. or it was the combination of both. or the bluntness of your gentle honey sweet voice that took sukuna by surprise…

but he blinked. once. twice—

“first it was your lips,” you whisper with a breathless sigh. your finger carefully reaching out and touching his lips. you mimic the way he parts his lips with your own. his thick brows creating a shadow over his lidded eyes. “then your eyes.” you explain with such clarity, it had sukuna short circuiting as he tries to rationalize why you’re acting this way—

“that’s why i zoned out,” you conclude, shifting closer to the edge of the couch, closer to him. your eyes dot up at him, brushing his bottom lip, pulling it down with a thumb. “you distract me sometimes.” you’re tired…it was a long day of classes and it was the middle of the week. that has to be the reason, sukuna thinks.

by now, he knows that look.

you wanna fuck.

“Mmm,” you whine the moment he presses his lips to yours. your tongue immediately finding his as your nails course through his hair. tugging. “make me cum, ryo.”

he snorts in your mouth, rough hand pushing your shirt up, thumbing your bra before hooking his thumb under and lifting up. “should’ve just told me ya want your pussy wet—“

“it’s already wet,” you cut, “been wet all day.”

shiit, he groans into your lips, pushing his hand down, past your waistband. “fucking slut.” a breathy gasp slips out as he cups your wet sticky pussy. “fucking drenched, dirty brat.” his teeth sink into your bottom lip as you whine louder, unaware how sukuna’s neck is unbelievably red. why do you taste sweeter?

“Mmm lift your hips up,” he husks. you don’t get the chance to react when he’s suddenly yanking your pants and drenched panties off. “spread ‘em.”

your tongue pokes your bottom lip, opening your legs for your fuck buddy. his huge palms press against your thighs, grabbing fistfuls and licking his bottom lip as your sticky pussy comes into view. his pupils dilate as he watches your hole twitch. and your scent immediately hits his nose. “you’re gonna taste so good today.” he mutters to himself, but your brow lifts.

“what’s different about today?”

he leans forward, eyes flicking up as he exhales. is he drunk? his eyes roll back, cock throbbing in his pants and he inhales again—fuuck, you smell so much sweeter, “nothin.” his tongue shuts you right up as he licks a long wet lewd strip up your folds. your back immediately arches off the couch, nails digging into his scalp as his beefy arms lock around your thighs, moaning. your sweet honey floods his taste buds…this pussy has always hypnotized him, aroma consuming him and taste intoxicating him…but now that he thinks about…this small little difference in taste and scent, a bit sweeter, happened last month—

“ryo—haah ah mmh ya like my pussy?” your eyes flutter as you keep them on sukuna’s flushed face.

his eyes roll back, completely falling apart between your thighs as he groans a deep husky, “fuck yeah.”

your stomach burns hot at his voice, and voice pitching higher as his tongue delves inside your hole. “haaaah—your mouth is so good, baby—ngh been wet all day,” you confess in your pleasure. “was staring at your hands all day, ryo—they’re so big…l-like your di—ahh—“ fuck you’re talking a lot, sukuna groans, annoyed how worked up your voice is getting him.

his tongue laps and sucks, his salvia creating an even bigger mess. he pulls away, cheeks dusted a deep red as he spits directly onto your puffy clit, pupils dilating as he spreads the mess all over your swollen clit. “these hands,” he runs his calloused palm over your lower stomach. your pupils grow black with lust. pupils blown as you stare at the way his hand encompasses the entire surface. his crimson irises dilate once he sees the lust all over your face. “want them inside ya?”

you nod, immediately.

he doesn’t wait.

two long, thick fingers push past the initial tightness, feeling the gummy walls of your pussy hug his digits with delight. your jaw falls slack, drool slipping as he leans down to plant wet kisses along your lower stomach, forearms and biceps flexing as he pistons his fingers in n out. the squelching fills his ears as you moan above him.

“ngh! fuh ryo, feels good, kiss—kiss me down there—“ you push his head down until his lips connect with your clit again, sucking. rough. mean. teeth sinking just hard enough to make your eyes water and a choked cry slip your lips. “ryo,” you mewl with such lewd sweetness that this huge 6’5 hunk is practically moaning in response. “ry—my pussy—ahh gun —mmm c-close—gun cum—“

but sukuna has already lost all sanity with how good your slick tastes. his eyes roll back pushing you over the edge. “mmm fuck!” you cry, lashes wet as they flutter from the pleasure coursing out of you. his throat bops swallowing and lapping your sweet slick like it’s a drug — which it might as well be with the way his cock is throbbing in his boxers just from eating his fuck buddy’s sweet pussy. “taste like fucking honey,” he groans, cleaning you up like a dog. he pants, catching his breath as he climbs up to your lips like a starved animal. he smashes his lips against you, kissing your spit slicked lips with a loud groan. how do your lips taste sweet too?

“gonna be a good brat and let me fuck this tight pussy?” He grunts, unbuckling his belt and pushing his jeans down along with his boxers, freeing his painfully erect cock.

your tongues collide, dumb whine coming from the back of your throat, and hands running up and locking around his neck. “f’course.”

fucking you rough and fast on the couch as you babbled like a dumb slut, drunk on his cock, had him seeing stars. he was desperately trying to figure out how you're handling him with how uncharacteristically rough he’s being, but you haven’t told him to stop.

"ry—aa-haah!"

shit. he'd flipped you onto your stomach, grabbing your hips , ass in the air as he slams his thick throbbing cock in from behind. his rough palm is pressed into your lower back keeping you in that deep arch he loves, and hand cracking the nth spank to your sore ass. "feel good?"

"so good ryo—wanna cum again -cum-ngh haah please please-"

unbelievable.

and it’s not until he’s panting on the couch, your limp body resting across it, completely and utterly spent, does he realize just how rough he was being. his jaw tenses, as the fog clears up.

“hey…” his voice treads lightly, cautious as he turns on the couch, glancing at your resting form. your shirt covers your breasts after he finally came and let you lay back on the couch. but his spend leaks out of your abused hole, and your ass is still burning from his mean spanks. “hey…” he leans over you, hand brushing your waist. grounding. “you okay?”

he watches carefully as you turn on your side, eyes heavy as you blink up at him. “yeah…you okay?”

“you okay with how we fucked?”

you don’t blink, “yeah.”

yeah, somethings up. he was rough, even he knows that much. and you took it well. more than well, you were begging for me.

all of those should’ve been signs. the closeness, the slight sweetness spike in your slick and saliva. how unbelievably heavenly you smell, all the time. how you didn’t mind how rough he was. but the cherry on top was the party friday.

the frat is lit up like a damn fever dream. neon strips line the railings, glow paint smeared across walls and skin, bass from the dj bleeding through the floors as the pool outside shimmers under colored lights. it’s packed, but not suffocating. invite-only for once. people actually have room to breathe, but it was mainly because they didn’t want any complaints so early in the semester.

sukuna is sat back on the patio couch, shirtless, skin still damp from the heat, a thin sheen of sweat catching the lights every time he moves, tattoos flexing over his well defined muscles. gojo was loud beside him, geto half-listening while scrolling on his phone, a couple other guys scattered around with some girls mingling between them. but sukuna isn’t paying attention to any of it.

he has a drink in his hand, untouched. his eyes keep drifting. back to you. somewhere near the edge of the pool, laughing at something utahime is saying, glowing under the neon like it was made for you. your bikini hugged your tits so well he’d pop a boner if he stares too hard. the droplets run down your soft skin, as he sees you fix your necklace as you say something to your friend.

he clicks his tongue, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “you ever notice they act different sometimes?” he mutters, low enough that it doesn’t carry past the music.

nanami, sitting beside him in swim shorts, thick legs spread open for all to eye and an open button up putting his defined abs on full display, along with the sneaky patch of blonde hair peaking out of his waistband, doesn’t even look up from his phone. “that’s a very broad statement.”

sukuna exhales through his nose. “nah, like—” he pauses, frowning slightly, like he’s trying to piece a puzzle together when he doesn’t have all the pieces yet. “it’s not random.”

nanami studies him for a second, then follows his line of sight, and finds you immediately. is he starting to realize his feelings for you?— “not random how?”

sukuna tilts his head, “just… different. clingier. or—” he gestures vaguely with his drink. “more into it.”

nanami raises a brow. “into what.”

sukuna gives him a look like don’t be fucking stupid.

nanami hums, finally catching on, taking a slow sip. “you’re asking if there’s a pattern to women’s behavior.”

“i’m saying there is one,” sukuna mutters aggressively. “i just don’t know what the hell it is.”

“you know,” nanami says calmly, “they have cycles.”

there’s a beat. then sukuna leans back, jaw ticking slightly, still watching you. “yeah I fucking know that,” he mutters. “It’s annoying.”

nanami glances at him again, lost. “what is.”

sukuna doesn’t answer right away. just takes another sip, eyes narrowing faintly. “the way it’s not consistent.”

nanami huffs quietly, amused now . “if you’re starting to notice now then it is consistent.”

sukuna side-eyes him. nanami is no better than gojo or geto, he’s just more subtle about his innuendos. “I’m not noticing shit—“

nanami shrugs, setting his glass down. unaware that gojo and geto have agreed on teams.

“okay! water volleyball!” gojo’s voice cuts clean through the bass, already halfway to the pool as he grins like he’s been waiting for this all night. a cheer ripples through the patio. of course it does. a house full of athletes, half-naked, girls in bikinis, a competition handed to them on a silver platter? yeah, they’re moving before the rules are even explained.

geto stretches his arms above his head as he stands, “hey! the love of god,” he mutters, loud enough for the frat president t to hear him, “try not to break anyone’s teeth this time.”

gojo laughs, already hopping to his side of the pool because obviously he’s one of the captains. “no promises.”

sukuna’s already up, taking the second captain title and just like that — whatever train of thought he was stuck on snaps clean in half. gone. replaced with something sharper, more familiar. his shoulders roll once, loose, eyes narrowing as he sizes up the space, the people already splitting into sides. his team or gojo’s team. they’re always on opposite teams. it makes it more fun.

“don’t get in my way,” he tosses to gojo as he steps around to his end of the pool, his hand brushing his stomach as he crack his neck.

