Minho is the type of guy to pull you onto his laps the moment he gets home from practice, well used to how fast it takes for you to fold whenever he grabs your wrist and jerks you towards him.
Minho is the type of guy to start with a quick kiss. hand sliding to cradle your jaw, pushing the hair away from your face before going for another kiss. slower this time, letting it linger.
Minho is the type of guy to press his lips against the corner of your mouth, your jaw, and then your neck. teeth nipping and sucking at your sweetest spots.
Minho is the type of guy to chuckle against your skin as your breathing gets uneven, soft whines parting from your lips with every contact on your sensitive skin.
Minho is the type of guy to lay two strong palms flat on your rear, grounding you down fully on him. on his laps, pussy right above his aching cock.
Minho is the type of guy to guide you on him. moving your hips at a torturous pace, slow, almost non existent just to feel you squirm and whine in his hold.
Minho is the type of guy to grin at your desperation, but in reality, he's as pathetic for you. painfully leaking in his boxers, he needs the friction just as much as you do, if it wasn't for his pretense.
Minho is the type of guy to roll your hips on him after a given time, his grip maneuvering you exactly how he knows you both like it. his praises get shakier by the seconds, falling slump against the couch to let you do your thing at some point.
Minho is the type of guy whose lips curl the messier your grinds turn. watching you pitifully try to chase your high despite the barrier of your clothes. somehow, the rustle of clothes feel dirtier than anything else.
Minho is the type of guy to tease you when your face contorts to one of pleasure, pussy throbbing inside your panties. whispering and murmuring things like, "you gon cum like this, jagi? by humping me like some pillow?" while knowing damn well that he's close too with how his fingers tighten on your flesh.
Minho is the type of guy to roll his hips with yours from under, cock thrusting into your clothed folds shamelessly, bumping with your clit on every movement. the two of you a desperate tangle of limbs hoping for something euphoric.
Minho is the type of guy whose voice breaks further the closer he gets. turning to your mouth in an attempt at muffling his loud whines. pushing his tongue against yours, his saliva mixes with yours, escaping and dripping at the corners of your mouth.
Minho is the type of guy who frowns as he comes undone, brows pinching above his tightly shut eyes. feeling the front of his pants soak up, quickly followed by your own. the sound of ragged breathing echoing past the corners of the living room, staring at each other with a dumb smile.
Minho is the type of guy to flip your positions, laying you flat on the cushions to kiss you down your neck to your collarbone. smiling at the chuckles that leaves your chest, he climbs back up to your face, pecking your lips as he undoes his belt with a click. "let's do it properly now, hm?"
—
other member ver: bangchan lee know changbin hyunjin han felix seungmin i.n
synopsis . In which the overwhelming heat in your apartment sends you and your perverted roommate into a different kind of heat.
content . afab!reader, mutual masturbation, heavy tension, implied perv x perv, not-so-dry humping, dirty talk, filth, spit, size kink, rough sex, teasing, thigh riding, high tensions, slight spanking, man handling, groping, nipple play, perversion, degrading, oral sex (f!receiving), pussy slapping, toji’s realllll nasty, praise, both of you are super needy and stupid, finger sucking, etc.
word count . 7.3k || author's note: no, not fever by enhypen. fever by vybz kartel, lock in w me now. fic based on this request! (not proofread) banner art by rororogi mogera <3
You told Toji to get that old piece of garbage you both called air conditioning fixed months ago.
Ever the cheapskate, Toji promised you he’d handle it himself. That was four weeks ago and now the machine has finally croaked—having breathed it’s final breath of cool air into your apartment somewhere throughout the night.
It’s the following day since then—where you've returned after a looong, exhausting day of work—and now the apartment is hot. The sun is outside blazing against the building’s exterior but due to the lack of cool air circulating the interior, you're left irritated rather quickly.
The heat occupying the air wouldn’t even be that bad if you had a fan or two but the ones you did have are more tasks that have fallen victim to Toji’s lack of handling as they lay broken in dusty closets.
And as for the man in question, he's laid out on the couch in nothing more than his boxers as if he owns the damn place.
Lazy bastard. He doesn't even pay his rent on time!
Ignoring the fact that you make up for it most months, it is all the more annoying to see him lounging around as soon as you get home. Especially when the house feels like what you imagine the inside of hell's darkest ass crack to be. Too much movement would surely result in one of you passing out from overheated exhaustion.
It's with great urgency that you strip yourself of your things, purposefully making an unnecessary amount of noise as you toss your keys onto the nearby counter. The sound seems to pull Toji's attention away from the TV ahead of him, earning a lazy turn of his head as he glances back to you.
He can't even get a full greeting out before you scoff.
"Toji," His shoulders slump in instant reaction to the sound of scolding in your voice. It's way too fucking hot for you to start an argument with him now. "You've been home all day and you still haven't fixed anything."
He grunts from across the way, turns his attention back to the TV, and then rolls his eyes, "Can't work in the heat, doll."
"You wouldn't have to if you fixed it as soon as I said something months ago." You throw back at him, pulling your body through hot air just to get to your fridge.
You wanted to be disappointed to see that there's no water in the freezer nor fridge, really. But when you look back over to where Toji's been sitting on his ass all dat—spotting more empty water bottles than you can count—you find an expected wave of disappointment slither into you.
"Said sorry for that already, didn't I?" He asks, the lack of true care in his voice doing nothing to ease your irritation with him.
At this rate, you'd be sending out offers for a new roommate by tomorrow morning.
The freezer is opened back up for a moment, your hand diving in to try and get some sort of cooled relief, even if only for a second. Unfortunately for you, that seems to be yet another thing in your apartment in need of fixing.
You let the freezer door slam and your forehead follows after it as you rest yourself against its outside. Sighing, "Sorry doesn't fix anything, Toji."
You couldn't see it but he was smiling at that. The only reason he's lasted this long in this apartment with you is because he doesn't mind your nagging too much—it keeps him on his toes most times. But after not listening to you for months, he wonders if he'll actually get in trouble with you this time around.
When he turns to get another look at you, he's met with the sight of your back as you make way towards the bathroom. Toji figured you're off to shower in hopes of cooling yourself off in the process.
Unfortunately for you, the building you live in has the opposite issue most complexes do and instead of running out of hot water, your place has an issue producing cold water. This wouldn't be so bad if the person who showered before you was conscious of how much he used.
But when annoyingly mild tempered water hits your fingers, you're left knowing exactly who to blame. Again.
He may enjoy living with you because he doesn't mind hearing you cold him, however you are slowly starting to dread sharing this apartment with him more and more as each day lugs on.
——
After a warm shower, you tuck yourself off into your bedroom only to find that it is undoubtedly the hottest room thus far. You try to ignore it as you pull on some shorts and a t-shirt that won't have you drenched in sweat come next morning but naturally it's difficult to do so once you lay yourself down.
You toss and turn against your sheets—comforter practically tossed to the floor, and body already beginning to perspire in a thin layer of sweat—until you manage to doze off for a solid ten minutes. Apparently that was all it took for your body to decide that sleeping under this heat was going to be impossible.
Which is how you end up out in the living room. Toji wasn't occupying the couch anymore so you tried to sleep there, figuring that if he could spend the whole day in one spot, you could spend a night sleeping there and it would provide you just the slightest bit of coolness in comparison to what you bedroom had given you.
Yet, every slight shift in your movement somehow made you impossibly hotter. The couch cushions did nothing but toast your skin and the humidity in the air led you into peeling yourself right off of the furniture and trudging towards the last known resort.
Toji's bedroom.
Now, you're no stranger to your roommate being quite the pervert—which is why you avoid his bedroom at all costs—but sometime back during the winter season, you do recall a few weeks were your apartment's heating system gave out and it was established then that Toji's bedroom had been the chilliest. He ended up sleeping in your room for some nights because of that, cuddling up against you in the name of sharing body heat.
So now that it's summertime, you're standing outside of his door hoping that something similar still applies to the temperature of his room. Your room is obviously the hottest, the living room and main area of the apartment barely fairs any better, and all that leaves his room to be hopefully a few degrees lighter than everywhere else.
You push his room door open sluggishly, nearly doused in sweat from head to toe as you trudge towards his bed and smack at his foot while you walk by. "You up?" your voice cuts through the air carelessly, earning a low grunt from the man sprawled out across his mattress. "Cool, move over."
That seems to wake Toji right up. His eyes peel open and he lets out a huff heavy enough to add to the heat occupying the rest of the apartment, but neither of you have the energy to say anything about it. "Why're you in here?" he asks as he scoots his large body over to give you some room.
For a short moment—and a short moment only—Toji wonders if the heat has finally made you come to your senses where he's concerned. He hoped that maybe a wet dream involving him brought you into his bedroom.
The weight of your body makes the bed dip in a bit as you shuffle onto his sheets right beside him, instantly melting into the faint frigidity it provides, and letting out a short sigh. "It's cooler in your room, so I'm sleeping in here tonight. You better get that shit fixed tomorrow."
Toji looks over and feels the excitement he had to share a bed with you rapidly die inside him as he's met with the sight of your back facing him. This wasn't the worst scenario possible, but he was really wishing for something more interesting to have led you into this position next to him.
He doesn't say anything in response to you with his mouth and decides on letting his eyes speak for him with the way they slide down your body. The shirt you have on was hugging your torso due to how much you'd been sweating, glued to every slight curve and dip of your frame, and leaving him unable to look away quickly enough.
It didn't take a genius to see that you were at ease beside him rather quickly. Toji is suddenly very appreciative for the slightly chiller conditioning of his bedroom. Technically it's still hot—as too much movement could quickly result in exhaustion just as it would in any other area of the apartment—but with you laying beside him in shorts small enough to drive him insane, he figures it's all worth it.
Meanwhile, you don't have to be facing Toji to know his eyes are on you. You could practically feel the way his gaze crawled over you, eventually settling onto the scarce fabric of your shorts that did little to conceal the entirety of your ass. There's a sudden and prominent urge to adjust the way your clothes are sitting on you, and Toji watches as you slowly move a hand to tug your shorts down an inch.
The scar at the corner of his lips shifts as his mouth twitches and he fights off a smirk.
He would never touch you without your permission or anything like that, but he was aware that you knew the real effects you had on him. Even laying beside him was enough to make his hips shift against the bed.
There was only so much space between your body and his, and his mattress wasn't the largest thing in the world so most movement was easily acknowledgeable. Even so, you decided to ignore it as best as you could.
Even though you could tell his hand had lifted from his side and moved somewhere towards his legs. Your eyes squeezed shut and you hoped silently that Toji wouldn't do what you figured he was about to.
Surely it was too hot for that.
Right?
At first he wasn't going to do anything. It started off as his fingers going off to pinch and tug at the fabric of his gym shorts, giving the steadily rising erection in between his legs some space to breathe. Then he told himself he wouldn't give it any attention and try to sleep it away.
Toji was on the same page as you in the beginning, he really was. Jerking off with you trying to sleep beside him was way too hot of an activity under all this warmth.
And yet, he's palming at his dick within the next twenty minutes. You drifted off just enough for him to be able to move without you noticing, and while he didn't touch you, he did lean over to glance over your shoulder to make sure you were fast asleep before his hand had wrapped around the bulge that'd formed against his shorts.
You'd shift around in your sleep a little and he'd twitch against his hand, watching the way your hip looks adjusting against the bed. Oh, the things he'd give to perch his hand there instead, turning his body over to cup yours and rubbing the outline of his hard cock up against the natural curve of your ass instead of his palm like some loser.
The thought alone brought his bottom lip up in between his teeth. Then he was moving his hands beneath his shorts and letting out a quiet breath of air. He didn't intend to jerk off like this. Seriously.
When his hand first makes contact with his dick, he shudders. Toji's tugged at his cock in thought of you over the years more times than he could count, but somehow this was different. He'd never done it next to you like this, where leaning over a couple inches brought your scent into his nose and the natural warmth of your body closer to intertwine with his.
Even back when he'd shared a bed with you during the winter he managed to control himself each night and refused to stroke himself. Well, right next to you, at least. He most definitely got off like a whore the very second you were gone.
Toji ends up spitting into the palm of his hand as quietly as he can manage before he pulls his cock free and rubs at the head whilst staring at your body. You seemed so upset with him earlier, sending those slight jabs his way. He's sure if it was a bit cooler, you would've cursed him clean out like you normally do.
But just the thought of the few comments you'd made thus far is enough to have him leaking into his hand as he finally wraps his fingers around his thick shaft and jerks off. The sounds of his actions are a bit loud, schlick after schlick after sopping schliiick. Technically you should've woken up, but the fact that you didn't made him all the more horny.
He knows you'd get annoyed if you caught him like this—the fact that he can't even handle you sleeping in his bed is definitely enough to piss you off.
Little did he know, you were pretending to sleep the entire time. You were in and out of your slumber, sure, but you certainly weren't able to get a full night's rest when the sound of your roommate touching his wet cock next to you was loud enough to drive any woman insane. There was an image of it somewhere in your head, courtesy of accidentally walking in on him in the bathroom a couple times in the past, so it was a little difficult to sleep with those thoughts combined with his strokes all in one hot night.
Not to mention the way he was panting behind you with not one care in the world for how noisy he was. Hell, some of his breaths managed to slither towards the back of your neck.
You made the mistake of adjusting yourself again and accidentally pushed back towards him, your ass nearly making contact with the side of his body. Toji had to grip at the base of his dick to stop himself from cumming just then, his next breath choking its way out of him before he could help it, and his other hand moving to pull his shirt up.
He went to bite down on the fabric to hopefully help with the sounds threatening to spill from his lips but it didn't help much.
The man resumed with his strokes and it wasn't long before you felt something land on your butt in thick spurts.
Despite the fact that you already had your eyes closed, they squeezed shut a little harder as you fought the urge to flinch. You hoped desperately that what you just felt wasn't what you thought it was. There was no way Toji managed to cum on your ass while you were "sleeping", right?
You figure that right then is as good a moment as any to stop pretending to be asleep and let yourself yawn—giving him a sign that you've stirred awake. Toji's body tenses up almost immediately, his eyes widening a fraction as he realizes what exactly he just did. He gulps, frantically looking around the bed to see what he can use as an excuse for the white mess currently drooling down the side of your ass.
Fairly enough, he has half a mind to snap a picture before you turn over. Just so he can have something to remember this by, y'know?
He doesn't though, considering how he moves to tuck his dick back into his shorts and clears his throat.
After which he moves to prop himself up on one of his elbows, and you feel something brushing against your butt. You can't help the way your eyes broaden.
Then you peek back at him from over your shoulder, and your gazes meet for a breif moment. There's not an ounce of guilt on his face and he only holds the eye contact with you for a few seconds before he looks back down to focus on what he's doing.
You follow along with the redirection and angle yourself back just enough to catch sight of what exactly is brushing against you. You see a cloth in his hand and watch silently for a few seconds as he wipes you clean.
Somewhere in your mind, you wondered if he was going to casually explain that he just came on you and then try to go to sleep like it was no big deal.
To your surprise, neither of those things happen.
The next bit of eye contact that's exchanged between the two of you is awkward. He's still wiping and you're just starring at him as try to figure out what you're supposed to say to him. What exactly was the proper way to react in this situation?
You're too hot to argue, too tired to be disgusted, and fainly aroused since you've always had a mutual attraction for the man that you've been trying to ignore for as long as you've been living with him.
“Sorry,” Toji’s the first to break the ice. “Had this in the bed,” he moves his other hand up and within it is a convienent bottle of lotion. Part of you wanted to laugh at him because of course he has enough junk in his bed to use as a cover up for what he'd really just spilt on you. "Saw some of it got on ya'," he finishes off with a half-apologetic grin on his lips.
You obviously knew that wasn't true since you heard every little detail of what he'd been doing—from spitting into his hand, to thoughtlessly huffing out your name under his breath. Toji wasn't fooling anyone here, but you'd let it slide for now.
“Might wanna change out of these,” he suggests in reference to your shorts, tapping at your butt once he's done wiping you off, “I could lend you somethin’, or—“
“No, it’s fine.” is all you say before you turn your head away.
With no warning, Toji ends up watching how you slide your hands down and swiftly remove your shorts—tossing them off the bed and then laying yourself back down as if to sleep.
He blinks.
Then his eyes unfortunately find themself on your panties because surely you were doing this on purpose now. Coming into his room this late because of the heat, sleeping next to him and nearly rubbing your ass against his body, and now clad in nothing more than a thin shirt and even thinner panties?
If he squinted hard enough at the right angle, he swears he'd catch sight of your pussy.
You heard him scoff behind you, then the weight in the bed shifts around as he decides to pay no mind to your attire this time. He already got off, so naturally there should be no need to go again.
…Even if you're clearly testing his patience.
——
Minutes fly by. Neither of you get a wink of rest.
You're starring blankly at the wall in front of you and Toji's left blindly looking up at the ceiling. Both of you tried to go to sleep, honestly.
But Toji kept adjusting his legs to stop the constant twitching of his cock and you repeatedly rubbed your legs together as if to lightly soothe the ache that'd came about after that whole fiasco of his seed ending up on you.
At this point the only thing occupying Toji's bedroom were two idiots in heat. Whether or not that meant heat in the literal sense or in the physical sense was beyond understanding to either of you.
After thirty minutes of you two staring into space and waiting on the other person to make a move, both of you manage to get some rest.
Though, it doesn't take much longer for you guys to realize that this was the worst possible outcome. Somewhere in your sleeping, your bodies naturally find one another. You'd think that under the hot air some distance would be created, but it seems as though you both had unintentionally different plans.
The next time you wake up, it's to the steady sound of something thumping against your ear. When your eyes flutter open, you're met with a naked chest and the feeling of something weighty wrapped around you.
The weight in question seems to be Toji's arm and the thumping you hear is coming from his beating heart. You lift your head a little to look up at his face and he's already giving you a half-lidded, groggy stare.
“It’s hot as shit in here ‘n you decide to lay on me? You’re tryin’ to kill me.” He mumbles, the very vibration of his deep voice involuntarily causing you to shift against him.
Both of your limbs are already tangled with one another, so the next movement of your body wakes you up fully as your clit presses somewhere up against his thigh.
You try to nudge at him playfully to distract yourself from the sensation that invoked, “No one’s trying to kill you, Toji. Hush.”
None the wiser, your roommate tries lifting his legs to move over a bit and accidentally grinds the firm muscle you'd already been pressed against, into you. You turn your face away just in time to hide the expression that tugs out of you, but fail to swallow down the sound that follows.
“Mmnh,” The sound floats out of you before you can control it.
Then Toji's brows scrunch up—as if he has any room (literally) to be confused, “Fuck was that?”
Your head shakes, “Nothing.”
That singular word flips some type of switch in his head, resulting in that same leg lifting up a few inches in between yours, and simultaneously pushing your body further up against his whilst rubbing between the dampened fabric concealing your core. Your jaw falls open helplessly this time and Toji eyes the way your hand flies down to his chest as if to grab at it.
Technically you were trying to brace yourself, but the breathy bit of air you release along with all the movement makes him cock a brow.
“You sweatin’ down here?” Toji asks bluntly, now dragging his leg back down just to cop a bit of a better feel than the first time.
It would be obvious to anyone with eyes that neither of you were in your right mind at the moment. He was openly teasing you and you weren't shutting it down like you normally do. Perhaps it was the heat or the lack of proper rest under it—but either way—the two of you were clearly falling victim to the same sensations.
Your lashes flutter again and you hunch forward towards him a bit, “That’s not-," his leg adjusts again, the bulky muscle in his thigh flexing, "Toji.”
“What? That’s not what?” He grabs at your chin and tugs your face up to look at him properly, “Talk to me, doll. Tell me what that is I’m feelin’.”
The forced eye contact makes you throb. You suppose right then that the heat had finally gotten to you. Otherwise you wouldn't be feeling the way you do at the moment.
Right?
Your body adjust against him slightly and you fight the urge to let your eyes fall back as pleasure jolts throughout your body from the feel of your clit catching the firm build of his leg. “It’s not sweat, Toji.” You admit honestly.
There's a singular beat of silence that passes, filled only with your hardly discreet way of grinding against his leg, and him aiding you through every faint gyration.
“Mh.” His hum rumbles lowly, “So, you’re horny.”
You drop your face down into his chest out of embarrassment and you playfully smack at him, “Don’t say it like that!”
“Say it like what? It’s true." Toji cocks his head over and watches how your body is betraying your embarrassment. Then he finds himself smirking all over again as he his face back toward you, lips angling to your ear, "Your pussy’s droolin’ all against my thigh right now—should I have said it like that instead?”
You almost moan, “N-No."
“Hah.” Now he's smirking in full force, hands having gone to your sides just to feel your body twitching as they slide lower and lower, “Go ahead ‘n move your hips—rub one out against me, baby.”
There's a groan that snakes out of your throat in response before your hand curls into a frustrated ball against the planes of his abs, “Don’t call me that.”
Toji's hands grip at your hips and his voice seductively caresses itself throughout your eardrums, “Want me to do it for you?" Your head shakes in response to his question and he tuts, "Alright then rub that pussy against me, lemme feel her real good.”
And what more permission did you need?
You pluck your body away from being sandwiched to his, sitting up at some half-angle and let your hips buck forward just once. Toji smiles and wastes not one second in dragging his clammy palm around to properly grope at the fat of your ass.
“Mhm,” he hums encouragingly, to which you let off an airy sound that has his cock aching for attention all over again. “There you go. Keep making yourself feel good, pretty girl.”
“Toji," his name leaves you in something just short of a moan, and it's overtly apparent now that both of you are overcome with a mutual neediness.
His hand squeezes at your ass with each rock 'n shy rut of your hips—guiding you with your steady grinding over his thigh. Then you feel your clit roll at a rather juicy angle, quickly resulting in your upper half flopping back down against Toji.
He feels a hot pant fan out across his chest and he has to bite at his lip again to stop himself from making all kinds of noises. This was everything he'd fantasied about and more if he was being completely honest.
“So fuckin’ sexy,” Toji compliments with a greedy tug of your body, weeping a webby lather of precum from the slit of his cock in reaction to having your tits pressed against his naked skin—your perked nipples rubbing against him in a fashion near to the way your clit traveled his thigh beyond your panties. “My dick’s gonna start hurtin’ if I don’t do something. Can’t keep watching you like this.”
You're the one holding back responses now, instead answering him with a sudden kiss against his left pec. Toji's lips separate and he breathes out something soft once your hand slips down to the waistband of his shabby shorts.
“Can I?” You whisper against his skin, lips smearing.
Toji looks at you like you just asked him the dumbest question in the world. Then he scoffs, “Go ahead.“
You waste no time in dipping your hand beneath the dark fabric to haul his cock free. In your hand is a weight nothing could've prepared you for.
Toji's got a freakishly heavy cock, to say the least. It's massive within your fingers and when you look down at it, you almost moan from the sight alone.
Even though his room was rather dark, there was enough moonlight spilling in from the distant window to have the cum gathered around his plump head glistening. Your thumb pushed up and slipped right against that pretty slit of his, earning a sharp crack in his breathing.
Toji feels your the pad of your thumb applying pressure before he groans. Then you stroke downwards towards his base, feeling the dark, sweaty hairs of surrounding it tickle your skin.
“Shit," You mutter.
He—annoyingly—starts smirking at you again, “Big, ain’t it?”
Your eyes roll, then you turn your head back up to look at him, “Shut up.”
The next few minutes consist of you jerking him off whilst you continue grinding against his leg. Toji mutters filth under his breath that you're too horny to hear, and both of you are now sweating against one another for entirely different reasons.
Toji expects this act to be the very peak of his expectations, but amid your perfected strokes—because fuck if your hand isn't the best thing he's felt around his dick in weeks—your mouth meets his chest again, and he's quickly caught off guard by the way your lips wrap around one of his nipples. Your tongue swirls aimlessly, tugging the bud further past your lips whilst indulging in two other fruitless acts of pleasure simultaneously.
For a while you were convinced that Toji's laziness translated in the bed as well since he damn sure wasn't doing much aside from letting you rub all over him in every available aspect.
That was until he felt your breaths coming in shorter and your hand gripping at his cock a bit tighter to brace yourself for something. It was rather adorable how quickly you tensed up against him as your orgasm approached. All he could do was sit there and swallow down his groans as you gripped his cock and moaned against his nipple, clit throbbing at his thigh and cunt leaking your panties into a soaking mess.
The moment your body starts to convulse and he realizes you're cumming, his hand slides under your panties and he palms the bare skin of your ass before applying a hefty bit of pressure—weighing your body harder down against his thigh so you have no room to run from the orgasm that crashes over you.
Feeling you cum against his leg is easily one of the best feelings in the world in his opinion. He would have the air conditioning broken for months if this would be the result every night.
Not that he tells you this, of course.
As you're panting and trying to steady your breathing, Toji finally decides to stop being lazy and causes your hand to fall away from his length as he suddenly shifts about to push you over.
You land on your back and gasp, blinking rapidly before he's positioning himself above you—cock dangling nastily and sloppily kissing against the skin of your naked thigh. Toji's big arms bracket the sides of you body and you stare up at him innocently, as if you didn't just rub one out on his thigh and leech onto him throughout the entire ordeal.
“What’re you doing?” you ask.
“You want me to fuck you, right?” Toji hums, abruptly hooking an arm under one of your knees and lifting your leg up. Then he's doing the same to your other leg and your breath is tangling around somewhere in your lungs. You're barely given a proper moment to process what's going in before he's dipping down in between your clammy legs as if it's second nature, "Gotta make you cum for me first."
"But I just—"
"Nah," Toji's smiles once he's got a face full of your pussy in front of him—your flimsy panties the only thing between his starving mouth and what was about to serve as a refreshment for him, "Not like that. On my tongue."
That's the only warning he gives you before diving in.
It should've been too hot for half of the things you two had done so far and yet here you were anyway—letting him grind the entirety of his mouth against the gorgeously swollen mound of your pussy, his teeth baring out to tug your panties over to the side so he could properly suction his lips to you. Your underwear is kept to the side by a singular thumb that he angles over, and his mouth is nothing short of disgusting against you.
In fact, the entire lower half of his face is nasty when met with your pussy. The tip of his nose nuzzles against your frazzled clit, and his lips motion outwardly before he sucks the slick out from in between your folds—tongue coming through to lap at it as if rewarded. When he groans, you feel the sound thunder against the entire lower half of your body.
Toji's busy going to town until you both are a mess of mixed sweat and pleasureful tears. Your hand found his hair somewhere in between his long tongue curving up inside you, and since then you've been grinding upwards against him, practically riding his face whilst he fucked you right back down into the matress with his mouth alone.
The same mattress of which rocked with both of your combined movements. The volume of your moaning and his groaning was surely enough to earn a noise complaint from a nearby neighbor the following morning but obviously neither of you cared.
Between Toji's tongue and the heat that continued to make you sweat into his sheets at a ridiculous rate, your next orgasm comes far heavier than the first one had. So much so that you were squirming all against your roommate, trying to push at his head as if you didn't want to cum—your poor mind scrambled from everything that'd taken place thus far.
It's not until after you spill something weepy into his mouth that he peels his mouth off of you and wipes at his mouth, licking the remnants that smear across his hand immediately after.
Yet even then Toji doesn't give you much time to recover. If anything, he gives you no time to recover whatsoever.
Your eyes are still stinging from prickly tears of pleasure, and as you're blinking them away, you catch sight of him crawling his way back up over you. Next thing you know and his mouth meets yours in a singular, haphazard kiss that consists of a slanted tongue sloppily breaking past your lips and a groan pouring into your opened mouth.
Then his cock slips against your exposed folds, a thumping vein felt mapping the outskirts of your sensitive clit before he angles one hand down to grip his base. Your body latches onto his all over again, arms wrapping around his neck despite the sweat on your skin making the both of you slip 'n slide against one another.
Toji smiles into his next set of smooches, trailing his kisses down to your jaw, and eventually the warm side of your neck before feeling you roll your body upwards—cunt kissing the head of his dick as he slides it downwards in one heavy motion.
“Awh, look at you grindin’ on my tip like that. You want this fat cock inside you, huh?” His voice slathers itself into your skin and it's making you impossibly hotter underneath him, but you couldn't be bothered with it right now. Which is exactly why you nod in response, and he leans up a little to look you in the eyes whilst releasing his length from his grip, “Yeahh? Here, take it then—let me see you put it in.”
No seconds are wasted as you dip your hand down and comfortably wrap your fingers around him, giving him a couple tugs that he can't help but glance down at. Toji eventually obeys your short tugs 'n pulls by letting his body follow the motion until his tip is getting snagged by your goopy entrance—globs of slick sobbing all over his first few pudgy inches.
The very moment he starts sliding into you, you're whining and he's left moaning above you.
“Ohmygodd,” His dick easily stretches you out a bit more than you were expecting it to, the sheer girth of him jerking a gaspy little call of his name out of your lungs, “Toji-, Toji!”
“What, what? What’s wrong?” He pauses rather quickly to ensure he's not hurting you or something, hardly even halfway inside you and staring down at your twisting face with worried eyes.
You’re panting, nails having moved to dig into his arms already, “You’re too fuckin’ big.”
That makes Toji grin before he huffs, “No such thing.” and pulls back to spank your cunt with the weight of his cock a couple times. He only tops to spit at his four fingers before smacking you with his dick again, inching in afterwards and reassuring you with a rather gently murmured, “She can take me.”
Your head shakes but there’s an eager glimmer in your eye whilst you whisper back to him warningly, “Just… go slow.”
“Mmmh, I’ll try,” He tells you before leaning down to kiss your cheek and whispering, “Just for you.”
Then he's nudging his way into you—inch by inch until his chubby balls are left flush against your sweat-glossed skin and his tip is bumping against your hilt.
He looks down and sees his cock bulging against your skin. Then he thumbs at your clit and tutts—popping a pout at how puffy your pussy lips are around his dick already. “Look at that slutty pussy—she knows how to take cock juuuust fine.”
Your walls constrict around him just once and the next thing you know, Toji's rocking himself in 'n out of you perfectly. Your insides seem to mold to the shape of him in a matter of minutes, getting used to his wide size and taking him in deeper as he moves along.
The sounds of sex practically cloud the room, his cock fucking into you faster than you can keep up with and your mushy walls sucking him in farther than he can comprehend. Sweat drips off of his body and onto your and the both of you are an utter mess of one another.
Every now and then he'd lean down to kiss you but the gesture always comes shabbier than the last, lips maligning across one another whilst warm saliva is exchanged and left across both of your faces.
Your hand makes the mistake of moving to his lower abdomen and pushing at his body just a few seconds after he starts fucking you down into the mattress—the bed rocking and shaking beneath your bodies—and Toji seems ticked off for half a second.
Then he nods his chin at your wrist, "Move your fuckin' hand and feel it, feel that dick inside you. Stretchin' you out real good."
He's not entirely sure if it's his words or the way he starts plowing forward even faster, but the slippery squelches one of those invokes from you most certainly is not something he imagines. Then your moans increase in volume and Toji figures he doesn't need a neighbor scolding the two of you for this tomorrow so he brings a hand up to your chin and then props his thumb up to your bottom lip.
“Open up, doll.” He orders plainly, to which you take his finger in without him even having to ask. Toji smiles at the sight, “Atta girllll, now suck on it.”
You do exactly that for him, the action suppressing how loud your moans are for a while until his cock knocks across your cervix and leads you to bite down on his thumb. The sensation is sudden and sharp, which nearly makes Toji's eyes cross for a moment.
Words couldn't describe what that little bit of pain did to him, honestly. All you both know is that within the next few seconds, something creamy is flooding your insides and making you two many degrees hotter than you'd been earlier.
Your brains turn off in sync after that and he's just thrusting mindlessly for another minute or two, as if to make sure he's properly bred you or something. Then his fingers move to the side of your neck and his thumb slides out of your mouth—leaving a thin trail of saliva in its wake—and his entire hand goes off to cradle the back of your head.
You gasp once Toji lifts you up from the bed in one, freakishly strong tug, still humping his dick into you slightly before your mouths collide somewhere in the air. You're hauled all the way up until he's sitting back on his heels and you're appropriately sat on top of him. Both of your arms and hands are everywhere on each other's body, and it feels like something utterly depraved as taken over.
The kisses you share is a slop of tugged lips and sucked tongues, mingled with breathy moans and murmurs of your names until his hands find the underside of your thighs and move to bounce you up and down on his cock.
A whine is punctured directly out of you as you're lifted, gravity aiding Toji in plopping you right back down onto his cum-smothered base. Then his mouth finds one of your tits and he's drooling all over you.
You thought you were unsure of what had gotten into you but apparently Toji was far worse off. It's like the heat of the room was of no concern anymore. The only thing that mattered to him was having your body be thoroughly appreciated by every part of him he had to offer.
He's even mumbling into you while his tongue swirls around your nipple, “So fuckin’ hot it here,” he puffs, “Making me lose my goddamn mind—fuckin’ you like this. Hahhh.”
You're babbling nonsense with your arms wrapped around hims head, “Tojiiii-, aanh! You feel s-so good inside me.”
Which, makes him feel all proud inside for the nth time tonight, “I know I do." His hands grasp at the thick of your hips again and he squeezes your skin just once before moving you vertically around the sticky inches of his length, “Feel good when I bounce you up ‘n down my dick like this too?”
You’re nodding stupidly. Then his hands find your asscheeks and he's groping you the way he's always wanted to.
Plap after plap after plap bounces against the walls and his cum has evenly started to leak down against his balls and drip onto his sheets—which were already a mess to begin with.
Then his head flies back and his hair is sticking to his skin due to sweat, “Fuuuck, I’m gonna cum again." He warns, tipping his chin down a moment to meet eyes with you, "You ready for it, doll? Hm? Gonna fuck it into you.”
He earns another dumb nod of your head as you press into him. Whimpering, “Fill me up, Toji. Pleeease?"
The next and final load that he shoots into you comes in uneven bursts, painting your walls in a sluggish fashion before both of your bodies go still against one another. Well, safe for you shuddering as you release right along with him.
You're still hugging his head and he's still got his arms wrapped tightly around you but that only lasts for a few seconds before both of you feel another wave of heat draft over you. Then, for the first time in forever, you're remind of how you ended up in his room to begin with.
Toji lifts his head up to kiss your shoulder, “I uh-, fuck." He snorts into your skin—regretting it directly after since the sweat on both of your skin is beginning to make your bodies feel glued to one another, "I would’ve put on a condom but uhm… s’too hot for that.”
You scoff at him, “Liar, you ran out of condoms three weeks ago.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” He mumbles back.
Then he realizes there's no way you'd know that unless you were just as much of a disgusting pervert as he was and had been tracking the number of condoms he had in the same way he'd been tracking how many pairs of panties you'd allowed to go missing over the past month.
Pulling away from your shoulder and blinking, “Wait a damn minute.”
✧✎ synopsis: seungcheol's gotten used to living alone. he's turning a new leaf. closing doors but opening windows. taking life one day at a time. however, he's also learned a window left open lets in many things. a voiceless girl, for instance, unconscious and tattered on his step.
pairing: fem!reader x seungcheol
chapter word count: 15.6k
series word count: 80k
genres/tropes: widower!seungcheol + he's a retired private investigator + jeonghan/joshua are a couple bc i can't write anything without making people gay + original characters + an attempt at mystery (ooOOuuUU) + time travel!au + gets a bit sci-fi down the line but it's not overbearing + slowburn obviously + romance + very angsty so pls read the warnings! + some intense action scenes + comfort/fluff + smut
(!) warnings: PLEASE READDD PLEASUHHH > multiple mentions of character death + grief of losing a loved one + a side character's suicide is brought up various times + a particular character is a PHYSICAL ABUSER (scenes are not at all frequent but the moment is indeed graphic) + use of knives and a gun + gets quite bloody/gorey at a certain point + one instance of homophobia + mature language
✧✎ a/n: YAYYAYA i'm so excited to share part one <3 again - a big massive thank you for the patience! when i finished posting ghost ride i was just starting my final year at uni and now i'm gonna be graduating this summer ‼️ although i'm proud of this fic i can't help but feel a tiny seed of doubt 🌱 and maybe that's bc i'm entering another period of change in my life. ANYWAY. no more yapping... for now...
important bullets:
chapter releases are every saturday at ~10pm EST
msg/dm/inbox me to be added to the taglist
the series is split into 5 chapters (14-18k)
majority is told from scoups pov!
✎ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05
PLEASE NOTE: i block contentless blogs who interact with my posts! if you like something, pls let the poster know 🫶
GRIEF COUNSELLING.
Seungcheol was no novice to the gymnasium: its lacquered floors, the wood yellow and shiny; the metallic rafters hidden by ceiling shadows; how the foldable chairs were arranged in that wide, perfect circle, pushing everyone into uncomfortable familiarity. He found it ironic that each session took place in an elementary school. An elementary school. Kids who were just learning to tie their shoelaces and add simple numbers using their fingers had no idea what their gymnasium was being converted into by the first hour of nighttime.
He only paid attention to the faces he knew. The faces that were so consistent he could notice the smallest, faintest adjustment—when they plucked their eyebrows or trimmed their facial hair or wore a new tint of lip balm—until a day came when that face was no longer there, and he must move onto a new face to fill their subtle absence. He wondered if there was someone in the room who monitored him.
Probably not.
There wasn’t much Seungcheol contributed to the meetings apart from his attentive silence and the clearness of his fixed gaze. Others prattled, at times for too long, to the point their tears thinned completely and their throats relaxed open, but the counsellor rarely intervened. It was the one space where words were not controlled or edited to appease another, and once people realized, they tended to flow like stochastic, running liquid. Two to four sessions were typically enough for most. The drainage was instant. Their catharsis was a glow of mental release.
Seungcheol never knew which session might be his last. He supposed he would keep going, keep listening, keep adding his appropriately timed “hmm’s” and thoughtful nods and answers to the counsellor’s prompts with honed emotional intelligence until he experienced the glorious glow of one-thousand suns. The release. And maybe that would take forever. Maybe he would never leave.
“How about you, Seungcheol?”
He looked up from the floor’s middle point, where a ceiling light had reflected a smooth, white halo into the clean wood. Seungcheol raised his eyebrows, made it evident he did not hear the question.
The counsellor repeated himself. “Now that we’ve learned to identify the mental and physical cues that grief may be reapproaching, what is something you do to bring yourself back? Keep grounded?” The older man finished explaining with a smile, soft and wrinkled, a testament to his age that had turned his hair a faded, thinning grey, near the colour of snow, but otherwise led to his sharpened wisdom.
Seungcheol adjusted himself in the squeaky, feeble chair, pushed up his heavy-rimmed glasses. “I like to make myself still,” he said. No matter how dimly he spoke, the openness of the gymnasium caused his words to echo and drift akin to a careening beach tide. “I listen to where the grief is coming from… where the hurt is. Sometimes I’m remembering a touch, or laughter, a good meal, a stupid boardgame we forced ourselves to learn. And then, in that stillness, I try to separate the hurt from the memory. Leave only the light. Until I feel everything recede. And I can breathe again. I can move fluidly with the present.”
Eyes were shameless and desperate, wonderstruck, hung on Seungcheol, letting his answer disperse into deft silence. The counsellor smiled again, but with that unfettered fullness as opposed to gentle guidance, his voice a soothing timbre in Seungcheol’s ears.
“That’s a thoughtful answer. Glad to hear it. Some others may find use in such an approach,” he pointed out by widely gesturing his hand around the circle. “Thank you for sharing with the group.”
Once the session had ended, most removed the coats from behind their chairs, tucked on knitted hats, pulled on thin gloves, grabbed purses or side-slung bags. Some picked between the remaining refreshments sitting at the white table off toward the wall. Seungcheol took his coat over his arm—a salt-and-pepper-coloured fleece trench coat—as well as his gym bag. He grabbed an apple. The short, thin woman beside him moved away in a soundless but hurried stride, leaving the straw to her juice box. While he squeezed the piebald apple under his fingers, testing its hardness, he somehow managed to hear a whisper.
“… don’t know why he still comes here. He’s fucking more collected than the counsellor. Does he just want to show off?”
Seungcheol took a bite. The apple was crisp and the juices tangy, a mix of sour and sweet. He followed the two women outside into the coolness, who immediately hushed. He furtively slid past them.
Still no release. But at least he was steady.
“Are you coming?”
“Uh… coming… to—uh… what?”
It was five in the morning. Seungcheol was awake, had been for the past hour, now standing in the narrow, poorly lit front foyer of his apartment. His phone was left sitting on the hallway dresser as he knelt down to finish tying his shoe. Then he was popping back up, twirling off the cap to his water bottle in one practiced, familiar motion.
“Running, Jeonghan. Are you running?”
Silence. A faint rustling, tugging, of sheets. “God? What?”
“Did you go out drinking last night? You asked me to call you before I went running, so we could meet at Massey Park,” Seungcheol reaffirmed before taking a sip. He placed the cap back on his bottle.
More rustling. And then, a vibrating, loud groan. “Oh, fuck. I said that? I fucking said that? No. Fuck that. Don’t take anything I say seriously past five-thirty, okay? Have fun. Good-fucking-night.”
Seungcheol watched the call close. “Thank god,” he huffed.
Running was something Seungcheol did alone. It was never an activity that included another person. It was merely him and his breath, his pumping heart, his physicality and focus as the coldness of night gradually ebbed into a lavender morning. He favoured Massey Park for its winding pathways underneath the fawning trees, and its general bareness of people, especially at the hour before dawn.
But even when he ran alone, there was always something there.
One part had left but the other was destined to stay.
Upon parking his car in the barren lot, Seungcheol started with some stretches. He made sure his expensive tech watch was working in order to track his heartrate. He slotted in tiny earbuds. He took his last sip of cold, sweet water, feeling the liquid slide down his throat.
Relying on purely memory, Seungcheol suspected he could run the entire park with his eyes closed, and still describe each twist and turn in detail. He knew where every bench was placed, and where the cat-tailed, marshy duck pond was located. The elm tree with the rotted burrow was about fifteen minutes into the run, while the children’s play structure was closer to the twenty-minute mark. He knew every crack and crevice in the pavement that should be avoided—even remembered the exact, scissored branch of a grand maple that unfortunately housed a nasty hornet’s nest last summer.
The park felt like his.
He finished two complete circuits. His skin was glistening and the collar of his t-shirt dampened in sweat. Seungcheol let his breathing come down, kept his eye on the watch secured to his wrist, placed right overtop a pulse-point. His head tilted back and he saw the first raining mist of pastel daylight. In the calmness, the tender wind cool through his thick hair, Seungcheol’s heartrate had finally returned to baseline.
At home, he showered while his morning coffee brewed.
Seungcheol enjoyed eggs-on-toast. Read a few pages from his book as he licked off his thumb of greasy butter and crumbs.
His life was much quieter now.
Settled and solid, like a stone tossed and hidden.
Very little could ruin that, he thought.
“I should really go. It’s late.”
“It’s nine o’clock you weenie!”
“Yes, and he wakes up at four in the morning to run. Stop being a drunk idiot and let the man go home,” Joshua sighed, stepping out into the corridor with a glass of red wine poised elegantly in his hand and a patterned blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
Seungcheol raised his eyebrows at Jeonghan, hopeful that he might step away from the front door as opposed to obstructing it with his extended limbs, sluggish and clumsy, pinkened, with warm, weighted alcohol. But it was never that easy. Not when Jeonghan was this drunk. Instead, his friend grinned wickedly, lurched for the car keys in Seungcheol’s hand, ran down the corridor snickering, giggling, shaking the keys to characteristically gloat, before scampering up the staircase.
Joshua watched, unimpressed, tired, from babysitting his deviant boyfriend, while swirling the red wine around in his glass. “Yeah, he’s fucking gone.” Then he turned back to Seungcheol, tilted his head apologetically, his eyes clear and sensible. He spent more time holding his wine than drinking it. “Might be best to set a blanket and pillow out on the couch. Sorry about that. I can get the keys before your run. It’s no problem.”
Seungcheol rubbed the back of his neck. “Eh, all good.”
“We’re always glad to have you over,” Joshua said. “Despite how it might end…” A thump was heard from upstairs, and Joshua merely lifted the glass to his mouth, taking a soft sip. “So, couch for tonight?”
“Couch.”
“Let me get you some things.”
Once Joshua had laid out a pillow and a blanket, allowed Seungcheol to borrow some clothes so he didn’t have to sleep in jeans, he was laid down comfortably, a hand tucked behind his head, as he stared at the high, sloped ceiling, muted and fuzzy in the darkness. The only glow provided came from a nightlight in the adjacent hallway. Every now and again, Seungcheol heard one of Jeonghan’s slurred, giggling shouts echo from the upstairs, followed by Joshua’s coarse shushing. It didn’t bother him. He appreciated knowing his friends were so close by.
When Seungcheol was disturbed again, it was by a hand lightly shaking his shoulder until his eyes unwilfully pulled themselves apart, the air around him suddenly feeling colder than when he first went to bed, the dimness an indiscernible blur. But he heard Joshua’s low, sweet voice, heard the tinkling of keys, and Seungcheol began to shuffle up.
“Got ‘em,” Joshua whispered, placing the keys in Seungcheol’s hand. “He was like a goddamn baby. Couldn’t get him down for hours.”
He nodded, rubbed his crusted eye. “Sounds like Jeonghan…”
“Obviously, feel free to wake up first. Use whatever you need. I’m heading back to bed. Jeonghan’s fucking comatose. See you Cheol.”
And then Joshua was leaving, his bare feet swift against the wooden floor as the same blanket from the night before remained wrapped around his shoulders. Seungcheol took about half-an-hour to properly awaken, mostly attributed to the frigid water he splashed across his puffy face in the downstairs washroom after nearly falling back asleep on the couch, wrapped toastily in the thick, linen-scented comforter. His hair was a rumpled, smooshed mess, sticking up stubbornly. Seungcheol squirmed into the dark blue hoodie he left on the living room armchair to cover his untamed tresses. He left, began the early drive home, played some music to keep himself alert while tapping his finger to the wheel.
God—he didn’t want to run—for once in his life.
He wished he drank to give himself an excuse.
After parking the car behind the building, Seungcheol made his way to the front stoop, rubbing fingers against the edges of his brows, hoping to ease out his foreign reluctance. It was still dark despite the distant ember of approaching dawn, the air frosty, strikingly crisp.
But then Seungcheol heard a groan.
He paused at the base of the stoop.
“Jesus… what the—what the fuck?”
Immediately, Seungcheol dropped to his knee. He started shaking the woman’s shoulder, at first with gentleness, and then panic, jarring her body harder and harder. He stuck a finger underneath her nose, felt her breath, barely there, dull as a kitten’s yawn, but there, nonetheless. She didn’t respond to a thing he said—things he couldn’t even remember saying despite being conscious of his mouth pursing, his tongue moving—until Seungcheol attempted to roll her attentively onto her back. The movement prompted another groan, and her eyelids seemed to twitch. He fished out his phone, about to call the police.
However, he paused.
Looked at her body again. Her clothes. They were burnt, desecrated into holes and gashes fluttering with loose threads. Small smears of ash were like freckles to her exposed skin. When he had shaken her shoulder, her flesh against his was not just warm, but hot, fever-like, enough to make one uncomfortably slippery with their own sweat. Her initial position was unusual, as though she had tumbled out of bed, almost. Seungcheol swallowed the pit knifing at his throat.
He put his phone away.
Instead, he gingerly gathered the fevered, ashen woman into his arms, smelling the acrid, burnt tinges in her hair, her clothes. He took her upstairs to his apartment, laid her down with the cautiousness of a newborn infant on his sofa, ensuring her head was supported by a silk-cased pillow. She squirmed slightly, and Seungcheol noticed her fingertips press into the sofa’s fabric while her cheek nuzzled the pillow, and he wondered if she was realizing, somewhere distant and buried in her mind, that she was no longer crumpled against a concrete stoop.
God—what the fuck was he supposed to do?
He pulled out his phone again, traversed the living room in repetitive circles, attempting to discern why he was struggling that greatly, that agonizingly, with calling the police.
Outside, the cloudy dimness was steadfast. Light was attempting to push through the dense grey with its aglow, sunlit breath and Seungcheol could see finite cracks in the sky, lined in pearl, shimmery white. For the umpteenth time, he put the phone back in his pocket.
The woman was perfectly still now.
Carefully, he settled his finger underneath her nose again to ensure he could still feel each thin exhale. How long was he supposed to wait? What was he supposed to do while an unconscious woman wearing peculiarly burnt clothing lay so still and ash-speckled on his sofa? He questioned preparing a warm, damp rag to at least clean up her soiled skin, but then he thought against it—thought about how startling it would be to awaken in a stranger’s home as he leaned over her imposingly with a damn rag—and decided to make coffee instead. The spoon clinked around the mug to stir in the fatty milk and sugar. He chose the seat at the dinner table that would still allow him to see the sofa, the crests of her unmoving body in the tenebrosity.
And then... he made breakfast.
Heard the dulcet clicks of the gas stove as he settled a frying pan overtop, broke two brown eggs, their perfectly rounded yolks bubbling at the buttered heat from underneath.
Seungcheol fried hashbrowns.
He grilled toast.
Poured himself the remainder of the coffee, a Colombian dark roast with delicious, nutty undertones rich in the morning air. He washed his dishes. Went to the washroom to shave his face. The blue gel frothed into a foam cream in his hands. His motions with the razor were smooth and seasoned, a seamless glide from the cheekbone to his jaw before shaking the razor off into a cup of warm water. He patted his face dry, rubbed in a few drops of fresh, clean-scented oil to help heal and moisturize his skin. Took a bristled brush to his frenzied hair that managed to calm its stubbornness. It was structure. His structure. At times the only mechanism he had when thinking felt like dying.
Finally, he retrieved his glasses from the mirror cabinet.
But when he came back into the living room, feeling somewhat rejuvenized and clear-headed, he noticed a glaring, terrifying change.
The woman was sitting up.
You.
THE WOMAN.
Seungcheol didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Instead, he watched from the hallway behind the sofa, almost waiting you for to spring into action, clamber around in panic, scream for help because who’s fucking place was this and why were you laid inside it? But you were evidently lethargic, bogged by the drowsy vestiges of unconsciousness. He studied the palm that pressed deep against your forehead, the arm you settled across the back of the sofa with such brittleness, as though your bones were in pieces. And Seungcheol knew he should make himself known rather than wait for you to discover him sleuthing in the corridor shadows. He shifted forward, and the floorboards squeaked.
In an instant, your head lurched around.
“Uh—” he raised his hands slowly, “—hey, there.”
Your eyes were wide in terror, although he noted that you were staring unfocused in confusion, unable to spot him despite his shortening distance from the sofa. Seungcheol took another step, and your eyes raced to a different corner, a different picture on the wall.
He cleared his throat upon noticing a small hitch. “I found you outside, on the stairway, totally unconscious. I promise, you don’t need to be scared.” Sure, that was helpful. What was a promise from one complete stranger to another if not completely useless. Regardless, he took another step. At last, your gaze settled on him, bloated and wild. “But I won’t feel offended if not. Is there anything I can do for you?”
The room was icy and silent.
Seungcheol’s heart was swollen in his chest. Your fear became his fear, and how his ears were two ringing seashells of pumping blood.
But then your arm shifted. You began to reach over the back of the sofa, fingertips quaking like dry twigs. Somehow, he grew stiller than he was before, watching intensely as your timid hand proceeded to brush ever so gingerly against his wrist. And you gasped. Seungcheol jolted.
Your fingers on his bare skin had been hot metal.
“I’m sorry,” he felt urged to apologize, “I know this is weird. I just want to know if you’re okay, if I need to call emergency services. Can you… can you... see okay? Are you able to use your voice at all?”
He was right behind the sofa now. The closeness allowed him to realize a faint, stirred cloudiness in your eyes that he couldn’t help studying with a curious squinch. You touched your chest, however, your hand sunk through a tattered hole, the fabric outlined in dark, burnt singes, and Seungcheol noticed how your entire body tensed like a closing fist. Your fingers began rubbing together, the tiny ashes smearing into powdered black, each inspection of your skin turning more frantic, more hurried, shakier as your breathing thickened audibly.
Unsure what to do, Seungcheol could only watch. But then your milky gaze fluttered the space to his outline, your forehead rippled tight with worry, and he could vaguely see that your throat was twitching, a dry but gurgled noise buzzing up. Seungcheol cracked from his stupor.
“Okay, okay, don’t worry, alright?” He hurried around the sofa to sit down on the edge, pulled out his phone. “I’m going to call—”
You placed a trembling hand over his phone and began to push it away, hide the screen and its number pad. He felt his face blanch in a surge of white heat. There was a watery, sharp pleading in your eyes.
He swallowed. “You don’t want help?”
No, you shook your head. No, no, no.
Again, the room was silent but squeezed with pressure, his thoughts impossibly scattered. At least you could understand him.
Seungcheol sighed deeply, tempted to use his phone again, now slipped beside his thigh. “What should I do?” A question more for himself. “I mean, you can’t speak, and it seems your eyesight is poor. I’ll be honest, I have no fucking clue what’s happening. No idea how you got there or why your clothes are... destroyed like this.” He leaned forward, practicing a long, heavy breath while massaging his sore temples, closing his eyes, focusing on the circular motions to his skull.
“What can I do?”
A moment passed. He looked to you and stiffened. Your head was slumped back lazily and your eyes were shut. Seungcheol saw your chest rising with the languorous steadiness of sleep and felt himself ache at the confusion. The longer he observed you, he found that something bizarre was standing out—a dull, soft glow on the side of your dirtied neck, greenish-blue, emanating a near imperceptible palpation. Without thinking, his mind a chaffing blank, Seungcheol slowly crept out his hand, the pads of his index and middle finger settling lightly overtop the foreign glow.
The area was whirring hot. It reminded him of his laptop when he let a large document sit open for too long. Unconsciously biting onto his bottom lip, Seungcheol decided to push down on the warm area, feeling himself tense, and then, all at once, a biting, rolling shock shot up his fingers like a freshly fired arrow, the pain sizzling at the same point along his neck until he recoiled, standing up from the sofa and gutturally cursing. Seungcheol approached the mirror by the front door, noticed a reddish bruise that his fingers swept over, performing their own inspection while the skin continued to experience a residual sting.
Where the absolute fuck had you come from?
Seungcheol was terrified to leave the living room—let alone his apartment—now that you had staked your claim of the sofa, continuing to sleep past lunch time, past dinner time. He had grief counselling tomorrow night, and then breakfast with Jeonghan, Joshua, and their lifelong friend, Phoebe, the following day. He paced around the kitchen island while scraping out leftover jasmine rice from a microwave dish, the steeped, sesame oil flavour tasting unusually bland.
How was he supposed to sleep? Go on his morning run?
Why didn’t he just phone the police?
He sunk down in the armchair oblique to the sofa, pulling on its side-lever to extend the unfolding compartment from underneath. After draping a spare closet blanket over his body, Seungcheol puffed out his chest, sighed again, as dreary, grey daytime was coloured in by the dark charcoal of night. How tired he felt, suckled dry, from worry’s unkempt greediness. Before Seungcheol could manage to stitch together one final thought—something about the moonlight, its silver seas splashing through the window—his mind was turning on its side, lost in sleep.
Scribblescribblescribble.
Scratchscratchscratch.
Scribblescribblescribble.
Scratchscratchscratch.
He scrunched his nose, felt his glasses straighten. The noises were quiet, but their consistency was a wriggling worm breaking through the soil of his unconscious. Seungcheol threw the blanket from his lap, half-hanging off the chair. He sat up against smooth leather, rubbed underneath his glasses to relieve the graininess from his eyes, finding the room revealed in a tinted, sombre blue, as though it had been dipped. The sofa was—fuck—empty. And now Seungcheol was forced to his feet by the fluttering of anxiety, nearly tripping over himself, feeling a lost name wander his tongue but melt away when he needed it.
In the hallway, he noticed an open door with yellow light pouring out like a spilled glass of juice—his old study turned into storage when he no longer used it—and Seungcheol marched inside. There, hunched over an open notebook on the wooden floor, was you, a pencil in your hand.
“Uh…” he swallowed dryly, squinted at you in disbelief.
Then you made a rough noise, strangled, upset. Seungcheol watched you tear a paper out from the runged notebook, and he realized that you were surrounded by ripped papers—each with their own marooned scribbling, similar to that of a child’s—discarded and harshly blacked out by the frustrated streaks of rubbing graphite.
Stay calm, Seungcheol, stay fucking calm.
“I—uh—see you’re awake,” he chose to dumbly comment.
You growled again, the pencil performing a circus act of impatient swirling around the page until you ripped it free. Without pause, you began to draw again, leaned so achingly close to the notebook.
Seungcheol moved slow, lowered himself to the floor, sat across from you with his arms caged around his knees. “What’s all this?” No response. Did you even understand he was in the room? He debated reaching out and delivering a grazing touch across your pointed shoulder, although he didn’t want a pencil stabbed through his palm. “Gosh—it’s—two in the morning,” he said upon checking his watch. “But I guess you slept all day.” Seungcheol grabbed one of the papers. He pushed up his glasses and attempted to study what he saw in between the angry scribbling, perhaps the crude outline of a face and its features, however, misplaced, warped. “Who is this you’re trying to draw?”
Abruptly, you swung up from leaning over the notebook, the pencil left behind on the floor. Seungcheol froze, yet his gaze was fixed and observing, noting the defeated tremble in your bottom lip and the glassiness soaking over your eyes, having lost some of their mist.
You choked, shook your head in blatant misery.
He stopped thinking. Another part of him clicked into play.
Seungcheol sat on his knee and leaned in close, meanwhile your expression twisted with emotion. “Don’t stress, okay?” he hummed, letting his fingers sweep down your forearm. Gently, he grabbed your warm wrist, a pulse barking from underneath, and squeezed. “Whatever you’ve been through, it’s clearly a lot. I can only imagine how much this overwhelms you,” he continued, slow and soft, as the wobbling water in your eyes appeared to dry. “How about doing this in a more... step-wise way? Would you like to shower? Eat?”
Your gaze drifted across the floor, weighted with weakness, while your shoulders drooped like branches sagging in frosted snow. Seungcheol couldn’t stand to see you in those ruined, sooty clothes—practically wearing your own burnt ashes—and so he stood up amongst the clutter of cryptic papers, extended his hand.
“C’mon,” he murmured, “I’ll show you to the shower.”
When you huffed, carefully grasping onto his fingers with an exploratory gentleness, Seungcheol smiled, helped tug you to your feet.
“Here we are,” he said, pushing open another door in the corridor. After flicking the light switch, the casual modernity of the washroom was revealed. The shower walls were glass and the tiles were large and cool, granite grey. He had spent many, many nights underneath the flat, circular showerhead, feeling the hot water surge down his back while he thought in restive echoes. “You can use the white towel. I keep mine in my bedroom. And… uh—shit—clothes. You’re gonna need clothes.” He delved a hand through his hair. “I’ll look, okay? If you want, you can start the water so it’ll be hot by the time I’m back.”
In his bedroom, Seungcheol began opening drawers and picking out articles at random. He heard the water the gushing as he looked over a simple black t-shirt, then folding it on top a pair of plaid-blue boxer shorts. Before he left, he quickly grabbed some white tube socks.
He felt the familiar warmth of shower steam upon returning to the washroom, settling the fresh clothes down on the sink’s edge. But when he glanced at you, his eyes bulged—“Jesus—fuck—sorry,”—and he immediately turned around, fumbling to pull the door shut. “I’ll leave you alone. Sorry.” You had been completely undressed, watching the water spray from above with a sort of hypnotized, enraptured wonder.
Seungcheol hurried into the moonlit living room—not without loudly stubbing his toe on the sofa’s corner—and climbed back onto the armchair, hauling the blanket over him like an embarrassed boy. You hadn’t seemed to care at all. Not even a bit. It proved to fascinate him.
He couldn’t sit still. Seungcheol thought he noticed an oddity on your lower back (not that he was intentionally looking), little textured patches, perhaps from your unsolved injury, or possible birthmarks.
Seungcheol found himself back in his abandoned office, walking between scraps of torn paper, glancing down at every scribble and shape. He saw the drawer pulled open on the desk—now piled high with clutter and boxes—the metal cup split over, spreading out pens and pencils. It seemed that the world was coming back to you piece by piece, like a string emerging from a dark fog, and you had leapt at the opportunity to keep pulling the string further toward yourself. His socked foot brushed against another sheet. Seungcheol knelt down, gathered the mangled image into his hands, rubbed along his chin as he observed the harshly penciled face, a rough darkness pressed so intensely into the eyes he was surprised the paper wasn't torn.
Upon hearing the shower silence, Seungcheol set the drawing down on his desk. He hurried back into the living room, flicking on the ceiling light, and gone was the heavy blue-blackness. There was no point in going back to sleep, anyway. Not now. After all this.
He wondered when you last ate or drank anything.
Seungcheol picked his way through the fridge, turning over rectangles of block cheese and pushing behind the greek yogurt he used for his post-gym protein shakes. He thought about setting up the coffee machine, or making eggs. But you were a complete enigma to his guesses and the sight of syrupy-like goo and a gelatinous yellow yolk might be the straw that broke the camel's back.
In confused defeat, he shut the fridge and turned around, fingers sinking underneath his glasses, pushing them up so he could rub deeply at his eyes and face until his vision was spirals of white stars.
He fixed his glasses back on and jolted.
You were there, standing across from him in silence, separated by the warm marble of the kitchen island. Wetness still clung shiny to your hair. He studied your skin unmarred by smeared ash, almost glowing, breathing, without sooty, sweaty film to smother it.
Seungcheol nodded. “I hope that made you feel better.”
There was a Tupperware of round, purple grapes left on the kitchen island. You grabbed a chair, high like a barstool, and began to pull it, the legs squeaking against the tiled floor. Then you squished into the seat, carefully, slowly, as though it were something foreign, before grabbing the container and pulling it toward you.
He rubbed his nose. “Yeah. Take it. Eat as many as you like.”
You started with one, popping the grape straight into your mouth. He heard its thin skin bursting between your teeth. And then you plucked another, feeding yourself grape after grape, chewing, swallowing, chewing, swallowing, and Seungcheol just stood there aimlessly observing, lost in thoughts that could not be untangled even with the most dexterous fingers, until there were more thin stems than grapes.
“I’ll get you some water,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.
There was a cold carafe he kept in the fridge. Seungcheol poured you a glass, about half full, and slid it across the countertop.
You nudged the Tupperware away and proceeded to touch the glass, rubbing its moist, chilled condensation between your fingers. He watched you pick the glass up, bring the rim to your lips and experiment with a small sip. Suddenly, the glass was flush to your mouth, and the water seemed to be disappearing at an astounding rate. Every swallow was more like an echoing, painful gulp. You had emptied the cup, then leaned forward, eyeing the full jug next to his hand, droplets framing your chin.
“Oh, uh, sure,” he answered, spilling more into the glass.
You drank the water just as quickly.
“I can only imagine how that feels,” he said, smiling. “Is there anything else you need? Do you want more than just... grapes?”
Wiping off your lips, your head shook.
“Best to start small. You’re right. Let me put the jug in the fridge. You can take whatever you want, honestly. It doesn’t matter.”
He turned back to the counter. Your hand was making a scribbling motion, like you were holding something, going up and down.
“Oh.” Seungcheol shook his head. “The notebook?”
You nodded vigorously and gripped the table’s edge.
“Alright. Sure. One sec.”
He thought some good could come out of the notebook, actually. So he opened another compartment on his desk, squeezed with tan-coloured tabbed files from a different period in his life, a different time, and found one with a red cover. The first page had nothing written but a penned date, the start of a resignation letter he spinelessly gave up on.
“Okay,” Seungcheol hummed as he returned to the kitchen island, “I’ve got an idea.” Your notebook was placed underneath his, and your eyes were dilated plates, keening for its endless pages. “You can draw a little. So I’m wondering if you can write, too.” He flipped open his red notebook, uncapped a pen, and jotted down a simple word.
Then he turned the book to you, tapped at it.
HELLO.
“Can you read this?” Seungcheol asked.
You nodded obediently.
“That’s great! But’s let be certain.” He bent over the notebook, his pen working fluidly with every stroke of his hand. “What about this?”
I’M SEUNGCHEOL. WHO ARE YOU?
He followed your gaze, how it moved lithely across the paper, until it connected confidently with his. When he first looked into your eyes, they were thick with pulpy cloudiness, but after some sleep and a hot shower, it seemed that their stucco had vanished.
“I’ll give you your notebook. You can respond.”
Seungcheol set a different pen atop your book and pushed it across the marble toward you. The pages fluttered in your fingers as you flipped them open. He heard the pen click. Its inky point touched the paper. Your hand wouldn’t move, and he could see the tenseness of your thin finger bones, the wrinkled strain in your expression. Then you removed the pen and shook your head, huffing, frustrated.
He edged onto his stool. “There’s no rush.”
You leaned over the notebook, one hand gripping its corner while the other clasped the metallic pen, and he thought he could see something being written, although quite slowly, uncertainly, with effort.
The dark blue notebook was then flipped toward him.
I DO N’T NOW.
Seungcheol squinted, mouthed the words. “You don’t know?”
You nodded.
“That’s okay. Do you, uh, remember how you got here?”
No, you shook your head.
“Who was that person you were trying to draw?”
Your eyes rounded. Again, you returned to the notebook, now clutching it from underneath as the pen glided stubbornly. His thigh began to bounce rapidly while he waited, and he smoothed his hand along the taunt, jittery muscle to make it stop. You sat back in the chair and held the notebook up, making sure to peel the drooping page away.
BAD. THINK THEY WANT TO HURT ME.
His stomach writhed. But he ignored it. “Do you remember anything about them? What was their relationship to you?”
At that, you winced, shaking your head.
In an instant, his thoughts were electric, one firing after the other in succession like a bugged computer. There was a part of him that crackled, a lightbulb long burnt out in a cobwebby basement finally coursing with the spark to make it twinkle, but Seungcheol swallowed the inkling away before the glow could enshroud him. When he looked to you, the notebook had been pushed aside, and he saw your shoulders, pinched-in and shrunken, trembling. You bit at your thumb. Your body seemed to remember what anxiety and dread was because he could feel its scattered pulses booming throughout the air like thunder.
He settled his arms onto the marble. One hand reached out tentatively, stopping midway. Your eyes flickered toward it.
“Look,” Seungcheol spoke in a careful, low brass, “you have every right to feel frustrated and scared. But—if this is any assurance—nothing is going to happen to you. Not while I’m here.” He tilted his head, practiced a comforting but confident, strict smile, one that he hadn’t used in years. He wondered how it looked from your perspective. “You just have to trust me,” he murmured, sliding his hand back.
You sighed exhaustedly, brushing a tear off your clean cheek.
But then you nodded, your lips pushed together in acceptance.
THE NOTEBOOK.
Seungcheol skipped his morning run at Massey Park.
Instead, he used the treadmill in his bedroom, the conveyor belt churning at a medium pace underneath his shoes. After he showed you how to operate the television, he left you alone on the couch with the notebook. He reassured you it was completely okay to get anything you pleased from the fridge. His shoes continued to beat against the rubber track. The treadmill was poised in front of a window. He could see down onto the street, the world still gloomy with early-morning shadows.
His eyes flickered to the treadmill’s timer.
Most of his run-time was spent thinking about what he should do, how he should handle your situation, and his conclusion changed with every hard puff from his beating chest. Seungcheol’s days of being a sleuthing private investigator—tossing out business cards with fake embossed names and pretending to like presumptuous journalists and spending his nights in seedy, cheap motels—were long over. He sympathized with you, wanted to help, but his help should be nothing more than getting you back on your feet with a visit to the police station.
He felt a pearl of sweat slide down his temple. Seungcheol wiped it away, squeezed his fists, continued to run the pushing pace. Like clockwork, his mind turned, and he considered how deeply, unnervingly strange your predicament was. His gut was sharp and clanging, demanding to be acknowledged. The one rule Seungcheol stuck true to since leaving behind his investigative career was always listening to his gut, his instinct. It never led him astray. A sort of sixth, ironclad sense.
But you weren’t his case.
Seungcheol gritted his teeth and clicked a button on the treadmill to increase the track’s speed. He was running so quickly that his mind fell into a forced and quiet focus, his eyes still, trained, at nothing but the pinkish dimness outside the window. Yet, something managed to penetrate his steely concentration, like a jarring flash of white light on the highway that slaps you awake.
He had grief counselling tonight.
Fuck.
When Seungcheol returned to the living room after showering, he noticed the TV was left glowing on the plethora of streaming apps.
He walked into the kitchen and opened a cupboard, pulling out a frying pan that he rested atop his favourite burner on the steel stove. The gas clicked. Seungcheol cut a tablespoon of butter and let it melt.
“Couldn’t find anything you liked?” he called to you.
Upon shuffling against the sofa and the large, tousled blanket you had removed from the armchair, you flashed Seungcheol your notebook. He had a bowl on the island counter, and now an egg yolk was being smoothly cracked into it by a single expert hand.
NO.
Seungcheol laughed. “I often have the same experience.”
He finished cracking the remainder of brown-shelled eggs into the bowl, then poured in some heavy cream, added a few spices and herbs, and finished with a splash of hot sauce. After whisking everything together, he poured the mixture slowly into the warmed pan.
As he turned to open another drawer for his silicon spatula, he saw you standing behind the island, watching him. Seungcheol blinked, relaxed his shoulders, then returned to pushing around miscellaneous utensils and measuring cups until he found the spatula.
“I’m making eggs and toast,” he said. “Want any?”
You swallowed.
“It's good. Not bland. I put a lot of spices... um, which I guess you could describe as flavour enhancers? Not too many. A little paprika. Cayenne hot sauce. It's how I like it, though.” He paused, scratched his cheek. “Should I just shut the fuck up and put a pan on for you?”
You smirked a little, nodded.
When everything was done cooking and toasting, Seungcheol set two plates onto the marble, then spread out forks and knives. He poured himself a cup of orange juice and you some more water from his cold carafe in the fridge. At your elbow was the notebook and pen. He wanted to converse with you, tease things out, but Seungcheol wasn’t entirely sure what to ask someone who couldn’t even remember their own name.
So he let you eat, watching loosely as you pushed some scrambled eggs onto the buttered toast and took a messy bite, never wiping your mouth or licking off your greasy fingers until the plate was a sparkling white—completely cleaned. Before him.
“Good?” Seungcheol asked, quirking his eyebrow knowingly.
You grabbed the pen and scribbled onto the notebook.
He enjoyed how much you seemed to like it.
YES!
Seungcheol smiled. “I eat this most mornings.” He fiddled with his fork while staring down at the plate. Just another bite of toast and some smaller, browner pieces of scrambled egg left, although he moved everything around idly with the fork as he contemplated. “By the way,” he rumbled, clearing his throat, “I have a commitment tonight. And I'll need to go out today for groceries so I can make dinner—or, fuck—so we can have dinner,” he questioned more than stated. “My point is, aside from the grocery stuff, this commitment is... well...”
You were motionless.
He set the fork down and began to rub along his wrist, choking it between his fingers. “It’s pretty important to me. I’ve been going for about a year now.” Seungcheol sat back in a huff, moved a hand to his thigh and squeezed. “Of course, I want you to feel safe. And I want you to have a space to rebuild everything. I’m just not sure if… if that space should be my apartment, you know? Have you thought about it? Going down to the station. Now that you’re a little more grounded. It wouldn’t be something you’d have to do alone. I could come with you.”
Your mouth opened, and he heard the faintest tickle of a rasp, a rumble from somewhere deep down. But you shut your mouth a moment later, opting to grab the dark blue notebook instead. It was stabbing into your chest as you wrote, the pen hurried, your franticness evident.
THEY CAN’T HELP.
Seungcheol frowned. “You don’t even want to try?”
You briskly flipped the page, shaking your head.
PLEASE. I NEED TO STAY.
He watched you readjust the notebook to add something.
PLEASE.
God, how could he fucking argue with you? When you were using a notebook to communicate with him? When you had nothing but the most gradual outlines of a stranger's face drifting through your shattered memories? The twinge he experienced earlier while running on the treadmill stabbed him again, twisted harder than before until he pushed a hand against his gut and took in a stabilizing breath to singularize everything. Your eyes were wide, full of lacquered pleading and anxiety. Seungcheol crossed his arms, bit onto his bottom lip.
Then he started to nod. “Okay. Okay. That’s fine. You can stay here for a bit. But we’ve got to figure this out at some point.” He nudged up his glasses and readjusted them against the outside light. “Then I’ll be gone tonight, for an hour and a half. You’ll be alone, alright?”
Your head dipped in acknowledgement.
The pen was back in your hand, and then the notebook.
THANK YOU.
Seungcheol decided he was going to make menudo for dinner, but he needed pork belly and potatoes. Carrots, too. Eventually, he ended up with a long list written on his phone. Months and months had passed before Seungcheol returned to the local grocery store, just last Spring. He was petrified of running into a familiar face, being subject to their expectant doting, their over-endearing softness, the manner in which they froze—instantly offered apologies—whenever making a tiny blunder about the past. But Seungcheol learned it was something to simply swallow, something that would fade slowly until normality resumed.