“you wish,” gojo shoots back.

people start gathering, some hanging back to watch, others eager, slipping into the water, calling out sides, laughing as they pick teams. a younger pledge scrambles to the middle, already trying to take control after geto shoves him in to the play referee, whistle in hand like this is some official match.

and of course, even as chaos takes over the yard. your eyes find him. instinctive, like something in you locks in and refuses to look anywhere else.

sukuna stands at the edge, skin still glistening under the neon, muscles flexing lazily as he stretches his arm over his head. his back, his shoulders, the deep v- line that has your eyes following down to the tuft of light hair peaking out the same one you always find yourself caressing during foreplay— it’s too much. it’s always too much, but tonight it sits heavier in your chest, lower in your stomach, something warm and insistent that doesn’t let up between your legs.

your clit throbs.

“wait—” utahime grabs your wrist, staring at you like you’ve lost your mind. “you hate this stuff.”

you don’t even look at her. “it’ll be fun,” you murmur, already pulling away. and then you’re moving. slipping from your seat on the edge of the pool and jumping in.

the water hits cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat that’s been building under it. you swim to sukuna’s side, breath catching slightly as you orient yourself to the chaos around you, because normally, usually, a crowded sweaty pool was something you’d avoid, but—he’s already looking at you. your thighs press together.

his eyes are not casual, not passing, he’s looking. his gaze drops first. slow and deliberate, catching the faint mark on your neck, the one he left last night, barely visible under the colored lights. his jaw ticks. then lower, just for a second, the way your body shifts in the water, the ripple of movement as you steady yourself, the rise and fall of your breasts threatening to spill out. the water calmly rocks underneath them. then his gaze shifts back to your face, and you’re still staring at him. you’re not even trying to hide it.

something about that makes his brow twitch.

because you’re not looking away. not when he meets your eyes. not when the noise around you spikes, not when someone splashes too close. your focus stays locked, heavy, almost… expectant.

it lingers a second too long. then—

“teams set!” the pledge yells, blowing the whistle way too aggressively. “first to ten— no cheap shots—“ he glances around before catching geto lounged on the other side of the pool, some girl already pressed against his arm. “OH! no punches or choking!”

“shut up and start it,” gojo calls from the other side, already grinning, bouncing lightly in the water.

sukuna doesn’t take his eyes off you for another beat. then he exhales through his nose, turning slightly, shoulders squaring as the ball is tossed into play and he’s in the pool.

the game starts rough. the second the ball is tossed, two guys are already lunging for it. water splashing high, bodies colliding mid-air before someone spikes it hard across the pool. girls moved out of the way, squealing as huge men fight. a chorus of shouts erupts from the sidelines, music still blasting behind it, neon lights flickers over wet skin and moving bodies.

gojo, the ever responsible fraternity president, grins like a man possessed on the other side. sukuna, the very responsible vice president, is barking like a mad man.

and of course, the competitive idiots fall into rhythm with each other. fast, aggressive, locked in, and every hit gets harder, a slightly more violent. every return is sharper and people start gathering closer to the edge, phones out, recording, yelling their names like it’s a real match instead of a drunk frat game.

“c’mon, kuna!” someone shouts.

“gojo! spike that shit!”

water slaps against tile. everything is moving fast, bodies move out of the way so they’re not hit by the aggressive spikes from the frat hosts. but they still refuse to leave the pool because it’s fun, messy, loud, and heated.

and then the ball comes your way. your eyes widen, barely able to think, so you just react. your hands come up, fingers pushing against it just right, and somehow, you’re sending it up in a clean arc, right to him.

sukuna moves instantly….he jumps, sculpted body cutting through the air, arm pulling back before he slams the ball down with violent force, sending it crashing into gojo’s side of the pool.

a winning point. a cheer explodes. and when he lands, water dripping down his shoulders, he glances at you, canines on display, as his deep voice cuts through the chaos to say, “good girl.” it’s low, automatic, and it slips out without thought, just like how he’d praise you when you’re alone, and his voice is raspy as he whispers it in your ear, cock usually deep in your guts as he gives you another mean thrust that you take with pride, pussy clamping when he bottoms.

something fast, hot, and dizzying rushes through you. your chest tightens, skin buzzing as your breath stutters for a second. your thighs press together instinctively under the water, pulse kicking up in a way that feels almost overwhelming. and from that moment on, you stick to him. you try to chase the ball for him, pushing it back into his reach every chance you get, doing your best to avoid the large men playing the game. but your focus narrows, locked in on your hot fuck buddy like nothing else exists. every movement feels sharper, more urgent, your body reacting before your brain can catch up.

on the sidelines, people notice. how can they not? most of the girls “playing” cling to the perimeter. and then there’s you, being an idiot, but a very hot one, throwing yourself in the middle. your bikini clings tight from the water, fabric hugging every curve, shifting every time you jump or twist. a few guys on the edge of the pool don’t even bother pretending they’re watching the game anymore. their eyes track you instead, murmurs passing between them. someone whistles when you jump to set the ball, breasts bouncing freely in the flimsy bikini top, your nipples hard underneath as water cascades like some playboy ad.

but sukuna, is too locked into the game to notice.

the first round ends with his team winning, and the second starts almost immediately, louder than before. people are picking sides now, chanting, recording, some still dancing on the grass behind them, focused on the dj, drinks sloshing as the party refuses to slow down around the chaos of the pool’s game.

you’re still right there again when it starts. you doubt you’re even playing anymore, but you wanted to see him, watch him jump high and spike the ball. watch the ink on his back ripple with his muscles. the same defined lines that you caress at night, and hug—

your attention is so narrowed, that you don’t even notice the guy at first. bodies are moving like a blur that you don’t focus on another moving behind you. until it’s too near, too familiar for someone you don’t know. then, a hand brushes your bare side under the water, lingering just a second too long making your blood run cold.

your eyes snap wide. “what the fuck!” you twist instantly, shoving him off hard, water splashing between you as your stomach turns. only a few people notice, the rest too consumed by the game until you’re moving straight towards a certain captain.

“THAT’S A FUCKING FOUL GOJO—what the—“

your arms wrap around him from behind without hesitation, pressing into him, chest flush against his back as you cling to one familiar form. tight, and instinctive.

it catches him off guard, just for a second. his body tenses slightly under your grip. his muscular arms lift, head turning halfway to see, “who the fuck—“ grabbed him in the middle of game! but then he sees you. and his eyes glance down at your familiar hands holding his chest. your name slips out of his lips, confused what you’re doing, but then the ball’s already back in play. and somehow he keeps going.

even with you wrapped around him, weight clinging to his back, he still moves, still blocks, still lands a hit that sends the ball flying back over the net. it’s messy now, uneven, but he’s too competitive to stop, jaw tight, focus split but still sharp. water splashes everywhere. people are yelling. gojo laughs from the other side. “what the hell is that— you got a handicap now?”

sukuna clicks his tongue, annoyed, shifting slightly to keep his balance with you still latched onto him. you don’t let go. not once. “you drunk?” he tries to talk to you mid-game.

“yeah,” you mutter over the music. but as more people fill the pool, and the third round feels much more chaotic, sukuna begins to notice. your grip tightens every time someone gets too close, every time someone accidentally touches you, every time your head spins just a little from the alcohol and the heat and everything. your cheek presses against his back, breath uneven, body still buzzing in a way you don’t fully understand, other than the fact that you can feel how hot it is between your legs. he smells so good…

the game drags on— until finally— gojo’s team takes the last point. a loud cheer erupts from his side, people splashing into the pool, celebrating, phones still up capturing everything.“told you,” gojo grins, pushing his wet snowy hair back, muscles flexing for the cameras as he sticks his tongue out.

sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, annoyed, shoulders tense— he doesn’t shake you off. but unfortunately, he doesn’t get the chance.

you’re suddenly ripped away.

“wha—! what the fuck!” you yelp as a pair of hands grab you from underneath, a drunk junior dunking under the water before popping up with you lifted high onto his shoulders. just for the crowd to erupt.

“OH SHIT— chicken fight!”

“LET’S GO!”

“get her, get her!” other guys in the pool dunk under and lift a few laughing girls up. but you’re not one of them. your thighs clamp instinctively around the stranger’s head just to keep from slipping, heart racing, balance completely shot as water drips down your legs and chest. your hands fly to his hair, trying to steady yourself, panic flashing across your face. you didn’t agree to this. your eyes lock with sukuna immediately. wide. confused. he’s not your boyfriend— but he’s still…

something in him snaps. he straightens, fast. too fast. the playful edge from seconds ago gone completely, replaced with something sharp and violent, jaw tightening as his eyes drag over the way the guy’s hands are gripping your thighs— and the whistles from the crowd don’t help, especially when your hand reaches to adjust the way your bikini top had shifted.

“damn!”

sukuna’s fist curls. “get your fucking hands off her,” he bites out, already moving forward through the water, splashing hard as he closes the distance.

the guy just laughs, drunk, clueless and not listening. “relax, man, it’s just a chicken fight. ever heard of those?”

he doesn’t get to finish. sukuna’s already pulling his arm back, when you squeak.

“wait—!” you gasp, trying to shift your weight, panic spiking as the situation spirals way too fast—but before anything can land another pair of bodies crash into you. a second drunk chicken fight slams into your side, bodies colliding, completely losing balance. and then everything goes under. water rushes over your head in a blur of limbs and noise, the guy beneath you losing his footing as you both go down. you barely have time to register it before a hand grabs you. hard.

sukuna’s arm wraps tight around your waist, yanking you up and out of the water in one sharp motion. you cough, sputtering slightly, fingers clutching onto him as he steadies you against his side. he doesn’t even look at you at first. he’s glaring past you.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?!” he snaps, voice low and dangerous, water dripping from his hair as he stares down the guy who just broke the surface, coughing. “you fucking grab girls without permission and I’m fucking snapping your arm in half!”

the junior lifts his hands, half-laughing, half-defensive. “yo, chill— it’s just a game—”

“i said don’t touch her,” sukuna cuts in, sharper this time, stepping forward like he’s ready to swing anyway.

the energy shifts instantly. people nearby start stepping in, hands coming up.

“aye, chill, chill—” one tries to come between them. sukuna doesn’t even notice that you’d managed to slip from his grip, still coughing as you swim to the steps of the pool, heart pounding as utahime, having seen the entire interaction helps you out.

“you okay?” she sits in front of you on the edge handing you water.

you nod, chugging half the bottle, before breathing again, “swallowed like…” you gag, “a disgusting amount of that pool water.” utahime cringes as she glances at the pool. the interaction growing even more heated, as a crowd watches sukuna curse out the junior.