His cart was getting fuller. A proper grocery run. It made him feel part of his own life, the conductor, not a passenger. He carefully inspected his apples for bruises and shuffled between dewy clumps of fresh parsley until he found the most suitable. He wrinkled his nose at the ridiculous price of the yogurt he needed to buy, and let his eyes skim the assorted shelves in concentration until he found the tomato sauce. Little things that allowed him to blend in. He was no longer the grieving widower, requiring condolence and sympathy, pitied as he walked each aisle alone without someone at his side. Now he was merely another man buying groceries. Unquestioned.
However, right before Seungcheol got in line for check-out, he stopped by the store’s flower display. They still sold those luscious pink orchids, artfully tied to thin, brown stalks. Why wouldn’t they? Were they supposed to sixty-nine orchids just because they had been his wife’s favourite flower? The ones he bought her at the end of each month?
“They're gorgeous, aren't they?”
A woman was beside him, holding onto a handbasket that had little to nothing inside, apart from a single box of Bandaids and a soy-noodle ramen cup that needed water and a microwave. She was shorter than him, with straight, sandy-blonde hair cut bluntly at the shoulders, and brown-framed glasses set right to the tip of her tiny nose.
“Sorry, didn't mean to be annoying,” she continued. “I'm... new to the area, I guess. Just trying out some small talk. Rebuilding your life sucks.”
Seungcheol swallowed, taken off guard. “Uh, yeah. Right.”
“Sorry,” she apologized again, her thin lips flickering at the edges with a shameful but presumably sincere smile. “I’m Millie.”
“Seungcheol,” he answered, trying to walk back his cold demeanour.
She tilted her head. “I'm making this weird, aren't I? I'll go.”
“No, you're not. I'm sorry. I was deep in thought, that's all.” At least he was being asked about flowers, not if he'd finally gotten used to sleeping alone, having one toothbrush in the washroom, a single pair of slippers by the front door. Orchids were better. Far better.
“Deep in thought...” she hummed. “Good thoughts?”
Seungcheol shrugged. “I'm trying to make it a good thought.”
Millie snorted, and it was an unexpected sound to come out from her willowy frame. “Sounds like grief.”
And Seungcheol's eyes narrowed. “Are you psychic?”
Her eyelashes batted calmly behind her glasses. “Nope. Just know the look. The feeling. The trying to make sad things seem less sad.”
“Well, my grief counsellor would like you.”
Her expression opened into brightness. “Mr. Marshall?”
Seungcheol gawped. “Are you going to Rosseau?”
“My first session is tonight.”
“I guess I'll see you there,” he chuckled. “And... I'm sorry. For whatever loss you're going through. Seems like you're already making strides.”
Millie bobbed her head. “My sister,” she said briefly.
Seungcheol breathed a little deeper. “My wife,” he answered.
Unfortunately, that was how most people identified each other in grief counselling, right after learning their name. Whoever you lost came with an invisible label, and at times, the grief was measured in ways it should not be. Seungcheol had learned to let go of the measuring.
Her eyes pointed down toward Seungcheol’s cart. “What’s for dinner exactly?”
He shifted some items aside. “Menudo. But I’m running low on pretty much everything. Means I won’t have to worry for a while.”
“Cool. I'm having this instant ramen tonight. Soy noodles. Supposed to be healthier or some shit. But I think I'll make sandwiches some time this weekend.”
“Sandwiches? Are you having people over?”
“No. I can see how it sounds that way. But truth be told, I can eat about three sandwiches in a night. It was a thing my sister and I did. Stay up late in the kitchen, talk about life, butter bread and arrange our toppings and mix together spicy sauces. I can’t let it go.”
“Doesn’t seem like you need to,” Seungcheol said.
“You know what else is cool, I was talking to this woman earlier, trying to find my way around the downtown transit station. Said her name was Evie, and she mentioned grief counselling, too. It makes me think we exude some sort of energy, you know? A certain vibe. Like, we can tell who's going through it. Who's coming out of it. Who hasn't really figured it out. It's like you and the orchids. That little bit of sadness, that little bit of frustration, that little bit of wistfulness on your face. Maybe that's why I picked you to small talk with... Anyway, you know Evie?”
Seungcheol furrowed his dark brow. “Yeah. I mean, we don't speak much at counselling. Or ever cross paths, really. But she used to be a server at a diner I had frequented a lot, out West. Big Whally's.”
His fingers squeezed around the cart handle as the memories unveiled like lifted tiles. At one point in his life, Seungcheol had spent many late nights there, amongst the buzzing bulbs, the stained window shutters, the distant sizzling and popping of bacon and cooking oil. His plate would always struggle to fit on the table. Instead, papers would be spread out around him. A laptop. His dog-eared notebook. A big map he could fold up and pen notes onto. Seungcheol looked at Millie again, into her eyes, light like milk mixed into coffee. It was as though a spark had jolted alive in his chest. His head momentarily ached, and the pain rippled. There was much he chose to bury since those days, and now a small piece had dug its way out, thrashing rapidly, like an earwig.
Seungcheol nodded. “Her hair was dyed then. Purple, I think? And she only wore dark lipstick. Had a piercing in her right daith.”
“Your memory is quite sharp,” Millie commended.
He shrugged, finally deciding to push his cart forward. “Not sure how I remember. I just do.”
“Well, I think that would flatter her. She seems frustrated by a lot, like she can’t get it and never will. Did you feel like that?”
“Of course I did,” Seungcheol huffed. “How about you?”
Millie offered a small, scrunched smile that he was unsure what to make of. “I’ll just have to keep trying,” she said. “See you tonight.”
“Yeah, see you,” Seungcheol answered.
She smelled like sandalwood and vanilla. Seungcheol breathed it in, closed his eyes for a moment and allowed the scent to sidle through his senses. When he tried to think back to Big Whally’s, tried to remember more about Evie with her flat-ironed, vibrant purpose hair and dark, overly-lined lipsticks, he found that there was an abrupt, crashing end. His memories steered him elsewhere. He let them.
Some roadblocks, he had put up for a reason.
The drive to the elementary school was somewhat torturous. His finger consistently tapped the steering wheel, beat after beat after beat, his mind trapped outside, needing to run alongside the car at times to keep up with his physical body. He had felt so assured nothing would happen to you. But then doubt leaked in, starting as a small droplet, yet gradually gaining size and weight until it felt like a snowball was sitting cold and hard in his chest.
There was so much unknown in the situation.
He toed the break, easing the car into a stop at the light.
Seungcheol breathed out, flexed his fingers around the wheel.
Would it really hurt to miss one session? He had been going dutifully for months. What could he hear in this particular hour that he hadn’t already heard? What answer could he propose to the counsellor’s prompt that hadn’t already been said? The light flicked into bright green, glowing and fuzzy against the blustery blackness of night.
He glanced at the silver wedding band snug around his ring finger, how it turned emerald for a brief moment, and decided to focus on his commitment. In this one hour, you could not exist.
When Seungcheol walked into the dimly lit gymnasium, he dressed his coat over the back of his usual chair and sat down. Some people were hovering near the refreshment table in small groups of twos and threes, eating crackers and cheese, sticking apple wedges in peanut butter. Others were already sat, staring down quietly at the clasped hands in their lap, waiting for the counsellor to make his way over. Seungcheol could hear the wind blowing against the side of the building and folded his arms, willing himself to smother the worry he felt for you, alone.
“Hey, you mind if I sit next to you?”
He looked over his shoulder and noticed Millie unwrapping a cream scarf from around her neck, her cheeks brushed with soft pink.
“Go for it,” Seungcheol answered, shrugging.
She hung her purse off the chair and smiled. “Fucking windy out there, isn’t it? Like a pack of dogs howling. Huskeys or something.” Millie unzipped her coat and sat down, proceeding to fold the thick material into a square that she left on her lap. “I saw this poor lady chasing a coffee cup all over the place. At least she didn’t want to litter, though.”
“Good judge of character, that,” he said.
“How have you been since I saw you... uh...” she glanced at the caged clock against the wall, squinted. “Approximately five hours ago?”
He stopped himself from laughing and choked the insufferable tickle down. “Oh, everything's been fine.” Fuck—he almost grinned at how ridiculous a lie his response was—and so he ran a hand down his face, wiping the twitch away. “What about you?”
“Well, I managed to hang up some pictures in my dingy little apartment. Put way too many mismeasured holes in the wall that I’m hoping my landlord will blissfully ignore when the time comes.”
Seungcheol nodded. “If it's already dingy, I wouldn't worry.”
“Got any interesting plans this week?”
“Not really. A breakfast coming up. Seeing some friends.”
“Oh, fun. Where at?” Millie asked, her smile faint and reminiscent.
Seungcheol chuckled. “Ada and Jo's.”
“Is it cheap?”
“I suppose so. If you order a single egg on toast.”
Millie’s chestnut eyes were then diverted by the counsellor’s loud clap echoing around the spacious gym as he settled down into his seat. The circle was mostly full. Seungcheol spotted three empty chairs that the counsellor liked to keep for late newcomers making reserved, tentative entrances, but he noticed nobody new (apart from Millie) or nobody disappeared. The session was ignited with an open-ended question—would anybody like to share how their week has been?—and the air fell silent between the torrents of wind rocking the building like a baby crib.
“How quiet you’ve all gotten since last week,” the counsellor chuckled, rubbing his palms along his brown corduroy slacks. “Should I start, then? I had a nice weekend with the grandkids. Took them out to the movies. Do people still eat liquorice during movies? I guess my age was showing. Liquorice seems like an ‘old person’ thing nowadays.”
“I really like liquorice,” Millie said, slightly raising her hand.
The counsellor’s gaze ticked the room to her, his expression relaxed and inviting, his smile perfectly warm. “Red or black?”
“All-sorts.”
He snorted, and his smile extended to further round out his spotty, sinking cheeks. “All-sorts? Now that’s old!”
A soft undulating of chuckles broke the room’s stillness. More people began interjecting with their opinions, funny anecdotes, bouncing off the conversation in ever-confident swells. Millie partly turned to Seungcheol, and he saw a lopsided, prideful grin pushing at her lip. He nudged her elbow in acknowledgment, returning a faint smize of his own.
When Seungcheol came to his door, his fist precisely tapped the wood in a pattern recognizable to you. He decided to add the measure before he left, figuring it would make you more at ease to know it was him unlocking the door and not some potential, figurative maniac. Then he was coming inside to bold darkness exempt for the television, its white lambency touching you in fleeting, watery strokes on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket and eating what he assumed to be cereal.
“Finally found something you like?” Seungcheol noted while hanging his trench coat on the rack. He stepped closer to the TV and folded his arms, delightfully scoffing at your choice. “Spongebob, huh?”
You nodded.
He proceeded to glance at the blue bowl filled with white-frosted Mini Wheats in your lap. You scooped one out with a spoon and he heard it crunch very dryly in your mouth. “Maybe that’s just how you eat cereal, but you can put milk in that, you know,” Seungcheol commented gently, deciding to fit himself next to you on the couch, leaned forward on his knees. “I guess I underestimate how much you’ve forgotten.”
In response, you merely shrugged.
“I’ll be up early to run. At four.”
You reached forward, resting the bowl on the coffee table. The runged notebook was pulled from the shadows beside you, and he watched you rest it against your knee, bent over while you scribbled.
YOU RUN AT FOUR IN THE MORNING?!
Seungcheol flattened his lips together, nodding.
Then you wrote again.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?
Seungcheol chuckled sleepily, and his fingers rubbed circles to the bridge of his nose, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment. “A lot of shit, honestly. I’ll try not to wake you.” He stood up. “Goodnight.”
You nodded back, setting the notebook aside and pulling the blanket up comfortably to your chin, the TV glowing against your face.
He wondered how long it would take for you to speak.
How long it would take for you to get bored.
And for how long should he keep you a secret?
“I love when they give you these hard little squares of unspreadable butter like we have some sort of use for them. Are they even real? Or just table ornaments?” Jeonghan took a wrapped square and knocked it against the table’s hard edge. “Okay, it squished a bit.”
Joshua gathered his hands around his steaming cup of espresso, blowing quaintly before taking an experimental sip. “It’s probably for hot food. Pancakes and that.” He suddenly placed his cup down, wrangling out an unwrapped butter square from Jeonghan’s hand before he could shove the whole thing in his mouth. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I want to make sure they’re real!” Jeonghan exclaimed.
Joshua hid the square back in its messy, unfolded wrapper. “They are real you idiot. Why would they benefit from giving customers fake food to choke on?” He sipped from his hot espresso again. “I swear, the way you act makes me think you’re alien. Little weirdo.”
“You love it,” Jeonghan snickered, pecking Joshua’s cheek.
Seungcheol fingered a crease in the white tablecloth, his eyes adrift. “When’s Pheobe getting here? She’s typically pretty punctual.”
“Oh—oh crap—I forgot to tell you, Seungcheol,” Joshua sputtered, pushing away the black fringe over his forehead only for it flop right into its usual curtain. “She’s on her way, alright? But she’s bringing someone. This guy she’s been seeing. He’s having breakfast with us.”
“Wow—uh—okay,” Seungcheol answered in shock, slumping into the chair. “Yeah, I had no idea she was even seeing someone.”
Joshua nodded. “It’s in its infancy. We only figured out last night. But you know how she is. One good conversation with a stranger across the bar and she swears they're star-crossed the next day.”
“So you don't know him then?”
“Nope, not at all. She never goes for my recommendations.”
Suddenly, a silver fork was flying down, hitting the table with a loud, bone-solid thud that made Joshua jump and gasp. “Judgement day!” Jeonghan cackled aloud, proceeding to devilishly rub his hands together while the fork stuck straight out of the table, still quivering to its end. “He will not survive this unscathed. He will suffer!”
And Joshua practically roared at his boyfriend. “Okay, seriously! What the hell is wrong with you? You have way too much energy and it’s totally overwhelming me.” He got up from the table, and then made an impatient swooping gesture with his hand. “C’mon. We’re taking a quick walk outside.” Joshua pointed his dreary stare at Seungcheol. “We won’t be long. He’s like a fucking dog. Needs his morning play.”
Seungcheol shrugged, grinning. “Well, go play.”
They abandoned the table together, with Joshua wrapping his arm through Jeonghan’s elbow and steadfastly tugging him, not allowing his partner a moment to straighten out his feet. Sighing, Seungcheol glanced at the polished fork stabbed into the table through the sleek, white cloth. He pulled it out, staring at himself in the distorted, silvery reflection until he heard a bell’s pealing and a distant, familiar squeal.
“Seungcheol!”
Phoebe rushed toward his side of the table. He stood up, let the small but feisty girl barrel into his arms, her disarrayed coils of black, fruity-scented hair tickling his face until he nearly sneezed.
She stepped back. “Gosh! It’s great to see you!”
“You too, Pheobs,” Seungcheol said, pulling a brown, crinkled leaf out from her hair. “Josh and Jeonghan will be right back.”
“Oh—where’d they go?”
“A little walk.”
She glanced around the table. “Josh’s espresso, I see.”
“I heard you brought someone.”
“Oh, yes!” A new thrill of energy sparked through her body. She stuck her hand high in the air and waved across the restaurant at a tall, well-groomed man conversing politely with a waitress. He noticed Phoebe’s elated beckoning and stalked his way over, his smile somewhat stern, fixed, but present enough to indicate his friendliness.
“This is Rory!” she introduced, seeming proud, confident.
Seungcheol shook the man’s hand from across the table, catching his brown eyes, browner than soil, appreciating the clean grooves of his dense, black stubble that sloped down below his sturdy cheekbones.
“Nice to meet you,” Seungcheol said.
“Remind me of your name?” Rory answered.
“Seungcheol.”
“And the other two are?...”
“Joshua,” Seungcheol sighed, “and Jeonghan. To join shortly.”
Phoebe and Rory sat at the end of the table, leaving their coats over the chairs and browsing a single-page menu together while Seungcheol gazed out the window into the autumn drizzle. He had always known Phoebe to maintain a relatively scattered dating history—no two men she introduced were ever the same—and Seungcheol was curious to disinter more about the hoarse-voiced man brushing back Phoebe’s humidified curls to better inspect the menu. Joshua and Jeonghan always characteristically handled the questioning process.
Thankfully, they returned to the restaurant about a minute later, their faces somewhat dewy from the mist and their dark hair holding sparkling droplets. The table erupted into more introductory clauses and laughter, with Joshua refusing to disclose that his boyfriend had just tried to eat a square of plain butter and promptly stabbed a fork into the table. He tended to scare people off that way. And Joshua knew.
“So, Rory, what do you do?” Joshua asked.
Rory sipped from his black coffee. “Right now, I tutor. Usually high school students. A few university kids here and there. If luck goes my way, I’ll be starting as an associate professor next year. In Halifax.”
“What subject?” Jeonghan asked. “You give me… finance vibes.”
“Well, close, I suppose?” Rory smiled. “Math. I do dabble in other subjects closely related. Math is kinda everywhere, right?”
Jeonghan rolled his head unenthusiastically. “Unfortunately.”
“Sorry, did I miss it? What do you do, Seungcheol?” Rory asked, his posture and expression much more relaxed, forthcoming.
Seungcheol’s throat felt uncomfortably dry. “I used to be a PI.”
“PI?” Rory scrunched his perfectly triangular nose. “That is…”
“Private Invest-i-gateur,” Jeonghan pronounced smarmily, with a poorly mimicked French accent that made Joshua’s jaw tighten.
Rory seemed impressed, his eyebrows poised upward and his lips pursed in interest. “What a job. Full of mystery, it sounds.” He placed his hot coffee cup before his lips, the steam warming his pale skin, about to take another tentative sip before moving it away. “And what does your wife think of that?” Rory chuckled, his gaze cordial, good-spirited. However, the atmosphere stiffened like frozen snow.
Phoebe suddenly bit onto a hangnail and Jeonghan slumped a palm into his cheek and Joshua stared intensely at Seungcheol.
He exhaled softly and unclenched his hand hidden underneath the table, afraid that Rory might feel insecure at the interaction turned soaking-bitter. “I lost my wife, five years ago. The job, it was hard, for sure. It took time away from home. It got pretty twisted. But we always had good communication about it. Made it way easier.”
And then everyone seemed to take a gradual, deep breath.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I saw the ring on your hand and I assumed.”
Seungcheol shook his head earnestly. “Don’t apologize. You aren’t the first person to assume and you won’t be the last. Totally fine.”
Rory eased back into his seat. He didn’t say anything, opting to nurse another sip from his black coffee, but his eyes were understanding.
He found you taking a nap on the sofa when he returned home, your bare legs tangled up in the blanket, one arm dangling limply off the edge, your lips smooshed open, and a small burring of noise sounding from your throat. Seungcheol traipsed around the apartment with delicacy, carefully removing the plastic bag from the sandwich he bought you at the deli on his way back. In the meantime, he left the sandwich in the fridge and decided to grab his laptop, settling down at the kitchen island.
Your subtle snores reminded him of a purring cat.
Seungcheol knew that he couldn’t just confine you to his house until your memory patched itself back together. He wondered if the lack of stimulation was working against you. By tucking you away from the busy world, your memories were bound to stagnate, drift about listlessly, waiting to be activated like some sort of powder keg. Nonetheless, he had his concerns about taking you outside—how you might react to the sudden influx of cues—and what he should do if confronted by someone he knew. You couldn’t fucking talk. Couldn’t explain yourself. Seungcheol could hardly explain you.
All you had was a lined notebook and a pen.
He dug into the internet, picking apart missing persons reports in the area, following link after link leading to forum after forum, and expanding ever so gradually when he found nothing. The task seemed fruitless. Seungcheol felt his eyes begin to sting and burn from the uninterrupted screen time. Black lines of blended text and white pages were fuzzy tattoos against his closed eyelids.
He couldn’t take it anymore.
Seungcheol closed his laptop and sighed, rubbing the divots between his nose until the ache in his skull dully mellowed. But then he was jolting, a curse zapped off his tongue as a notebook was tossed onto the island counter. He glanced up to see you standing there, smiling.
HOW WAS BREAKFAST?
A defeated laugh vibrated his chest. “Jesus—you’re so soundless, you know? Feel like I need to put a bell on you or something.” He read the notebook’s message again, letting his finger tap the corner of the paper. “Uh, it was fine. Good food. Good conversation. A sandwich is in the fridge for you, by the way. It’s wrapped in the white parchment.”
Your eyes enlarged with interest and your socked feet moved so quietly, so swiftly, around the island to the fridge. A moment later you were popping onto the stool across from him, proceeding to unwrap the parchment and reveal the loaded sandwich. In haste, you began to devour it, your bites large and almost aggressive, tearing hunk after hunk until there was just crumbs and mayonnaise spotting your fingers.
God—this place wasn’t helping your memory at all, was it?
He wanted to ask you about his idea, but you had already slipped off the stool and wandered back to the fridge. It seemed you were getting familiar with the placement of dishes—you opened a cupboard and grabbed a glass, then sloshed it full of cold water from the carafe. You wriggled back onto the stool and started drinking, each gulp loud, thirsty, wet beads sliding down your chin until the glass was polished empty.
Seungcheol laughed. “I wonder if you’ve always ate like that?”
Expectedly, you shrugged in response.
He cleared his throat, ran a hand through his hair. “So… I’ve got this idea. I’m not sure if it’s doing you any good to be cooped up in this place. It doesn’t seem to be helping your memory. Do you agree?”
You looked down at the counter, then back at him.
A nod.
“Okay. I’m thinking I take you outside. Somewhere fairly calm, not too fast-paced. Maybe Massey Park. We could sit on the stoop even, if you’re not comfortable going that far.” He raised his brow at you.
With a single finger, you dragged the notebook toward you, pushing out the pen from its metal rungs. You leaned over the paper and the pen began to move; your pace now unencumbered with slurry.
He snorted and scratched his chin. “Not unless you want to?”
And then you made a gesture, pointing a finger into your open mouth and gagging. Seungcheol chuckled, waved his hand dismissively, as you swung the pen in your fingers, looking cheeky, smart.
“Am I insane to you?” Seungcheol asked.
You flipped to a fresh page.
AM I INSANE TO YOU?
Promptly, he sunk back and tilted his head, studying the faint pricks of a smile alighting your lips. “No,” he came to answer after a self-musing silence. “Not insane… just strange. Is that what you think of me?”
Another scribble.
NO. YOU ARE INSANE!
He rolled his eyes, leaned over to jokingly pluck the notebook out from your hands while you made a crinkled, ebullient expression, as though you were laughing, and Seungcheol swore he could hear a distant rasp working from somewhere far down your throat.
“Alright. Think you need a little break from this,” he said, waving the notebook around. “We’ll go to the park tomorrow. Sound good?”
You nodded, your eyes two glints of twinkling sunlight.
Before the park visit, Seungcheol realized you needed… things.
You had been wearing his t-shirt and boxers. It only made sense that you should have your own clothes. So he went shopping early in the morning, trying his best to infer what you might like as he swept through racks of shirts and pants. Eventually, he realized he was overthinking it—he doubted you cared about style—and started grabbing mostly plain items for you to wear, shucking in underwear and socks. Before he went through cash, he added shoes and a toothbrush, since you had been testing his mouthwash and absolutely hated it.
Once he returned to the apartment, Seungcheol dumped everything into a pile on the coffee table, showing you each article one by one before folding it up neatly. You were smiling the entire time, appearing charmed, presumably enjoying his fumbled presentation about cotton versus polyester, denim versus cargo, and ended up pulling out some baggy black jeans and a navy-blue t-shirt, the same colour as your notebook which never seemed to leave your side.
“I’ll wait for you to change,” he said, standing up.
You nodded, and began to pull his t-shirt over your head.
Seungcheol quickly grabbed your wrist. “Uh, in the washroom.”
In response, your forehead creased, and you looked confused.
“You should change in the washroom,” he explained, pointing down the corridor. His cheeks were somewhat prickling with pinkness.
You shrugged, not seeming to fully understand his reason, but took your clothes with you to change in private. He remembered the moment he walked in on you before showering, how unabashedly you had removed all your singed clothes, unafraid to be naked before him.
Seungcheol sighed, rubbing his scalp, and retrieved his car keys.
Strange, indeed.
He thought you might be weary of the outside, to feel the whistling breeze of autumn and experience the tang of warm sunshine hugging your skin. But if anything, you were embracing it. Seungcheol let you walk ahead of him to the parking lot behind the building. He examined every bouncy step you took, the confident line to your poised shoulders, the way your head actively swiveled toward distant sounds.
Maybe this would be alright.
He would do anything to get your memory flowing.
“I guess you wouldn’t remember being in a car?” Seungcheol asked as you came to the vehicle and stared at it blankly, as though it were some useless conjunction of metal taking up space. He opened the passenger door you for, gesturing to the seat. “All yours.”
Seungcheol still worried about overstimulating your senses. He played music, but quietly, just enough to hear the whispered words. You seemed to enjoy the coolness of the alive breeze, so he opened your window, let your fingers play curiously with the wind as it blew between them. When people began to pass by the car, you wouldn’t let them part from your sight—turning around uncomfortably in the seat to watch them vanish—before finding a new stranger to blatantly ogle.
You were staring particularly hard at a man parked beside you at a stop light, and Seungcheol had to tug on your shirt sleeve. “Uh, best not to do that kinda thing,” he murmured uncertaintly. “People are touchy.”
And so you shrugged, uncaring, your interest always shifting.
Seungcheol soon introduced you to the park. It was especially beautiful at this time of year. The leaves lost their lush pigment and revealed the gemstone goldens and reds of dazzling carotenoids underneath. You smelled the air, its moisture and earthy wind, and let your gaze be swept up toward the seraphic sky, where blankets of white light cracked between the sewn clouds. Seungcheol set his hand along your shoulder blades, guided you onto the pathway he always ran.
“What do you think?”
Immediately, you reached into the satchel placed over your shoulder. It was just big enough to keep your notebook. A well-loved trinket of his wife, the auburn leather looking weathered, faded. He tried not to stare and let the stinging memories push forward like tumbling dominos. You began writing with the book against your forearm.
BEAUTIFUL. AIR SMELLS SO GOOD.
He nodded in agreement. “It wakes you up.”
You put the notebook away. Glanced at Seungcheol funnily for a moment. Then, you started to jog, making your way down the path, your hair jostling with every step. Actually, your form was pretty good.
Seungcheol began rubbing along his neck when you turned around, ending your little comedic dig at his morning habit with a daring but frivolous grin, and he noted that your expression had never looked this bright—like life was fully pumping through you—to the point he wouldn’t be able to identify you as the same woman collapsed on his complex stoop, slumped over and speckled with black ashes.
He caught up to you, shaking his head. “Thought that was funny, huh?” Seungcheol spurred. “Your form’s decent, you know.”
Your lips twisted, and you shook your head in rejection.
“Hey, not trying to convert you to join my sad little one-man running club,” Seungcheol answered. “Just pointing something out.”
The walk continued. He didn’t speak much, opting to let you absorb everything without distraction. When you travelled underneath the draping canopy of a sunlit ruby tree, a leaf swept down in gentle, airy sways, coming to brush against the side of your head. Seungcheol pulled it off your shoulder to show you, and you took the red leaf gingerly into your hand, tracing an infinitesimal vein with such unbeknownst tenderness. Then you passed the duck pond, the water not as clear, the surrounding weeds beginning to go limp and brown. Seungcheol grabbed onto a protruding cattail, showed you how it turned to baby-soft fluff in his hands with some squeezing pressure. You were delighted to try, making him hold the red leaf while you pressed both hands around another cattail, your countenance beaming with wonder as its furry, dark exterior melted into an aurora of white, travelling wisps.
Seungcheol thought he could spend the entire day showing you every nook and cranny of the park he kept to himself, to feel your excitement become his own. He didn’t want to admit he was lonely.
Not yet.
You took a break at one of the benches placed around the perimeter of the children’s play structure. It wasn’t very busy, exempt for two young boys chasing each other through the structure’s yellow tunnel while a mother watched from a distance, her arms folded and dark sunglasses sitting square on her face. You watched them, too, smiling faintly, twirling the leaf around in your fingers by its stem.
He nudged your elbow. “Enjoying it?”
Your gaze locked with his and you nodded.
“I like the calmness,” Seungcheol explained. “It’s never too busy here. I mean, I’m pretty much the only guy in sight when I go running in the morning. But I like it. Having the park to myself.” He rested an arm along the bench and scratched his eyebrow. “I don’t mind sharing, though,” Seungcheol made sure to add, adorning a warm smile.
You pointed across the park.
He followed your finger. “The swings?”
You were already getting up and walking toward the structure, leaving the bench behind. Seungcheol followed you, watched you grab a swing by its chain links and shake it slightly before sitting down. You handed him the leaf again. The tips of your new shoes dusted the powdery sand underneath, stirring a shallow pot. You seemed to understand that the more you leaned and the more momentum you put into each swing, the higher you would go. He swore he heard something of a strangled chuckle rumble in your chest when the swing reached its highest point yet, your shoes kicking into the sunlight.
Then you let yourself slow down.
Seungcheol grabbed the chain to help steady you.
“You’re having more fun than those kids,” he said, smiling.
Quickly, you started digging in the satchel. The notebook came out again and you penned something down. He examined from over your shoulder, letting the leaf twiddle between his fingers.
PUSH ME! AHHH!
And Seungcheol stumbled backward, wiping a hand down his face as his chest swelled instantly with laughter. “Are you serious?”
You nodded, energetic and engaging.
He shook his head in disbelief.
You tapped the notebook, jabbing the words pointedly with your finger, your lips fully curled into an eager grin, your eyes possessing him.
“What about the leaf? Huh? Your precious fucking leaf?”
You leaned backward, gesturing for it. Seungcheol saw you place the leaf as flatly as possible inside the notebook pages, and then close it shut to keep it in place. The notebook was buried back into the satchel.
Seungcheol’s shoulders sagged in defeat. He stood behind you, tonguing his cheek begrudgingly, while you wriggled in anticipation.
“Nothing stops you, huh?” Seungcheol hummed.
And so he began to push you, both his hands shoving the centre of your back as you leaned and swayed, leaned and swayed. Sometimes he let the swing come hurtling down on its own, afraid to get whacked and crumpled by your force, and other times he quickly stepped in the way to give you another sailing shove that made you happily writhe.
“Jump!” Seungcheol called.
He saw you glance doubtfully from over your shoulder.
Seungcheol caught your back again and pushed. “Jump!”
Though he was only teasing, regret was suddenly thick in his throat when you soared out from the swing. Fuck—he probably shouldn’t tease you anymore—he thought poignantly, clenching his teeth as you landed awkwardly onto the sand with a heavy thud and collapsed. In an instant, Seungcheol was kneeling next to you, concern throbbing at the worried forefront of his brow, attempting to roll you over. But you did the rolling yourself, and he noticed the pleased crescent shape of your eyes, the trembling of your chest, and suddenly—like a diver taking their final surface breath—you gasped aloud, reached out to brush his face.
“Fuck,” Seungcheol cursed, feeling the shakiness of your fingertips stroke his jaw before your hand fell back to the sand. “You are fucking insane. I didn’t mean you should actually jump.” He shook his head, laughed nervously, let his bottom lip slip through his teeth. “It’s my fucking fault, though. Are you okay? That was some gasp.”
You nodded, and he helped you sit up. He plucked the back of your shirt to remove the sand while you pulled the satchel onto your lap.
“I think we should head home, now,” Seungcheol said.
No, you shook your head.
He frowned, and decided to sit too, his legs criss-crossed. “Okay, okay. Let’s just sit here for a few minutes. Then we’ll go.”
Your expression was sour in disagreement. You proceeded to finger the pearl clasp of the satchel, running around its lustered surface.
Seungcheol prayed you remembered anything.
Anything at all.
“Ready to go?” he queried after giving you both some time to sit and relax, dig fingers into the cool sand, listen to the billowing wind.
While you didn’t seem entirely happy, you nodded.
Seungcheol got to his feet. He then stuck out a hand for you to take, and your grasped it awfully firm, hoisting yourself up, squeezing every one of his thick fingers. “Alright,” he sighed. “Lot’s this way.”
You tugged on the sleeve of his black corduroy jacket, and he waited for you to unveil the notebook again. He was hardly paying attention, instead squinting against the sky’s shiny, sharp rays.
Then you flashed the notebook in his face.
RACE TO THE CAR?
He couldn’t help his scoff. “Uh, what?”
You shook the notebook and squeaked.
“Are you sure? That’s a fairly long race,” he said, pushing his fingertip against the notebook to lower it, revealing your willful expression, its playfulness and untempered twitches of challenge. “You’ll tire out easy,” Seungcheol continued, trying to somehow coax you out of the tormenting idea emboldened on the paper. He ruffled his hair. “And you just fell off a goddamn swing. Let’s not push too much, okay?”
There was a deft smirk on your mouth as you scribbled.
SCARED?
“Uh—no? I’m trying to keep track of you.”
Another scribble.
BECAUSE I’LL LEAVE YOU IN THE DUST.
When Seungcheol was younger, he bore an unforgiving competitiveness. No matter how innocuous the situation, he refused to lose, and on the rare occasion he did, it only stoked the strength of the flames burning hot in his stomach. His wife used to tease him about it, especially when it came to their boardgame and card nights—how passionately Seungcheol would throw himself into any instruction, making her giggle, prod, splatter out her red wine in unbridled laughter.
Something about the memory soaked him in dull, aching greyness, although he didn’t want you to catch wind of his melancholy.
“How about this?” Seungcheol said, clearing his burdened, pinched throat. “Let’s do a shorter race. You remember the duck pond?”
You nodded.
“If you get there before me… I’ll…” he tapped his chin pensively, trying to pinpoint some sort of reward. “I’ll take you… uh…”
He felt another soft pluck at his shoulder.
WE CAN GO TO THE SQUARE TOMORROW?
Seungcheol tightened his jaw. Fuck. He had wanted to promise something more reserved, less public, something he would be okay with losing to. But you were so persistent, tapping the flapping paper enthusiastically, your gaze unwavering in its influential persuasion.
“How do you know about the Square?”
You readjusted the pen in your hand.
SAW IT ON A POSTER THING.
He capitulated.
“Fine. If you beat me to the pond, we’ll go to the Square.”
The market made Seungcheol especially nervous.
It was always a demanding attraction whenever it came by the downtown square, giving locals the opportunity to present handmade crafts, vintage clothes, and homegrown produce. Joshua and Jeonghan had never missed a market sale—Joshua liked sorting amongst the knitted cardigans and sweatshirts while Jeonghan typically wondered through the smoky-smelling food stalls, often returning with falafel or golden churros or some fancily bottled jam—and that had Seungcheol chewing his bottom lip into a swollen bruise.
Phoebe liked to go, too. She preferred the jewelry.
He won the stupid race because he didn’t want the market to happen. At first, he wasn’t really trying, but when he noticed that you were keeping speed a little too close to his side, Seungcheol had to throw himself wholeheartedly into running, until he felt like a high school student again, practicing for county sprints. You acknowledged that he beat you with a breathy, loosened grin, hands stunted on your hips as you plopped down atop a large rock close to the duck pond. Somehow, he couldn’t find it in himself to reprieve you of the market. Not when you had been so close to passing him. Not when he was trying to get you comfortable with the outside world and its spread of experiences.
“Stay close to me, okay?” Seungcheol instructed as you followed the buzz of people toward the large, open town square.
You had the satchel, your notebook, and nodded in response.
His eyes were lurching everywhere, scanning, floating, at the man who blathered loudly on his cellphone, at the woman getting pulled along helplessly by a massive, shaggy golden retriever, the group of skinny tweens giggling and pushing into each other, the cyclist who split straight down the crowded cobblestone like a dividing arrow. He felt an abandoned part of himself naturally bubble to the surface—the vigilance, the threat-assessment—Seungcheol found it to be a switch he struggled to control, especially with you at his side, peeking curiously over heads.
The stalls were split into three rows.
Seungcheol glanced around again, sighed. “Where do we start?”
You shrugged. It didn’t seem to matter. Seungcheol followed you down the first row, beginning with a small tent that housed boxes and boxes of records. And then past a woman placing a body-length mirror against a pole, racks of fluttery clothes surrounding her. There was another tent, and its table was aligned with verdantly coloured fruits and vegetables, bejewelled-looking corn cobs and plump, purple tomatoes. Seungcheol kept following you, glaring between every person who stood in your way or moved a little too close to you, until he realized what he was doing, how over-protective and unnecessary he must seem.
He rubbed his forehead, pulling away the stress.