“anyone else fucking grab a girl without her permission is getting fucking banned from this frat permanently!” sukuna shouts. murmurs break out across the crowd, a few glance towards you, as utahime notices, but you’re too busy washing your mouth out to care.

gojo’s aloof attitude steps in after coming back with a sweet juice in hand. “okay, okay, we’re clear on consent aren’t we guys?”

people hum, cheering for the games to continue. but then…

“didn’t know she was your girlfriend.”

it lands this time, cutting through the noise and sticking just long enough for a few whistles and low laughs to ripple through the crowd. the kind of comment meant to poke, to stir, to see what the hot headed vp will do with it. but what’s worse is that a majority of the crowd has no clue what your relationship is with sukuna. aside from the frat members.

sukuna doesn’t even look at him, and he doesn’t correct it. it’s not because he wants to claim you. not because it’s true. but because it’s annoying—because explaining it, denying it, entertaining it at all feels like more effort than it’s worth. he’s your fuck buddy, he knows that, you know that, and thats all. his jaw tightens once, eyes already elsewhere, done with the conversation before it can grow legs because then he’ll really break his fucking arm.

the party moves on like it always does. music swells back up, as gojo and geto thank the heavens that sukuna was in a good mood before the argument that he wasn’t tempered to continue the fight. luckily the drinks are raised again. gojo’s already laughing, pulling attention away, and just like that the moment dissolves into noise.

sukuna’s focus shifts and lands on you.

you’re still on the edge of the pool, legs dangling in the water, skin slick and glowing under the neon lights. your bikini clings tighter now, nipples pebbled under your soaked top, every curve on display, highlighted by the shadows of the lights above. it makes it impossible not to look. droplets trail down your thighs, catching the light as you tilt your head back slightly, still rinsing your mouth out, brows furrowed in clear disgust.

utahime sits in front of you, just as eye-catching to the hungry men around, her own bikini hugging her frame, water beading along her collarbones as she watches you with a mix of concern and amusement.

and people are staring. not subtle glances—staring like you’re something to watch. something to linger on. like the game earlier just shifted into something else entirely and now you’re part of it without agreeing. no wonder you hate these parties.

it irritates him, fast.

sukuna clicks his tongue under his breath and pushes forward through the water, tall enough that even standing in the pool, he closes the height between you easily. the neon catches on his skin too. his broad shoulders still damp, muscles flexing as he moves, water sliding down his torso in slow lines. he’s not unaware of the way people look at him either—girls nearby pausing mid-conversation, eyes dragging over him openly—but he doesn’t care. not right now. not when he reaches you.

his hand comes up without hesitation, settling on your exposed thigh where it hangs over the edge of the pool. his palm is warm even against your wet skin, fingers spreading slightly, firm enough to ground, possessive. the contact is immediate. deliberate.

the shift is noticeable. a couple of those lingering stares drop off instantly. only then does he look at you. his gaze flicks over your face, still a little flushed, still catching your breath, before settling. his gaze is steady, assessing the way your glossy lips part with an exhale after chugging an entire bottle of watet.

“you good?” he asks, voice lower now, rougher around the edges from the leftover tension. his thumb moves slightly against your skin without thinking, a small, absent motion that doesn’t match the sharpness in his expression.

utahime has to hold back an eye roll, especially when his gaze flicks over your face, then your lips. unbelievable. what’s with him? what’s stopping him from asking you out if he gets so hot headed and possessive—ughhh…utahime holds back her anger, because she was pissed when someone suddenly grabbed you and then had you dunked in the water. why does sukuna have to be so fucking weird though?! she internally curses out sukuan for being the person that always protects her best friend, but acts like a complete jerk another second.

“how much sweat did you drink?” sukuna asks, tone laced with amusement .

your eyes snap, face grimacing, “shut the fuck—up,” you gag again, hand coming up to your mouth just for utahime to snort and sukuna to bark with laughter.

“did i tell ya why we had to drain the pool last year—“ sukuna starts, utahime’s eyes widen.

“oh my god I remember!”

your face pales, nails digging into sukuna’s shoulder while the other still covers your mouth. “don’t you dare tell me.”

sukuna grimaces with an amused expression remembering what happened at last years pool party. but distracting you has somehow managed to isolate everything else around him and have his sole focus on the way you wipe your mouth with a napkin utahime — and now nanami and geto at her side — comes back with, and the way your fingers shift from his shoulder to his forearm resting across your damp lap. and the conversation flows afterwards.

gojo was still on the dance floor, completely in his own world, some girl is pressed to his side as neon lights strobe over him laughing, loud, untouchable in the way he always is. meanwhile, the edge of the pool has settled into something more intimate and funny. the conversations around overlap as you all joke loudly and throwing around slight bickering, cooling off from the chaos, but still very much alive.

and with all that, you hadn’t left. even after everything, you’re still sitting where you are, leg still dipped in the water, skin dewy under the lights, bikini keeping your pretty tits in view for a certain salmon haired man. your hair is slightly damp, pushed back from your face, exposing the curve of your neck—the faint mark sukuna left the night before still visible if someone looks close enough. and you smell heavenly. fuck if you’re alone, he’d bury his nose closer to your breasts to smell the sweat clinging.

but people are looking. they always are now.

they just don’t linger as long anymore. not with him there. sukuna leans into the edge of the pool, upper body braced beside you, his arm draped behind your back like it naturally falls there. his other hand rests lazily against your thigh, fingers tapping absently against your skin as he takes a sip from his beer. his shoulders are broad, still slick with water, veins visible along his arms as they flex with every small movement.

he looks just as much of a problem as ever. and the attention doesn’t stop, girls nearby still steal glances, whispers, watching the way he’s positioned so close to you, the way his hand hasn’t moved from your leg once. but what’s more interesting, is that you don’t move either.

you don’t push him off, don’t shift away. if anything, you lean just slightly into his space, your fingers absentmindedly tracing along his forearm where it rests across your lap, like it’s second nature. you like it there.

and sukuna notices. of course he does, with how touchy and clingy you’ve been these past few days. yes, he’s shocked you haven’t left, or haven’t asked him to go upstairs with you. instead you’re being so uncharacteristically attached.

his gaze flicks down for a second, watching the way your fingers move against his skin, something unreadable passing through his expression before he looks away again, taking another sip like it didn’t just register. his stomach churns when you lean forward slapping nanami’s stretched out hand after he said something funny.

“why the fuck are you guys sitting here?” gojo’s voice cuts in suddenly, dripping with disbelief as he approaches, hair damp, grin lazy. he looks down at your little group, then at the pool like it personally offended him. “this is embarrassing.”

utahime snorts. “she almost drowned, idiot.”

“she’s alive,” gojo shrugs immediately, already grabbing a drink from someone nearby. “get in the hot tub. it’s waaaay better!”

a couple girls attached to him nod eagerly, already following his lead as he starts heading that way without waiting for an answer. utahime glances at you. “you wanna stay out or…?”

you don’t even hesitate as you hum, soft. “yeah, why not.”

sukuna catches it.

the group starts moving, the energy shifting with them as they make their way toward the hot tub. somewhere along the path, nanami and utahime get pulled into another conversation, stopping off to the side, leaving you and sukuna to keep going without them. your skin burns as sukuna keeps a subtle hand in your lower back, biting his lip when you reach the hot tub and you step in front of him. his gaze drops to the movement of your ass, your bikini was so skimpy it’s definitely clinging on to your pussy lips too. fuck,

by the time you step into the hot tub, the heat hits instantly. you sigh without meaning to, tension melting from your shoulders as the warmth wraps around you, soaking into your skin. your body relaxes almost immediately, the contrast from the cooler pool making everything feel heavier, slower.

sukuna steps in right after you. and immediately shoves two guys aside with a sharp nudge of his shoulder. “move.”

they do quickly without argument, clearly frat members. he settles in beside you, close again, like earlier, like he didn’t just create that space for you.

gojo drops in for half a second, splashing water everywhere before grimacing. “it’s too hot,” he complains, already climbing back out. “i need another drink.”

and just like that, he’s gone again. leaving you, sukuna, and the rest of the group laughing, talking. the conversation easy as the night keeps rolling around you. especially when geto comes back with some girls and red solo cups for beer pong.

“don’t spill any in the hot tub!” sukuna barks as the girls organize the cups in place on the edge. geto slides into the pool with the ping pong balls.

“shh shh i know,” he zips his friend up as he takes aim. and as the party is brought back to the hot tub, you’re all swept up again. and your eyes are following every movement of your friend beside you. the way he’s shouting and laughing with his frat brothers, the conversations turning to fog when sukuna flexes his large bicep, the ink that wraps around it highlights how big they are. you can’t even recall the context of this sudden flex off, but you’re not complaining.

you watch his throat bop as he throws back another cup of beer, standing beside geto. your eyes trail over his sculpted chest. you suck in your bottom lip as sukuna falls back beside you. his arm draped behind you along the edge of the hot tub, barking another laugh at some crap geto is spewing, completely distracted.

“I swear TO GOD, you told me to go for that dive!” geto throws his hands up, flabbergasted.

“nah nah nah—“ sukuna shouts over, shaking his head with an amused expression, “I told you—“

“nah—satoru!!” geto looks over his shoulder, waving down the president. “SATORU!”

gojo’s head whips around. however, the debate is the furthest thing from your mind, honestly you can’t even understand what these idiots are talking about. but— there’s one idiot that smells heavenly.

sukuna distracted, doesn’t notice how much closer you’re pressed to him, how your lashes flutter at the mix of cologne and chlorine flooding your nose, and dizzying your mind. he’s so—uh..when men— your brain is short circuiting. literally. mind so consumed by how big and strong this man beside is, that all you can think about is how he protected you. he pulled you out of the water. snapped at that guy…for you.

you’re not normally this moved. but it was the series of events that unfolded, all in the last few hours, that has you doing what you do next.

“please! you know i did not agree to that!” geto tsks, pointing his finger at gojo who’s laughing, sitting at the edge of the hot tub, legs in. and the two — along with the rest of the group involved in the debate — are distracted, and unaware of the fact that the pretty girl that sukuna almost started a fight over, is slipping her pretty hand inside his swim shorts.

sukuna tenses. breath hitching.

his eyes snap to you, stomach clenching. “what’re you—“ he chokes when you squeeze his thick base without warning. your cheek casually presses against his shoulder, wetting your bottom lip. your leg is tucked against his side, as the other swings over his knee, pretty tits squished against his arm. your wrist rolls, stroking his flaccid cock alive.

“ryo…” you speak low enough so that only sukuna can hear. “was jus’ thinking about you.” his jaw tenses, hand clenching at the edge of the tub, leaning his head down.