Suddenly, you stopped, and Seungcheol bumped into you from behind. “Sorry,” he mumbled, gently grabbing your arms and guiding you aside as to not block the stream of people wandering around.
You pointed at a table. A woman was seated behind it, the rounded top to her straw sunhat surfacing vaguely amongst bouquets and pots of flowers she had arranged very neatly. It seemed you wanted to take a closer look, and you glanced at Seungcheol in an earnest, entreating way. You could explore whatever you wanted—it wasn’t that he cared about—more so avoiding a run-in with any familiar faces. He looked, too, approaching the tent beside you. All the flowers were labelled using a paper tag wound to a stem by brown wool. There were thick white roses and flashy pink peonies, bulbous hydrangeas the colour of powder-blue pastels. The smells were wafting, fresh and sweet.
Then your hand was on his wrist, pulling him down the table to a small clay pot sitting near the edge. The flowers grew in organized, straight lines, surrounding one single stalk in a cylindrical growth. Their petals were white, folded over a speckled pink centre.
Seungcheol pulled at the paper tag. “Snapdragons.”
You nodded at him vigorously.
“Do you want them?” he asked.
You nodded again, bouncing on your heels.
“Uh, okay, I can do that,” Seungcheol mumbled, pulling out the wallet from his back pocket. He waved cordially at the lady to get her attention. She placed her phone onto the table and stood up, her cheeks shiny and blush-covered. “The snapdragons—are they available?”
A minute later, you were carrying the pot around pridefully, holding the flowers in the crook of your armpit. Upon reaching the end of the row, Seungcheol pointed out an empty bench for you to sit at.
You placed the snapdragons beside you, admiring them.
“I really like those,” Seungcheol said.
Me too, you seemed to nod.
For a few moments, you people-watched. Seungcheol felt himself unwind and relax. The market was so dense and bustling, full of distractions, that he doubted he would run into anyone. You seemed to enjoy watching the crowds, how they shifted, how the people reacted, studying their mannerisms with slim but soft eyes like it was some sort of ethereal painting brought to life. But then his ears picked up on something—a laugh—a very specific, loud, high-pitched laugh that was more reminiscent of a witch’s cackle than anything. Phoebe. He could recognize her damn laugh anywhere. “I was bullied about it, y’know?!”
He found Phoebe at the end of the third row. She appeared to be sniffing a candle, bringing it close to her nose and subtly inhaling. Her newest fling—Rory—was at her side, fiddling around with a glistening, flat tin. They were going to start coming his way. He knew it, felt it deep in his gut. Seungcheol glanced around quickly, spotting a long line for fresh frozen yogurt outside a small, kitschy shop. They set up every year, always with a new and limited flavour. It had been three years and somehow Joshua still reminisced over their butterscotch walnut.
Seungcheol took the wallet out from his pocket and handed it to you, who glanced over the black, pleating leather curiously.
“Okay, see that shop over there? Moomoo's?” Seungcheol said, pointing in its direction. “They sell frozen yogurt. It’s delicious. You wanna try buying some? There’s a really good pineapple-coconut flavour. Oh—strawberry swirl is great, too. I should have enough bills in here to cover it. If you give too much, you'll get change.”
Your eyes rounded, and your bottom lip pursed. There was uncertainty and tentativeness in your expression as you peeked inside the wallet and thumbed at some wrinkled bills. Seungcheol felt poorly about pushing you, but you wouldn’t be far—he wouldn’t be far—and so you stood up, adjusted the auburn satchel, and wandered into line.
He looked over to Phoebe and Rory. They had bought something, it appeared, as Phoebe was holding the silver tin Rory had been examining earlier, walking slowly, speaking to each other in smiles without paying much attention to the world around them. Predictably, the girl glanced his way, and he heard Phoebe’s surprised yelp. She scampered toward Seungcheol while Rory strolled behind rather lackadaisically, squinting at the bench, hands in his pockets.
Seungcheol stood up to hug her. “Hey there, Phoebs.”
“Wow! Wasn’t expecting to see you here! Oh—did you come along with Jeonghan and Josh? I haven’t seen them yet.”
“No. Just wanted to check things out by myself.” Seungcheol sparingly peeked at the line for frozen yogurt, saw you continuing to stand in place, arms folded boredly, while a woman with a tiny white dog slung over her shoulder bobbed in front of you. “What did you buy?”
Phoebe held up the tin. “It’s hand cream! Smells like lavender!”
Rory had finally made his way over. He shook Seungcheol’s hand, reminiscent of their first meeting at Ada and Jo's.
“Let’s see,” Seungcheol said, and Phoebe swirled open the lid to reveal a butter-like balm. “It does smell good. Whose got the dry hands?”
She immediately stabbed Rory’s arm.
“I wouldn’t say dry,” Rory mumbled, staring down at his hand in uncertain defense. Between his thumb and forefinger, there were some reddish cracks, spreading apart like webs, with a bulbous, pink callous on the side of his thumb. “But… uh… lacking moisture?”
“That means dryyy,” Phoebe lilted in a teasing cadence.
He shrugged, hiding his hands back in his pockets.
“Oh, Seungcheol—are those yours?” Phoebe chattered, moving toward the clay pot of snapdragons left behind on the bench.
Tensing, Seungcheol scrunched his nose and reluctantly agreed.
She leaned down to sniff them. “They’re gorgeous! I always thought you liked orchids. Actually—maybe that was Hunter.”
He nodded. “They were Hunter’s favourite.”
“What are they?” Phoebe wondered.
For some reason, Seungcheol found it difficult to speak. He saw you moving closer toward the shop’s service window, tilting your head back to perhaps study autumn’s plain, infinite greyness.
“Snapdragons,” Rory offered.
And Seungcheol smiled meekly. “Yes. Correct.”
“This is my first time seeing them,” Phoebe laughed. “We’re not very big green thumbs. Remember when I tried to grow pumpkins?”
“Yeah,” Seungcheol answered with a wince. “Sad stuff.” He checked his watch, stared blankly at the time, wanting nothing more than for them to disappear. “Well, I’m probably gonna head out. But enjoy the rest of the market. Did you find any good jewelry, Phoebs?”
“I’m trying not to be too… erm, irresponsible,” she answered in a quiet grumble, brushing a long tangle of black coils off her face, her blue eyes narrowing against the light. “The handmade stuff is pricey.”
“So? That’s why you’ve got this guy,” Seungcheol joked, briefly shaking Rory’s heavy shoulder. “Suppose I'll catch up with you later.”
They parted ways. Seungcheol exhaled so deeply he felt something in his chest stir, tickle. Picking up the snapdragons, he wandered over to the frozen yogurt stand. For a moment, he couldn’t spot you anywhere, and the panic cut through him like a well-wielded scythe. There was a tap on his shoulder. Seungcheol whipped around, saw you standing there, holding two cups of frozen yogurt.
You handed him one.
He could smell the pineapple and coconut.
“Oh—thanks,” he breathed out, trying not to reveal how thunderously his heartbeat had kicked up. “What did you decide on?”
One hand slid into the satchel, pulled out the notebook.
There was already something written on the page.
SMORES.
LADY SAID IT'S CHOCOLATE, MARSHMALLOW, AND HONEY CRACKERS. WHAT IS MARSHMALLOW?
“I don't know,” Seungcheol chuckled. “I've never had to describe it. Aerated sugar. Squishy and gummy. That must be their new flavour or something.” He leaned his head toward a park bench. It was obscured by the yogurt shop, private enough to eat. “Wanna sit?”
You slid into one side and Seungcheol settled down at the other, his fingers brushing over the prickly, faded wood. The satchel hit the table and you wriggled out Seungcheol’s wallet. He noticed a few bills from the loose fold inside were gone. It seemed some aspects of day-to-day life had flitted back to you, and Seungcheol was tempted to keep digging, keep pressing, squeeze all that he could out from your ransacked memory like a citrus fruit against a juicer. But he didn’t. He let you sit and eat, drag the spoon around the bowl, scrape the dessert onto your tongue with inquisitiveness. Seungcheol couldn’t remember the last time he tasted the pineapple-coconut flavour. It was cold and light, the tanginess of the pineapple leaving a zingy sweetness in his mouth.
He glanced up, saw you staring at him with slimmed eyes as you removed the spoon out from your mouth and licked at your smudged lip.
Seungcheol cleared his throat. “Is there something on my face?”
You shook your head, pulled your knee onto the bench, and went back to eating, not bothering to touch the notebook and elaborate.
— rival acadêmico ! hyuck × leitora
— gênero: smut (+ bastante contexto)
— conteúdo/avisos: academic rivals to lovers, rivalidade (obviamente), "hyuck", tensão sexual e romântica, linguagem imprópria, masturbação, penetração.
— word count: 3146 + 9 prints.
— nota da autora: eu tenho quatro fichamentos para entregar e procrastinei escrevendo isso aqui, a verdadeira rival acadêmica sou eu.
Numa realidade alternativa na qual aquilo que corre dentro dos vasos sanguíneos das pessoas não é sangue, você está certa de que suas veias estão cheias de uma ânsia (quase obsessiva) por validação acadêmica. Era uma nerd declarada e de carteirinha, quem te visse era incapaz de negar. É algo que vem da infância, você tinha certeza que aquele sentimento gostosinho que aparecia sempre que algum professor te elogiava ou seus pais diziam estar orgulhosos de você nunca encontraria um substituto à altura. E, de fato, nada nunca te fez sentir mais viva do que ser apreciada por suas habilidades acadêmicas, do que ter certeza que você era boa (e em alguns casos, a melhor).
Você provava o ponto das pessoas que diziam que "a arrogância é um dos traços que aparece junto com a inteligência", você tinha noção de que era meio orgulhosa e extremamente competitiva, mas tentava esconder essas características dentro dos seus pensamentos. Quando se tratava do mundo acadêmico, a presunção era seu defeito e você tentava mantê-la a nível mínimo, caso contrário acabaria afastando as pessoas. E a atuação funcionou por um bom tempo, seus colegas da faculdade até se sentiam meio intimidados com você, mas te consideravam uma boa pessoa.
Durante cinco períodos, foi muito divertido brincar de ser o sinônimo perfeito para "inteligência", porém, no sexto período, a brincadeira ganhou um novo jogador. Lee Donghyuck não teve trabalho algum em conquistar o coração da turma e dos professores assim que chegou. Segundo o que você ouviu das suas colegas de classe mais próximas, ele havia trancado o curso uns dois anos atrás, mas decidiu voltar para terminar, por isso entrou direto no sexto período.
A simpatia de Donghyuck também conseguiu te seduzir por alguns dias, era um homem interessante e tinha um papo muito bom. Todos da classe se lembram perfeitamente do dia no qual a magia se rompeu. A professora de uma das disciplinas obrigatórias resolveu conduzir um debate para fixar o melhor o conteúdo e, curiosamente, você e Hyuck acabaram em grupos diferentes. Você costumava ser afiada em debates, tinha o conteúdo inteiro na ponta da língua, estava certa de que sairia por cima. Seu grupo só não contava com o fato de Lee Donghyuck ser tão perspicaz quanto você.
Vocês dois garantiram muito entretenimento para a turma nesse dia, foi lindo de se ver. Hyuck rebatia todos os seus argumentos num piscar de olhos, sequer parecia pensar para te responder. A professora estava orgulhosa de todo o conhecimento que vocês demonstraram — e também estava altamente interessada no desenrolar da discussão. Chegou num ponto que os outros grupos simplesmente deixaram de existir, o debate era somente entre você e Hyuck. Todos da sala acompanhavam o "ir e voltar" da discussão, os rostos iam de um lado para o outro como se eles acompanhassem uma partida de pingue-pongue. Estava indo longe demais, a professora precisou intervir ou vocês debateriam até o final da aula.
A partir desse dia sua vida se tornou um inferno. Donghyuck — que, na sua opinião, só ganhava toda aquela atenção por ser recém-chegado — parecia estar no seu nível e isso estava te deixando maluca.
𐙚 ————————— . ♡
"Olá, o senhor me chamou?", sua cabeça apareceu atrás da porta.
"Chamei sim! Pode entrar, ______.", o homem te deu um sorriso acolhedor. Era um dos professores mais velhos da "casa", o cabelo grisalho e a feição que parecia sustentar algo por volta dos 60 anos de idade entregavam esse fato. Tantos anos dedicados à docência e à pesquisa faziam com que ele fosse um dos professores mais estimados da instituição, bem como admirado por todos os trabalhos acadêmicos que publicou ao longo de sua vida. Você não estava isenta, também era grande fã do homem, ele havia sido um dos seus professores favoritos entre todos os períodos que você cursou. E quando você recebeu um e-mail dele solicitando uma conversa formal, seu coração se agitou.
"E então, do que se trata a conversa?", já sentada, você encarava-o com expectativa.
"Serei bem breve, pois imagino que você tenha aula daqui a pouco. Indo direto ao ponto: estou iniciando um projeto de pesquisa na área em que me especializei, trata-se de uma temática meio inédita nesse campo de estudo, então reforço que essa conversa precisa ser um tanto sigilosa. Tudo bem?", você confirmou com a cabeça. "Estou te falando sobre isso, porque gostaria de solicitar sua participação nesse projeto. Pois, além de eu já estar meio velho para dar conta de algo tão grandioso sozinho, eu gostaria de dar essa oportunidade para os discentes da instituição. Além disso, acredito que você seja uma ótima escolha, todo o destaque que você obteve na minha disciplina me cativou, sendo assim ficaria muito feliz em trabalhar com você. O que me diz? Aceita?", o homem susteve uma feição agradável durante toda a sua fala — parecia até meio paternal. Seu coração estava dando saltos dentro do peito, só de pensar em participar de algo tão importante assim você achava que ia surtar ali mesmo.
"Claro! Fico extremamente lisonjeada. Muito obrigada pelo convite!", tentou mascarar um pouco toda a sua excitação — por medo de parecer maluca.
"Perfeito! Ainda hoje te envio outro e-mail com todas as orientações sobre o projeto. Antes de eu te liberar, só tenho mais uma observação.", ele pegou uma folha que estava ao seu lado para checar alguma coisa. "Ah! Aqui está. Existe só mais um outro discente que irá trabalhar com você. Pois, como eu havia dito, quero manter esse projeto em sigilo por enquanto e é mais fácil fazer isso com poucas pessoas envolvidas.", você não negaria que esse fato feriu um pouquinho o seu ego. Sempre fora egoísta com essas coisas, se pudesse faria tudo sozinha.
"Tudo bem. Quem é o discente? Eu o conheço?", fingir normalidade era sempre a melhor escolha.
"Lee... Lee Donghyuck? Acho que é assim. Você conhece?", te olhou curioso. Você gostaria de retificar: o seu ego não estava ferido, ele estava destroçado, para falar a verdade.
"Conheço...", a voz até falhou, limpou a garganta. "Conheço sim, somos colegas de turma.", forçou um sorriso conformado.
"Melhor ainda! Vai facilitar muito já que vocês são amigos. Bom, pelo menos imagino eu.", você quis rir, 'amigos' era uma palavra muito engraçada.
"É... Vai sim.", você concordou com a cabeça.
"Preciso que vocês dois mantenham contato constante quando estiverem trabalhando no projeto. Como eu disse é uma área de pesquisa inédita, então não existem muitos artigos ou livros que tratem diretamente sobre o assunto. Sendo assim, vocês vão precisar se ajudar para achar informações. Tudo certo?", você concordou novamente. "Ótimo, vou te passar o número dele, caso você não tenha.", sorriu. Era um ótimo momento para questionar o que diabos você fez na vida passada, pois seja lá quem você era, com certeza fez algo terrível.
𐙚 ————————— . ♡
𐙚 ————————— . ♡
O amanhã infelizmente pareceu chegar mais rápido do que você gostaria. Se arrumou (sob protesto) e foi para o apartamento de Hyuck, mas não sem antes enviar uma mensagem informando que já estava entrando no uber. Ele morava em um edifício alto, que você já deve ter passado pela frente umas duas ou três vezes. Subiu pelo elevador até finalmente chegar no apartamento n° 127, olhando no celular para checar se era isso mesmo. Tocou a campainha e foi recebida por um Hyuck muito simpático — como sempre —, toda aquela animosidade fazia seu estômago revirar.
"Oi! Você demorou. Entra aí.", te deu espaço para passar, parecia apressado. "Tudo bem se a gente conversar na cozinha? Acabei de colocar um brownie no forno e não quero perder ele de vista.", disse já indo em direção ao cômodo, você o seguia sem ao menos ter chance de concordar. Sentou-se, colocando suas coisas em cima do balcão, seus olhos seguiam um Hyuck afobado que andava de um lado para o outro na cozinha. "Pode começar a falar.", ele sinalizou.
"Se você não for se concentrar fica difícil.", revirou os olhos.
"Eu dou conta, gatinha. Confia no pai.", a expressão presunçosa estampada no rosto dele te fez questionar se você era capaz de aguentar Hyuck até o final do projeto.
"Você ao menos viu os artigos que eu te mandei no e-mail?", perguntou já desacreditada.
"Vi e já li os três, só não conhecia o segundo ainda. Mas concordo em incluir ele no material básico.", soava tão despreocupado.
"... Eu te mandei eles não fazem nem duas horas.", eram enormes, não tinha nem como ter lido tudo isso.
"E...? 'Multitasking', gatinha. Nunca ouviu falar?", tão esnobe, parecia até a versão de você mesma escondida lá no fundo do seu cérebro. Você tinha certeza que enlouqueceria antes de conseguir finalizar o projeto.
Vocês conversaram sobre os artigos enquanto Hyuck lavava a louça. A oportunidade de testar o conhecimento dele, para ver se ele realmente havia lido, não foi desperdiçada. E, infelizmente, ele não só leu como sabia falar tranquilamente sobre tudo — seu ego, que já se sentia ameaçadíssimo, ficou ainda pior agora que Hyuck parecia ser algum tipo de robô maluco feito para ler textos.
Por mais que você estivesse enfrentando uma crise existencial, você admitia que foi muito boa a experiência de estudar e discutir ideias com o Lee. Ele tinha ótimas sugestões e sempre complementava bem tudo o que você falava, além de ser um tantinho engraçado — mesmo que te doa confessar. Talvez (SÓ talvez) vocês tenham ficado um pouco mais próximos nas quatro horas que você passou com ele, mas é claro que foi puramente por motivos acadêmicos.
𐙚 ————————— . ♡
𐙚 ————————— . ♡
"Na minha casa hoje, achei um livro e quero que você dê uma olhada.", Hyuck sentou do seu lado, quase te matando de susto.
"Você é alérgico a cumprimentar as pessoas direito? Um 'bom dia' não mata ninguém.", sua mão coçava para dar um peteleco nele.
"Não vejo graça nisso. Que horas que 'cê vai?", inclinou a cabeça pro lado, te fazendo notar o quão próximo ele estava de você.
"Na sua casa não. Na minha dessa vez.", O Lee franziu as sobrancelhas em confusão. "Você não consegue parar quieto e não deixa eu me concentrar. Prefiro que seja na minha casa, Hyuck.", explicou.
"Ah, é?", aproximou o rosto do seu, você sentiu seu corpo vacilar — não podia se afastar, senão cairia do banquinho. "Hyuck?", imitou o seu jeito de pronunciar, não conseguindo segurar o sorrisinho que adornou os lábios.
"Ai, deixa 'pra lá então. Me manda o livro que eu leio sozinha.", você tentou dar uma de dissimulada, mas não conseguia fugir dos olhinhos que escaneavam seu rosto.
"Não precisa ficar assim, gatinha.", soltou um risinho. "Já que você pediu direitinho, o "Hyuck" obedece, tá bom?", te disse baixinho, você sentiu seu rosto inteiro queimar. O rosto não saia de perto do seu, o Lee te olhava como se estivesse prestes a pular em cima de você. "Até porque nós dois sabemos que 'cê não vai entender nada se eu não estiver lá pra te explicar.", alarme falso, ele ainda era a pessoa mais insuportável do planeta. Mas já havia corrido para longe antes que você fosse capaz de falar alguma coisa.
𐙚 ————————— . ♡
Ouviu o Lee suspirar exasperado pela centésima vez, acabando com a sua concentração. Estava com a cara enfiada no livro que Hyuck trouxe desde a hora que ele chegou. O mesmo insistiu em sentar bem pertinho de você no sofá, com o argumento de que talvez você não entendesse as anotações que ele fez nas páginas. Porém, você ainda não tinha pedido ajuda para nada.
"Tem certeza que não tem dúvida nenhuma?", mesmo sentado não parava quieto.
"Tenho.", os olhos ainda grudados no livro.
"Não quer debater sobre o que você já leu?"
"Não."
"Aqueles artigos que eu li antes de vir, eram todos os que você tinha 'pra mandar?"
"Sim.", você jurava que ia ter um treco.
"Não sobrou nenhum?"
"Não."
"E não tem nada 'pra eu fazer?
"Não."
"E o-", não deu mais para segurar.
"Hyuck, cala a boca! Caralho, não aguento mais.", quase gritou com o Lee. Ele aspirou o ar, fazendo um som de surpresa.
"Você fala palavrão?!", parecia incrédulo — e um completo idiota, na sua opinião.
"Vai procurar algo 'pra fazer, Donghyuck.", já havia desistido de ler.
"Repete.", viu você olhar para ele com uma expressão de confusão. "O palavrão, repete.", explicou.
"Pra quê?", o olhou como se ele tivesse três cabeças.
"Eu nunca te ouvi falar assim. Repete, por favor.", você acha que nunca ouviu as duas últimas palavras saindo da boca dele.
"Para de ser bobo, Hyuck. Não vou repetir nada.", já se preparava para voltar a ler novamente. Sua alma quase saltou para fora do corpo quando o Lee puxou seu rosto com uma das mãos, ficando cara a cara contigo.
"Diz de novo, por favor", roçou o nariz contra o seu. Você achou que ia morrer ali mesmo, a respiração tremulava e suas mãos apertavam as palmas. "Repete pro Hyuck, repete.", pediu com jeitinho.
"... Caralho?", foi involuntário, você havia perdido a habilidade de negar. O homem abriu um sorriso cínico.
"Tão bonitinha...", a respiração quente pertinho da sua. Donghyuck não via mais motivo em esconder suas próprias vontades. "Diz pra mim, 'cê vai me deixar beijar essa boquinha?", orgulhosa como sempre, você já ia abrir a boca para protestar. "Não adianta fingir que não quer, gatinha. Sua carinha te entrega, já tá toda mole perto de mim.", não existe um dia em que você não tenha amaldiçoado o universo por te obrigar a aguentar a arrogância de Hyuck. "Deixa?" Você concordou com a cabeça, suspirando derrotada. O Lee se aproximou mais ainda, selava sua boca diversas vezes — te olhava, esperando o momento em que você perderia a paciência. Não precisou de muita coisa, mal percebeu e você já o empurrava para sentar no colo dele.
"Me beija direito.", a posição o fez inclinar o rosto para cima, apoiando a cabeça no encosto do sofá para poder te olhar. Envolveu o rosto dele com as duas mãos, finalmente o beijando do jeito que você queria. Sugava os lábios bonitinhos com vontade, a cabeça se movendo bem lentinho de um lado para o outro, completamente hipnotizada pelo gostinho de Hyuck. O Lee fazia o possível para te beijar de volta, o aperto firme nas suas coxas sendo a única coisa que mantinha a mente dele no lugar. Não conseguiu segurar o gemidinho quando te sentiu brincar com a língua dele. Envolveu sua cintura com os braços pressionando seu corpo contra o dele, Hyuckie tinha certeza que você já havia sentido o quão duro ele ficou — afinal, estava sentada bem em cima —, mas esperava que você não se importasse.
Você se levantou de repente, o homem pensou ter feito algo errado, até temia perguntar o que tinha acontecido. Abaixou seu short rapidinho, jogando-o em qualquer canto da sala. Não levando muito tempo para sentar no colo dele novamente. O Lee observou a cena completamente embasbacado.
"Brinca comigo, Hyuckie.", pediu, já puxando uma das mãos do homem para dentro da sua calcinha. Você quase caiu no riso, vendo os olhos dele triplicarem de tamanho. "Que foi? Não quer?", fez carinho nos lábios vermelhinhos.
"N-não, eu... porra, 'cê tá tão molhada.", esfregava as pontas dos dedos na sua entradinha, sentindo o líquido quentinho escorrer. O polegar circulou o seu pontinho, testando suas reações. A mão livre afastou sua calcinha de lado, Hyuck enfiou o dedo do meio e o indicador bem lentinho, sem tirar os olhos dos seus. "Tá tão apertada, gatinha. Vai apertar meu pau desse jeito também?", começou a mover os dígitos devagarinho. Você concordava com a cabeça, rebolando contra a mão do homem.
"Mais rápido, Hyuckie.", pediu toda manhosinha. O Lee nunca foi capaz de imaginar o quão gostosinha a sua voz soava nesses momentos, nem nos sonhos mais pervertidos que teve com você. O homem aumentou a velocidade, achava que ia enlouquecer com o jeito que você choramingava o nome dele. Você puxou Hyuck para um beijo lentinho, tentando abafar seus gemidos. Mas isso só piorou sua situação, o jeito que ele mordia e lambia os seus lábios te fazia ficar ainda mais necessitada. Ele se afastou, sorrindo quando te viu chegar perto novamente, querendo outro beijo.
"Se eu soubesse que 'pra te deixar burrinha eu só precisava brincar com essa buceta, eu teria feito antes, gatinha.", em outra ocasião Hyuck levaria uns tapas, mas nesse momento a provocação só te fez ter vontade de gozar. "Porra, que delícia você me apertando.", estocou os dedos com mais força. "Aperta esses peitinhos 'pra mim, amor.", você obedeceu, agarrando seus seios com força, completamente maleável. "Assim. Fica tão obediente só com os meus dedos, gatinha. Senta pro Hyuck agora, hm? Quero ver o quão estúpida você fica com o meu pau.", você concordou de novo. O Lee tirou as próprias roupas do caminho, mas só o suficiente para conseguir libertar o pau dos tecidos que agora pareciam apertados demais. Retirou uma camisinha aleatória da carteira e a vestiu rapidamente, tão afobado como sempre era.
"Tá com pressa, Hyuckie? Acho que, na verdade, você que é o desesperado.", provocou, fazendo questão de dar um sorriso audacioso.
"Se for pela sua buceta eu posso ser o que você quiser, realmente não me importo.", xeque-mate. "Agora, senta em mim, senta?", fez um biquinho fofo. E você não poderia negar um pedido tão bonitinho assim. Sentou devagar, enfiando as unhas nos ombros de Hyuck quando sentiu o pau dele te esticando. Doía, mas ainda era gostosinho. O Lee apertou os olhos com força assim que você encaixou ele inteiro dentro de você. Sua entradinha pulsava sem controle e Hyuck precisou se segurar muito para não gozar.
"Hyuckie... é tão grande.", reclamou entre gemidinhos dengosos.
"Shhh, não fala assim. Fica quietinha.", o Lee latejou, mais um "a" seu e ele não aguentaria nem uma sentada.
"Mas tá doendo, Hyuckie...", choramingou ainda mais.
"Gatinha, cala a boca, por favor. Eu tô tentando me controlar.", levou os dedos até o seu clitóris inchadinho, tentando te fazer relaxar, mas o estímulo só te fez espasmar mais ainda. "Ah! Porra, não me aperta assim.", o rostinho todo contorcido fazendo sua entradinha melar ele mais ainda. Não deu para segurar, o carinho gostoso no seu pontinho praticamente te obrigava a rebolar sem parar, a pressão do pau de Hyuck era quase insuportável. Quando percebeu, já sentava desesperada para gozar. Nem você e nem o Lee conseguiam segurar os gemidos, encarando um ao outro com os olhos semicerrados.
Nem sabe dizer quem veio primeiro, já convulsionava no colo de Donghyuck antes que fosse capaz de notar. Se agarrou nele como se sua vida dependesse disso, o orgasmo gostosinho te deixou toda carente. Tentava recobrar o ar, enquanto Hyuck dava beijinhos castos no seu ombro.
"Caralho. E agora como que a gente fica?", você finalmente foi capaz de recobrar sua consciência.
— ficante ! haechan × leitora
— gênero: smut, angst (tenho problemas)
— conteúdo/avisos: relacionamento problemático, linguagem imprópria, o haechanie gosta de sofrer aparentemente, leitora confusa e meio tóxica, oral, masturbação, menção a penetração, hyuckie meio sub, choking, breeding kink (um tiquinho, eu tentei).
— word count: 1723
— nota da autora: esse daqui levou mais tempo do que eu calculei, porque faltou inspiração (tesão) e agora eu inventei de colocar angst em tudo JURO QUE VOU PARAR
Vocês trocaram olhares pelo que pareceu ser a vigésima vez na noite. Hyuck era péssimo em esconder, olhava seu corpo sem disfarce algum, mantendo o sorrisinho pervertido no rosto. Lambia os lábios bonitos e esbarrava em você de propósito sempre que passava por perto.
Você já estava irritada. Lee Donghyuck era uma peste. Você sabia disso muito antes de começar a ficar com o homem, mas ainda se impressionava com o quão insuportável ele conseguia ser. Insuportável ao ponto de te convencer a transar com ele sempre que vocês se viam.
A situação entre vocês dois era complicada — para dizer o mínimo. Já ficavam faziam uns bons meses, num lance meio que "secreto". Hyuck já havia deixado bem claro que queria ser seu namorado, porém você tinha muitos problemas em se comprometer. Essa combinação resultava em muitas brigas, mas vocês nunca foram capazes de ficar sem o outro por muito tempo.
E não demorou nada. Quando se deu conta, você já puxava o homem para dentro do quarto de Jaemin — não esperava que ninguém percebesse, a bebida e a música alta sendo suficientes para manter todo mundo na parte de baixo da casa. Trancou a porta com pressa e virou-se para um Haechan satisfeito, que não fazia questão de dissimular o rostinho sapeca. A expressão do homem fez seu sangue ferver. Você o empurrou na cama atrás dele, fazendo-o sentar.
"Sentiu saudades de mim?", ele levantou os olhos, a expressão bonitinha não sendo suficiente para mascarar as intenções de Haechan.
"Por que você não vai se foder, hein, Donghyuck?", o tom era raivoso, do jeitinho que Hyuck gostava.
"Isso é jeito de falar comigo? Faz tanto tempo que a gente não se vê...", inclinou a cabeça para o lado, fazendo beicinho.
"E eu sinceramente gostaria que continuasse assim.", a honestidade nunca foi seu forte. Estava claro que você sentia falta do homem.
"Você que saiu me arrastando, garota. A culpa não é minha.", soltou um risinho sarcástico, ele estava fazendo um ótimo trabalho em acabar com a sua paciência.
"Ajudaria muito se você não ficasse agindo igual puta toda vez que me vê.", pontuou exasperada.
"Agindo igual o quê?", uma risada gostosa atingiu os seus ouvidos. "Você não aguenta me olhar sem querer dar 'pra mim e eu que tô agindo igual puta? Tem certeza disso?", disse com escárnio.
Sem hesitação, sua mão foi parar no cabelo dele, puxando o suficiente para forçá-lo a levantar a cabeça, te olhando de baixo. Você encarou o rosto do homem, esperando que sua posição de dominância fosse o suficiente para fazer com que ele parasse de te desafiar. Não adiantou. Hyuck mordeu os lábios, te dando um sorrisinho safado.
"Não testa minha paciência, Donghyuck. Ou eu juro que te deixo aqui sozinho...", ameaçou.
"Deixa então! Pode sair. Nós dois sabemos que você não consegue fazer isso, não é? Se eu me lembro bem você 'não queria mais ver minha cara'." — relembrou a última discussão de vocês — "Então por quê eu tô aqui agora, hm? Me diz.", cuspiu em tom de deboche, Hyuck guardava tanto ressentimento quanto você. "Você já deixou bem claro que não me quer, então por que não se afasta de mim?", repetiu a mesma pergunta que sempre fazia quando vocês discutiam.
Você soltou o cabelo dele, dando alguns passos para trás. Esfregou as mãos no rosto, suspirando profundamente. Seus sentimentos eram a coisa mais confusa do mundo, especialmente quando Haechan estava perto de você. Sentia-se derrotada, era incapaz de responder a pergunta.
"Hyuck, eu... esquece. Me desculpa.", você se virou para sair. O Lee se desesperou e levantou rapidamente, os braços envolvendo sua cintura com força e o rosto enfiado no seu pescoço.
"Não. Não vai, por favor. Me deixa cuidar de você, amor. Eu sinto sua falta...", o tom era suplicante. O apelidinho carinhoso — que Hyuck insistia em usar com você — e o corpo quente colado ao seu, sendo mais do que suficientes para te deixar fraca.
Donghyuck se sentia um grande idiota nesses momentos, vocês já estavam nesse "cabo de guerra" fazia tempo demais. Qualquer pessoa com o mínimo de bom senso já teria saído dessa situação. Mas ele te queria tanto, ao ponto de torná-lo estúpido. E se esse era o único jeito de te ter por perto, então que fosse.
"Não, Hyuck, você tá certo, tá bom? Eu tenho que te deixar em paz, tenho que me afastar.", a parte racional do seu cérebro tentava argumentar.
"Mas eu não quero que você se afaste. Eu preciso de você.", suplicou, deixando selares molhados na lateral do seu pescoço. "Por favor.", apertou seu corpo contra o dele e você sentiu a ereção evidente. "Me deixa encher essa bucetinha, amor. Eu sei que ela tá com saudades.", a voz manhosinha bem perto da sua orelha te fez arrepiar.
Ele virou seu corpo com calma, ainda temia que você quisesse ir embora. Beijou sua boca com carinho, já te puxando pra cama de Jaemin — que ficaria muito puto caso descobrisse. Você sequer notou quando se deitou na cama com o corpo de Hyuck fazendo pressão em cima do seu. Sentia as mãos geladinhas apertando suas coxas, te fazendo arfar.
"Vai dar 'pra mim, não vai?", roçou a ponta do nariz no seu, te olhando de pertinho. "Vai, amor? Só um pouquinho.", te deu um selinho demorado. Ele tinha plena consciência que o jeitinho dengoso dele era mais do que suficiente para te deixar molhada.
"Hyuck...", suspirou perto da boca quentinha.
"Vai sim. 'Cê não consegue ficar sem mim por muito tempo, linda. Só eu sei te comer direito, não é?", a língua correu lentamente pela lateral do seu pescoço. Você não precisava olhar para saber que o sorriso cafajeste adornava os lábios vermelhinhos. Não satisfeito, pressionou a coxa no meio das suas pernas, sorrindo ainda mais quando te sentiu rebolar contra ele. Te beijou com necessidade, ficando fraco com os gemidinhos que você soltava dentro da boca dele.
"Vou levantar esse vestidinho, tá bom?", pediu, deixando vários selinhos no seu rosto. Beijou seus seios por cima do tecido, as mãos ligeiras já subiam seu vestido e te ajudavam a tirar a calcinha. Hyuck te reposicionou na cama, deixando o rostinho bem no meio das suas pernas. Os olhos não saiam do seus, mesmo quando ele se abaixou para deixar um beijinho casto no seu pontinho. Usou as mãos para afastar suas pernas, te deixando abertinha para ele.
"Senti tanta falta do seu gosto, amor.", sugou sua entradinha, engolindo tudo o que conseguiu. A língua quentinha brincou com seu pontinho inchado. O homem sorriu quando sentiu suas mãos no cabelo dele, o empurrando para ficar mais perto. Te chupava de olhos fechados, grunhindo como se você fosse a coisa mais gostosa que ele já provou.
Os barulhos molhadinhos enchiam os seus ouvidos, fazendo seu rosto queimar. Hyuck era obsceno, sempre foi. Sujava o rosto bonitinho, esfregando-o por toda sua intimidade. Sentia líquido escorrendo por todos os lugares, inclusive no pau meladinho que ele fazia questão de roçar no colchão, gemendo manhosinho contra sua entradinha.
Você sentia seu corpo mole em cima da cama, se contorcia sem força alguma, fazendo o máximo para segurar os gemidos dentro da garganta. Levantava os quadris para rebolar contra o rosto de Haechan, sentindo a ponta do nariz dele estimular seu pontinho. Você puxava os cabelos macios, sentindo seu orgasmo chegar. Seus olhos apertados não foram capazes de ver os de Haechan fixados no seu rostinho, ele não perderia a oportunidade de te ver gozar. Hyuck sentiu o pau pulsar ao ver seu rostinho todo retorcido, suas coxas tremiam ao lado da cabeça dele e tentavam se fechar, mas as mãos dele te impediam. Continuou sugando seu buraquinho sensível, só parando quando sentiu você puxar o cabelo dele com força, fazendo-o subir. "Quer provar seu gostinho, amor?", sorriu bonito, te dando um beijo molhado logo em seguida.
Sua mão apertando o volume de surpresa foi o suficiente para Hyuck saber que você queria retribuir o "favor". Ele não te impede ao sentir sua mão finalmente o libertando das roupas apertadas. E quando você coloca a palma próxima ao rosto dele, simplesmente cospe ali sem questionar. Você envolve o membro quentinho com empenho, molhando bem. Olhou o Lee nos olhos, batendo uma para ele, bem lentinho.
"O que você quer que eu faça, Hyuckie?", sussurrou perto da boca dele.
"Quero que sente em mim.", o tom era dócil, ele conhecia o jogo que você queria jogar.
"E por que você não goza assim? Hm?", você sabia que não era suficiente. Roçou os lábios contra os dele, aumentando a velocidade. Hyuck gemia dengoso, estocava contra a sua mão, buscando mais estímulo. "Me responde, Donghyuck.", você usou a mão livre para puxar os cabelos fofinhos, sabia do que Hyuck gostava. Brincou com a glande meladinha, sentindo ele apertar sua cintura. "Só consegue gozar se for dentro de mim, Hyuckie? É?", sentiu o membro espasmando na sua mão.
"P-por favor, porra, por favor...", suplicou. O rostinho sofrido, com as sobrancelhas franzidas e a boquinha abertinha te deixavam mais molhada.
"Quer minha bucetinha, amor?", acentuou o apelido, sabendo bem o que ele fazia Haechan sentir.
"Sim, Ah! S-sim, por favor, amor.", a voz era patética, Hyuck estocava os quadris sem controle algum. O homem não conseguia controlar a boca, entoando sons manhosos, completamente desesperado.
"Tá gemendo igual putinha, Hyuckie.", riu de forma ácida, sentindo o pau pulsar na sua mão junto com o insulto. Você soltou as mechas macias e agora pressionava o pescoço lisinho. Se aproximou da orelha de Haechan. "Quer encher minha bucetinha de porra, amor? Hm? Me deixa cheinha, Hyuckie. 'Cê não me quer gravidinha de você, amorzinho?", brincou com o fetiche de Haechan, sabendo que era o suficiente para quebrá-lo.
"Q-quero! Amor, Ah!, por favor....", ele já soltava palavras desconexas, misturadas com gemidos do apelidinho carinhoso. Te puxou para um beijo necessitado, enquanto esporrava e estocava sua mão sem cessar. "Minha... só minha.", gemia fraco contra sua boca, ainda sentindo os efeitos do orgasmo.
"Deixa-", ele começou a falar.
"Eu tenho que ir.", você disse, já ficando de pé e arrumando o vestido. Não deu muita oportunidade para que ele falasse algo, já saindo do quarto apressada. E Haechan só te olhou sair, com mil palavras presas na garganta.
It was only supposed to be a job. One last quick, easy smash-and-grab before you walked away from the life, forever. But everything changed when you were told you would be working side by side with your ex-boyfriend—the love of your life, your biggest mistake and the one person you swore you would never talk to again, Boo Seungkwan.
And that was when you knew this job wouldn’t be so easy.
❔pairings: boo seungkwan x female reader
❔genre: fluff, angst, smut, whodunit
❔aus: 1920's new york, seungkwan is a socialite, exes to fucking
❔word count: 9k
!! THIS IS PART OF PUTTING ON THE RITZ COLLAB !!
🔍 warnings: mentions of death, criminal activity, mentions of blood, alcohol, organized crime. smut with plot, make-up sex, foreplay, light dom kwannie, dirty talk, fingering, dry humping, pussy licking, big dick kwannie, and idk if i'm forgetting anything. pet names: agent, baby, darling, sweetheart (her)
❔ author's note: hey hello hi hi hello!
just popping in beforehand to say that this fic has plot in it. lol. i say this because it takes a while to get yn with sk together in one room if you know what i mean wink wink.
also, this is barely edited and proofread
that's it, that's the author's note, lol. bye ✌🏻
part one, the ledger
“I didn’t kill him.”
The words hung in the air between you and the man who sat across from you on the cold, metal table. You stared at the cigarette smoke dancing slowly, rising to the ceiling and disappearing from your line of sight. The strong smell filled your senses, but you let it be; you let the craving to get a drag twitch in your fingers and tickle your lips.
Choi Seungcheol sat in silence, his deep, dark eyes boring into you as he allowed you to think of your words. A sleek pen was held loosely between his fingers, hovering on top of his notebook. The tip had been touching the unused sheet of paper for a while, letting the ink pool at the top of the page.
You kept your hands flat on the table, forcing yourself to breathe in and out steadily as a way to reject your nerves. Nerves are a form of confession. You eyed Choi Seungcheol’s untouched cigarette once, and before you could even muster another iota of restraint on yourself, you licked your lips.
The shadow of a smile appeared on your lips. “But I know exactly why someone would.”
Suddenly, the walls of the dimly lit room seemed to narrow in on you, punching you straight to the centre of your chest, forcing you to think, to be smart. Words were keys that could open many doors, and you needed to pick them carefully if you wanted to get out.
Somewhere in the distance, you heard a door slam shut, making you jump. But no one came to check on you and Detective Choi.
He cleared his throat and wrote something down, slowly. You eyed the page again and knew immediately that it would take you a while to decipher his handwriting if you wanted to do it subtly.
“Tell me everything you know,” he said, and his tone was not unkind. It wasn’t gentle either. He pushed the tip of his tongue inside his cheek, as though savouring the words he’d just said, and weighed them.
You watched him for a long second. How his eyebrow twitched up when your lips didn’t move. He let the pen drop on the page and sat back on the chair, crossing his arms on his chest.
With a brief, but sharp exhale, you shook your head. “You want everything?” you asked, trying not to scoff.
Choi Seungcheol shrugged; he had started to bounce his knee under the table, creating a small vibration on the wooden floor. “The truth would suffice.”
You nearly smiled.
But then your eyes fell on the cigarette again, how it sat on the ashtray untouched. The man didn’t smoke, so why had he lit it up when he first came to the room? You thought, to no end.
Slowly, your gaze swam back to the Detective’s face as understanding dawned on you. “It all started with a man I swore I’d never work for again.”
Seungcheol swallowed thickly, his throat bobbing visibly. “Who?”
“The man pulling all the strings,” you said, mustering all the courage you had left to utter his name. “Mr. Yoon Jeonghan.”
The first time you had hesitated was when you were standing on the sidewalk. The chill air had slipped beneath your clothes, caressing your skin and making it prickle. It made you suck in a breath and shiver uncontrollably. But you crossed your arms, rubbing your hands on top of your jacket and walked inside the shop.
The hideout was a tailor shop that was neatly set up in the corner of the street, next to a bakery. And you faintly remembered, as you walked into the time, you had told Jeonghan that it wasn’t wise to have a tailor shop smelling like butter and starch the whole time—it should have a clean smell. But he never cared.
There was no one manning the front of the shop, doors were unlocked. So you let yourself into the back of the shop, through rows and columns of linen, until you found where the magic happened. The very back of the shop was the workshop, a giant table sat in the middle of the room where tailors and seamstresses would measure the fabric and cut the moulds before putting it together.
“Punctual, as always,” a voice called from one side of the room, behind the columns.
You turned on your heel, following the sound of the voice. “And you are as mysterious as always. Hiding in the shadows.”
Yoon Jeonghan emerged slowly, stepping into the pool of light, his sleeves rolled up, vest unbuttoned, and the top buttons of his dress shirt loose but still elegant. Jeonghan was resplendent, dressed in black from head to toe. Time had done nothing to the immaculate skin of his face; he looked healthier, even.
“It’s good to see you, Agent.”
When you were done taking him in, measuring what had changed in him, you nodded curtly. “I told you last time—I’m done, Jeonghan,” you said, arching an eyebrow. “I meant it.”
“You told me you were tired,” he replied with a matter-of-fact tone. Then he shrugged lightly, “Different thing.”
You felt one corner of your lip curl ever so slightly. “It’s good to see you too, Jeonghan,” you said, chest swelling with a twinge of nostalgia that altered your breathing. But you interrupted the feeling by taking in a deep breath. “However, I doubt you asked me here to exchange pleasantries.”
Jeonghan’s expression eased, not in relief, but knowingly as though he had been waiting for you to get there. “Come this way,” he said quietly, gesturing to one door in the back of the room.
The day you met Yoon Jeonghan, you could’ve sworn one of two things: either God was real, and he was sending you an angel to drag you out of the deepest pits in hell—or the Devil was also real, and he himself dressed in black and was offering you the finest deal you’d ever hear.
You’d said yes. You’d let Jeonghan save you.
Until one day, of course, when he didn’t.
So when Jeonghan turned on his heel and began walking towards the opposite side of the room, you followed. And it wasn’t so much that you would follow Jeonghan anywhere—no, time and consequence had taught you that not all choices Jeonghan makes ever turn out alright.
No, it was the damn curiosity that pulled you forward.
The door creaked as it was pushed open—not by Jeonghan’s hand, but by someone already waiting on the other side.
Nerves rose like a swarm of bees from your stomach to your throat, and you tried to push them down with a big gulp.
Time and time again, you had been in that room, and it hadn’t changed in years. Same old desk, same chair. The same shabby sofa where you sat down for the first time when you struck the first deal with Jeonghan.
It was Mingyu who moved closer to the sofa. It had been him waiting inside, accompanied by the same people. All the gang—Jeon Wonwoo sitting on the couch next to Vernon Chwe, and Joshua Hong by the desk.
As soon as you stepped into their view, the whole room stilled with a deafening silence. It was obvious that they had been enthralled in a conversation, and your presence had somehow changed things.
You remained silent, almost fearful of what they would say. It was hard to discern what was written on their faces. But one thing you knew—you had shocked them to their bones.
“Alright, boys. I won’t waste your time,” Jeonghan said without skipping a beat—like he hadn’t noticed the crack in the ice. He pulled a chair from one corner out of your view and placed it in front of you.
“So there is a ledger,” Jeonghan said.
Joshua huffed. “There’s always one,” he blinked as a frown formed on his face. “Why do you want this one? And why did you bring all of us in here?”
“This one,” Jeonghan continued, ignoring Joshua, “contains special records. Names. Dates. Routes. Docks. Every job I’ve ever run.”
You narrowed your eyes as Jeonghan paced around the grey office. “So burn it,” you spoke the words before you could even register what was really going on.
“If only I could,” Jeonghan said with a light, but crazed laugh. “You wouldn’t be here if I could.”
That was when the air tightened in your lungs. “When you say that it includes every job…”
He gave you a dry nod. “It includes you.”
A shiver ran down your spine, making you straighten.
“Well,” Mingyu said, “so where is it?”
“It’s moving. Always moving,” Jeonghan said, turning and walking towards the wall, hands clasped behind his back.
Wonwoo’s voice cut in, his dark gaze fixed on Jeonghan. “Do you know who has it?”
Jeonghan shook his head. “Not precisely,” he said. “But my source says it runs a fixed triangle.”
Then Jeonghan raised a hand, and tapped on three different spots on the wall with the tip of his finger. “The Penrose building. Lotus bar. The Ritz.”
There was no map perched on the wall. But you could almost picture it just by the way Jeonghan tapped his finger on the wall. Your stomach sank and the room fell silent again. Everyone knew what those locations entailed—high traffic. Money. Risk.
And no room for error.
“So it’s being passed?” Vernon asked.
“More like escorted,” Jeonghan said with a low tone, turning away from the wall. “Protected.”
Joshua crossed his arms on the desk. “By who?” he asked, the frown deepening.
“Who else?” Mingyu huffed, rolling his eyes. “Socialite shitheads.”
“Collectors. Patrons,” Jeonghan corrected. “The kind of people who see money and power in secrets,” he said.
Your body felt stiff in your chair as you forced yourself to sit back. “That means it’s not sitting in some office,” you said. “It’s being paraded.”
Jeonghan nodded. “For now.”
“What is the next stop?” Wonwoo asked.
“You know the locations,” Wonwoo said, as though he’d also fallen in the stream of Jeonghan’s consciousness. “But you don't know when the next stop is?” he asked.
Everyone in the room had eyes on Jeonghan. He had stopped pacing back and forth in that dusty old room, standing mere three steps from you. It could’ve been a coincidence—but the look he directed at you was not. He met your eyes with a look full of pity, as though his eyes said, “I know something you don’t.”
“Three nights from now. The Ritz. Black-tie gala.”
Mingyu huffed. “Half the city will be there,” he said, his lip curling, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “We’re doomed. This gig is doomed.”
“The ledger will be in a room on the fourth floor. Inside a safe,” Jeonghan spoke, his tone stilted, his gaze still zeroed in on you. Almost like it was lost in you. “It’ll be displayed briefly for select investors before it goes back in the safe again.”
“Displayed?” Vernon repeated.
“These people don’t really know what it is,” Jeonghan said. “They just know it’s a valuable shipping record. Documentation tied to stolen art. Lost jewels.”
You were listening, but your mind had long fallen out of tune with what was being said. It was the look Jeonghan had given you that made you lose it.
“And your source?” Joshua asked.
“Is reliable.”
A flicker. A tiny twinge of deception made your pulse shift.
“Security?” Mingyu asked.
“Weak. Private guards at entry points,” Jeonghan replied, now yanking his gaze from where you sat. “Two internal watchmen are assigned to move the ledger for the display.”
“And after the display?”
“It’ll be transported back into the safe,” Jeonghan said with a big sigh, as though he were suddenly overcome with a big wave of exhaustion. “That’s all I know.”
You narrowed your eyes at him one more time.
“So we take it during transfer,” Mingyu said with a light shrug. “We go in quietly, quick blackout and then we go out before the lights are on again. No one will know we were there.”
You shook your head. “No.”
Every head turned in your direction. “What are you suggesting, Agent?” Jeonghan asked.
A bundle of nerves tingled in your gut. “We go in clean—I mean, no forced entry. We blend in.”
“That’s infiltration,” Wonwoo said, twitching one eyebrow up. “What about the extraction?”
“We cause a distraction,” you said slowly, trying to calm the storm in your head, in your stomach. “Something noisy. Something that pulls all eyes to one spot and away from the upper floors.”
Joshua tilted his head to one side. “My, you haven’t changed,” he said with a huff. “Are you volunteering?”
You smirked. “Of course,” you joked, but then you gave yourself a shake. “I’m not a flapper, but I can think of something.”
“Huh,” Jeonghan said, clicking his tongue, “I know of someone. Maybe I can pull some strings.”
“Let’s say we have the distraction,” Wonwoo said, blinking slowly before going back to his previous question, “—who goes upstairs?”
“That’s a two-man retrieval,” you said with an obvious tone. “One on watch. One on safe.”
“I suppose that’s what I’m here for,” Vernon said, sitting back and crossing his arms.
Jeonghan nodded once. “You’ll go upstairs with Mingyu,” he said, pointing to each face with his finger. “Wonwoo watches the floor. Joshua handles guest lists and fake identities.”
And then he pointed his finger at you. “And you—” he said, holding your gaze. “You’ll do what you always do. Bring luck.”
No one moved. No one questioned him. Even though it had been many months since you last saw either Jeonghan or anyone else in that room, you knew that you still had the same thing in common. The very thing that had aligned your fates initially—and it wasn’t Jeonghan.
It was how damn good you were at this job.
And everyone would do anything to steal that ledger.
Chairs scraped back. Joshua was the first one to move. Then Wonwoo, Mingyu and Vernon went as well. Mingyu clapped Jeonghan once on the shoulder and Vernon muttered something kindly as he passed by. But you stayed glued to your chair, unable to move, afraid of saying something that would damn you again.
The room emptied until it was just the two of you.
“So, that’s it?” you asked, rising from your chair. “You don’t have anything else for me?”
Jeonghan cocked his head to one side. “What do you mean, Agent?” he asked, his tone unusually sweet.
“Don’t play coy, Jeonghan. It doesn’t suit you,” you said, crossing your arms.
He blinked a couple of times, rapidly. “Then ask what you really want to know,” he said, his tone dropping.
“Why does the ledger exist?”
Jeonghan smiled. He’d been expecting that question. “Well it’s obvious, isn’t it?” he said, his head tilting back slightly as his face lightened up with pride. “It’s mine.”
You closed your eyes slowly. “Of course,” you muttered, bringing two fingers to pinch the bridge of your nose. “Why do you have a book documenting every job you’ve ever had?”
“Do you know how rich I am?” he asked, his tone rising as he motioned to turn away from you, but something pulled him right back. “Do you know how many fortunes sit under my name because of you?”
You sighed, shaking your head. “How did you lose it?”
“I didn’t. It was taken,” he said.
Your gaze fell out of focus as the new information sank in your mind. Everyone had made important questions about the plan, but some things had gone amiss, purposefully, or accidentally.
You blinked. “You won’t be going to the party,” you realized.
Jeonghan nodded. “It would look suspicious if I attended the gala where my secrets are being auctioned, don’t you think?”
“Oh, you arrogant bastard. What if something goes wrong?” you pressed.
“It won’t,” he said with certainty.
“How do you know that?”
“I have you,” he said without a second of hesitation.
You rolled your eyes, turning toward the door. “Goodnight, Jeonghan.”
“Agent.”
Your hand had nearly touched the door-handle when your name rolled off his tongue. You stopped, but didn’t turn around.
“There is one more thing.”
Something in his tone made you face him this time. You dropped the handle, directing a look at Jeonghan, who still stood in the centre of the room. “What,” you uttered, feeling a cold thread sliding down your spine.
“My source,” he said, his tone stilted again, “is someone you know.”
You felt that flicker again. “Who?”
Jeonghan moved carefully towards you, his face revealing more about that look he’d given you earlier. Pity.
“It’s Seungkwan.”
The name didn’t sound real at first—like it belonged in someone else’s life. A ghost. It was as though Jeonghan had spoken in a different language. But it was deafening, like an iceberg had cracked apart and caused the very earth to quiet down.
You didn’t blink. You laughed. “Seungkwan is dead,” you said flatly.
Time slowed down as your pulse quickened beyond human capacity. As fractions of a second slipped from your hands, you started to believe that this was some kind of sick joke.
Because Jeonghan’s pity deepened in his eyes. “No,” he said softly. “He’s very much alive.”
The air left your lungs. You hated it. You hated that your body could show emotions before your mind could cage them away.
“He came to me two months ago,” he continued, as though trying to deliver the news faster to let the pain consume you in one go. “He was looking for leverage.”
You were the one who stepped forward this time. “And you trusted him?” you asked, tone rising.
Jeonghan’s jaw tightened. “I trusted his intention.”
A laugh escaped you. Sharp. Bitter. “And what does he want?”
As Jeonghan looked at you, it became evident before he could say it. “You.”
The pain stabbing your heart was greater than anything you had felt in months. It swept inside you in waves, making you shudder and close your eyes. “You knew,” you whispered.
“I suspected,” Jeonghan replied quietly.
“And you still called me in?” you asked, opening your eyes slowly.
As soon as Jeonghan noticed the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes, his gaze softened. “Yes.”
You stilled, tears rolling down your cheeks before you could force them back in. “Is this a job, or is this some kind of sick test?”
He’d been expecting that question as well. “It’s a necessity,” he replied right away.
You looked at him for a long moment, still feeling incredulous.
Seungkwan was alive.
“Next time,” you said, voice cracking, “you lead with that, Jeonghan.”
You turned around, walking to the door again.
“If I had, you wouldn’t have come,” he replied, his voice following you into the hall. But you closed the door before you could even think of what to say, deciding that it was better to leave.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
You held the deck of cards in your hand, tapping one corner of it against the dining table. Your apartment was quiet in a way that made your thoughts grow louder and louder. You came in and hadn’t even bothered to turn the lamp on. In fact, you hadn’t done anything except sit there—shoes and coat still on—staring at the deck of cards while replaying Jeonghan’s words in your head.
Seungkwan is alive.
You stood up from the chair and crossed the room slowly, drawing the first card from the deck, already knowing what you’d get.
The Queen of Spades.
You slid the tip of your finger on the edge of the card, staring at it for a moment longer before flipping the card and tucked in between the window frame and the glass. It was a subtle thing, but there was a time when it meant the world to you.
And before the self-doubt came, you stepped back from the window, deciding to put all thoughts aside and forget about everything.
One hour passed, and you decided to pour that glass of whiskey.
Two hours went by quicker, and you had removed your coat and shoes.
Three hours, and you decided to go to bed.
But sleep didn’t come. At least not at first. Your mind was riddled with questions, swarming with unwanted memories and hurtful thoughts. You lay on your side, wishing for sleep to come because you were tired—so tired that half of you started to believe that what Jeonghan had said was a mere fantasy.
Seungkwan was dead. He died on the last job you had. You saw him fall from the cruise. He was never found.
You must have drifted at some point. Your mind had lost its grip on those ugly thoughts and unwelcome memories, but it was still wired enough to listen to your surroundings—to listen to that gentle, and so very familiar tapping on your window. It brought you awake with a jolt, opening your eyes to the darkness in your bedroom.
You didn’t move at first. You didn’t want to believe it.
Slowly, you dragged yourself out of your bed and crossed your apartment barefoot, floorboards creaking as you took measured steps towards the window. The Queen of Spades still lodged in the frame, but now shadowed by the man standing on the fire escape.
It was as though he had stepped out of a memory. As though he had picked one of those fateful nightmares you had in the past and decided to make it come true for you.
He was real.
And he was leaning back against the railings. Waiting. His dark and beautiful eyes roamed all over you, taking you in from head to toe. The shadow of a smile painted his face, reaching his eyes.
You lifted the window, letting the cold night air spill inside your apartment.
And out of all things you could’ve said to your dead ex, you chose— “You kept me waiting.”
He moved forward smoothly, nodding to the card still placed in the window frame. “I wanted to make sure it was meant for me.”
“It was,” you replied, crossing your arms to shield yourself from the cold air brushing your skin.
And then you met his eyes. Time shifted, throwing you back to the past—to the moment you realized you were falling in love with those eyes. Sweet and pure. Like warm coffee on a Sunday morning. Nothing made sense anymore. You were still that girl who had fallen in love with his bad jokes and smooth voice.
You faltered, but then with a sharp sigh, you composed yourself right back in. “Would you care to explain to me why you pretended to be dead all this time?” you asked, the words flying out of your mouth steadily, but your heart was brimming with anxiety.
Seungkwan tilted his head to one side ever so slowly. “Really? Do you want to do this right here?” he said, casting a look at the surroundings. He was still standing on the fire escape while you were inside your apartment.
You shook your head. “You’re not invited in,” you said firmly, hugging yourself tighter, fingers clasping your nightgown. “Not until you explain everything to me. I deserve that.”
His gaze scanned your face swiftly as though making sure you were ready for the truth. “It was all part of the plan,” he said. “It was survival. Someone had to disappear. Jeonghan decided it would be me.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “And you agreed?”
He shrugged. “Well, I didn’t have much choice.”
“You didn’t look for me.”
His jaw shifted slightly. “You were out,” he said, his tone low. “You got out. Away from all of it. No more crime, no more looking over your shoulder.”
“Until now,” you remarked bitterly.
Unflinching, he replied: “Yes.”
“You could’ve gotten out too. Why are you working with Jeonghan again?”
Seungkwan blinked slowly with a hint of hindrance. “This job requires all hands on deck, m’kay?” he said, raising his eyebrows slightly. “If someone looks close enough, they’ll put our names back on the board. What we did in Paris. Berlin. Everything.”
“So you wouldn’t have come back if it wasn’t for that ledger?” you asked, pulse quickening as you approached a territory that you didn’t want to cross. Opening old wounds with questions would only lead you nowhere.
Seungkwan held your gaze. “ I came back because it was a smart move,” he said, conviction flashing across his eyes.
Silence slipped between you, and for a fraction of a second, you thought that he might’ve been telling the truth. But you couldn’t trust anyone. That’s what he taught you.
“And if the ledger didn’t exist?”
“I would’ve found you,” he replied without hesitation.
Your pulse slowed. His answer unsettled you more than it should have. Then it hit you. “Mr. Donovan?” you asked carefully. “That’s why you resurfaced?”
His beautiful eyes darkened. It wasn’t guilt. It was something sharper, but it slipped away before you could identify it. He looked away, driving his gaze somewhere in the night. “New year’s eve,” he mumbled quietly. “I had planned to come back to you that night. I was outside your building.”
The air left your lungs slowly as realization sank in. You remembered that night.
Seungkwan let out a light laugh, devoid of all humour. “I was going to knock,” he said, keeping that cold smile on his face. “Only to find out you had already moved on.”
You analyzed him for a long moment. “You don’t have a right to get jealous,” you said, wishing your tone had sounded slightly more secure.
“I’m not jealous,” he replied, his tone almost hitting a lilt—faux calm.
“Really? That’s convenient,” you said, holding yourself still. But you couldn’t keep the rancorous edge from your tone.
Seungkwan’s smile grew full of this stupid charm you loved so much. “For you or for me?”
You rolled your eyes. “For your pride.”
A flicker of amusement flashed across his eyes. He took one step towards you, making your chest tighten, but he didn’t enter your apartment; he stood closer to the window, close enough that you could see the faint scar on his cheek. He’d gotten that scar in Berlin. You remembered cleaning the blood off his face with shaking hands. You had barely come out of that job.
His gaze took you in again. “You look well,” he said quietly.
You sighed through your nose. “So do you.”
He didn’t reply. His gaze dropped briefly to your bare feet against the wooden floor, to the thin fabric of your light pink nightgown. Not lingering anywhere specific. He was just observing.
But you felt his gaze in your skin, anyway, making it prickle.
“You’re not cold?” he asked.
Suddenly, it was as though time hadn’t changed a thing. He would always ask questions like this, even in the middle of a job. He would give you his jacket or try to warm you up by rubbing your arms with his hands.
You shook your head. “I’m not inviting you in.”
Seungkwan smirked, leaning towards you slightly. “I didn’t ask,” he muttered sweetly.
That lilt in his tone was there again. That honeyed way he used to flirt with you.
It almost made you smile.
But then silence fell between you again. This time it wasn’t strong; it didn’t hit you. As you looked at him and he looked at you, something weighed on you. Like a mountain of things you hadn’t told each other in months.
A spark of sadness made his gaze drop. “You watched me fall,” he said quietly.
Your throat tightened. “I watched you disappear,” you told him. “I blinked, and you were gone.”
He nodded briefly. “I wanted you to believe it,” he said. “It was the only way I could get you out.”
You hated that he was right. And for a time, you had suspected it. But you were so riddled with grief that you’d decided to let it go. You hated that you had reached a point where you needed him gone to move on.
“And now?”
That cold smirk stretched the corner of his mouth again. “Now I don’t want you leaving,” he said, driving his gaze away.
You looked at him for a long second again. The fire escape creaked slightly when he shifted his stance. “You don’t get to decide that, Seungkwan,” you said quietly.
“No,” he agreed, gazing back at you. “But you do.”
Your heart faltered. “If it hadn’t been for that stupid ledger, you wouldn’t have come tonight.”
“I came because you called,” he replied.
You sighed. “You would’ve shown up anyway?” you asked, still holding to your disbelief.
“Yes,” he replied. And there it was again—the conviction. The honesty.
It crushed your heart.
“Will you be there at the Ritz?” you asked.
“Of course,” he said.
He was Jeonghan’s source, you remembered. Because of course he was, your thoughts echoed. There was no other way Jeonghan could’ve gotten that information if it wasn’t for Seungkwan.
Seungkwan was the way in. The big galas, the high-society parties. The eyes and ears on the scene. Even if he pretended to be dead, he always had connections.
You raised your eyebrows. “And if I tell you to stay away?” you asked.
He held your gaze. “You won’t,” he replied with unmovable certainty.
A slow breath left you. And you wished you could be angry at him.
The wind rose again, rustling your nightgown and messing with the loose strands of your hair. Seungkwan’s gaze moved with your hair, and just for a moment, you saw him gesture a hand to your face—a knee-jerk reaction. But then he paused, and you felt it—you felt the memory in between you, when he used to tuck the strand of your hair behind your ear.
Your heart stuttered. “Should I trust you?” you asked, feeling dumb for even posing the question to him directly.
“That’s something only you should answer,” he said, his tone falling with a note of sadness. “I only took the choice that protected you.”
“And you? What happened to you, Seungkwan?” you whispered.
He sucked in a breath slowly. “I adapted.”
You held his gaze. “You could’ve come back for me sooner.”
He blinked at you with a hint of disbelief. “I didn’t stay away because I stopped wanting to come back,” he said.
Your pulse stuttered again. “Do you think this is some romantic gesture?” you asked.
“I think that in our world, there are limited ways to show someone you love them,” he said calmly. And there was nothing in his tone, nor in his demeanour, that showed anything dramatic.
There was a pause before you could even process that you had stepped back from the window—not fully, but just about enough for him to notice.
But he didn’t move, he just looked at your face for more signs of confirmation.
You held up one hand. “Say it,” you said quietly.
He went completely rigid. He knew what you meant without having to ask. “You want me to say I loved you,” he said faintly.
Your fingers tightened around the thin fabric of your nightgown. “I want you to say it wasn’t all part of a plan.”
His gaze held yours steadily, only shifting to look at your lips briefly. “It wasn’t.”
The wind rose and brushed your face, the calm of the city breathing behind him. A distant sound of the railways, the train passing by.
“You let me believe you were dead,” you said quietly, wishing you hadn’t sounded so weak.
“Yes,” he replied.
“You let me grieve you.”
“Yes.”
And the honesty was what hit you harder than what you lived. Worse than all of the excuses. His gaze dropped slightly. “I would’ve come back,” he added. “But not to drag you with me into this mess again.”
You swallowed hard. “You can’t decide that for me, Seungkwan,” you said. “I could’ve survived that.”
He winced slightly. “I think I was more worried about what you would sacrifice if you hadn’t gotten out of this.”
You stopped breathing for a brief moment. “You think I would’ve disappeared with you?”
He blinked slowly. “I know you would’ve.”
You dragged in a slow breath, finally, letting the cold air glide on your skin, welcoming it like a bath or reality.
“You didn’t say what I asked,” you whispered.
He swallowed hard, looking at your eyes and then your lips. “I loved you.”
Your heart stumbled. “And?” you pressed.
“And I still do.”
Your stomach twisted. You wanted to shut the window on his face. You wanted to slap him. To inflict an iota of the pain that his death put you through.
Instead, you slowly stepped back.
Seungkwan’s eyes lit up, but he didn’t move. It was as though you, taking half a pace back, had frozen him to the fire escape.
You let out a sharp gasp, grabbing him by the perfectly polished black tie he wore, messing with the white button-down and pulling him in. “C’mere,” you mumbled.
And he followed, smoothly entering through the open window as you pulled him in. But his face was riddled with questions and curiosity.
You knew that look. “Don’t look at me that way.”
“Like what?” he asked, smiling shyly, tips of his ears turning bright red.
“Like I’m doing something unexpected,” you replied, carefully skating your hands over his chest to lock your arms around his neck. Once you were closer to him, you realized how foolish you had been.
He raised his eyebrows. “You’re not,” he said, but then, with a nervous sigh, he added: “What about Mr. Donovan?” he asked, his tone lowering on the name.
You rolled your eyes. “Mr. Donovan was boring,” you said, a cheeky smile drawing on your face. “That’s why he and I are no longer seeing each other.”
Seungkwan blinked and then outlined the features of your face. Studying you. “Since when?”
Your gaze swam to the ceiling. “Since mid-January,” you said.
He sighed with a smile. “Do you find me the opposite of boring, then?”
“Who’s to say? Not many of my boyfriends have died and resurrected,” you joked.
“Right,” he mumbled, his gaze drifting to your lips briefly. Then he cautiously brought a hand to your waist, grabbing your chin with the other. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?” he asked, his tone low and gentle.
“Why would you be? You haven’t even apologized,” you said.
A light and joyful giggle escaped him, the sound making your heart flutter uncontrollably. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, leaning his head forward. “I should’ve come back to you sooner.”
“Yes, you should’ve,” you replied in kind, voice waning as you felt his lips closer to yours.
The moment his lips touched yours, you felt like you were brought back to life. Every nerve-ending in your body responded to his kiss, sizzling under your skin, making it prickle. There was nothing better than his lips on yours, pressing slowly, locking and dancing together like old lovers.
His skin was cold from standing on the fire escape for so long. You felt a gentle exhale coming out of him as soon as you aimed for another kiss, pushing yourself closer to him with your arms still linked around his neck.
Seungkwan gripped your waist tighter, the hand that had been under your chin moving to the small of your back. His hand felt warm over the thin fabric of your nightgown, and instantly you wanted more—you wanted to feel more of him all over your skin, igniting you.
An airy moan bubbled in your chest when you pushed against his frame, making him pull his lips back with a loud, wet sound. He was breathing hard, and you realized you were too. “Be careful, will you?” he asked, still panting. “At the gala. I won’t be there all the time to keep an eye on you.”
That sounded like goodbye. Your heart squeezed. “Wait—no,” you stammered. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Seungkwan smiled; the soft sigh coming out of him brushed against your lips. “Baby—”
Your knees weakened at the sound of that word. “Did you really think I would invite you in for one kiss?”
He laughed this time, but he gave in, kissing you again but briefly. “I think you’re forgetting all the times you’ve done that in the past,” he mumbled.
“That one time in Annie’s house wasn’t my fault,” you replied, pressing your lips against his between words.
You could feel his lips shift against yours as he smiled. “I’ll beg to differ…”
You matched his smile and then grabbed him by the tie again, staggering backwards, dragging him with you until you could feel the foot of your bed with the back of your knees. “I made it up to you that time,” you said, feeling your pulse quicken as you sat on the bed, crawling backwards.
Seungkwan paused for one second to look at you taking the centre of the large mattress. After giving himself a slight shake, he removed his shoes and then climbed the bed, pressing one knee and then the other. He slowly crawled between your legs, making your nightgown climb up your thighs and reveal your panties for his view.
He swallowed hard, looking at the thin fabric sliding further up your body as you pulled your knees up, parting your legs more for him. “Do you know how much I missed you?” he mumbled faintly, running a palm on one of your thighs, looking at your skin longingly.
Your heart squeezed. “Yes,” you whispered, reaching to grab his tie and pull him over you.
He obeyed without you having to command anything verbally. Pressing his hands next to your head, he bent over you, kissing your lips just as you cupped his face in your hands. “I know because I missed you just as badly, Seungkwan,” you told him.
He pulled back from your lips, looking at you briefly before showing you a small but bitter smile. “You moved on,” he reproached.
“You died,” you bit back, blinking swiftly to repel the tears that sentence brought you. “And I never truly moved on. I think of you every single day.”
And you could see it on his face—he knew.
Seungkwan said nothing, his gaze moving from your eyes to your lips and repeating that movement before dipping his head again to meet your lips with his own. This kiss was slow, sensual. You felt the warmth of his tongue before he outlined your bottom lip with its tip, and you parted your lips, letting him roll his tongue inside your mouth.
The feeling that gripped your body was euphoric. Hot and cold at the same time. And so very familiar.
You let out a muffled moan in his mouth, moving your arms to lock them around his shoulders, pulling him in. He understood well and lowered his body on top of yours without letting his full weight rest on you.
He broke the kiss with a wet, smacking sound coming from your lips and his. Panting softly, he rested his forehead on yours. “You missed me?” he mumbled, his tone low but honeyed. And if you didn’t know him, you would’ve thought he was being flirty.
But no, Seungkwan was beginning to play his favorite game.
A game you knew too well. “Yes,” you whispered.
He let out a breath through his nose. He was smiling. “You asked me if I still love you,” he mumbled, pulling back slightly to get a better look at your face.
You paused, looking back at him with a slight intrigue. “Yes.”
He cocked his head to one side ever so slightly, a dark smile stretching his lips. “Do you still love me?” he asked, his tone still low.
“Yes,” you parroted.
He stilled, savouring the moment before bringing a hand to cup your chin. “Say it,” he said, his tone fading to a whisper.
Before Seungkwan, you had believed that love was ephemeral. Like happiness, it was just a moment. A memory. Like a photograph. But then, when you lost him, you understood. Your love for Seungkwan was beyond that. It was an everlasting connection.
“I love you,” you responded, feeling your heart pulse, true and honest. “Never stopped.”
A light smile reached his eyes before he pressed his forehead against yours again. But your response earned you another kiss, slowly moving his lips to lock them with yours. Then he slipped his hand from your chin to the side of your head, fingers tangling in your hair at the same time, and he rolled his tongue inside your mouth for a second time.