“you’re the one that doesn’t like this shit,” he husks, throat bopping as you bat your lashes up at him, bitting your lip as you give his cock another squeeze, pushing your wet tits against his arm. “there’s people—“

“then be normal, ryo,” you say, all while nuzzling him like a clingy g— “just wanted to feel how big you are.”

his heads tips back, what’re you even saying?

you keep your cheek pressed against his shoulder, lip tucked between your teeth as you stroke the vp’s fat throbbing cock in the middle of a party and in a hot tub full of his close frat friends.

it wasn’t difficult for his dick to fully harden within seconds of your hand making contact. you let out a soft exhale, pressing your practically naked body against him like you could get any closer than you already are. but to make matters worse, he was so unbelievably turned on that you were touching him in public! fuuck, his stomach flexes, biting back a groan when your thumb swipes his bulbous tip, the water made it difficult for you to keep a fast pace stroke, but his skin was still prickling with heat.

“ryo, is this okay?” you softly pant in his ear, a hum like moan escapes your lips just by the way he exhales through his nose, turning his head to you, aroma engulfing you.

to anyone else it just looked like you were having a private conversation with each other. the hot tub and pool, a few feet away, booming with chaos, no one was paying attention to you guys. but even with all that information, sukuna — who spreads his legs further apart in the water, biting his lip when you kiss his neck now, sucking a light bruise on his flushed skin — knows that you’d never do this. you get touchy when you’re drunk, whispering dirty shit in his ear. but you’ve only had a couple drinks to make you tipsy enough to enjoy the party and remember, not black out drunk to jerk him off in public.

“yeah—it’s okay,” his head drops forward, hot red flush crawling up his neck and stinging his cheeks as he nudges your head with his.

“yeah?” you repeat with a coo.

he bites back a pathetic groan, arm sliding to your waist under the water, gripping your flesh like his life depends on it. you’re intoxicating.

“yeah baby.”

a flush of heat runs between your legs at his deep bedroom voice. sukuna is so hot, he’s so hot, so pretty, so sexy! you squeal internally, leaning closer to press your lips against his sharp jaw, whining just low enough for him to hear. your wrist twists down his cock. you hadn’t even full realized that you’d taken him out of his swim trucks, to possessed to care as his fingers dig into your waist, while the other balls into a fist against the tube’s edge.

“are you close, ryo? is your big cock gonna cum?”

unbelievable.

sukuna’s jaw tenses, abs tightening just by your voice. you’ve been hanging up on how big he is. how big his hands are. how big his dick is — scratch that, you’re using the word cock now. yeah he’s gonna fuckin’ cum soon if you keep talkin’ like that.

“there’s so many people around ry,” you shy quietly, “you don’t think they know I’m playing with you?” your slightly tipsy eyes bat up at him, pupils completely dilated. his eyes briefly sweep around him, the alarms flashing in his mind don’t seem to phase him as he drops his lips down to brush yours.

“what if they are aware?” he husks, lidded eyes boring into yours. “does that make y’r pussy wet?” he wets his lip, thighs flexing when you give his cock a squeeze as he speaks. “ya like knowing that there’s eyes everywhere…watching your slutty self jerk me off.”

your brain short circuits. face burning hot.

“I’m not a slut,” you whisper, just as you’re practically straddling his thigh now, with the way you’re inching closer to him every second. his hand slides from your waist to your ass, gripping the flesh as he pulls it apart letting you feel the warm tube water touch your heated pussy.

“you’re gettin on top of me—“

“to protect your dignity,” you attempt a frown, but your eyes keep flicking to his lips, brushing your lips against them again, just for him to pull back, again.

“didn’t take you as someone so generous,” he quips, hips angling up, subtly telling you to keep stroking him, even if it’s starting to feel like edging. “but,” he bites back another groan, “but to me, ya just look like another slut that wants to get her little pussy stuffed.”

you blink. once.

sukuna can see the lust burst behind your eyes. your thighs clamp around his beefy thigh, your hand squeezing his tip, and your lips parting. “is that so bad?”

ah fuck.

“you can’t say those words to a man,” sukuna’s rasps.

you pout, pressing your wet breasts against his chest, trapping his cock between your bodies. your hot breath fans against his face, scent invading his mind, and your lips brush against his, this time licking his bottom lip. once. twice. your tongue strokes his bottom lip, waiting for him to invite you in, whining a little louder when he refuses. “ryo.”

his large palms grip your ass. your flimsy bikini could easily be pulled to the side, exposing you just like him. your cheeks flush, arching even more, your arms are tossed around his broad shoulder, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape, desperate. needy. “I’ve been holding myself back ryo,” you quietly speak, unaware how much like déjà vu this feels. memories of last month flashing in his mind about those exact words coming from your lips as you climbed into his lap in the middle of a party. “you have to take care of it.”

“i have too?” he quips with a sharp edge in his tone.

your flush with embarrassment, lips parting as your lashes flutter shut, “please…please can you take care of it.”

unbelievable.

his cock twitches violently against your stomach. his muscular thigh flexes under your pussy making your lips part.

as you and sukuna speak in hushed whispers. a good group of people have take notice of the awkward shifting in the hot tub and the unrecognizable look on sukuna’s face. but specifically the girl that the sukuna let attach herself to him during a violently competitive water volleyball match and almost pick a fight with. he’s smirking as she whispers in his ear, her lips even pressing his lobe, making the intimidating vice president blush?!

“her tits are all over him,” one whispers, taking a sip as they watch from a distance, both sitting at the pools edge watching the events unfold a few feet’s away in the hot tub. it’s not obvious unless you’re staring as hard as these guys, or if you’re a certain man laughing as you stand up at the edge of the tub, face dropping for a millisecond when you catch your vice president getting off by a hot girl.

fucking animals, geto shakes his head, eyes flicking to gojo, easily communicating with him about you know.

gojo’s brows pinch glancing over from his seat at the edge of the tub, to— “oh shit!”

geto elbows him. “idiot!”

gojo’s hands fly to his mouth, laughing hysterically as he stares at the way his short tempered friend is blushing like crazy, and making it obvious to anyone that he’s getting his dick touched right now. “do they know what they’re doing?” gojo speaks in hushed whispers.

“obviously,” geto sits beside gojo, the tub water doesn’t seem to be appealing anymore. and yet there’s still a few people on the sides laughing, too drunk to notice.

“fucking pervs,” gojo snickers.

a beat passes.

then gojo turns, eyes wide when he sees geto staring blankly at him. “what?”

“you’re worse!” geto slaps him upside the head. gojo gasps in shock. “I can’t even remember how many times you fucked someone in here and in the pool—“

“hey,” gojo frowns, cheeks flushed from the alcohol. “that was…b-because they were hot.”

geto scoffs, “you weren’t even subtle about them, everybody knew you were fucking them. YOU’RE the biggest perv.”

gojo nods, “yeah…”

your whine flows directly into sukuna’s ear, lips coming back to his. “why won’t you kiss me?” you quietly demand.

his dimples press into his cheeks as he bites back a smirk. “we’re jus’ talking,” he says your name, but in that deep way he does when he’s stuffing you with his cock…which he’s not.

you sit up closer, sliding higher up his thigh, knee rubbing harshly against his cock — “ah!” you squeal suddenly straddling his lap instead of his thigh. his red irises sink into yours, watching the way your glossy lips part glancing at the surface of the hot tub trying to make out how close his cock is to where you need him. “you’re hard ryo.”

“and?”

your eyes flick up to him, pretty brows pressing together, “and we’re not jus’ talking—“

“y’know—“ he suddenly chokes.

you’ve moved your bikini to the side, and pushed his cock down, fully sitting on his cock and sliding across it, hips shaking, stimulating your needy clit.

your name cuts through the air, his grip moves to grab your hips, trying to keep you still, but his body betrays him as he bucks against you. “fuck, woman.”

your lips press against sukuna, whining like a desperate slut when he finally kisses you back. and this was why he didn’t want to entertain you this quickly. the sweet taste of your lips immediately sends a rush of heat down to his cock, his arm wraps around your back, holding the back of your head as the other grips your ass, groaning as your lips smack in wet hungry kisses. your tongues collide, spit collecting in your mouth as he groans in response.

sukuna has to be responsible. he has too. but you’re such a fucking slut— touching his cock, stroking him in public, rubbing your body (his biggest weakness) against him like you’re alone together. and now you’re humping his cock like you can feel something with the water’s friction.

all of it was a factor, and for some unexplainable reason, all the dots seemed to have connected at this exact moment—like a huge light bulb going off in his head.

“shit.”

you hum at the way his deep voice sends a warm heat blooming in your stomach. “are you turned on, ryo?” your lips purse, kissing his, unaware of the sudden realization he’s come too. “keep kissing me.”

your fingers thread through his short locks, gripping him as you keep his lips moving yours.

but sukuna’s palm splays across your spine, groaning at the way you don’t stop to catch your breath. then his grip tightens. his mouth drags slower this time, more deliberate. he’s testing something, and the way you react—how quick you melt back into him, how your nails press into his shoulders like you’re holding on and the pitched whine that leaves your lips when he tries to pull away.

“how bad d’you need me?” he murmurs, voice low, rough, right against your pretty lips.

you don’t hesitate. “so bad,” you breathe, almost frustrated, because it’s obvious.

his eyes flick over your face, searching, calculating—then narrowing slightly. “yeah?” he hums, thumb pressing into your waist, grounding you as you shift again, his cock snug between your folds. “why,” he asks, tone not soft or gentle, but testing.

you shake your head slightly, breath catching, fingers tightening on him. “because— i just—” you exhale sharply, frustrated, needy, “i just want you to touch me.”

that’s all he needs. a quiet, almost amused exhale leaves him, something darker settling behind his eyes now. nanami’s little comment about “noticing now” makes his stomach churn uncomfortably. it doesn’t mean anything that you’ve had this friend with benefits deal long enough for him to start noticing a pattern every month. especially when this part of the cycle comes around and you’re practically begging him to just touch you. he highly doubts that you even notice it.