You couldn’t help it, you moaned into the kiss. The sound was whiny, sickly sweet. And it always brought something out of him. He grunted in response, pressing his body harder against yours. It was impossible not to feel the growing erection beneath his black trousers. He was hard, and there was a wet patch in his trousers that indicated that he was already leaking precum.
That was why you loved Seungkwan. He was a great lover. He never held anything back when it came to you.
And so he did it again. He pushed his hips against yours, rubbing his length against the thin satin of your panties. He continued doing this, pulling back from your lips only to see your face. His eyes had grown dark, but there was a spark in there; it was lust, eagerness. “You like that, don’t you?” he asked, not really wanting a verbal reply.
Because your mouth parted, but no words came anyway. You were lost in the slow rolling of his hips against yours, reminding you of the times when he did this on top of you, wholly naked and buried deep inside you. “Seungkwan,” you mouthed, grabbing him by his perfectly neat white button-down.
“Yes, darling?” he mumbled with a gentle tilt in his tone. He allowed you to pull him over you, meeting your lips with yours as you were slowly driven mad by the movement of his hips on top of yours.
He laughed into the kiss when a pathetic moan bubbled in your throat. “What’s wrong?” he purred against your cheek, kissing it softly before moving to your ear. He pressed a swift kiss below your earlobe, and then began trailing down your neck with teasing, wet kisses.
Your hands skated over his back, feeling his body over his clothes. Suddenly, your mind split in two—torn between stripping him down or asking him to fuck you with clothes on.
But Seungkwan resolved part of that question for you without needing you to voice it. With one effortless tug, the upper part of your nightgown came down, baring your chest for him as he continued delivering open-mouthed kisses to your skin. He kissed the swell of your breasts, letting your skin prickle under his lips, responding with small grunts at each of your sweet moans.
At this point, you were nearly frantic—back arching off the mattress, hands searching and holding onto whatever you could find. Seungkwan popped one of your nipples in his hot mouth, licking at the pebbled bud with his tongue. You grabbed fistfuls of his messy button-down, and, not content with that, you switched to raking your fingers through his dark, shaggy hair, tugging and coiling.
He eased on top of you again, kissing your cheek. As he breathed against your skin, you realized that his breathing was slightly ragged. “A bit eager, aren’t we?” he taunted with a smile on his face. And before you could answer, he gently pushed the tip of your nose with his own. “Do you want to cum, sweetheart?”
A shudder barreled down your spine. “Oh god—yes,” you gasped, using your hands to cup his nape to pull him in for a kiss. “Please.”
He obeyed, not needing you to tell him how to make you cum—he knew. He knew you better than any other.
So he pushed himself up, peeling his body from yours and moving his hands towards the waist of your panties—something catching his eye. “Wet,” he said, sighing with a smile on his face as he started to slide your undergarment down your legs. He tossed the piece of clothing somewhere on the floor of your bedroom, not daring to move his gaze from your body for one single second.
Even in the dark, you saw the way he swallowed hard at the sight of you—naked from the waist down, nightgown parted and baring your chest for him. He pushed the sides of the nightgown aside, stripping you more. “Tell me what you need,” he mumbled, gaze still glued to your body.
You could follow his gaze. He slid a palm on the centre of your belly, travelling lower and lower until he reached the mound between your thighs. He used two fingers to feel you, sliding his fingertips between your folds, just feeling, caressing you.
The question left your mind blank. Suddenly, you didn’t know what to choose—his fingers were closer to getting what you wanted,d but then you remembered how his mouth felt, his cock. You gulped hard. His fingers had reached your entrance, and it was already clenching around nothing. “Just make me cum. Please.”
Seungkwan felt it, pressing the pads of his fingers in your hole—but just barely. He moved back, lying on his stomach with his head between your legs. The sight was so sinful, so dirty that it brought a wave of heat to your face.
But he said nothing, he didn’t make you wait a second longer, pushing his tongue against your sopping wet pussy, parting your folds with his fingers, and letting his tongue lave your wetness up. A euphoric feeling curled every limb of your body. Your back and legs tensed, but you willed your body not to fight the sweet, sweet pleasure that was gripping you. An animalistic sound came out of your mouth as your hands flew to grip the bed covers.
He used his hands to keep your legs from snapping shut, fingers digging into the plushy flesh of your inner thighs. He responded with a grunt of his own, mouth vibrating against your pussy as he began to suck the slick mess in your entrance. Moaning like he was eating you out more for his pleasure than your own—and you had never asked, but part of you believed it to be true.
His head bobbed gently as his mouth made out with your folds, the tip of his nose gently rubbing against your clit as his tongue tipped inside your entrance. And you had gone completely limp, between trying not to fight the pleasure building up rapidly inside you and letting him do whatever he liked to you. Because he was working to get you to cum in his mouth, and he was doing it almost effortlessly.
Your breathing had started to fall out of control, chest rising and falling erratically. But you could move your head up from the mattress, daring to cast a look downward. And as though you had called to him with just one glance, he blinked and looked up, finding your gaze on him.
He moved his mouth to your clit, circling it with his tongue teasingly before wrapping it with his lips and beginning to suck. Pleasure sizzled beneath your skin, and you let out a scream that made you sound pathetic—but you didn’t care. His hand left your thigh, and you knew what he would do next. You felt the tips of his index and middle fingers gently nudging in your entrance, and he sucked your clit slightly harder.
You lost connection with reality. Tension broke in your body, pleasure blooming from the centre of your body and reaching all parts inside you. You screwed your eyes shut, feeling like you were falling out of the highest cloud, almost kissing death itself.
You were rendered completely languid, breathing hard and raggedly. With your eyes still closed, you felt Seungkwan climbing back on top of you. “That felt… so good.”
He let out a light laugh, pressing your lips with his own softly. “Want more, baby?” he asked.
The question almost felt sarcastic. Of course you wanted more. He had been gone from your life for almost a year. You had been certain that you would never see his face ever again—hear his voice, touch his skin. Now you could get all of that, and the night was just beginning.
You nodded. “Don’t stop,” you pleaded.
❔ author's note: hi hi hi hello hi
writing this has been such a nice experience. to be honest, i have been experiencing the worst writer's block ever. but this fic has brought so much light into my days, and i'm so eager for you to read the second part!
If Feliks is the god of light, compassion and lust and Hyathos is the patron of desire, what's the difference between Feliks's lust and Hyathos's desire? Isn't it the same thing? desire and lust? Why didn't it work for them? Why was Hyathos not enough for Feliks?
If for you desire and lust are the same, that’s okay and I respect that ☺️ but it’s desire as a whole, not necessarily sexual, just that deep, deep longing for something that Hyunjin is a patron of. For Feliks, it’s more straight up lust, or as a concept if you will.
As for your second point, what I say in the fic is that “Feliks wanted to be loved by everyone. Hyathos wanted to be loved by Feliks.” Naturally, Feliks’ “everyone” included Hyathos—but for Hyathos, it was painful to realize he would never be enough for him, no matter what he did. Their love just wasn’t compatible.
I’m sorry the story isn’t clear enough for you, I hope this made it made sense ☺️ thanks a lot for checking it out!
intended souls | a lullaby on his throat chapter five
pairing: demigod!hyunjin x f!reader | word count: 13k | genre: mythology au, romance | warnings: adult and sometimes dark themes ; complicated feelings ; angst ; elements of contemporary fantasy ; explicit sexual content. This work is for adult audiences only.
You had known it before, but you were certain now—you would love him even if it annihilated you molecule by molecule. It was not something you could control and yet it felt like a choice, a conscious decision. You loved Hyunjin, and for as long as your heart would beat and perhaps even after, you would continue to love him.
One never really gets used to solitude.
There is no getting used to loneliness, there is only an illusion of it. The origin of this mirage most often comes from one’s foolish desire to be anything but hollow. Because, at its core, isn’t this what loneliness is? To be lacking something, something substantial enough that its absence alters us? Not everything can cause such a feeling. Loneliness, the true kind. Not everything holds enough weight for us to be off-balance once it is taken away from us. Or rather, once it is taken from within us.
Sometimes, it can feel as though something precious melted and disappeared, or like it waited while we were looking the other way before sneaking out. There is violence in that, in this betrayal—it’s difficult to process the shift when we do not see it unfold.
Other times, solitude is expected—but only truly lonely people can understand such a thing. Some people are made lonely and others are born lonely. In this case, it is much like a curse, something that follows us everywhere we go, lurking, but never far.
In this case, it feels like the beautiful and precious thing has been denied to us. Like, perhaps, we failed some sort of test and were proven unworthy of it. There is no suitable analogy for it—we could compare it, however, to having our chest cut open with a badly sharpened knife before our heart is torn away. Most of the time, they don’t bother sewing us back up, and then we become the wound that was inflicted upon us. Bleeding, raw, unsightly enough that people look the other way so they don’t have to see it.
Only the best things can cause this sort of pain, only the most beautiful things can become so foul, so terrible.
When something makes you fly high, it means the fall is harder, more brutal, but unfortunately not lethal.
You never got used to solitude.
It followed you all your life, really—at one point, you told yourself that you were meant to be alone, so you tried to embrace it. And you did so successfully, but to embrace and to get used to it are two very different concepts, and, in fact, they have nothing to do with one another.
It was as you reflected on solitude that you came to realize that a large room full of people sounded a little like the ocean. Murmurs of conversations came all together to form a whole, the sound of it echoing on the walls and the high ceiling, like ripples on water. At its faintest, when fewer people were speaking, you could swear it sounded just like a river.
It reminded you of the river that ran through the city, coursing in curves, flowing gently and delicately, with pretty lights reflecting on it. The music of a violin playing and tickling your ears.
There were, more or less, three hundred guests attending the gala tonight.
It changed nothing to the fact that you had never in your life before felt as alone as you did in that moment, surrounded by people you knew and by strangers, too, in a place that ought to be familiar but wasn’t really.
The sea of them continued to whisper and talk and laugh, the sound of it often punctuated with glasses clinking or chairs scraping on the old floor when people pushed themselves up or sat down. A group of four passed near you as they returned from outside, smelling faintly of cigarettes and winter. You recognized one of the four as the head curator of a museum in Italy, one that you had visited during your Master’s and that you had particularly liked. The man, older now, noticed you and stopped as the rest of his group continued toward their table, a little farther down the room.
“It’s an honor to be invited here tonight,” the man told you, and you had to look up so you could look him in the eyes, or rather, to pretend that you were still human. He shook your hand, but in the end held both your hands in his, squeezing them. “I remember when you were a student, coming to the museum every day… I knew then that you were special. Congratulations, dear.”
You offered him a smile and a thank you, doing your best to look like you meant it. You did mean it, only you couldn’t figure out if it was relevant. If he had truly believed that something set you apart from the masses years ago, wouldn’t he have told you then?
Why wait until now to do it?
The background noise changed when the crowd began to clap politely. You looked at the front of the room, where a small stage had been put in place for the night. It was nicely decorated with warm lighting and real flowers and plants. As you were sitting very close, you could smell them, fresh and sweet. The focus of the decor, however, was the few pieces from the Deities exhibition that had been brought here, into the museum’s atrium. There were three paintings. The first one, on the left, was Agatheia and her three children, depicting the demigoddess sitting in her lush garden, smiling as she was surrounded by Kyma, Prokopios, and Hyathos, who, however, was staring out at the horizon, not quite living in the present moment. It had always been one of your favorite pieces.
The second, on the right, was a large painting showing most of the ancient gods. The scene did not exist in the myths—the gods were never mentioned to have been at the same place all at once, as too many of them were enemies or rivals. At the very top of the frame was Minhas, god of the skies, inevitability, and mortality. He could be seen watching the other gods from his high viewpoint, observing all of them pensively.
Just below, Amaranthos and Perikles were looking down upon the chaos that they had stirred while fighting one another—the first had a sword made of obsidian and the other, a spear made of gold. Kyma, being taken away by Thoros, with Agatheia holding her daughter’s hand, looking like she was trying to get her daughter back from the King of the Underworld. However, Prokopios lay dead at their feet, his skin drained of color, his eyes open and rigid. Sophronia was alone, the goddess of flowers sitting on a rock, weaving a crown of roses. Her gaze, however, was turned to Agatheia. Some texts said that the two goddesses kept a secret friendship, and that it was Sophronia who gifted Agatheia the most beautiful flowers of her garden.
Beneios was there, not too far from Perikles, holding his dead sister’s body, her heart pierced by one of Perikles’ golden arrows. His expression could not be seen, but one could understand his pain and mourning in his posture and in the love with which he held his sister.
At the center of it all was Ismene, on her island, tall and radiant. She stood, towering over the god of light himself—Feliks was with her, on his knees as though he was seeking atonement, or simply begging his aunt for something. There were tears in his eyes and they resembled sun rays, illuminating his despondent expression.
Hyathos was with no one else. Unlike Sophronia, he wasn’t just alone—he was lonely, an arm outstretched, his fingertips caressed by the light spilling from Feliks’ tears. He stood, his ankles caressed by tall grass, his long, soft-brown hair floating in the wind. The expression on his face was complex, often named by art historians as one of the best portraits of its time. He was yearning for something and yet dreading it at once, nostalgic, bittersweet. The more one stared at him, the more emotions appeared—grief, fear, envy, anguish, curiosity. His eyes, it seemed, held whole entire worlds inside of them. You had written well over a hundred thousand words about this depiction of Hyathos alone, and it seemed like there was just as much to say about it still.
The last of the three paintings had been placed at the center. With no great surprise, it was The Cypress Tree, the most sought-after and cherished painting from the exhibition. Even from here, it seemed like you could feel the warmth emanating from it, from its lifelike radiance. It reminded you of the way the sun used to look—a debate that was still ongoing, as some people perceived a change in the color and aspect of sunlight while others did not. Scientists were studying the phenomenon but absolutely nothing hinted that something had changed in the atmosphere, the sky, or with the sun—the sun was the sun, as it had always been. Only, to you, and to some others, it looked different, in a way that could hardly be explained with words. It was in these moments that you envied painters. You thought that Arthur Calverley, who had so beautifully painted sunlight in The Cypress Tree, would have been able to convey this new luminescence with accuracy.
You watched as a woman made her way to the stage, stopping behind the reading stand, lowering the microphone until it was at a comfortable height for her. She seemed at ease in her professional-looking cocktail dress, gazing at the vast room with a smile on her face, looking amused.
The room fell silent almost instantly and all the heads turned in her direction, except for yours. Even as she began speaking and introducing herself as the Dean of the university that presented the Alden Breay Award. You had spoken with her a few times over the phone and again tonight, meeting her in the flesh for the first time. She was a hyper type of person, yet intelligent and witty. It showed as she spoke to the crowd, explaining how the award had come to exist.
You, however, were contemplating how it would be you, very soon, standing on that stage, giving your speech. In front of all of these people and a handful of cameras. Tonight’s ceremony was one of the most highly anticipated of the year, maybe especially since it also happened to be the day you launched the first three books on Cipherian. The first one was a dictionary, and the second was an analysis and explanation of the language’s complex grammar, including its even more obscure dialects.
The last book was the one you hated most. Or loved most. Or, somehow, both at once. It was the one you had begun to write before you had even processed the fact that you had suddenly acquired this language—the one you had so ardently wished to share with Hyunjin.
It was a huge book—a complete translation of the most important texts of the ancient myths, accompanied by comprehensive and detailed essays that you wrote, from the perspective of the only person on earth who could understand them completely. For now, at least, as you had no doubt that linguists and amateurs alike would soon know Cipherian as well as you did, or perhaps even better, rendering you useless once again. Some days, you couldn’t wait for it to happen, wanting nothing more than to be invisible and forgotten, knowing very well that it would leave yet another scar the day it would come true.
It was that book you were the most proud of. You would write other books like it—had already started to do so—with more texts and more translations. Now that you knew the language they were written in, the ancient myths were deeper, more textured. More real, too, somehow.
You did not pay much attention to the Dean as she spoke, instead you focused on the rest of the room, maybe trying to get used to the sight of all these people.
Jisung must have sensed your unease because he reached for your hand under the round table, squeezing it in his. He was most likely just as nervous as you were, considering how clammy his skin was. Yet you appreciated the gesture, turning to him with a joyless smile, to which he responded with an equally flat one. He looked especially nice tonight with his hair combed to the side and a fancy navy-colored suit. He was sitting between you and Seungmin, who also looked especially dapper in a charcoal outfit.
You shared your table, also, with the staff from the museum. Minji sat across from you, obviously agitated but in a giddy kind of way, almost childish. You envied her—she was, a little, the girl you wished you had been at her age. But unlike Minji, you had been born lonely, and you could not change that. When Mrs. Yoo noticed that you were looking in her direction, she mouthed a gentle It’ll be alright at you, making you wonder if it was very apparent that you felt like you were about to throw up.
“Deep breaths,” Jisung whispered into your ear. He had sprayed a little too much cologne tonight, but its vivid scent served as an anchor.
Deep breaths. Easier said than done.
You put a hand over your chest in a lame attempt at calming down. You could feel your pulse through your ribcage, crazed and unsteady.
Your fingers ran into something cool and you wrapped your hand around it, suddenly remembering the existence of the necklace hanging around your neck.
A few hours ago, as you were getting ready for tonight, Jisung entered your hotel room with a small box. It’s for you, he said, handing it over. A gift. And he had never really been the one to buy gifts, so it was suspicious. The gift turned out to be an absolutely stunning yet delicate white gold chain with a small pendant. The pendant was a green garnet whose deep shade of viridian fascinated anybody who looked at it. It was reminiscent of the ocean and a forest at once, and everything in between.
There’s no way you bought this, you told Jisung. Your reasoning was simple—he didn’t buy gifts, and if he was going to buy gifts, they wouldn’t be as nice as this necklace. Only someone with refined taste would pick this over other necklaces. And, lastly, there was no way in hell he could afford it, even if you paid him well. You chose this necklace?
The thing with Jisung is that he is a terrible liar. It was actually that very fact that led to the demise of your situationship. When you clearly began showing signs of the Catching Feelings disease, he recoiled immediately and was not inconspicuous about it, no matter how hard he tried. And you knew he tried just so he wouldn’t hurt you. And it was such a stupid thing to do, yet everyone did it—there was no way one could fully protect another from the truth. Nothing could soften the blow—it could only be delayed.
Of course I chose it. But when he saw in your eyes that you didn’t believe him, Jisung added, The lady at the store helped me. Which made total sense, and you probably would have believed him if you didn’t suspect this necklace to be custom-made and worth several thousand dollars.
You wondered if maybe Jisung needed to get laid. After all, he had left this girl he had started seeing after you. He said things didn’t work out. He had been with her for less than a month, even less time than he had spent fooling around with you. After that had been the beginning of the chaos, and he had started following you anywhere—you were not aware of him seeing girls. So you figured that maybe he was hoping you would fuck him in exchange for this insanely expensive necklace.
Thing is, you could be convinced. Maybe you would suck his cock after the gala, in the car on your way back to the hotel suite that had been offered to you since it was closer to the museum than your apartment was. You knew it made him crazy when you looked him in the eyes as he spilled himself into your mouth. After that, you could let him fuck you in the hotel room, on the couch maybe, or against a wall. Jisung fucked desperately, always. You used to like it because you had believed he was desperate for you. You had been a fool, though.
You did not love him. There had been a time when you thought you loved Jisung. But that was before you knew what love was really like.
You nervously fidgeted with the necklace, fully aware that daydreaming about letting your almost-ex hit it just to feel something was not the best coping mechanism.
On stage, the Dean had just spoken your name, inviting you to join her so she could officially hand you the award you had been granted. Your heart jumped in your chest and it felt like it came to a stop, much like your breathing, or the flow of time. For a brief moment, silence reigned in the atrium.
Your gaze flew upwards, lingering on the large skylight that the ceiling was made of. The sky was dark and raindrops rolled down the curved glass.
The thing with solitude is it doesn’t matter if you’ve had it for a long time or not, if you expected it or not—it is always quiet and furtive and violent. And it hit you exactly at that moment. The magnitude of your loneliness. The weight of it—crushing and unforgiving. Maybe you had known for a while but hadn’t been brave enough to admit it to yourself.
You would never be truly happy again. Not without Hyunjin.
You had tasted what genuine contentment was like, you had known what true love felt like, and now everything was bland compared to it. There was no point in chasing a similar feeling because it wouldn’t exist, not without him. There would be days when you would feel joy but you would never be really happy. Something would always be lacking in your life, lacking from you—he had left, it felt like, thousands of little voids in your body and your soul.
You did not want the award. You never asked for it. You let Seungmin and Jisung convince you that you should take it, if only for the monetary prize that would be split between you and the museum. You didn’t need money. You did not want it.
The person you wanted to share all of this with was gone.
A comforting hand pressed itself in between your shoulder blades—Jisung gave you a gentle nudge as a reminder that you had to stand up.
Your legs were weak, trembling yet stiff, but you managed to push yourself up, a little too aware that all the heads were turned toward you, now. As soon as you stood straight, the entire room erupted in enthusiastic applause, the sound of it echoing on the walls, made even louder by the acoustics of the room. You smoothed out your pretty ball gown before closing your hands into fists, your fingernails digging into your palm, as Jisung stood after you, now pressing his hand at the small of your back to invite you to come with him. He took his role of security guard very seriously, but then he had also taken himself very seriously when he had been head of security here, so it shouldn’t surprise you.
“Let’s go now,” you heard him mutter as he guided you toward the front of the room, regularly looking around as if he was fully expecting doom to fall upon you. He kept you close. The plan was that he would wait by the stage while you gave your speech, but now you found yourself wishing he would climb up there with you just so you wouldn’t be alone.
Then you remembered the rift between alone and lonely.
He did help you up the steps though, holding your hand until the last second and giving it a squeeze before releasing you. The spotlights were warm and blinded you enough that you could barely see more than a few tables away—you couldn’t even make out the far end of the atrium, for which you were grateful. You could only imagine it would be easier to read your speech.
The Dean welcomed you warmly, introducing you once again into the microphone while an assistant was bringing the trophy. It was smaller than you expected it to be, yet no less beautiful—made of glass, gold and bronze, it depicted a woman, Alden Breay’s wife, sitting at a desk and seemingly writing. It was his wife’s essay on geopolitics that had inspired him the award in the first place, because, at the time, institutions wanted nothing to do with an essay on politics written by a woman. Breay had to claim the essay as his for it to see the light of day. He had sworn that worthy scholars should never go unheard and ignored again.
You were handed your trophy, which was heavier than it seemed and cool to the touch. You looked at it for a few seconds while the applause gained in volume and ardor. A nervous smile painted itself on your lips, and you took a moment to observe the trophy again, on which your name had been engraved, followed by for her immense contribution to the world of history, linguistics, and art, which changed the world.
You put the trophy down, causing the applause to slowly come to a stop, but not before you heard a few familiar voices calling your name—Minji and Mrs. Yoo, but also your mother, your sister, and your uncle, who had traveled for hours just to be here tonight. Tears welled up in your eyes while the importance of the moment was trying to make its way in the deepest corners of your mind.
From his spot, Jisung handed you the two sheets on which you had printed your speech—it had taken many hours to settle on a final version, and many people had helped. You unfolded it with shaking hands, staring at the words on the first sheet, reading the first sentence. Thank you for being here tonight. It is an honor to stand before you to accept this award.
Not inaccurate or anything, and yet.
Almost painfully, you lifted your head, really looking at the room. Now that your eyes had adjusted to the brightness of the lights, you could see better, although the faces remained unreadable. There were so many people. You gave lectures sometimes or participated in various speaking engagements, but never in front of a crowd like this. You hadn’t even been this nervous during your PhD presentation.
You cleared your throat, reporting your attention to the sheets you were holding. You suddenly felt the urge to look at something familiar, at something comforting—and since the thing you desired most was not available, you turned around, glancing at the paintings behind you. The gods, the gods that you understood better now. You allowed your gaze to linger on Feliks underneath his cypress tree, and then on Hyathos and his heavy expression, and the rest of them. To you, they had become so real that it was hard to distinguish fiction from truth, but you had no desire to perceive reality anyway.
The room fell quiet—a silence so thick you could almost feel it on your skin as it reached you. You inhaled it when you took a deep breath to ready yourself, but as you opened your mouth to begin reading your speech, something shifted within you. It seemed like those words on this piece of paper—words that you had composed, typed, and printed yourself—were no longer accurate.
You folded the sheets again, trying very hard to conceal the uncontrollable shaking of your hands. You remembered exactly at that moment the way it used to feel when you and Hyunjin would exchange emails back and forth, writing entire essays about the myths just for each other. How easy it had been with him—this, and everything else. There was so much that you wished you could talk about with him now that you truly understood the myths.
At the beginning of your essay book, one could read, To you who made me love these stories more than I ever did - each and every one of these words is for you.
Maybe it did not matter. Whether he loved you or not. Because you loved him, and nothing could ever change that about you. And you loved that part of yourself, the part that had fallen in love with this honeyed-skin stranger. You loved the part of yourself that had allowed it to happen, that had gone with him for dinner the very night you met him. So the fact that he didn’t love you as much as you loved him only mattered in the sense that you were alone and would always be, but this love would always have a home in your heart.
“Uh…” You began, recoiling slightly when a slight screech echoed after your voice. You pulled away a little, making sure to speak a few inches farther so the microphone would work well. “I, uh, I spent hours writing this speech, but… But there is more I want to say. And of course, I want to say thank you to those who decided I deserve this award. Never in my life did I imagine something like this would happen to me. So I’m grateful, I really am. And yet—we all know how I came to make the discoveries I made, and so much of it relies on luck that I almost refused the award.”
That declaration was punctuated by murmurs across the room. The more you spoke, the easier you could breathe, it felt like.
You went on. “But language… Language brings people together. To me, instead of being a barrier, it is a gate, an entrance into another culture. I always felt this way, even before Cipherian was Cipherian, back when we only knew a few words of it. And so I think this is why I’m here tonight—apart from the fact that I was persuaded by people close to me—because I believe in the importance of this discovery, regardless of my actual involvement in it. I want to keep writing about it. I don’t think I will have enough of my life to say everything there is to say about the beauty and the intricacy of it.
“You know how they say that learning a language changes you, alters your brain, the way it works, and the way it processes information. I’ve always known that to be true, but it was never as real as the day I sat down to read every word of the myths we had not yet been able to understand. I read about arra, a concept that doesn’t quite exist in our modern world. The authors of the myths thought that love came from light—among other sources, because it could also come from blood, or the ocean—and that it was visible to the naked eye. Love. Arra is what lights up someone’s eyes when they see their soulmate. But even soulmate isn’t quite that in Cipherian. The exact translation would be intended soul, as in, there is only one soul we are meant to bond with. To these people, arra could be seen on someone. And that changed me.”
At this, the crowd’s whispers grew a tad louder, but the voices were appreciative, impressed, even.
“I remember it. Arra. I remember when it once illuminated my eyes, and now that the light went out, I see the world a few shades darker, but at least I have a word that explains the phenomenon.” You paused then, the shaking of your hands calming down only for you to begin feeling it in your throat. “But that’s not all. Cipherian opens a brand new perspective on the concept of legacy. To them, it’s called syn hsar avīmhyphaei. Essentially, the literal translation of that is continuity. Because, what is legacy for us? Let’s put it simply—it is what we leave behind after we’re gone, which is not a concept that can be applied to the gods, can it? How could immortal beings perceive legacy the same way we do if they never cease to exist? Hsar means circle in Cipherian. Syn hsar avīmhyphaei is the circle that continues. The gods’ legacy is what always was and what always will be.
“We do not know well the authors of the myths and even less those whose stories, written in the even more obscure language of the gods, inspired them. But whoever they were had a sensitive and beautiful vision of life, an understanding of it that our brains can barely comprehend.
“So, I think, this is why I’m here tonight. I think it’s the only way I could make sense of this award—because I want people to read those books. I want people to open their minds to this new perspective on life, which I think changes us for the better. It rewires our brains and our hearts and forces them open in a painless, loving way.
“Above all… I wish for people to come together. Exchange, debate, discuss, learn. Love. There is nothing that can be compared to it—the act of bonding with someone because of a shared passion, or a common goal. Maybe the authors took themselves for gods—maybe that was what they wanted us to believe, that their legacy did not follow the rules of time, that it had no beginning and no end. And I think they were right. Let the myths and Cipherian be the bridge that brings people together. Together, let’s create a new and more beautiful legacy.”
The applause that followed your speech deafened you momentarily, but it wasn’t because of its volume per se, it was because, for those few seconds, nothing else existed, not even you. Your soul left your body for a short moment while you were recovering from the immense stress of speaking in front of such a crowd. The return was brutal—the spotlights, it seemed, were warmer than ever, and your dress felt awfully light all of a sudden, as though it did not cover enough skin.
You reached for your trophy and let Jisung escort you back to your table, except everyone on the way there stopped you to congratulate you or shake your hand. Assistants were, however, asking attendees to stand while they cleared some space, as the next part of the gala would be the core party where people could dance and drink, and have dessert after the dinner earlier.
You let Minji take you to a corner to touch up your eye makeup. She did so in silence with a concerned look on her face, a look that you knew very well by now. You hadn’t quite descended from the high of the speech—in fact, you couldn’t remember any of it, not even a sentence—but focusing on Minji’s strange behavior certainly felt like a gentle slap back to reality.
“What’s going on?” you questioned as she handed you your lipstick, which had a nice, creamy peach color. You had too much money now, more than you wanted, so you bought things that cost a ridiculous price. This lipstick was one of these things. “Did I make a fool of myself?” Your heart sank in your chest.
Minji shook her head vehemently. “No, god, no!” she assured, looking properly shocked. “On the contrary—it was great. You were great. You didn’t even look nervous.” She waited until you had reapplied the lipstick and put it back into her purse. “I’m just really proud of you.”
You knew there was more to Minji’s sudden mood shift so you didn’t believe her made-up excuse. You did trust her, though—you could only imagine that she was withholding information from you because she thought it was the absolute best thing to do at this moment. Maybe it had something to do with the annoying journalists from the red carpet—because there had been a red carpet even though you insisted it was absolutely not necessary.
Have you guys been dating for a long time? Asked about you and Jisung, because he was effectively your date for the night—as your personal security, of course.
I love your dress! Who designed it? The dress was nice and you had found it at a luxury shop. A few haute couture designers had approached you, offering to design you a dress for tonight’s event, but you had politely declined.
With which of the gods would you most want to go on a date? A question you had assumed was some sort of bait, considering you had been ridiculed during your university years when you admitted having a crush on one of them. The way a girl has a crush on a guy that doesn’t exist, but it hadn’t stopped the others from giggling not just behind your back, but right at your face.
Most of these so-called journalists had requested a camera interview with you, and Seungmin had politely let them know there would be no such thing tonight.
You didn’t need media exposure. Cipherian, the myths, and even your essays were all over the news and the internet.
“Thank you,” you finally told Minji, making yourself smile. “I owe you and the others a lot.”
“No need to be humble tonight,” she reminded you playfully. “How about I take your trophy upstairs to your office? Seems inconvenient to carry around.”
It was excessively heavy indeed, but now that Minji was offering, what you really wanted was to go with her. Just to be away from all of these people for five minutes. Or maybe twenty.
Or maybe an hour.
“I’ll go with,” you said. You figured you ought to give her a little excuse just so she wouldn’t suspect anything. “There’s something I wanted to check anyway.”
A hand pressed itself on your back, and you recognized Jisung. “Nope, no work tonight.” He had a faint smile on his face when you turned to him. “Besides, you need to eat.”
Jisung took his hand in yours, guiding you away from Minji and toward the tables covered in food at the other end of the room. Since the beginning of the night, it was more of the same—everybody who saw you waved at you or gave you a solemn nod, and you did your best to give the appropriate response, but your throat was shut tight and you just felt weird. Like you expected more from tonight, or perhaps less, in a strange way.
Once you made it to the food, Jisung asked for a few random items on the table, and the server carefully put everything on a plate. “With two forks, please,” Jisung added. “Thank you.”
You also offered the server a smile, just so people would at least believe you weren’t completely miserable. Jisung once again took your hand, so you could go sit somewhere to eat. You weren’t hungry, but you’d eat a few bites just to shut him up—or rather, just so he wouldn’t worry about you too much.
As you walked away, though, you caught sight of the plaque with the caterer’s name on it. It was a bakery somewhere in town, with a very funny name. Familiar in an excessively bittersweet way.
“BabyBread,” Jisung read on the plaque, stopping in his tracks and following your gaze. He chuckled. “That’s a weird business name. But kinda funny, isn’t it?” When he saw that you weren’t responding, he went on, “Do you know this place? The pastries look delicious.”
Did you know this place? Yes. But you hadn’t been inside the bakery per se. Hyunjin, however, intended to take you there for dessert after your first dinner together. Your first date, for all intents and purposes. Yet you yearned for it, for a memory that didn’t exist. You had never tasted the food made over there because instead, you and Hyunjin slow-danced outside. And it changed your life. And it changed you.
“Thank you sir,” the caterer employee retorted with a smile. “Freshly baked today by yours truly.”
“Oh, are you the owner of the bakery?” Jisung asked, making small talk with this stranger. “The name really is something.”
“It’s an inside joke, but yeah, it’s me.” The young man offered both of you a wide, heartfelt smile. He turned to you. “Miss, I want to extend my congratulations on your achievement. I can’t wait to buy your books and read them.”
Two things went through your mind at that moment—the first was that you had a box with copies of the books upstairs and that you would have someone give them to him. The second was that Hyunjin, that first night, had said he knew the owner.
“Please speak to my assistant,” you told him. “Tell her I want you to have the books—I have some in my office.” Before he could refuse though, you continued. “Sir, excuse me, but… There is someone I know, a friend, with whom I almost visited your bakery once.” It was a little more than a year ago—time flew a little too fast to your taste. “He said he knows you.”
The man’s eyebrows raised in a pleasantly surprised expression. “Did he?” His smile softened. “Who is that friend we have in common, then? He never told me he knew THE woman who deciphered the gods’ language!”
Jisung tugged at your arm but you let go of his hand. You closed in the distance between you and the table—the closer to it you got, the more you could smell the sweet scents emanating from it.
“His name is Hyunjin. Hwang Hyunjin.” Simply uttering his name out loud like this felt like a free fall, and there was nothing you could anchor yourself to.
The young man squinted for a couple of seconds and he tilted his head to the side, just slightly. “Yes, Mr. Hyunjin. We became acquainted when I noticed it was him in a clothing ad across the street…” He let out a soft laugh but the more he spoke, the colder your heart felt. “He used to visit my bakery quite often.”
You swore you could hear Jisung’s impatience and unease as he stood a little behind you. But this baker was the closest thing you had to Hyunjin in months, even though he was just someone who knew him.
“He left the city,” you responded, your voice cracking unexpectedly. You cleared your throat, feeling the familiar prick of tears in your eyes.
The man frowned. “Are you sure, miss?”
Out of habit, you glanced at Jisung, who had an unreadable expression on his face, but was still dutifully holding the plate of pastries with the two forks on it. For an instant, he seemed puzzled, and then forced himself to look neutral again.
“Y-Yes,” you replied, turning to the baker again.
He nodded slowly before shrugging. “I could swear I saw him earlier.” He gestured vaguely at the room behind you. “Must have been a trick of the light.”
The free fall came to an abrupt stop when you landed in a pool of ice-cold water, then sank to the bottom of it, only to end your journey in lava. Too thick to move and too hot to breathe. Almost with fear, you turned around, looking at the ball taking place in the atrium.
“Everyone looks so dapper and fancy tonight,” the man went on with a light tone—maybe he had seen something in your eyes. Maybe, for an instant, you had let your sorrow shine through them. “Probably got confused with someone else.”
Except there was one thing you were sure of, and it was that nobody who had a functional pair of eyes could ever confuse Hyunjin for somebody else. He looked too out of this world for that.
You froze in place, scanning the faces before you, looking for the one you had been so adamantly yearning for. Could it really be? No, it couldn’t, right?
Jisung intertwined his arm with yours again before you could sink any deeper. “We can eat later. Let’s dance. I like this song.”
The song had just begun. Jisung had never been one to dance, not like that. It was a slow-paced classical piece, one that you had never heard before, yet it sounded both nostalgic and sad.
He left the plate on the nearest table and dragged you to the dance floor under the gazes of several people. You wanted to cry. You wanted to leave. You did not want to dance, but when Jisung put his hands on your waist, you let him. He was looking at you gravely, almost like he was sorry that it was with him you were dancing and not somebody else.
You loved him. Hyunjin. It had been foolish to love him but it was not the sort of thing one could control. You knew nothing about him except, you knew his soul. It felt like that. You didn’t know about his family—he avoided the topic always—and you didn’t know about his childhood either, but you knew about his deepest and darkest feelings. And it had been enough to make you fall in love with him.
And now you saw him in everything.
You saw him in the river coursing through the city. You saw him in the cold nights and warm afternoons. You saw him in the strangeness of the world and in its beauty, too. He had become a part of you and that could never be undone, not even after he left. He had become a phantom limb, but the space he occupied in your heart had remained unchanged. You felt him in everything. You felt him in the smoothest silk of fancy hotel room robes. You felt him in the most poignant music, whether it was piano, harp, or cello. You felt him in the emptiness of your bed. In the emptiness of your cunt, and the one of your heart, too.
Jisung led the dance, holding you firmly as he did his best to sway beautifully among the other dancers. Your gaze lingered at many places as you danced—Jisung, the peculiar expression on his face as he held your waist as though he was running out of time. The skylight, displaying nothing but darkness and raindrops. The walls, displaying some of the most significant art the world had ever come to see. The crowd, some of them dancing to the rhythm of the sorrowful melody playing in the room. Others stood around and watched those who danced while drinking champagne. It made you crave more of it. Champagne, or something stronger.
You saw Hyunjin in everything. You saw the color of his eyes in a bottle of luxury cognac, you saw the color of his skin in a glass of expensive white wine, or in a jar of honey left by a sunny window.
You saw Hyunjin in the language of the gods. In the deep and intricate way the myths illustrated love and yearning. You saw Hyunjin in the madness that was taking over you—the one the gods called ceinōahk, a word whose literal translation was everyday love. The concept would be difficult to explain, but essentially, it describes a love that is as natural as breathing, cooking food, or looking at the sky. Actions done on a daily basis, out of need for survival or just because they make life better and are a part of it. You saw him in other words or in grammar rules. You saw him in the commas and other symbols that adorned the ancient texts, like the one you had named the ōleiandyi, for oleanders were the inspiration behind it. A straight line ending in what looked like a star but was a flower with five petals. It took you a lot of practice to get it right because of the specific shape of oleander petals.
The oleandi’s line would be traced below a series of words that needed to be insisted on, with the flower placed at the end to further emphasize the importance of the sentence. It felt as though every word he had ever spoken to you ought to be adorned with the symbol.
Your mind was so obsessed, so broken, so consumed by him, that you even saw him here, tonight, standing across the room, his gaze on you. Staring at you as if he had never left. Like he had been gone for two or three lifetimes.
You had known it before, but you were certain now—you would love him even if it annihilated you molecule by molecule. It was not something you could control and yet it felt like a choice, a conscious decision. You loved Hyunjin, and for as long as your heart would beat and perhaps even after, you would continue to love him.
Even if it killed you. Even if it kept you alive in the most unfair of worlds, which was to say, a world without him.
Bet she sucked her way through that PhD. Sloppy.
The voice that echoed in Hyunjin’s head was so loud and invasive that it might as well have been his own, only it wasn’t. It was plaguing his thoughts the way his father used to. Like poison. Like a nightmare one cannot wake up from.
Like a smear of blood on the cuff of a white button-down.
It had dried already. The blood. Much like the voice haunting his mind, it did not belong to Hyunjin, and it would not go away, no matter how hard he scrubbed or how much handsoap he poured onto it. He knew he wasn’t supposed to get water on it because it was silk, but he needed it gone.
Girls like her always act like they’re stuck-up nerds but next thing you know, they’re giving you a handjob in the bathroom at some wine tasting thing and ask you to finish on their tits.
Hyunjin only wanted to get some fresh air. He could never have predicted he would run into these pigs, men he had never even seen before.
He might have taken it as a sign that he shouldn’t have come here at all. Seungmin had given him ample amounts of warnings. “Are you sure about this?” his former manager had asked him when Hyunjin gave him the necklace that he got for you. “What am I supposed to tell her?”
“Just don’t tell her it’s from me. You can tell her it’s from you, or Han, or a fan. I want her to have it. I’ll be there, but I’m not sure I’ll… talk to her.”
Nobody else in the world knew how much danger you were in. He had tried to warn Han Jisung. He had begged him to keep you safe, but what could possibly protect you from the wrath of the cruelest gods?
He would see you on the news sometimes, or on a documentary series. Each discovery, each translation was a new window for mankind to look into another world. He knew you were drawing a lot of attention to yourself with your work. From mortals. From gods.
He knew he was making it worse, too. Hyunjin did his best to avoid you and thoughts of you, but that was like asking an irredeemable heroin addict to stop thinking about his vice.
They would kill you for it. They would kill you for understanding them, for understanding life the way they did. They would kill you to punish him for falling in love with you.
Hyunjin knew he took a risk by coming here tonight but he told himself he would stay away. That he would watch you being crowned with the award, being recognized by your peers, and that he would leave after. He knew what he had to do. Maybe he had known before, but it had all appeared clearly to him when he learned about your car “accident” a few weeks ago.
His father had called him selfish many times and it had taken all this time for him to realize he had been right all along. Weak, selfish, and self-absorbed. He should not have asked you to dinner that day at the museum. He should have walked out of there as soon as you made his heart jump in his chest. He should have run away when your words made his soul turn from a dull monochrome shade to vibrant with color.
There had been something in your eyes. And it was still there tonight. It was difficult to explain it with words—perhaps you, who possessed the language he had once known but had been taken away from him, would know how to describe it. It was as though you were begging to be loved. Please love me, your eyes said. But stay away.
He was running out of time. To love you. To save you. To make things right. But he was selfish, which meant he was here tonight so he could love you one last time.
She probably rode a dick for that award too.
Or took it in the ass.
I know a guy who can get us into the afterparty.
How about we go say hi and maybe get a few drinks in her?
Hyunjin only stepped outside for one minute because the sight of you in that green tulle dress overwhelmed him. It had been so long since he saw you, since he was in the same room as you, breathed the same air as you—he could only take so much of it at once.
There had been a few other guests scattered around the stairs leading to the front entrance. Hyunjin chose a spot he thought would be the most peaceful, but his attention immediately turned to the three nearest men when he understood that you had gone to university with one of them. They were drunk, meaning the conversation was not happening at a quiet volume.
And they were talking about you.
Hyunjin had never been intimate with rage. It was the very reason why his father hated him. Amaranthos had always wished to witness his middle child become more like himself—ruthless, filled with fury, and thirsty for violence and disorder. Hyunjin, up until now, had always been the exact opposite of all these things. He had no wish to get involved in his father’s wars because he had no bias in them. He had no claims in them. To Hyunjin, all of it had always been so futile—why fight over a territory or an ideal?
It had never been important enough for him. Not those wars, not any other, not anything.
And then he met you.
It was ironic, almost comical. As he felt more and more of his divine essence dissipating, Hyunjin began to display, finally, some of the qualities his father had wanted to see in him for so long.
He rinsed the soap off for the third time, examining the cuff of his shirt under the ceiling light. The blood was still there. Paler, but there nonetheless.
Hyunjin could tell that it was not just the free alcohol served at the award ceremony that made these men speak the way they did. It wasn’t even just lust or jealousy, although it was also that. The one who studied with you, he could tell, envied your success and resented you for it at the same time. Because you were better than he would ever be. And maybe he felt some sort of guilt for letting you give him a handjob in some bathroom at a wine tasting event and treating you like a disposable fleshlight.
Like a shooting star.
Everyone gets tired of me, Hyunjin. I’m just a shooting star.
He heard his father in these men. His cruelty. His impudence. Like poison. Like a nightmare. Like a stain of blood on white silk. He would recognize it anywhere—the corruption, the rot, now seeping through these mortals. Their impulses required so little divine intervention, but it was there. Their minds were too simple to fight their primal urges anyway. The kind of men who were just a little too eager to stick their cocks into something warm. Many gods were like this, too.
When you get tired of me, Hyunjin, will you be gentle with me?
Hyunjin never had to use violence before. He witnessed it many times, he felt it, and he hated it. He was the victim of it often. But it was the first time he tried it with his own hands. His own fists. Grabbing this bastard by the collar of his shirt and slamming him into the pillar behind him, realizing that the hatred he had for this guy extended to himself.
Smashing his face with his fist. One time, two times. Getting hit in return but not the pain that should have come with it. Maybe because he still had some immortality to him, or because he could not let these assholes defile your name like this and not react. Maybe this was his father taunting him—maybe he never meant to send them after you. Perhaps Amaranthos was just reveling in seeing his son’s facade break.
He was stronger than he thought he was. It only took a few punches until the man fell to his knees, mostly knocked out, but with still enough stamina to call Hyunjin a few nasty names. He was bleeding a lot from his nose and his lip was cut open. One of the other two just fled—the last one stared at the scene, frozen, apparently unable to react. Maybe he was trying to decide if it was worth risking getting his nose broken to show his loyalty to his friend.
Hyunjin did not care. He let go of the guy’s collar. He was bleeding all over his sleeve anyway. He backed up. The guy spat at his feet but ultimately just rested his head and stared at Hyunjin with a complicated emotion in his eyes. Guilt. Hatred. Shame. Ecstasy. It shone underneath the rest the same way obsidian reflected moonlight. It gave Hyunjin chills—he let two security guards take him away just so he wouldn’t have to look at the man anymore. And at the poison in his eyes.
Hyunjin avoided the worst of the commotion by bribing the head of security. The museum had hired an outside firm, so he was not familiar with anyone working at the doors tonight. It cost him all the cash he had in his wallet—and it was a lot—but he didn’t care.
When you get tired of me, Hyunjin, will you be gentle with me?
He could not wash the blood off his shirt.
Giving up, Hyunjin used a paper towel to dry himself as best he could, daring a glance towards the mirror in front of him. He barely recognized the reflection staring back. A man in a velvet tuxedo. A man stuck between two worlds, a prisoner of his own longing. With someone else’s blood on his sleeve and shadows in his eyes. It wasn’t Hyathos that he was seeing.
It was Hyunjin—in his most broken, human form.
He felt so small then, alone in this bathroom. Like the weight of the entire world was crushing him. Only, he had never been much more than that. Whatever this was. This was the most he’d ever be—a man who loved you and who had once been loved by you, too.
He took a deep breath, exhaling in a long sigh that left a smudge of condensation on the mirror, blurring his face. The air had become too heavy in here, too thick, much like the silence stuffing the room. He couldn’t hide in here forever anyway, could he? He knew that security rounds were done every ten minutes or so, which meant he had very little time to get out.
The hallway was a little less quiet—the party permeated through the floor here, as though it filtered between the old wooden planks. He wasn’t technically allowed here because it was the administrative wing on the second floor. Hyunjin just did not think it would have been a good idea to wash blood off his hands and shirt in the public bathroom downstairs, so he snuck up here. He knew this hallway because it’s where you brought him that first night. After dinner and slow-dancing in the park. After showing him the hidden painting.
He passed the door to your office, remembering how it felt to hold you and kiss you there. The floor creaked beneath him, but the sound of you in his mind, moaning so prettily in his ear, was louder. Louder than the other voices, too, the cruel ones.
Nothing mattered as much as you did.
And yet Hyunjin slowed down when he walked past the large window just before the staircase. It was so wide that it spanned nearly the entire wall. When he stood at the largest frame in its center, it was all he could see.
And, now, the night took up all of the space within it.
This window should have a similar view to the one in your office, meaning he should be able to see the park and the tree under which you sometimes sat. Only, it seemed like that part of the neighborhood had a power outage. Everything was dark and still. It was a strange sensation—Hyunjin knew it was there. The street below, the park across, the tree, the other museum wings. But the night had swallowed all of it.
His heart tightened in his chest—he had to hold onto the nearest window frame for a few seconds, his head spinning. He almost lost his balance. Almost.
He remembered his orchard.
He had built it, all of it, from nothing. Selecting only the best seeds and planting them with care. The trees grew in the fertile soil between the ocean and a pine grove, and so the fruit carried the taste of the land it grew on. Iodine. Timber. Sunlight. His father tried to convince him to tear down the pine grove so he could plant more trees and harvest more fruit. Hyunjin, mainly, grew peaches, but also apples and plums. He even had a few cherry trees, whose pretty blooms, in the spring, always moved him. He liked the trees he had, but he did not need more. He was content with his orchard. Satisfied. The fruit was juicy and sweet and fragrant.
His father always wanted more. He always wanted him to want more.
Hyunjin used to spend a lot of time there, alone, walking barefoot in the earth or the high grass, tending to his trees. Sometimes, he would venture into the pine grove. And sometimes—especially towards the end, before his father sent him here—he would go beyond the pine grove.
The pine trees were tall and ancient, older than time itself. They swayed gently in the wind, so he took his time, admiring the view on his way, walking the narrow path leading to the other side, stopping only when he reached it. He could not have gone any further anyway because that was also where the land stopped.
It did so dramatically—with a high, steep cliff, overlooking the ocean below. The perfect diving spot.
Hyathos was a demigod. He could not die, as in, death always evaded him or he always evaded death. But he would dive into the restless waters, over and over, as though colossal waves weren’t crashing onto the cliffside. As forceful as it was mesmerizing, the ocean broke onto the sharp rocks. The foam darkened their ochre-colored surface, drying only when the sun would kiss them come sunrise.
Hyathos was a demigod. Patron of desire, of disasters, and fruit trees. He had been loved by light itself, once, but not enough to be its sole craving. It was during one of his dives that he understood that being the god of desire did not mean he was meant to be desired more than anybody else—god or mortal alike. It meant he was more intimate with desire. It meant he felt it deeper and stronger and harder.
Hyathos could not die. But sometimes, as his immortal body hit the water, he hoped he would. He had been interested in mortals before, but it was around this time that he became fascinated by them, visiting witches and warlocks to inquire about the mortal world and the people who inhabited it. What they did. What kind of things they liked.
Their purpose.
Hyunjin’s fingers found the latch of the window in front of him. He could not take his eyes off the darkness below. Truth be told, he did not miss his life as a god, nor did he miss the dominion over which his father ruled, as it never truly felt like home. However, he did miss his orchard a little.
And this window reminded him an awful lot of staring down at the sea from the top of the cliff on a moonless night.
Hyunjin tested the latch—his fingers acted before his mind could think. He wondered what would happen if he jumped. If it would feel the way it used to feel when he dove into the ocean. He wondered if he would die. Could he die, yet? Was Minhas already watching him?
It made no difference. Whether he was watching or not. The latch did not move when Hyunjin tried it. Of course not—it was sealed.
He knew temptation invaded his mind out of fear. Or rather, grief.
He could, maybe, force this safety latch open.
Or he could go back downstairs and watch you in your beautiful dress. He could face you one last time. And if you let him, maybe, hold you again. Just tonight.
Hyunjin. I’m just a shooting star.
This whole time, you had it all wrong. It was he who was the shooting star, and you were the night sky, vast and deep and complex and beautiful. And he would endure all the anguish in all the universes if it meant he could love you in just one of them, just for a little while.
Hyunjin adjusted his bowtie, using his reflection in the window in front of him before making his way downstairs again, searching for you. Always you.
He saw it in your eyes when your gaze met his. Arra. Maybe it had been there since the beginning. He thought so.
Hyunjin felt it in his chest when your gaze met his. Belonging.
It had been there since the beginning.
Upon seeing Hyunjin, your body came to a halt, Jisung crashing into you. You almost toppled over but caught your balance at the last second, which could be classified as a miracle considering how you didn’t even feel your body. Or perhaps you felt it too much, kind of in the same way severe burns affect someone. As in, those burns go through the skin and damage the nerve endings, cutting all sensation. Protecting one from the pain.
It was what you were thinking of as you stood there, staring at the other side of the large room. That something within you was trying to shield you from whatever consequences would arise following this phenomenon.
Because either he wasn’t actually here, or this was somehow a hallucination. You could believe that—you could see how longing for him too much had just caused your brain to produce this illusion, making him appear out of the blue, perhaps as an attempt to soothe this visceral need that you felt. Your mind had produced an image of him. A wraith. Not real, no matter how tangible he looked.
Or he was actually here. Standing there, motionless, as handsome as ever, wearing a black velvet tux, his complex eyes riveted on you. But he had been there before, and then he had left without a word. So perhaps his coming back meant nothing.
Maybe he was here and he would just leave again.
It wasn’t burn injuries you thought about when he moved—Hyunjin, or the mirage of him, stood straight, walking slowly and steadily towards you. Something else came to your mind—it was as though each one of his steps was a detonation in your chest, instead this time there was no destruction. It was as though he was holding your heart in his hand and every inch of distance he closed between you was another not-so-gentle squeeze on it, forcing you back to life, breathing air into your lungs, allowing blood to course through your veins again. He was here. No illusion could have such an effect on you—only the real Hyunjin could find a way to your soul, bypassing any and all defenses on his way. He was the only thing you would ever let anywhere near your heart, even if it killed you.
He was standing right in front of you before you knew it, bringing with him his elaborate scent, enveloping you in it. Woody petrichor, with amber and floral undertones that made him smell like the exact moment when the sun pierced through stormy clouds.
It really was him. His not-brown eyes, something darker, something brighter. Heavy with a burden that could not be expressed with words. His pomegranate lips, his honey skin, his delicate yet violently beautiful traits, framed by his silky dark hair. Its shade of black was so rich it was reminiscent of a night sky that had northern lights dancing in it. A black with furtive undertones—damp, rich soil. Solar eclipses. Burnt wood. The warmth that you remembered radiated from him, deep, soft, peach-colored, and just as sweet.
All you could do was stare at him, taking in the sight of him, the elegance with which he held himself, the grace he exuded just by standing there.
Your gaze returned to his eyes, studying them. There was something in them that you hadn’t seen before. Not that it hadn’t been there—because it had been. You just had not known to look for it because you hadn’t yet known it existed.
Arra. The force lighting somebody’s eyes as they gazed upon their soulmate—or rather, their intended soul.
His bottom lip quivered, yet Hyunjin parted his mouth open, his eyes dancing all over you. “Darling,” he breathed, and his voice hit you like a storm. He said it again. “Darling…”
Relief came first, then fondness, followed by familiarity. You had thought about it a lot in your mind, the moment you would see Hyunjin again. Not because you assumed it would happen, but because you couldn’t help it. Whatever indifference had inhabited you in the first months after his disappearance had evaded you long ago, and the truth was that you could hardly fall asleep at night without imagining a scenario in which you saw him again. Sometimes, it was grandiose—he broke into a radio station while you were giving an interview, or he himself went on TV to give one, talking about how much he missed you. Other times, you just ran into him on a street somewhere.
When you questioned him about it, Jisung told you that Hyunjin needed to leave or else you would be in danger. He did not know too much about it, but it had something to do with Cipherian, the myths and the translations. You couldn’t wrap your mind around any of it and Seungmin was no help. Despite having been Hyunjin’s agent for years, he also had no idea of his involvement in any illegal activities, and certainly not anything related to linguistics. Therefore, you did not think it was true.
It’s not like there’s a price on my head, you pointed out that day. To Jisung, who had been hired by Hyunjin to be your personal bodyguard. Because, well, there was some kind of price on your head.
Maybe it made you hate him a little less. Hyunjin. Maybe you resented him less, too. Whatever involvement he had in it—a foolish part of you wanted to believe he truly did it for your safety. For your own good. That he left reluctantly. That Jisung didn’t lie when he said Hyunjin loved you.
So when you slipped under your covers at night—whether it was in your bed or in an unfamiliar hotel room—you thought about him. Hyunjin. And about the moment you might see him again in a place that wasn’t an ad in a magazine or a billboard on the side of a road, whether his body was used to advertise perfume or a car or expensive jewelry. You thought about the true him, in the flesh, about his honey skin, the unnatural warmth that always emanated from him, the silky sensation of him underneath your fingertips or under your tongue.
Maybe it made sense that it would be here. In this museum, under the very skylight where you met him first, surrounded by the same walls, and even, for the most part, the same people. You wondered if you were the same woman you had been back then, all those months ago. It felt like you weren’t. Like he had changed you somehow.
You let relief wash over you for all the seconds it required—it was truly Hyunjin standing there, and he seemed healthy. He seemed fine, so nothing bad must have happened to him. He also didn’t look like he had developed some kind of hatred for you over time, which, selfishly, comforted some part of you. You became aware that something else was lurking underneath the relief—it was sharp, unkind. Ugly.
For a second or perhaps two, you thought the world came to a stop but it turned out it was quite the opposite. Around you, it kept going. The world kept spinning and so did the dancers, intertwined, beautiful, relishing the moment, unaware of the storm going on in your chest. It was you who turned motionless. It was your heart that turned stagnant and inanimate. Maybe it wanted nothing to do with what was coming.
But you couldn’t help it.
The tears burned your eyes. They were hot. Scalding. As though it was acid rolling down your cheeks. You took a step back, feeling Jisung somewhere there but ignoring him. The world kept spinning. The whole time, the world had kept going, and you had been forced to follow along. You had been obligated to get up in the morning and to continue existing without Hyunjin. And he hadn’t even said goodbye.
When you spoke, your voice came out all wrong. Foreign. As though it was acid spilling out of your lips, too. “You lied to me.” Your throat felt so tight it hurt. “You said you’d be back soon.”
The memory was fuzzy, but it was undeniably there. You were sitting at your computer, writing compulsively, your naked body wrapped in a blanket, your pussy still sore from your earlier passionate lovemaking with Hyunjin. The scent of his cum lingered on you, musky and sweet. Remembering it was more painful than remembering all the months during which you were without him. Or all the other times you had been abandoned. All the other times you had been made ephemeral.
Will you be back soon? you had asked him.
Soon, he had said. And it had been a lie.
“You lied to me,” you repeated, louder, your voice turning into a growl and a sob all at once. Your legs felt weak and your arms weaker, but you reached for him, Hyunjin, because you wanted to hurt him, maybe. Hit him in his perfect face.
He caught your fist before it struck him, staring at you with wounds instead of eyes. He parted his lips, searching for words, but they never came. Still, he held your hand in his, inches away from his cheek, daring to squeeze it tenderly every few seconds.
“I bet you’ll say it was to spare me,” you added before Hyunjin could say anything. “I bet you’ll say it was so you wouldn’t hurt me. Well, guess what? It didn’t work!”
You were vaguely aware of the heads turning in your direction, but you were mostly aware of Hyunjin and of the way your hand felt when it was being held by his. Because he was not letting go, even if you tried to pull away. He looked a little like you had stabbed him in the chest. For an instant, it felt like you were looking into a mirror. For once, your pain had found its match.
“I know,” he murmured, a scowl appearing between his eyebrows. He made no attempt to apologize. He did not ask for your forgiveness.
He did not let go of your hand.
Instead, he pulled you closer. You tried to find something to say. You searched for strength within you—not to hit him, not really, but to scream at him. It was what you wanted to do. The entire time, since that day you finally allowed yourself to miss him, it had been what you had wanted to do. Scream at the top of your lungs. As though you needed an exorcism. People had hurt you before Hyunjin. Objectively, people had hurt you in worse ways. People had cheated on you. People had taken advantage of you. They sometimes said cruel things behind your back.
And it had affected you. All those times. Deeply. Or so you thought.
It all seemed so meaningless now. As you were facing Hyunjin again after all this time, you came to realize what love was. You had known for a while that you loved him and that it was true love. The truest, most forthright kind of love you had ever felt, and that you would ever feel, too. But you hadn’t really thought that you’d see him again.
But you hadn’t really thought that he loved you the same way you loved him.
He did not let go of your hand. He was just inches away now, his face so close that you could only see the details of him—the moles on his honey skin, the fine lines adorning his pillowy lips, their pomegranate shade. The strand of silky hair that fell over his dark eyes. His purposeful and deliberate and troubled gaze.
His breath smelled like the wine they served. The sleeve of his shirt was slightly damp. Hyunjin did not let go of you.
You only became aware of the inert quality of your heart and soul as it dissipated the very moment Hyunjin kissed you.
He pressed his lips onto yours, his mouth warm and trembling, unsure yet unequivocal. It might as well have been your first kiss with the way it made you come alive. It might as well have been the thousandth time he kissed you with how familiar it felt—known but not mundane. Lips that were more than just a memory. Lips that you had longed for, that you had craved for, but you had not dared hope for. Because the absence of them had left you suffocating—and how could one even hope without air in their lungs?
Hyunjin deepened the kiss, pulling you closer, and you let him, moaning faintly into his mouth. He breathed into yours. And you in his. Kissing him was easy and soft and mighty. His lips reminded you of a late summer peach. You couldn’t let go of him, and he did not let go of you, still, his tongue finding yours, tasting you, feeling you.
You thought of the first time he kissed you.
And the last time.
And everything in between. The agony of it.
He kissed you again, tightening his embrace. You had never experienced such ecstasy. It was him. It was really him. And you felt his love on his lips. You saw it in his eyes. His kiss felt like a plea. It felt as though there were only the two of you on earth.
At least until somebody bumped into you as they danced with their partner.
You allowed the kiss to break, but Hyunjin caressed your lips with his thumbs, an unreadable expression on his face.
“Darling,” he murmured, and you heard him over the music and the crowd. You would have heard him over thunder, over an avalanche, over anything. “Let’s get out of here, yes?”
Of course. You would follow him everywhere if he asked you. Your hand was still in his. You glanced at Jisung, who seemed reluctant to let you go, and offered him a reassuring smile. The smile came easily to your lips—it wasn’t rehearsed or forced. You realized that you meant it.
You felt the cold air before even stepping out—someone took their time closing the door behind them, and you remembered you had left your jacket in your office upstairs. Somehow, this did not bother you.
It was cold enough that the rain had turned to snow.
Thick snowflakes fell lazily from the sky, quieting the city, melting in places, and covering the ground in white patches in others.
Hyunjin held your hand still, but with the other one, you caught a snowflake on your palm. It dissolved almost instantly, but it remained long enough for you to see its intricate lines, unique yet familiar.
It was too early in the year for snow. The fact that it snowed was strange, but it did not bother you, nor did the cold. Hyunjin was staring up at the sky with eyes full of tears, as though it meant something to him.
One day, you told yourself, you would ask him.
If he stayed, that is. But at least now you were choosing to follow him and to let him unmake you. His love, your love—it was worth paying whatever price.
to be continued...
Author's note: 🧍♀️ well. I never expected I'd be here, posting this, today. But here I am... and you know I want to thank you all, my readers who have stayed loyal & patient despite my VERY long hiatus. So, thank you. It's just nice to come back home and not find the house completely empty, you know?
But I cannot not thank my dear @cb97percent, without whom I would have given up a long time ago. She believed in me while I didn't believe in anything. She still does. But much like Chris caught Hyunjin just in time on that infamous day at the studio, she doesn't seem to want to give up on me, so I really wanted to say a special thank you.
I am so, so privileged to be here, and to have my readers and friends and this space. I just want to say, I'm so grateful. To everyone who made it possible: please know you've contributed to something deeply meaningful for me.
permanent taglist: **this is my taglist as it were the last time I posted something which is a long long time ago. I'm so sorry to have tagged you in something you don't care about if I have. If you want me to remove you, please DM me and I'll just do it. If you want to be added to the taglist, please also let me know**
This story devastated me for a long time. Seeing the continuation made me cry, feel, and yearn for love. Thank you so much, Mari, for gifting us with more words from your soul. I am very grateful.
O sorriso tenso ao final do parabéns denunciava a total falta de confiança no grupo de amigos ali reunido. Você não ficaria surpresa se algum absurdo escapasse da boca dele em plena comemoração, mas preferia muito que isso não acontecesse com toda a sua família em volta.
Família essa que também tinha o poder de te deixar em alerta só de lembrar do clássico “com quem será”. O suposto noivo, decretado desde os seus doze anos, estava ali presente também. Ria animado, filmando você assoprar as velinhas numeradas com os olhos fechados, enquanto guardava só pra si o desejo de aniversário.
“O que você pediu?” — alguém gritou curioso no meio da multidão.
Você nem teve tempo de pensar em responder.
“Se ela contar, não se realiza!” Jun falou por você, sem tirar os olhos do celular. Dava zoom no seu rosto feliz, cuidadoso em registrar cada detalhe antes de guardar o momento na memória do próprio telefone.
—
A festa em plena terça-feira não permitia que a comemoração se estendesse madrugada adentro, mas você estava genuinamente contente. Feliz por ter suas pessoas favoritas ali e, mais ainda, por mais um ano ter Jun ao seu lado.
“Deixa que eu cuido disso, é seu aniversário” — Jun tomou o pano de prato das suas mãos, te livrando da única tarefa que tinha conseguido fazer o dia inteiro. Se dependesse dele, você nem pisaria no chão naquele dia.
“Mas já é quase meia-noite, meu aniversário já tá acabando” — Você riu, mesmo assim se deu por vencida, se apoiando na bancada enquanto observava Jun terminar de secar a louça que restara da festa.
“Então depois da meia-noite você arruma outra coisa pra limpar” — resmungou, bocejando logo em seguida.
Você sorriu. Olhou ao redor da cozinha, confirmando que, graças a Jun, toda a bagunça tinha sido resolvida.
Todos já tinham ido embora. Restavam apenas vocês dois, o que não era novidade nenhuma desde que se entendiam por gente.
Jun era seu melhor amigo desde… sempre. Honestamente, você nem lembrava quando ou onde tinham se conhecido. Só sabia que, desde então, faziam tudo juntos, do ensino fundamental até agora.
“Jun, deixa isso aí, tá tarde”— tentou poupar o amigo, que dava claros sinais de cansaço ao bocejar mais uma vez.
Ele só te lançou um olhar de canto, daquele jeito teimoso e familiar, como se fosse impossível ir embora enquanto ainda houvesse algo, qualquer coisa, que pudesse fazer por você.
“Já terminei, viu?” — Ele jogou o pano por cima da bancada ao seu lado. “Não precisa me expulsar, eu já tô indo embora…”
Parou bem na sua frente, forçando um biquinho emburrado, claramente dramático.
“Eu não tô te expulsando, cê sabe…” — Você o empurrou de leve pelo ombro. “Só tô vendo que você já tá exausto”
“Eu só preciso fazer mais uma coisa antes de ir” — A lembrança veio como uma lâmpada acendendo na cabeça dele. Você inclinou a cabeça, confusa.
“Seu presente!” — Jun cutucou seu nariz, animado, e logo se virou de costas, como se fosse procurar algo. “Na verdade, você vai ter que vir junto. Tá lá no seu quarto”
Ele desviou o olhar pela cozinha, inquieto, quase ansioso. Talvez nervoso. Mesmo assim, esticou a mão na sua direção. Você pegou, ainda sem entender direito, e o seguiu pelo corredor até o quarto.
Jun entrou primeiro. Você foi logo atrás, se virando para alcançar o interruptor, mas ele segurou sua mão antes que pudesse acender a luz.
“Deixa assim… é que eu…” — O nervosismo escapava pelo tom de voz. Você já tinha visto Jun inseguro antes, mas nunca daquele jeito. Nunca com você.
Você assentiu, ainda confusa mas sem questionar.
“Jun, a gente combinou de não comprar nada, não precisa de presen…”
“Na verdade, ____…” — A luz fraca do corredor mal iluminava o quarto, mas dava pra ver o olhar dele fugindo do seu, vagando pelo espaço como se buscasse coragem. “Eu queria te dar outra coisa.”
“Jun, não precisa, é sério…” — Você sorriu, tentando aliviar a tensão, achando até meio fofo o jeitinho tímido.
“Só…” — Ele se colocou bem à sua frente, perto demais, segurando seus ombros com cuidado. “Só me deixa te dar isso”
A voz saiu baixa, e então ele se aproximou devagar, os olhos presos aos seus lábios. O tempo pareceu desacelerar. Você sentiu a respiração quente dele contra o seu rosto, prendeu o ar sem perceber e fechou os olhos quando Jun encostou os lábios nos seus.
O nervosismo dele foi se desfazendo segundo após segundo. O beijo começou contido, quase tímido, até os lábios se encaixarem com naturalidade demais pra algo que nunca tinha acontecido. As mãos dele deslizaram dos seus ombros até a curva dos seus quadris, segurando firme, te puxando pra perto, eliminando qualquer espaço entre vocês.
Em todos aqueles anos, nem nos seus sonhos mais insistentes sobre o melhor amigo a sensação tinha sido tão real. Você se agarrou a ele, fechando os dedos no tecido da camisa, como se precisasse de algo concreto pra provar que aquilo não era fantasia.
E logo vocês encontraram um ritmo só de vocês. Talvez aquela sincronia nunca tenha sido apenas amizade. Pareciam ter um talento natural pra coisa, mesmo sendo a primeira vez. Jun estava tão nas nuvens quanto você, finalmente com a garota dos sonhos entre os braços, incapaz de conter o desejo de ter, de sentir, de tocar de verdade aquilo que sempre quis.
Mesmo quando o fôlego começava a faltar, ele lutava contra qualquer necessidade de se afastar. Respirava rápido entre beijinhos roubados, sempre voltando aos seus lábios, o que arrancava de você um sorriso tímido, achando adorável a maneira quase desesperada com que ele te buscava a cada segundo.
“Você vai morrer sem respirar assim!” — Você segurou o rosto dele, tentando mantê-lo afastado por pelo menos três segundos só pra recuperar o ar.
“Vou morrer feliz” — Jun enroscou os braços ao redor do seu quadril, te puxando de volta pra perto. Dessa vez, roçou de leve a pontinha do nariz no seu, num beijinho de esquimó carregado de carinho.
E como reclamar dele? Só de tê-lo tão perto, a vontade de agarrá-lo e beijá-lo até onde os pulmões aguentasse tomava conta de você também. Sem perceber, levou as mãos até a nuca do melhor amigo, enroscando os dedos nos cabelos recém-cortados e colando os lábios aos dele outra vez, agora num beijo mais afoito.
O contato repentino arrancou um manhinho tímido de Jun, o gemido suave sendo engolido pelo beijo bagunçado que vocês trocavam. Conforme o ritmo aumentava, os corpos iam se perdendo um no outro, moles demais pra manter equilíbrio. Cambalearam juntos até você acabar prensada entre ele e a parede do quarto escuro.
Jun desceu os beijos pelo seu maxilar, incapaz de controlar a vontade de provar mais. A língua deslizou pela sua pele até alcançar o decote em V da blusinha justa. Ele precisou buscar forças onde nem sabia que tinha pra conter o impulso de descer ainda mais, até finalmente levar a boca aos seus peitinhos.
Com os olhos apertados, você descontava o prazer mordiscando o próprio lábio, sem nem notar os olhinhos brilhantes que te observavam de baixo, encantados com a forma como você tentava conter os gemidinhos sofridos sempre que sentia a boquinha molhada de Jun avançar mais um pedacinho pela sua pele quente.
Ele se deixou levar de vez. Enfiou as mãos, uma a uma, por baixo do tecido da sua blusa, acariciando sua barriga até alcançar a curva dos seios, livres do sutiã.
Voltou a atenção pra sua boca, chupando seu lábio inferior com gosto, tentando conter os próprios murmúrios abafados que insistiam em escapar sempre que sentia seu corpinho se contorcer sob o dele, reagindo à pontinha quente dos dedos roçando de leve na carne macia dos seus peitos.
“Jun, por favor…” — Foi tudo o que você conseguiu dizer. O estímulo pela metade te torturava, mas o acanhamento ainda te impedia de pedir em voz alta que o melhor amigo te pegasse do jeitinho que você sonhou tantas vezes.
Mas, como eu disse, sincronia perfeita. Bastou isso para Jun assentir, quase obediente. Ele te entendia como ninguém. Então, sem cerimônia e livre de qualquer vergonha, subiu as palmas quentes até finalmente envolver seus seios, apertando e esfregando de leve, ajustando o ritmo conforme seus gemidinhos escapavam contra a boca dele.
Você o puxou para si como se quisesse se fundir ao corpo dele, se esfregando devagar à medida que o carinho já não dava conta do tesão crescente que queimava no seu âmago.
Conforme rebolava de leve, sentia contra a própria pélvis o volume duro e apertado dentro da calça jeans. Jun arfava forte, revirava os olhinhos toda vez que você roçava o corpo ali, incapaz de esconder o quanto aquilo o afetava.
Aquilo não fazia parte do plano dele. Jun sempre foi romântico, tinha tudo imaginado. Beijos, talvez uma confissão guardada há anos. Definitivamente não transar com você naquela noite.
“Desculpa… e-eu tô ass…” — Ele tentou se afastar quando percebeu que a ereção era impossível de disfarçar.