“been like this all night,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, but his grip doesn’t loosen. if anything, it gets firmer. “can’t keep your hands off me, huh?”

you don’t even deny it. you just pull him back in. and this time he lets you. let’s you kiss him like it’s your last time, let’s you tug his hair like he belongs to you. let’s you pull away… you’re panting at him through glossy, lidded eyes.

and then sukuna notices.

the shift.

your breathing breaks. shallow and uneven. you can’t quite catch it as your lips part, soft, glossy, letting out these higher, breathier sounds that you’re not even trying to hold back anymore. it’s quieter than the music, but he hears it. feels it.

his grip tightens instinctively.

your hips are moving without any rhythm now. they’re slow, needy, desperate. your body chasing something it can’t reach fast enough. your fingers press into his lower stomach, clutching there like you need something solid to hold onto, your head tipping forward, lashes fluttering like a fucking angel. and your mouth falls open. a soft, pitched sound slips out of you—one you don’t even seem aware of—and it’s enough to make something dark flicker across his expression.

“…fuck,” he mutters under his breath, eyes locked on your face now, watching every little change his cock twitching uncontrollably.

your brows pinch, then your body tenses, then softens, like a wave hitting and pulling back all at once. your grip on him tightens, thighs pressing in, grounding yourself on his cock without even thinking about it.

and he doesn’t move. doesn’t interrupt it. he just watches. because now he knows. and all he can think is how unbelievably hot you look in his eyes—like something wired wrong in his brain just flipped on. women that are ovulating mean they’re more likely to get pregnant. fuck. why is his brain latching onto that part? you’re his fuck buddy. this is simple. it is simple. it’s perfectly reasonable—completely normal, even—for him to get turned on thinking about how much you cling to him, how much you crave him, how much you need him, how your body reacts to him like this. that doesn’t mean he wants to get you—

absolutely the fuck not.

but still…fucking women. you’re insane. his brain is short circuiting while you’re coming undone on his lap, in a hot tub, in the middle of a packed party.

and the way you’re panting, your breasts pushed together as you keep a hand on his lower abs, pussy spasming as your orgasm rocks through you, has something low and satisfied settling in your fuck buddy’s chest. his hand slides up your back again, slower this time, more deliberate.

“yeah…” he murmurs, almost to himself, thumb pressing lightly into your side as your breathing tries to steady. “that’s what i thought.”

his lips ghost over you.

then he feels it…the eyes.

his dark gaze flicks up. meeting the dilated blue and black ones, along with the others in the crowd. they all saw, didn’t they. witnessed something that had his jaw tightening and his pupils returning to their size.

“fuck me,” you pant quietly, arms lazily coming back to his shoulders coming down from your climax. you kiss him deeply, unaware of the mess you’re causing inside his brain. “I’ve heard people say hot tub’s make you orgasm better,” you lick his tongue, “because of the hot water.”

his grip tightens around you, eyes open and staring past you at the people eyeing the arch in your back as you make out with him like you didn’t just hump yourself to an orgasm in public.

“do you wanna cum too ryo?” your mischievous smile would’ve made any man buckle, but sukuna wasn’t any man. and he sure as shit isn’t a fucking cuck.

“no.”

his sudden tone shift had you pulling back, wet hand touching his damp cheek. sukuna’s thick brows were pulled tightly, clearly angry, at what? you’re not sure. but you’re too lax to think much of it as you squish his cheeks between your fingers. his tatted arm possessively hugged you, eyes briefly leaving the not so subtle audience behind you, to meet your glass eyes.

“you mad I came before you?” you tease, head tilting in mockery. cute. “it’s okay, I’ll make ya cum,” you whisper, smile gracing those sinful lips of yours. “I’ll let you choose too…”

fuck, you’re insane.

“…my hands…my lips….or my tight, pretty pussy….”

sukuna snorts, eyes meeting yours. “unbiased much.”

you shrug biting your lip, batting your pretty lashes at him. “you always call it that. I’m just using your vocabulary, mister suh…ku…nuh.”

that was his final straw, because in a blink of an eye, sukuna’s tucking himself and pushing off the tub’s seat, standing up. water cascades down the sharp planes of his abs, his swim trunks clinging low on his hips—leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

and people notice.

of course they do.

your jaw drops for half a second, eyes going wide before heat floods your face so fast it burns. you shoot up right after him, fist clenching at your side, brows pinching tight. “what’re you doing?”

“we’re going upstairs,” he says simply, like there aren’t a million eyes on him, more specifically on his thick bulge. girls are openly staring now, not even trying to hide it as their gazes drag over him, over the obvious outline pressing against his trunks.

your stomach twists. uncomfortable. sharp. ugly. you don’t name it. you won’t name it because it’s stupid. you have no claim, no say, no right to feel any type of way about who looks at him or how they look at it. but still, your jaw tightens because the way they’re staring is making your blood boil and it’s like they’re in on something they’re not supposed to be. they’re looking at something that has nothing to do with them and everything to do with you. just you.

your eyes flick back to him, to the way the water trails down his body, down the dark wet hairs of his happy trail. the way he stands there like he doesn’t give a single fuck about the attention. and it only makes it worse. he looks like he’s been carved out of stone. something untouchable. and everyone’s fucking touching him with their eyes.

your lips press into a thin line, pulse uneven, heat sitting low in your stomach now for an entirely different reason as you step closer to him without even realizing it, hand settling on his stomach blocking the view from the onlookers. your fingers twitch. and you hate…hate how much it bothers you.

“you’re hard,” you huff, pushing him to step out of the tub, heart beating uncontrollably.

sukuna snorts, leaning down, “yeah no shit.”

“people are staring,” you grit.

your pulse stops. the air shifting around you, then you feel it. sukuna’s eyes bore into you, as his palm cups the side of your neck. your lips part in confusion when his gruff voice cuts.

“they’ve been staring.” the muscles on his jaw flex, pupils moving over your face as his gaze drops to your body. “they all…” his words trail off. he can’t say it…he can’t tell you they all fucking saw you cum, or the way your entire form looked like something straight out of every guys wet fantasy. all because of that unspoken tug that twists in his chest as you look up at him.

his head tips back in defeat.

unaware of the turmoil, you continue pushing him back, glancing briefly over your shoulder to see a few eyes not on the party but staring at sukuna.

“can you walk faster,” you mutter.

sukuna suddenly grabs your wrist after another push backwards, almost making him trip. his grip is firm and fast, yanking you back toward him before you can take another step, your body colliding lightly into his chest. water still drips from both of you, heat clashing with the cool night air as he steadies himself, jaw tightening for a second.

“watch it,” he mutters, low, though there’s no real bite to it. if anything, there’s something else there. his hand doesn’t leave your wrist. instead, it slides up, fingers curling tighter as he pulls you closer. closer. until there’s barely any space left between you. you barely get a word out before he leans down and kisses you.

hard.

it’s sudden. messy. all teeth and heat, like he’s cutting off whatever rush of thoughts were building in your head. your hands come up instinctively, gripping into his shoulders as he angles you just right, one hand now firm at your waist to keep you there. your lips part, immediately tasting his skilled tongue.

and around you, the party doesn’t stop. it never does when it’s grown this chaotic. but there are pockets, small ones, where people notice. gojo, still leaning back against the hot tub’s edge, lets out a low laugh. “zero awareness,” he mutters, clearly entertained. geto just shakes his head, amused, watching the scene unfold like it’s expected. neither of them have the energy tonight to call their friend out, but they’ll be sure to give him shit tomorrow.

but off to the side, a couple girls lean into each other, whispering behind their solo cups, eyes flicking between sukuna and the very obvious situation he’s not bothering to hide. further back, a few of the same guys from earlier in the pool linger, their stares a little too heavy, a little too interested, but sukuna doesn’t register it.

he’s too focused on you. too focused on the way you kiss him back just as hard. how you’re still letting out those fucking whines and moans into his hot mouth. too focused on how quickly you fold into him like he’s the oxygen keeping you alive. to him, this urgency and impatience, just reads as one thing. you want him so bad.

he pulls back just enough to breathe, lips still brushing yours, his gaze dropping to your face, slightly dazed, flushed, and lips parted from the kiss.

“…yeah,” he exhales, almost amused, thumb pressing into your waist like he’s grounding himself. “you taste so good.”

your fingers tighten around his bicep, the other around his shoulder, breath uneven as you blink up at him, still catching up.

“can we—” you swallow, then try again, quieter but more urgent, “can we go upstairs now?”

there’s a beat. then his hand slides down to yours again, grip tightening as he turns, already moving toward the house without another word—pulling you with him. he pushes straight through the noise that follows inside, the lights, the bodies still dancing in the kitchen like nothing. all the way up to his room, and immediately kicking the door shut.

and within a blink of an eye, your tongue is lolling out as sukuna sits behind you, fingers digging into your ass and face buried from behind.

“fuh—fuck yeah,” you drawl, lips wet at the feel of sukuna’s tongue dragging inside your pussy, lapping up and toying with your rim before going back to suck your slick juices. “c’mon ry, haah…” you’re pushing his head back, so you can sit up. you move to tug his wet trunks off, crawling onto his lap once he discards them. unbothered by the tick in his jaw at your stubbornness, because in seconds, your head is tossed back, and your back is arching as you sink down on the nine thick fat inches. “a….ah—“

your lashes flutter, eyes rolling back at the unbelievable stretch. your pussy swallowing every inch like the slut he loves.

“there ya go,” he praises, fingers digging into your ass as you stare at his lips. his sharp teeth sink into his bottom lip as your slick lubricates his cock. your pussy a generous fountain as you roll your hips, letting his cock stuff deep inside you. “take this fuckin’ cock like a good bitch.”

“ry…haah…” you’re moaning in choked gasps, drool peaking at the corner of your lips as you finally sit back on his thighs.

the man’s pupils dilate as you stroke your lower stomach, feeling the bulge as you bat your lashes up at him. “you’re inside me now, ryo.”

fuck you. seriously.

his brain short circuits in seconds. and now all he sees is you.

his body reacts like a dog with his master. obeying your needs like he’s wired to do that. and he’s not complaining. his hand falls on your ass, beefy thighs spreading, as he meets your bounces with rough snaps of his hips. your ass claps against his thighs with each bounce, gasps piercing the air as he fucks up into you with full force. and you let him.

“look like a fuckin’ porn star on top of me,” he grunts, swallowing a moan when you clamp around him, finger tugging on the knot around your neck letting your bikini finally fall off, freeing your gorgeous tits. “fucking brat—“

his tongue falls out, licking your tit that bounces in his face, lips wrapping around your nipple and sucking desperately. and he’s not nice about it. because now he knows. he knows you’ll let him. knows when you’re ovulating you’ll let him be a little harder, meaner, because it feels good. it feels good to feel his teeth bite down on your nipple possessively. it feels good when he spanks your ass for the nth time until your eyes are rimmed red and flooding with tears.

it feels good to have him obsessed with you, because all you’re begging for is…

“cu—uh—cum.”

an electric current runs down his spine, jaw clenching and head tipping back, flooding your tight pussy with his thick load.

“shit—nghhh fuuuck—fuck baby,” he’s gripping your hips as you press against his stomach, rocking on his cock. he doesn’t fully realize his back is laying against the bed. not when you’re milking his cock like he’s some fucking cow…and yet… “shit keep goin, baby—yeah ya want m-Mmm shit.”

“feel so good ryo.” you shake your ass, feeling his cock twitch inside you when his arm wraps around you, tugging you down to his chest.

“you can keep going?”

you smile, hand touching his cheek, as your tongue strokes his bottom lip. “yeah.” you sigh, whining so softly he would’ve missed it. and you continue like that, kissing him over and over, sighing and calling his name as he pulls out, his fingers push inside your pussy from behind.

“y’r killing me with this tight pretty pussy,” he coos, sending a wave of heat through your veins.

you mewl against his lips, earning a mean spank to your ass, just for his middle and ring finger to slip back inside you. and he does that for god knows how long, until you finally spasm around his digits. he’s then flipping you over, easily getting on top.

“keep em open cmon.” his low voice has your pussy pulsing, pushing his previous load out right in front of his eyes. he must know his voice’s affects on you.

you hold your legs open, bottom lip between your teeth as you watch sukuna stroke his member over you. the room smells of chlorine, you, and him. “theere we go,” he groans, palm pressing against your knee as he kneels closer to your open legs, dilated pupils staring at the mess between your legs as he slaps his hard cock on your puffy pussy. “what a dirty fuckin’ girl,” he drags his cock between your slippery folds, exhaling through his nose when his engorged tip catches your sore clit.

“ryoomen,” you call softly, like you haven’t been all over him these last two days.

he snorts, “what happened to mister sukuna? don’t tell me you’ forgot how you humped yourself to an orgasm in the pool—“

“hot tub.”

“my bad,” he remarks sarcastically, tip pushing inside then pulling out again, teasing. “still rubbed this pussy raw, look,” he slaps his cock again, thumb rubbing your little bundle of nerves making you let go of your legs— “ah—keep em open.” he spanks the inside of your thigh. “dirty girls need to be taught a lesson.”

“please,” you scoff, sitting up on your elbows, “you were literally slapping everyone around with your hard dick.”

sukuna barks out a laugh. “my dick’s that big?”

you glance down at him, then back up. “I wasn’t being dirty. you were dirty too.”

“me?” he’s baffled, you’ve been throwing yourself at him all night!

you raise a brow at him, relaxing back on the pillows pressed against the headboard, eyeing him. “you never took your hands off me.”

sukuna scoffs, “as if, you latched onto me on the pool.”

“then i went to hime to wash my mouth out, and you—“ you point at him with emphasis, “came swimming to me, touching me, stroking my thigh, my back.” your brow quirks again, and sukuna goes mute. his jaw ticks, glancing over your face as your calf subtly hooks over his thigh, stroking up as your hands lay on your stomach, waiting.

“you…” he licks the back of his teeth, sharp eyes threatening, but… “so what if I had my hands on you?” oh, he admits it. your cheeks sting, wetting your lip as you shrug.

“well,” you tilt your head again, slightly embarrassed now, glancing down at his inked chest. “like…you can’t blame me for getting turned on then.”

“because I’m touching you?”

you nod.

“like this,” his palm trails from your knee, slowly up your thigh. the warmth of his skin feels burns a trail up your body.

you nod.

his hand reaches your waist, eyes boring into yours. his cock throbbing at this point, he can feel the slick of your arousal costing his cock as it rests against your pussy.

turning to some light foreplay after just fucking you was messing with his head…because….it feels so good.

“what about when I’m touching your waist,” his thumb strokes the soft skin. “it’s not your ass.”

your breath is uneven. your heart beats against your rib cage. “still,” you exhale.

“still turns you on?” he clarifies, catching the way your lips part, breathless just by the way he’s flirting with you. his cock twitches…you’re gorgeous.

you nod.

his free hand caresses your hips, moving it up your body in feather-like-caresses. his other arm is pressed beside you, keeping himself up as he watches your arms lay bent on the bed. his hand lightly brushes the side of your breast before trailing over your collarbone. “still?”

you nod, wetting your bottom lip, blown pupils maintaining eye contact.

his thumb caresses your collarbone, eyes flicking between your eyes and the way your chest is rising and falling in uneven breaths. “how about now?” his palm glides over your bicep, then down your arm, before threading his fingers with yours.

you squeeze his hand, eyes unable to tear away from his, cheeks hot. his face inches closer to yours, exhaling against your lips. “I think you’ve jus’ proved how horny you’ve been these past few days.”

your breath stutters, angling your chin up, “obviously,” you mutter against his lips. “I’m pretty sure I’m ovulating.”

something dark and electric flashes through his eyes. a low exhale leaves him, almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it, just heat, thick and immediate. his grip on your hand tightens to the point it almost borders on rough.

“yeah?” he murmurs, voice dropping, rougher now, like it’s scraping out of his throat. his forehead nudges against yours for a second, grounding himself, but it doesn’t work. if anything, it makes it worse. “tell me you want me to stuff you then.”

“I want you to stuff me, ryo,” you repeat, breathless as his jaw slacks finally rocking his hips into yours, slick cock massaging your folds. “with your cock…your cum….”

“keep going,” he husks.

your free hand trails up his bicep, the other still holding his hand like an anchor. “I want you to fuck me. hard. use me. cum in me.”

“ah fuck—“ he slips his hand between your bodies, pushing his cock down and snapping his hips into yours, sheathing his entire length inside. your jaw drops, broken cry slipping out. “y’ really know how to make a man fucking hard.”

your lips are glossed with spit as he presses his lips against yours. he swallows your moans, snapping his hips with a mean hard thrust, picking up a brutal pace without warning.

and you love it.

the base downstairs shakes the bedroom walls, the laughing and chatter outside is nothing compared to the way you’re panting and crying in his ear. the lights flickering from the pools strobe lights, only serve to illuminate your flushed face as you cum.

“fuck, you still want more,” he’s already kissing you again, and again. spit mixing together against your tongues as he pulls away. he pants over your face, his cheeks flushed pink and his cock rubbed raw. “fuck gunna cum…ngh yeah fuck fuck—“ he pistons his cock inside your poor cunt, dilated pupils zeroing on the mess that’s gushing from you. his chuckle is broken with his groan as he fucks you through it all. “keep squirting baby, it won’t make me stop.”

and he doesn’t. his thrusts are rough. engorged tip bruising your cervix with every snap of his sharp fit hips. he’s harder than usual, and even as you’re gasping, back of your hand raised to your mouth, pussy spasming as sukuna slams his body weight into each thrust — you don’t push him away.

“gunna cum…shiit, shit it’s coming—“ his voice breaks, and it feels like a damn crashing. his cock pulses inside you, squirting buckets inside your poor cunt. “haah fuh—“ his abs flex, body weight dropping on top of you, hugging you tight as he rocks his hips into lazy harsh humps, burying himself deep inside you, you’re sliding against the mattress. the rasp in his throat has you holding onto him tight, unbothered by how unbelievably heavy he is on top of your smaller body.

and sukuna stays like that. face buried in your neck, arms clutching onto you, and brain fried.

“you also smell sweeter,” he mutters. “when you’re ovulating.”

“I don’t. you’re just a freak.”

he buries his nose deeper in your neck, inhaling sharply. “haah fuck, nah you definitely smell good.”

your brain short circuits, cheeks flooding hot as you wiggle underneath him. “you can’t—“

“you humped me in the hot tub.”

your brows scrunch together. “so?”

he licks your neck, “then you can’t blame me for still being turned on by you.” he licks a strip up to your ear, a tingle runs down to your pussy, squeezing around him.

he smirks.

of course he does. and why wouldn’t he? you’re already nudging him to your lips, kissing him again, like you aren’t stuffed with loads of his cum.

“you’re cute,” he mutters between kisses, and even if that makes your stomach flip, your face burn, and your heart skip a beat…you don’t comment on it. you don’t address it. and you sure as shit don’t think about it.

and the simple answer is, he’s kissing you right now and that’s all you want to think about it.

more frat!kuna here

a/n: I’m blaming the grammar errors on you guys for the rush (I also hate proof reading). but I hope u guys enjoyed it. believe me when I say, I was not expecting it to be that freaking long, I just really wanted to write sukuna and reader kinda skinny dipping, without losing their dynamic or doing something super uncharacteristic, so I dragged out the plot. but still I hope u guys liked it!

and thank you for the wait. I really put most of my free time into this so I can’t tell u when I’ll finish the next chapter of the series, so bare with me for another possible week of agony :’(

[jenorotic]

in your corner (part six) : lee jeno

pairing — boxer!jeno x med-student f!reader

warnings — language, nsfw content, alcohol, violence

[ boxer!nct dream mini series ]

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6

note — lengthy parts, so be aware but mostly enjoy..!

it takes five days for jeno’s name to pop up on your phone screen.

while you normally kept your phone on do not disturb during class, you programmed his number to come through, just in case there was any sort of emergency. the sound of your phone vibrating on your desk makes you jump, and you send an apologetic look to your professor, reaching to turn it off. when you notice jeno’s name, however, your heart begins to pound.

you ducked outside the classroom quickly before you answered. you had been dying to hear from doyoung on jeno’s recovery, but now that the call was actually coming, you worried that the call isn’t just for an update.

“doyoung?” you ask, assuming the coach is on the other line. “is everything alright?”

“uh—” it takes just one syllable for your heart to stop. “it’s jeno, not doyoung.”

you walk further away from your classroom, glancing around to see if you’re alone. “it’s good to hear your voice.” you murmur. “how—how are you feeling?”

a dry chuckle echoes through the phone. “like shit, but that’s to be expected. doyoung told me i have a fractured rib?”

“and a fractured hand, and a mild concussion.” you bite your lip. “your nose wasn’t broken, though, so…at least there’s that.”

“yeah. there’s that.”

you rubbed your eyes as you lean against the corridor wall, your gaze trained on the trees outside the window. “i—doyoung said he’d call me if there was anything wrong, so—i would’ve stopped by—”

“no, i’ve been fine. just in pain, but that’s to be expected.” jeno assures you. you can almost picture him running his (not broken) hand through his hair. “you’re busy with school. i understand.”

“yeah, but—” you lowered your voice as a group of students walks by. “my class finishes in an hour. can i come see you tonight?”

there’s silence on the other end, and for a moment, you begin to worry that you’ve overstepped a boundary. you open your mouth to apologize when jeno finally answers.

“yeah. you can.”

your medical knowledge tells you that things have to get worse before they can get better.  you’ve seen it time and time again, not only in cases you’ve studied, but in your life. for things to heal, they have to hurt.

and yet, when jeno opens the door to his apartment, your breath still freezes in your chest.

more bruises have settled in since you last saw him in the locker room. dark purple stains down his skin, across his jaw, under his eye, and if jeno wasn’t wearing a black t-shirt, you knew you would see more scattered across his chest. to your relief, however, the swelling in his face has gone down, and it’s obvious that the bandage over his stitched wound has been changed, albeit a bit clumsily. his fractured hand is held gently at his side, so as not to agitate it, but you can tell that the fractured rib is bothering him as he breathes carefully.

“hi.” jeno opens the door wider, stepping back to allow you inside. “come on in.”

you step over the threshold, your gaze turning from jeno’s injuries to his apartment. it’s a little bigger than yours, you notice, and estimates that it’s a one bedroom with actual spaces dedicated for separate things. although he mostly sticks to a grey color pallet in his minimalist decorating, you can pick out objects that tell you this is where jeno lives. a framed photo of him and a woman who looks just like him sits on the table next to the couch. a pair of red boxing gloves dangle off the edge of the closet door. jeno’s familiar cologne lingers in the air, mixing with the scent of a candle he has lit in the living room. despite the grey tones, the apartment feels just as warm as jeno does.

“i like your place.” you stand in the hallway awkwardly, not sure of where to go. “it’s nice.”

“thanks.” jeno shuts the door with his good hand before gesturing for you to sit down. “you can, uh, sit on the couch if you’d like. do you want something to drink?”

you shake your head. “no, i’m fine, thank you.  but you should drink some water.”

an unbelieving laugh leaves jeno’s mouth, but he moves to the kitchen nonetheless. “are you telling me what to do in my own home?”

“yes. you have to be hydrated to heal.” you watched as jeno fills two glasses with a water filter from the fridge, your mouth falling open slightly when jeno manages to pick up both filled glasses with his good hand. although the sight sets off a familiar flutter in your stomach, you managed to come to your senses enough to snap your mouth shut again by the time he turns around.

jeno sets the glass down on the coffee table in front of you before gingerly sitting down on the other side of the couch. while he’s trying to mask his discomfort, you can detect it easily.

“is it your rib?” you ask, worry slipping into your voice. “is it hurting you?”

jeno manages to give a small shrug. “it’s not awful. i’ve been taking some ibuprofen for pain, like you said.”

you twist your necklace around your finger, the fidgeting helping to keep you centered. “i’d get you something stronger if i could, but—”

“you’ve done more than enough for me, y/n.” jeno cuts over you with a firm look. “don’t worry about it.”

you can’t look at jeno. you can’t. if you do, you knew that all you’re going to be able to see is the bruises and bandages and braces, and you’ll start to cry. and if you start to cry, you won’t stop, and then you’ll just be upset and crying in jeno’s living room, all because you looked at him, and that’s not what you’re going to do. you repeat the thought in your head like a mantra. that’s not what you’re going to do. that’s not what you’re going to do.

and then you look at jeno.

jeno is already looking at you. the longer you’ve spent together, the more you’ve noticed cracks in his calm façade, and in this moment, those cracks are wide open. the problem, however, is that you can never decipher what exactly those cracks show you. jeno’s face, even while emotional, is unreadable. you can’t understand the feelings swirling through his dark eyes any more than you can understand the flexing and unflexing of his uninjured hand. is it a nervous tic?  is he trying to calm himself, like you do when you play with your necklace?  is he trying to restrain himself from reaching over to touch you, like the night he showed up at your door?  while all those questions flip through your mind, only one passes through your lips.

“why did you do it, jeno?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder will shatter the space between you both.

jeno takes a long sip of water like he’s stalling for an answer, trying to find anything worth saying. “i needed the money, y/n. and i couldn’t—getting the shit beat out of me by hoseok was better than forfeiting to him. i couldn’t do that.  i couldn’t give him the satisfaction.”

“that—” you suck in a breath, trying to remind your lungs to move the air in and out of your body. “that is…ridiculously idiotic, and prideful, and stupid, and a million other things, but that’s not what i meant.” you steel yourself before meeting jeno’s eyes again, willing yourself to sound less like a child and more like a woman. “i was asking why you left me that morning, after…after you stayed the night.”

for the first time since you arrived, it’s jeno’s eyes that are unable to meet yours. he drops his gaze to his injured hand, cradling it in his lap, and you take his silence as a signal for you to continue.

“you just—i told you it was fine for you to stay.  and then the next morning you were gone, and your note…” you can’t help but scoff. “‘thanks again for the help’? really? that’s all you had to say to me?”

jeno clears his throat as his good hand begins to tap against his thigh. “it’s not all i had to say, i just—i couldn’t say everything in a note.”

“why did you even have to leave a note?” you asks incredulously. “that’s the whole point, jeno! you left, didn’t call me, or tell me that you were alright, and then the next time i saw you, you were getting beat half to death. that’s not…fair.”

at that word, jeno’s eyes widen, and his face contorts into an expression you can finally read: disbelief. “fair?” he repeats, voice thick. “it’s not fair? nothing in life is fair, y/n. i didn’t call you because i’m not yours, and you’re not mine. i let myself pretend a bit that night, while i was drunk, but i shouldn’t have. if there’s anything that wasn’t fair, anything i have to apologize for, it’s that.”

the tears come then, pricking your eyes with an irritating heat as you drop your gaze into your lap. “so you—you showed up at my apartment in the middle of the night, bleeding and injured and drunk, and you spend the night so i can make sure you’re safe, and the only thing you think you have to apologize for is—is pretending?” you shake your head. “what does that even mean?”

“it means i shouldn’t even have been there in the first place. and after i showed up, i should’ve been more careful. more in control.” jeno stares down at his hands again, not to avoid your gaze, but to think about what you both did that night. “i shouldn’t have talked to you like i did. i shouldn’t have asked questions. i shouldn’t have touched you. i shouldn’t have crossed all the lines i set for myself months ago. but i did, and i’m sorry.”

“i’m not sorry.” you wrap your arms around yourself tightly, and although the force against you is comforting, you’d prefer it if the arms weren’t yours. “i’d rather you come to me for help than stumble home in the dark, and i…” a chill runs through you, and you rub your arms a bit to keep warm. being away from jeno and his fire takes its toll. “i didn’t mind you asking questions, or touching me. i liked it. i thought i made that obvious.”

jeno’s face flicks back to the expression that you’re unable to read. “nevertheless—”

“do you honestly think you’re the only one who set lines and boundaries?” you turn your gaze back to jeno, taking in the closed off posture he displays. you hated it almost as much as you hated your own guarded appearance. “i did, too, but the more we talked, the more i started to waver. the boundaries were out the window the moment you stepped into my apartment, jeno. and we can go back and forth and debate who crossed what line first, but the truth is, we both knew exactly what we were doing, so don’t—” you gesture at him, how he’s turned his body away from you. “don’t sit there and act like you’re the only one to blame when i took every step with you.”

your final words are followed by silence and all the sounds that fill it. the ticking of the clock on the wall, the dripping of the kitchen sink, the labored sound of jeno’s shallow breathing, the pounding of your own heart. you focused on each individual sound, each one an ode to whatever it is that’s been hanging you both since the night you met, until jeno finally responds in a low and controlled voice.

“i didn’t think that you…wanted me like that.” he begins slowly, his body finally turning to look at you straight on. you can see the strain on his face, and how difficult this movement is for him, but he doesn’t stop until he can meet your eyes.

the sight of his brown irises takes all the fight out of you.

“how could you not realize that?” you crossed your legs underneath you, placing your palms flat against your thighs. if you want to have an open conversation, then you needed to be open.

“because you’re you. and i’m…” jeno’s head turns just for a moment as he gathers his thoughts. “i told you last week. you’re a healer, in every sense of the word, and i’m the complete opposite.”

“and i told you,” you say stubbornly. “that i don’t buy that for a minute. i meant it when i said i wasn’t afraid of you. and for once, you were being honest, and i thought that we were going to move forward together.”

a sharp laugh falls from jeno’s lips, followed by a wince as his good hand rubs gently over his ribs. “honest? do you have any idea of how much i managed to hold back that night? i was half pissed, sitting on your couch, feeling you touch me, while things i had never said out loud before were coming out of my mouth, and i still didn’t tell you the worst of it.” jeno drags his hand through his hair roughly. “i don’t know, maybe i should’ve. maybe you would’ve left by now, and saved yourself the trouble.”

“stop it!” you take his hand, weaving each other’s fingers together like you did when he was at your apartment. “you keep—it’s like you want to create this narrative where i’m good and you’re bad. that’s not true!” you pressed your other hand over his. “we’re both here. we both ended up in the same place.”

“but what about after?” jeno’s voice is tight as his gaze settles on your locked hands. “the difference between us is that you have a life outside of that gym that’s waiting for you. but the gym is my life. boxing is my life. i don’t have any other career to hold out for, y/n. there’s nothing for me except boxing, and there’s everything for you.”

“what about me?” you bring jeno’s fingers to your lips, pressing small kisses to the tips like he had done for you. “you could have boxing and me. if you were just honest with me, if you opened up completely, i’d do the same.”

jeno exhales slowly, closing his eyes at the feeling of your lips dancing over his hand. “it doesn’t work like that, y/n. i wish it did, but it doesn’t.”

“who decides if it works like that?”

the corner of jeno’s lip twitches, and you know he’s remembering one of the first conversations you had, when he asked who decided what he needed to know. you wonder if that was the first line that was crossed.

“i do.” jeno says after a moment. “i decide.”

with how little you knew about jeno, you would’ve expected forgetting him to be easier. you can count on one hand the number of personal facts that you knew about him, with at least three of them involve his boxing, and yet…when you’re home in the evenings, your schoolwork done, your mind free to roam, it’s always jeno’s face that you see.

you had known that jeno’s first night back would be hard. after six weeks of being away from the ring, recovering from his injuries, jeno’s return to the ring would be the first time you’ve seen him since he got hurt. johnny had forewarned you about him coming back two weeks ago, and although he mentioned it like an update, you knew he was saying it to caution you. you had assured him that jeno’s return had no personal meaning to you, and no affect on you, but as you made your way to the locker rooms after the match, your nerves are as high strung as they’ve ever been.

the match between jeno and an unexperienced boxer named jungwoo ends within minutes, with jeno the unsurprising victor, but the match had only been a small source of your anxiety. as you set jungwoo’s nose (jeno seems to be back to his old patterns), your mind was on one thing and one thing only.

compared to the last time you saw jeno’s locker room, the place looks like a paradise. the floors are stained with sweat instead of blood. the brown stains in the sink are only from rust. and the blood that’s splattered on jeno’s forehead isn’t his own.

“you’re getting quicker, doc.” doyoung comments in lieu of a hello. “jeno hasn’t even had time to shower yet.”

you glance at the sweaty boxer sitting on the bench, who is currently preoccupied with the incredibly difficult task of unwrapping his hands. “i’ve had more practice, i suppose.” taking your seat next to jeno, you open your case and slip on a pair of disposable gloves. doyoung and johnny stand in the corner, discussing jeno’s return to the ring, as you focused on the work that you’re here to do.

“you have a bruise on your jaw, but that’s about it.” you touched his chin gently, tilting his head to a different angle. “how do you feel?”

“fine.” jeno says shortly, giving a quick nod of his head. “yeah, i feel fine. it felt good to be out there again.”

your eyes flicker to the new scar on his forehead before turning your attention to his hands. “did you wrap your right hand tighter tonight?”

“i did.” jeno nods again. “and i’ve been using the brace at home, like you told me to.”

“good.” after a quick check, you move to his abdomen, pressing carefully. “have you been having any difficulties breathing?”

jeno shakes his head. “no, it’s much better. it only hurts if i stretch a lot, and only for a second.”

“just some residual bruising, probably.” you bit your lip as your fingers brush over his skin. “it’s to be expected.” jeno’s gaze finally catches your own, as unreadable and cavernous as ever, and you clear your throat as you pull your hands away. “i think you’re all good. jungwoo barely touched you tonight.”

“i wanted to give him someone easy to ease him back into the ring.” johnny joins the conversation. “i need to build my champion back up.”

irritation flickers across jeno’s face for a brief moment. you can tell that he doesn’t like the idea of being eased into something.

“we appreciate it, johnny.” doyoung claps a hand over the gym owner’s shoulder. “why don’t we go discuss next week in your office?”

johnny glances at you, busying yourself with rooting around in your medical kit. “yeah. alright.” he says after a moment. “are you two good here?”

you nod, not lifting your head to watch the two men leave the locker room. you kept your eyes glued to anything but jeno as you stood, snapping off your gloves and tossing them in the trash.

“well, you’re good to go.” you say after a moment. “i’ll, um, i’ll see you next week.”

“wait.” jeno catches your arm when you reached for the kit. “y/n, wait, i—just wait.”

the familiar burn of jeno touching you courses through your arm, and you try to keep the sigh of relief from slipping out of you. “what?”

“look at me.” jeno murmurs, his voice lower than normal. “please look at me.”

you finally raise your head, looking jeno in the eyes again. you can tell he’s searching for something in your stare, but you’re not sure what. if you knew, you’d give it to him in a heartbeat. or maybe you’d withhold it, so that he’d keep searching, his arm on yours.

“what?” you ask after a moment, jeno still looking up at you. “what? what is it?”

“i…” jeno clears his throat as his hand drops slightly, his grip falling from your forearm to your wrist. “did you watch the match?”

you nod, hoping your disappointment at the innocence of his question isn’t too apparent on your face. “i did. i always do.”

“i know, but i wasn’t sure if…” jeno’s gaze flickers to his hand on your wrist. “i wasn’t sure if you’d want to.”

“it’s my job.” you tried to sound professional, tried to reinstate the boundaries that you both so carelessly broke, but there’s nothing professional about the way jeno is threading his fingers through yours as he pulls you back down to the bench.

“i missed you.” he says quietly, his thumb moving over the back of your knuckles. “i wanted to call, but i didn’t want to…i wanted you to move on.”

“is that why you’re holding my hand?” you raised an eyebrow, but you didn’t pull away.

jeno tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. “holding your hand is more for myself right now.”

“you can’t do that, jeno.” your voice grows tighter as you will yourself to pull your hand away. “you can’t just—you can’t say things like that. not after what you said before.”

“i know—”

“no, you don’t.” you finally pull your hand away, grabbing your medical kit before taking a step back from him. jeno watches your movements with disappointed eyes. “you don’t know. you don’t want to give us a chance? you don’t want to open yourself up to me? then fine. don’t. but don’t expect me to do anything more than my job. is that understood?”

jeno’s mouth presses into a tight line. “understood.”

TAGLIST — @voucearse @suhkissed @yeoreobun @saranghoeforanton @lovesuhng @bluedbliss @notmastyle @untitledtyun @snapcracklen @dior-15 @jm1655

© 2026 MARKBIGDICKLEE all rights reserved — please DO NOT translate, take, nor repost any of my works on other platforms. reblogs are HIGHLY appreciated and preferred! i don’t take requests.

[fushigurlfriend]

୨୧ megumi fushiguro, who loves your obsession with his hands

you never tried to make your liking with your boyfriend megumi’s hands obvious, but you couldn’t help it. his hands were so pretty, slightly rough from always gripping his sword in battle, but so soft and warm whenever he would caress and hold you.

his technique was always interesting to you, fingers forming intricate shapes to summon his shikigami, dancing in an almost rapid way when summoning multiple at a time. you try not to stare, but he knows.

he totally knows, he can see out the corner of his eyes when you stare at his fingers, typing away at his phone. you always say that you’re just interested in what he’s doing, but he knows you’re just looking at his fingers. he catches the way you shiver whenever his hands touch at your nape whenever he pulls you in for a kiss, and the way you run your fingers along his whenever the two of you hold hands.

you would literally find any excuse to touch his hands or have his hands on you. bugging him to let him paint his nails, making sure to paint slowly to prolong holding his fingers one by one. the polish would always be in a cute pastel color, megumi would always pretend to be annoyed whenever you would paint them. in actuality, he secretly liked matching nail polish with you, since it made you so happy.

megumi often massages your sore muscles, rubbing your feet and getting knots out of your back. you absolutely love it. you love the feeling of his fingers pressing into your skin in soothing patterns. the sight of his hands running along your body, making you feel good, always gets you embarrassingly wet. of course, he knows. seeing you start to squirm slightly with that faint blush creeping up your face completely gives you away. he thinks it’s cute that you think you’re being slick with it.

although he thought it was amusing how flustered you would get, he couldn’t just leave his pretty girl all needy. you’re in his bed, megumi towering over you as he slowly bunched his shirt up your chest. he was going to take his time with this, give you everything you’ve been dreaming about for days. his hand smoothed down your body, fingertips brushing down your stomach until he reached your hips. his hands remained there appreciatively for a few seconds, leaning down to give you a small kiss before tugging at your soaked panties, bearing you to him. hands splaying over your thighs as he leaned back to admire you.

“you’re drenched baby. so worked up aren’t you?” he cooed, bringing a finger to your slick folds, dragging down from your clit to your entrance. you whined, pussy aching in need and desperate for his fingers. he always knew how to take care of you better than you knew yourself, fingers longer than yours and knowing how to curl just right. deciding his fingers was slick enough, he pushed his middle finger inside slowly. you let out a moan, your walls clenching around the intrusion, trying to pull him deeper. “greedy girl..” he chuckled, his wrist flicking to fuck his finger in you in a slow and deep rhythm.

you threw your head back, pleasure coursing through you as he pressed against your sweet spot head on. it felt so good, mewls escaping your lips as he continued to press against it again and again with each drive of his finger. the room was being filled with the slick sound of your pussy sucking him in, coating his digit with your arousal. “yeah? you like it right here? you’re making a mess already..” he teased, slick dripping down your cheeks and staining his sheets. he added his ring finger, stretching you open for him. all he could do was stare, growing harder by the second as he watched your pussy suck his fingers in like it’s life depended on it.

all you could do was moan and take it, your walls clenching and spasming on him as he thrusted his fingers into you, knuckles deep in your aching pussy. he’s absolutely taking his time with this, fingers dragging in and out of you in that same, almost agonizingly slow, pace while you arch you back, trying to push your hips down against his fingers, a silent plea for more.

“patience, pretty baby, i’m gonna give you what you want.” he hushed, free hand pushing down on your hip to steady you. honestly? seeing you so desperate and worked up was turning him on, badly. he was hard as a rock, unknowingly grinding against your thigh occasionally. he wanted to drag this out, make you shake in pleasure, work a sweet orgasm out of his pretty girl nice and slow. he worked his fingers more insistently, his thumb coming to rub circles on your clit, earning more frequent mewls and moans from you.

you was absolutely soaking his hand, scene wet and slippery as you raised your head in a daze to watch his fingers drive in and out of you, pushing deep inside to the knuckle and pulling out to the finger tips. the sight had you letting out desperate breaths of arousal, walls growing tighter as you felt your orgasm building slow and hot in your tummy. it almost felt too good, talented fingers stretching you open, fingers circling your clit faster. “gumiii..” you whined, brain turning to mush as he pushed you closer and closer.

you was a babbling mess now, moaning incoherently as megumi rubbed your sensitive clit faster, fingers curling deeper, harder, stretching you open. “come on, pretty. cum for me, cum all over my fingers.” he urged, his voice strained and deep with arousal as he flicked his wrist once, twice more before your body locked up. orgasm washing over you violently, gushing all over megumi, his hand, wrist, and forearm wet with your release.

he groaned in appreciation, finger fucking you through your orgasm, thumb swirling around your clit until you was a shaking mess under him. you were dazed, cheeks flushed and breathing ragged from the intense high he just pulled from you. he slowly pulled his fingers from your sore, dripping pussy, admiring the slick coating his hand. he brought his hand up to your face, thumb pressing down at the corner of your mouth, urging you to open your mouth.

you mindlessly obliged, letting his cum soaked finger press into your mouth. you moaned weakly, tasting yourself on your fingers as you licked him clean. “you okay?” he chuckled as your tongue swirled around his digits. you nodded, not wanting to stop sucking even for a second, enjoying his fingers in your mouth way too much.

if your liking to his fingers meant he could do this often? he was completely on board.