Jun te encarou com os olhinhos brilhantes, a expressão sofrida. Só a visão fez sua intimidade umedecer ainda mais. Você não conteve o sorrisinho malicioso. Puxou-o de volta num gesto rápido, capturando os lábios dele num beijo molhado enquanto uma das mãos descia pelo abdômen firme, arranhando de leve o tecido, sentindo os pelinhos arrepiarem conforme seus dedos alcançavam a barra da calça, parando provocadores no elástico da cueca.
“A gente não precisa faz…” — Ele se contradisse sozinho, tentando sustentar a pose de cavalheiro enquanto gemia baixinho ao sentir sua mão ameaçar invadir o espaço apertado.
“Mas, Junnie… eu quero” — A carinha manhosa era puro teatro. Você sabia que não precisava implorar quando se tratava de Wen Junhui, mas era divertido demais vê-lo se contorcer só com sua voz suave.
“Você mesmo disse que é meu aniversário, né?” — Explicou mansinha, torturando-o aos poucos ao roçar a mão sobre o volume duro, sentindo-o pulsar contra sua palma.
Ele assentiu rápido, quase desesperado, a sensação deliciosa ainda insuficiente, mas forte o bastante para fazê-lo gozar assim mesmo.
Jun agarrou seus lábios outra vez num beijo bagunçado, saliva escorrendo entre os queixos. Você o guiou pelos cabelos, conduzindo os beijinhos molhados pelo pescoço até o vale dos seus seios, que fez questão de esfregar contra o rostinho dele. Jun gemeu manhoso, te olhando de baixo com os olhinhos pidões.
Ele se entregou. Caiu de joelhos à sua frente, puxando o tecido da sua blusa para cima, beijando e lambendo sua pele até o abdômen, descendo devagar até a barra do shortinho.
“Eu posso?” — A pergunta saiu baixinha, manhosa. Mesmo no quarto escuro, você juraria ver o biquinho nos lábios dele.
Você assentiu sorrindo, abrindo os botões e ajudando a descer o short e a calcinha pelas pernas. Jun te encarou hipnotizado.
Começou devagar. Acariciou suas coxas, segurando uma por trás para puxá-la pra cima, encaixando a curva do seu joelho no próprio ombro, te deixando abertinha pra ele.
Beijou a parte interna das suas coxas com calma torturante, parando pertinho da sua intimidade pulsante só pra respirar fundo, sentindo seu cheiro, ficando ainda mais embriagado por você.
Dois dedos subiram pela parte interna da sua coxa, sentindo o rastro quente da sua lubrificação até alcançar sua intimidade. Ele lambuzou os dedos antes de levá-los à boca, gemendo satisfeito ao finalmente provar o gosto que desejou por tanto tempo.
A primeira sorvida o viciou. Jun avançou sem hesitar, primeiro lambendo suas dobras molhadas, provando todo seu melzinho, e depois explorando cada pedacinho até enfiar a língua na entradinha apertada, te fazendo revirar os olhos para trás da cabeça.
Você agarrou os cabelos dele com força, jogando a cabeça pra trás sempre que sentia o músculo quente estimular seus pontos mais sensíveis.
Jun não se poupou. Chupou com vontade, lambuzou tudo, esfregou os dedinhos na entradinha antes de empurrá-los pra dentro, estimulando você por dentro e por fora, esfregando o rosto sem pudor algum, roçando o nariz no grelinho até fazer suas pernas tremerem.
“Porra, Jun… assim…” — Você gemeu carente, os dedos apertando os fios enquanto se encaixava perfeitamente contra o rosto dele quando ele acertou em cheio o pontinho dentro de você, apertando aquele nó que te deixava a beira de gozar no rostinho dele.
Você rebolava desesperada, se esfregando contra ele enquanto Jun gemia abafado entre suas dobras, sem parar, sentindo suas paredes se fecharem ao redor dos dedos.
“Porra… goza comigo” — Foi isso que você conseguiu entender do som abafado que saiu da boca dele contra você. Se forçou a abrir os olhos só pra gravar a cena do melhor amigo completamente entregue, a boca lambuzada na sua intimidade enquanto estocava no vazio, descontrolado, tentando aliviar o tesão negligenciado.
Foi aí que percebeu. Jun estava tão à beira quanto você só de sentir seu gostinho, e então foi o estopim.
“I-isso… porra… eu vou gozar”
O gritinho sofrido escapou sem que você conseguisse conter. Sua intimidade se contraiu forte ao redor dos dedos longos de Jun, que não diminuíam o ritmo nem por um segundo, arrancando o líquido quente que escorria da entradinha direto pra boca dele. Jun sorvia tudo com gosto, gemendo sem pudor contra você.
Você rebolou contra o rosto dele, o prazer crescendo rápido demais, intenso demais, até se tornar quase doloroso. Quando o orgasmo finalmente te atravessou, Jun retirou os dedos devagar, com cuidado, lambendo-os logo depois, ainda gemendo baixo enquanto tentava recuperar o fôlego.
Por alguns segundos, o único som no quarto foi o das respirações pesadas, tentando voltar ao normal.
Jun parecia exausto. E, por um instante, você chegou a pensar que talvez tivesse exagerado no calor do momento.
“Cê tá bem? Desculpa se eu te sufoquei aquela hora…” — A vergonha voltou aos poucos. Você perguntou acanhada, rindo sem jeito.
“Tô ótimo” — Ele suspirou fundo antes de se jogar pra trás, deitando no tapete felpudo do seu quarto com os olhos fechados. “Eu nunca gozei tão gostoso na minha vida, cacete…”
Você tateou a parede até achar o interruptor. A luz acendeu de repente, arrancando um resmungo dos dois até os olhos se acostumarem com a claridade.
Você esfregou os próprios olhos e então olhou de novo pra ele. Dessa vez, seu olhar foi direto pra calça jeans… agora marcada por uma mancha escura bem evidente.
Jun percebeu imediatamente pra onde você estava olhando e cobriu a mancha molhada com as mãos, o rosto vermelho denunciando o nervosismo voltando com força.
Antes que ele pudesse dizer qualquer coisa, você se abaixou, se esgueirando por cima do corpo dele estendido no chão.
“Sabe, Jun… já passou da meia-noite” — Falou devagar, enquanto ajeitava os fios bagunçados da testa dele, ainda úmidos de suor.
Você desceu um pouco mais, parando à altura do quadril, erguendo o olhar pra encará-lo com um sorriso malicioso.
“Então… será que agora você deixa eu limpar isso pra você?”
Your best friend Suguru asks you to dinner over a sheep’s heart in a bio lab on Valentine’s Day. You humour him. Tis the season, or whatever.
☆ collab w/ @sixxels for her v-day event :) check out that masterlist for a trove of good reads. also to note: this is not a part of my bestfriend!suguru series. this is... just me leeching off the one niche i have lol, this is a separate story to those events.
18+ MDNI
☆ Dissecting hearts on Valentine’s Day.
Your biology professor has a sense of humour, at least.
It doesn’t do much to sate the churning of your stomach, but it’s a nice thing to consider as you stare down at the washed-clean sheep's heart on the table in front of you. High school biology taught you the ins-and-outs of the heart, its valves and chambers and absolute vitality to the function of the human body that very little else matters in comparison.
It is, for lack of better words, an organ to be revered.
“I’ll give you five dollars to lick it.”
Your best friend Suguru seems to think otherwise. He stands beside you, with the most stupid looking eye protection on. His hair was begrudgingly pulled up when your professor mentioned the seventeen different hazards of hair as long as his being left down in a laboratory. And his smile is, as per usual, cocksure.
“Five dollars is not worth the buffet of bacteria I’d be inviting into my mouth,” you nudge the metal tray away from you with a gloved fingertip. “I’ll give you ten, though.”
Suguru scoffs. “I’ll give you fifteen.”
“Twenty,” you lift a metal probe from the tray and point it at him. “And I’ll turn this into a sounding rod and—”
“How about neither of us lick the sheep's heart,” he interjects with a stressed smile, plucking the probe from between your fingers and pointing it at your chest instead, “and you come over for dinner tonight.”
You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Yeah, I’m not exactly dying to be your pre-game for whatever gross Valentine’s hookup you have planned, Suguru. I know you don’t wash your sheets.”
“I wash them,” Suguru argues, poking your arm with the probe. “And you happen to be my best friend, so I’d have told you if I had a Valentine—which I don’t.”
You snort. “I find that hard to believe. You always have a Valentine.”
“No one asked.”
“I bet Gojo asked.”
“Well, yeah, but he also asked Nanami. And Shoko. Come on, let's be single and lonely together in my dorm with some real gourmet eats.”
There’s a certain level of assumption that your best friend carries with him. He’s hardly ever wrong in said assumptions, but they still pull a grimace to your face. Really, who is he to assume you don’t already have a valentine? Sure, you share every last aspect of your lives with each other, but that doesn’t mean your love life (or lack thereof) needs to be any of his business.
You turn away from him, deciding to rark his assumptions. “Can’t. I’m busy tonight.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I am,” you insist, grabbing the probe back from Suguru and gripping the heart in your left hand. You find the Superior Vena Cava, and stick the probe downwards into the right atrium, as instructed. After doing the same with the Inferior, you hand the heart and probe unceremoniously to Suguru. “Your turn.”
He takes the heart, but instead of probing it like you’ve been asked, Suguru drops it back onto the metal tray. It clatters a little against the table, and a few people turn their heads to look at the two of you.
“You don’t have a Valentine.”
Your brows raise. “Oh wow, is this a jealousy thing, Sugu? I mean, maybe we could invite you to sit in the cuck chair and—”
He’s quick to cut you off with a gloved hand to your chin, lifting it up to lengthen your neck and start checking the column of your throat for… something.
“What the fuck are you—” your voice trails off when Suguru’s grip shift, and his other hand, the one that was holding the heart, takes the side of your face. “Oh my god Suguru that is so fucking disgust—”
“If anyone had half the mind to ask you out, this—” he taps your pulsepoint with two gloved fingers, “—would be marked up. You’d have to be dating an idiot to be allowed to walk around without staking some sort of claim on you.”
Staking claim? Allowed? “What am I, a lunchbox? My Valentine has to write his name on me so everyone knows I’m spoken for? ‘Don’t eat this one, it’s mine’?”
Suguru shrugs. “Kinda. Does it matter? My point is, I know you’re lying—there’s no possible way you have a Valentine, so I’ll see you at seven.”
What an ass. “Wow. ‘No possible way’, you are just so kindhearted.”
You can see him biting his cheek. He looks down at you with those sharp purple eyes, even through his protective glasses, and shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what, pray-tell, could you have possibly meant instead?”
“I meant,” he starts, grabbing the probe once more and pointing it at you without acknowledgement of infection control and the fact it was just inside the vena cava of a sheep’s heart, “I’ve already written my name. You know… ‘do not eat, this one’s mine’?”
You follow his gaze downwards to the shirt you’re wearing… his shirt. He had left it in your dorm after a night over and never asked for it back. It’s not a thing, you just think it’s more comfortable than any of your own clothes. And it smells like him.
Suguru then points the metal rod to your wrist which, just underneath your sleeve, is a beaded bracelet that reads ‘SG’ in purple beads. He has a matching one of your initials that he wears around his right wrist, the two of you made them together five or so years ago to commemorate your ‘ever-lasting and never-dying’ friendship.
Lastly, he turns the rod on himself and points it right at his own chest. You look him over, enjoying the obvious view but finding no indication of ‘ownership’ as he’d so smugly claim. “Am I meant to know what you’re pointing at?”
Geto sucks in a breath, looks down at the heart on the table, and then back up at you. “So, maybe a few guys have noticed how close we are. And so they’ve asked me if you have a boyfriend, because they’ve wanted to ask you out.”
No fucking way.
“You told them I have a boyfriend, didn’t you? God, you’re such an asshole, Suguru—you can’t just police my love life because you think the guys here arent—”
“I told them I’m your boyfriend,” he cuts you off. “And if they wanted to keep their balls in tact that they shouldn’t talk to you. Or look at you. Or… breathe in your direction.”
All you can do is blink up at him. You’re pretty sure the professor calls out to get you both back on track, but you’re locked in a staring match that seems to last a lifetime. He wouldn’t do that, he’s fucking with you—doing what he always does and trying to get a rise out of your for his own sick entertainment. He likes it when you get mad, when you complain and pout and smack him on the arm for saying stupid shit. He’s fishing.
But then you think about it. You’ve had a pretty regular college experience, minus the attention from guys. You’d always chalked it up as being due to your own neglect towards romantic endeavours. You haven’t been overly interested in hooking up with anyone, and Suguru takes you on enough outings that you’ve never felt the need to date.
But that wouldn’t explain the lack of guys hitting on you. You get it off campus, sometimes a man will buy your drink at the cafe and ask for your number. The odd times you have hooked up with someone, it’s been someone you’ve met outside of school.
“You’re lying,” you say.
Suguru opens his stupid deceptive mouth to respond, but the bell cuts through the air before he can speak. You’re at a standstill until the bleating stops, and even then, all he does is smile.
“You’re lying.”
He shrugs, purposefully raking his eyes down the shirt of his you wear, and then back up to you. “I’ll see you at seven?”
“Nope.”
You made him wait until seven thirty, just to piss him off.
Unfortunately for you, he didn’t answer the door until seven thirty-five, just to piss you off.
Succeeding in his efforts, Suguru finally answered the door to a very cross-looking you, whose bad mood could now only be sated by greasy pizza and room-temperature beer from a can—which is exactly what was waiting for you when you walked in. Propped up on his bed next to a battery-operated fake candle and one singular fake rose in a vase on his bedside table.
Sometimes it’s the little things that remind you that Suguru really is just a college-aged man.
Though you can’t say much with three and a half slices of pizza in your system, and your legs sprawled out over Suguru’s lap as he drums his fingers against your calves. An empty beer can balances precariously on your stomach, a very slight buzz lifting your spirits.
“I wasn’t joking in bio,” is the sentence that your best friend decides to break the easy silence with. “Just by the way. And if you want to throw a few things and call me an ass before you storm out, it might turn me on more than it will make me feel guilty.”
You lift your head to look at him. The smile you thought would be gracing his lips isn’t there, greeting you instead with a frown that reminds you of bad news. You suppose this is bad news, he’s been going behind your back to lie about who you’re dating—but anger isn’t the first thing to bubble up in your chest.
It isn’t even confusion, either. Is your heart… racing?
You pull your elbows back to lean on them, the empty beer can falling from your stomach to the mattress beneath you in the process. All you can do for a very long while is look. And realise.
His lips have always been this pretty—you remember the times you’d have a drink too many and still find yourself going wide-eyed when staring at them and moving with the words he’d speak. Which is funny, because you’re never shy around Suguru.
And his hair has always been that nice. Your fingers have always itched to play with it, braid it, run your fingers through it and learn what kind of a reaction Suguru Geto has when you give it a harsh tug. You’ve found yourself up late some nights, wondering if he’d grunt or whine or if you dipping your hand beneath your waistband to touch yourself to the thought means anything.
Well shit. You like Suguru.
He must notice a change in expression on your face, because his lips are quirking up into a grin, and you’re suddenly… shy?
“You alright there?” he teases, leaning over you to get a better look at your face. “Pizza didn’t agree with you, huh? Happens to me too sometimes, you just need—”
“Shut up, Sugu,” you try to retort like normal, but the million different thoughts crashing through your mind has your voice small, and your face heated. “I’m mad at you. You aren’t my boyfriend, so you had no right to tell everyone you are.”
You don’t have half the mind to process that Suguru is practically on top of you now. His hair falls over his shoulder and down to your chest as he looks you deep in the eyes. You half expect him to pull away, but instead he leans forward and… licks you.
Right on the corner of your lip. It’s quick, but enough tongue-to-lip contact that it has you rearing back and looking up at your best friend with wide and very confused eyes. You open your mouth, try desperately for a ‘what the fuck?’ or a ‘you just fucking licked me, you idiot’, but… nothing comes.
“Oookay,” Suguru pulls back a little at your lack of reaction. “I was expecting more than that. Sorry, you’re upset and I shouldn’t have—”
“Why’d you…”
“Sauce,” he gestures to his own lips. “Pizza. Doesn’t matter. I made you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry.”
“No, you—well. I just… you licked me.”
“I’m trying to send a message here,” he shrugs.
“By licking me?”
“By… well, yeah.” Suguru looks down at you awkwardly. “Best friends don’t lick each other, you know?”
“You just did.”
“Yeah, well I don’t want to be your best friend anymore. Take the hint, I’m begging you.”
Oh. What a weird way to end a friendship. You suppose Suguru has always been unconventional in his approach to life and change, but making light of it isn’t going to make it hurt any less. Your stomach clenches a little, and you’d blame it on the shitty pizza if not for the hot tears that spring to your eyes despite your every wish.
“You’re crying,” Suguru gawks down at you. “You… why are you crying?”
“I don’t know,” you try desperately to reach up and wipe your eyes, but Suguru takes each of your wrists in his own and pins them down to his mattress, forcing you into the bed a little. “I think crying is a pretty normal reaction to your best friend of fucking forever telling you he doesn’t want to be friends anymore!”
Though your vision is blurry, you can make out the vague shape of Suguru’s lips twisting into a stupid, mocking smile that you’d like to just wipe clean off his stupid, mocking face. It’s only made worse when he laughs something joyous and his shoulders shake with the intensity of his humour.
“For such a nerd,” he starts, “you can be so fucking dumb sometimes.”
His lips press against yours in something slow, and soft, and explorative. It’s sweet, the kiss he gives you, but equally starved. He contradicts himself even with his lips on yours, pushing into your mouth and pulling back the second you’re of mind to try and kiss back.
He tastes like pizza and beer. You’d make a face and tell him to go and brush his teeth if you weren’t so sure you tasted the exact same. He greets you with a grin when he breaks the kiss, which quickly turns to a look of confusion when he sees whatever look is on your face.
“Was that okay?” he asks, moving a hand from your wrist to cradle the side of your face. “Say no and it never happened.”
Damn the entire fucking world and the omnipotent deity that may-or-may-not-have created it. You open your mouth to try and force something out, and still nothing comes.
This is Suguru, for the love of everything holy. Your Suguru, who has seen you elated and humiliated and scared and furious, but never shy. You are not shy with Suguru.
And yet.
“I—” you try again, but your gaze drops. Coward. “It was fine.”
“Fine?” he repeats, pulling back a little more to look at you better. You can feel his gaze heating up your skin like it’s suddenly Summer time and he’s the burning sun. “...Are you nervous?”
You scoff automatically, though it catches. “No.”
“You are. You’re being weird. You’re being shy—you’ve never been shy with me.”
He’s taken it personally, like the idea of you being nervous around him affronted him personally.
You swallow. “Yeah, well, you’ve never kissed me before.”
“And doing so made me what? Scary?”
“No!” you try, frustrated both with him and with yourself. “It just changed things.”
Your best friend does what he seems to do best lately and takes another long moment to study every last inch of your burning face. He looks from the lips he just kissed to your nervous eyes and pinched brows. You’re being shy with him, and neither of you could really say as to why.
Maybe because he does stuff like this. Without warning, Suguru reaches down to grab at your hips and, in one irritatingly easy motion, flips the two of you over so that you’re the one on top. Your thighs bracket his hips as you land straddling him, a small and very undignified noise escaping your lips in the process.
Before you can even try to process your new position, or the expanse of solid mass now beneath you, Suguru lifts up slightly and pulls off his shirt, tossing it across the room to land on Satoru’s bed. Thank god he isn’t here to witness the state you’re in.
“I think that look on your face is one of the hottest things I have ever seen in my entire life,” he starts, resting his head down against the pillow and looking up at you, hands still holding your hips. “But I hate it, because I don’t ever want you to feel nervous around me. I don’t want to make you shy.”
Part of you wants to hit him. “I think that’s probably the least reassuring thing you could say to a shy person.”
“Good thing you’re allowed to be shy with literally anyone else. Here,” one hand leaves your hip to guide your wrist forward until your palm presses flat over his sternum. Right over his heart. “Tell me something about it.”
His skin is warm. Warmer than yours, but he’s always run hot. Your beaded bracelet, the one with SG on proud display, runs against his skin as you feel. His heartbeat is steady, thrums against your waiting palm in a slightly elevated beat.
“You’re nervous too,” you quip, which makes him scoff.
“Obviously. I just kissed the person I’ve wanted to kiss since I was thirteen. Tell me something nerdy, nerd.”
Your brain, the traitor that it is, latches on to the familiarity of academia. You trace over his sternum, slightly to the right—his left. “The two largest veins are in your heart,” you exhale slowly, keeping your hand over his firm chest even as his falls away. “The inferior and superior vena cava.”
“And what do they do?”
“Well really, you should tell me. You weren’t paying attention at all today, even though I tell you to listen—” you trail off as you notice the grin Suguru sports on his lips, most likely at your less-shy demeanour. You suppose irritation is your baseline with him. “They return deoxygenated blood to your heart. The superior vena cava takes care of your upper body.”
You trace your fingertips up to his collarbone, down his bicep a little. “Your arms, chest…” and then back up to his face. You take a moment to look at the beautiful sculpted stone that is his bone structure, and then give his forehead a flick for good measure. “All the dumb stuff in your head, too.”
He huffs a laugh.
“And the inferior vena cava returns it from the lower body,” you add, eyes holding his sharp gaze as you trail that same hand over his chest again, and then lower. Your sudden shyness now exchanged for a boldness you hadn’t seen in you, as you feel each ridge of his abs on your descent to his waistband, which sits snugly between your thighs. You’re a half-inch from brushing over your own clothed clit. “It all goes back to the heart.”
“Full circle,” Suguru glances down at where your hand sits. You feel him give your hip a squeeze, and then tentatively trace his hand up your spine, under your shirt. “And when the heart’s working overtime…”
His hand drags slowly over your ribs and up over your left breast. You swallow your spit. “It beats faster,” you finish his sentence. “Sinus tachycardia.”
“God, you’re such a nerd,” he laughs under you, the rumbling vibrations of it going straight to your clit. You shoot your hand back up to his chest to fight the overwhelming urge to break the seal of his waistband and take what you want. “Your heart is racing.”
You know—you can feel it in your throat. So is his, though—thump thump thump against your palm like a telling drum.
It’s a weird telepathic kind of need that kicks the two of you into drive next. Mirroring each other, the both of you hold eye contact as you drag your touch down each other’s bodies nice and slow. From chest to stomach, then to waistband and beneath.
Suguru is rock hard, and although not the first dick you’ve felt pulse beneath your touch, he’s definitely the biggest. You wrap your fingers around his length and gasp as he simultaneously drags his fingers between your folds to find you soaked and sensitive.
The heart wants what it wants, you guess.
You snort at that, which makes Suguru look up at you with a funny expression. “What?”
You shake your head fondly. “Nothing. We’re just… really doing this.”
His gaze is intense—he’s sitting up a bit now to get a better look at you, fingers slowly drawing circles around your clit. Suguru doesn’t know this part of you like he does everything else. Doesn’t know what makes you writhe quite yet. It’s something he’ll learn by the end of the night.
It’s like you’re in a haze of want. Like every stray thought you’ve had before this moment has now compiled in your brain to play on a loop—you’re undressed before you know it. The two of you, bare skinned and breathless against each other. Moving with each other’s bodies in a familiarity only the two of you could have.
You stroke him nice and slow—your form of preservation. Or punishment, for him being an ass.
“I think you’re beautiful,” he groans as he keeps rubbing quick circles over your clit, mouthing over one of your nipples as he keeps his eyes trained up on your face. “Used to think of this perfect fucking body beneath some other guy and feel sick. S’why I told everyone we were together—I would have scared you off with the things I’d do to someone else who got to see this.”
Maybe you should be concerned about the fact that that is quite possibly the hottest thing he’s ever said to you. You mean to open your mouth and retort with something teasing about his obvious unbridled obsession, but what comes out instead is a strained “I need you,” that sets every nerve in Suguru’s body alight.
“You have me,” he’s pulling his hand from your achy cunt and using the collected slick to mix with the pre beading at his tip. You let go of his cock and watch as he mixes your arousal, smearing it all over the thick head of his cock and guiding you to hover over his tip. “God, you’ve always had me.”
What a sap. You smile, lean forward, and press a soft kiss to his lips.
“Took you long enough to admit it,” you manage. “Nervous or something? Shy?”
“Yeah?” He mocks, cooing the word out like silk. His strong hands hold your hips, and then slam them downwards onto his efficacious dick. “Shut the fuck up.”
He fills you entirely in one sick, sedative stroke. You feel blissed out and desperate and fucking sore all at the same time. The stretch is manageable, as is the pinch you feel when his tip near-meets your cervix, but what has you choking out a moan is the instant pace he takes with you.
So much for you being on top—Suguru thrusts upwards into you with such gluttonous voracity that you’d think he’s trying to send you stupid on his cock. It’s all so much and so sudden that you can’t even find it in you to be ashamed of how quickly he knits an orgasm up in the pit of your stomach. And you thought the guy was meant to cum quick.
You hold on the best you can, both to your orgasm and to Suguru. Your fingers dig into the muscle of his shoulders, one hand snaking up to collect his hair between your digits and yank hard in an attempt to pull the reins. You find your question to old fantasies answered as a loud moan rips right out of his chest, but your attempt at slowing down your best friend only riles him up further.
“Close,” you manage. “Suguru, please…”
“Spit in my mouth.”
That gives you pause. You still, the best you can when he’s rutting up into you with such fever, and look down at your heart-eyed best friend. “That’s gross. I just ate.”
“I’mliterallyinsideofyourightnow,” he chokes, slowing down his thrusts into something a little more rolling, but no less deep. “Please. Fuck, please—I want you to fill me when I fill you.”
Oh.
At the risk of finding out something new (and unsanitary) about yourself, you lean forward and start with a kiss. Suguru’s cock filling you up doesn’t do much for your balance, and your teeth click against his a few times, but you keep your pace. Geto snakes a hand down to your clit and urges you across the cliff face he’s walking.
Your orgasm builds like the pressure in your heart. Quick and explosive and enough to contract the very organ that gives you life. Your hand on Suguru’s shoulder canvases his skin, down his rapid heart as you pull back enough to spit right onto his waiting tongue.
He lets it sit, holds your gaze with an open mouth and your spit pooling in his mouth. The sight might be both the strangest and sexiest thing you’ve seen, and you’re only slightly concerned at the way it triggers your climax.
Mirrored, two beating hearts of the same soul, whatever other symbolic depiction of a shared orgasm you can think of—the two of you embody it. You squeeze hard around Suguru’s pulsing cock, milking the cum right out of him into your waiting body.
He swallows his moan (and your spit) with a desperate choked sound that only prolongs your orgasm. “Oh my god,” you hold his gaze. “Oh my god.”
Suguru holds you in place on his cock as he catches his breath. When he speaks, his voice is so beautifully ruined that your traitorous heart skips a dramatic beat or three.
“You look pretty when you cum. Hey—don’t hide your face. No getting shy.”
He pulls you back a little to lift your head from his heaving shoulder, which you had pressed your forehead against in an attempt to keep Suguru’s teasing eyes off you. “Don’t say things that make me shy, then.”
“I can say whatever I please now that you’re mine,” he sing-songs. “Oh, that reminds me…”
You mourn the loss of body heat as Suguru leans away from you and stretches over for something on his bedside table. Your mind doesn’t register what it is until you hear the ‘pop!’ of a pen cap being taken off, and a sudden coldness bloom over your sternum… slightly to the left.
“Stay still…”
You look down to see Suguru Geto writing across your skin with a Sharpie, and you don’t need much more than common sense to know what he’s doing.
“You better not start calling me a lunchbox after this,” you chide, though you don’t make a move to stop him.
“Then I’ll just have to call you my Valentine,” he hums in return, glancing up at you with his tongue caught between his teeth. “That’s a yes to being my Valentine, right?”
“I guess I have no choice now,” you shrug, tucking your chin into your neck and looking down as he finishes up with the Sharpie. “You’ve staked your claim.”
On your chest, right over where your heart beats, reads ‘SUGURU’ in big bold letters.
a/n: thank you @sixxels for asking me to collab. i am no match for the talents working on this event but i am honoured nonetheless to have been able to participate. FIRST COLLAB DONE AND DUSTED MOTHER FUCKERS!
the banner is made by sixxels as well i just stole it because i'm evil. the art in it is by @/thatsallitchief
[💌] para 𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗶𝗼𝘀𝗼, digite um. para 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 , digite dois.
para 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗲, digite três. e para um que se aplique a
todas as categorias, digite 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲.
oh, excelente! você apertou a tecla número 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲.
─────── 𝘆𝗼𝗼𝗻 𝗷𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗵𝗮𝗻 como seu 𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳
[🔮]: para essa temática em específico acho sempre
relevante deixar registrado que se trata de uma relação
consentida entre dois adultos muito bem formados,
então sem pensar besteiras, okay? boa leitura!
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que foi designado como seu supervisor na empresa em que você foi estagiar e era extremamente gentil contigo mesmo sendo seu superior.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que não conseguiu esconder para si mesmo que já nas primeiras interações entre vocês sentiu atração por ti — seu jeito acanhado de tirar dúvidas com ele, o rostinho doce sempre que achava ter cometido algum erro... ele não era de ferro.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que era tão ruim escondendo isso dele mesmo que acabou sendo incapaz de esconder de você também: ficou bem claro logo no início que você era a estagiária favorita dele — sempre passando na sua mesa para perguntar se você precisava de ajuda, o sorriso enorme quando você fazia alguma piadinha leve (ele não era de ferro e você não era burra).
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que relutou muito em manter qualquer contato contigo que não fosse estritamente profissional, afinal seria desastroso para a imagem dele estar de caso com a estagiária novinha.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que ficou completamente sem reação quando você quem deu o primeiro passo e sugeriu que vocês saíssem no fim do expediente — e lutou contra todos os demônios possíveis (você sendo o maior deles) para ser capaz de recusar o convite.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que definitivamente não estava preparado pro quão teimosa você conseguia ser e passou a questionar o próprio senso de moral quando te sentia olhar no fundo dos olhos dele com o rostinho mais inocente que você sabia fingir ter.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que jurava que o que você sentia por ele era só um crush (daqueles que a gente tem por um professor que acha bonitinho), mas que logo ia passar.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que tinha 0 noção do quão verdadeira era a sua vontade de ter algo sério com ele.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que "cedeu" — mas não totalmente. não demorou para que vocês começassem algo as escondidas, com o 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 morrendo de medo de alguém descobrir.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que passou por uma fase esquisita contigo quando vocês estavam só ficando, na qual tentava (e conseguia) te convencer a sair com gente da sua idade só pra ver se você ia desencanar dessa ideia de namorar com ele.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que, se hoje tem um ego sinistro de tão grande, é porque não importava quantas pessoas da sua idade você tentasse pegar: era pra porta dele que você voltava no final da noite.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que fazia questão de te ouvir choramingar sobre o quão ruim a experiência foi e sobre como ninguém parece saber te tocar direito enquanto te sentia se molhar inteira só por estar no colo dele.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que não resistiu ao próprio ego por muito tempo: numa noite qualquer acabou dedando sua bucetinha bem gostoso pra te consolar depois de mais um date ruim.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que acidentalmente deu fim ao joguinho de passatempo de vocês dois nessa mesma noite, porque você passou a recusar que outra pessoa que não fosse 𝗝𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗵𝗮𝗻 tocasse no seu corpo.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que relutou mais ainda em transar contigo depois disso, porque sabia que isso iria fazer você se apegar de vez. E, por mais patético que isso soasse para alguém da idade dele, sustentou por algumas semanas um "namorinho de côrte" contigo: só beijinho e mão boba.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que estava certo. Transar fez você se apegar mais ainda. Porque nenhum homem da sua idade soube te deixar burra de tesão do jeito que ele deixou na noite em que você ferrou com a paciência dele até fazer ele te comer.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que não demorou a te pedir em namoro depois disso, porque detestava o pensamento de você sequer cogitando que ele só te via como uma fantasia.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que nunca suou tão frio como nesse dia, mas que fez questão de conhecer seus pais para mostrar que é extremamente sério sobre o que vocês dois têm.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que ainda fica meio receoso em demonstrar afeto em público, mesmo que a diferença de idade entre vocês não seja tão visível assim.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que, sozinho contigo, te beija como se você fosse o mundo dele inteirinho — encaixa tão gostoso que você sente até vontade de gravar para assistir depois.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que também se sente um tantinho fora do lugar quando você convence ele a sair junto com você e seus amigos. A personalidade jovial dele só acha conforto em você, então ele se torna mais reservado perto de gente desconhecida.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que às vezes não entende muito bem o que você fala e diz parecer que vocês não falam o mesmo idioma.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que é TÃO cuidadoso com você que parece até exagero para quem vê de fora... colocando seu cabelo atrás da orelha quando você vai beber algo, limpando seu batom quando borra, até mesmo corta sua carne antes de você comer — se ele pudesse, não te deixaria encostar os pés no chão.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que sempre tem os olhos em você (mesmo que só a visão periférica), mas curte fingir estar ocupado só porque é obcecado em te assistir implorar pela atenção dele.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que ama sua companhia quando vai fazer as "coisinhas de velhinho" dele (como você gosta brincar), mesmo que seja só para ficar em silêncio enquanto ele termina.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que prometeu para si mesmo que não ia deixar a diferença de idade ser a métrica dentro do relacionamento de vocês, mas que sempre se pega à beira de culpar sua imaturidade quando vocês discutem — ele consegue evitar na maioria das vezes, mas quando não evita a discussão acaba escalando um pouquinho.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que não tolera que você sinta ciúmes dele, afinal ele não te dá abertura para isso e deixa bem claro que passou por cima da moral dele só para ser seu.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que não é fã de exibicionismo (prefere manter a intimidade de vocês entre quatro paredes), mas que não consegue fingir que não sente tesão em te exibir um pouquinho pros amigos dele — faz questão de te ter no colo em qualquer reunião que te arrasta pra ir fazer companhia pra ele.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que é hipócrita e usa a carta da diferença de idade pra justificar o jeito controlador dele na cama te dando bronca sobre como você deveria respeitar os mais velhos no segundo em que você cogita xingá-lo por negar um orgasmo seu.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que sente a calça ficar mais apertada quando te ouve se referindo a ele como "senhor". Só um "sim, senhor" como piadinha deixa esse homem mole.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que é apegado demais em todos os apelidinhos que ele mesmo te dá e faz cada um deles soar desde a coisa mais doce e acolhedora até a coisa mais suja existente.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que não passa um dia sequer sem se sentir um pervertido nojento. Porque, por mais que tente, a fantasia mais gostosa que ele tem contigo é te ver agindo como mocinha ingênua e desesperada por ele.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que adora fingir ensinar a menininha "inexperiente" dele a fazer as coisinhas mais sujas possíveis.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que ama te olhar nos olhos quando tá fodendo contigo — diz que sua carinha de obcecada por ele fica ainda mais óbvia nesses momentos.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que tá disposto a te chupar a qualquer momento e a experiência dele vem à tona nessas horas, porque suas perninhas tremem tanto em volta da cabeça dele que você sente até um tiquinho de vergonha.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que te deixa meio intrigada: ele às vezes sequer parece ter libido, mas no segundo em que você deixar claro que quer ele te comendo igual vagabunda, ele vai obedecer.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que inclusive, te respeita até demais, então fazer esse homem te tratar como putinha ainda te custa muito esforço.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que, apesar de todo o respeito, nunca escondeu que ama te dar uns tapinhas — no rostinho é raro, mas se você pedir com carinho ele sempre dá.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que é inteligente demais para cair nas suas provocações baratas de que ele tá velho demais pra te pegar de jeito, mas que sempre faz questão de eventualmente te lembrar quem que te faz chorar de tesão só pra garantir.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que tem o aftercare mais impecável desse mundo e que, sinceramente, parece mais uma segunda preliminar de tão excitada que ele te deixa por ser tão cuidadoso com você.
[💌] para 𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗶𝗼𝘀𝗼, digite um. para 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 , digite dois.
para 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗲, digite três. e para um que se aplique a
todas as categorias, digite 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲.
oh, excelente! você apertou a tecla número 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲.
─────── 𝘆𝗼𝗼𝗻 𝗷𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗵𝗮𝗻 como seu 𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳
[🔮]: para essa temática em específico acho sempre
relevante deixar registrado que se trata de uma relação
consentida entre dois adultos muito bem formados,
então sem pensar besteiras, okay? boa leitura!
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que foi designado como seu supervisor na empresa em que você foi estagiar e era extremamente gentil contigo mesmo sendo seu superior.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que não conseguiu esconder para si mesmo que já nas primeiras interações entre vocês sentiu atração por ti — seu jeito acanhado de tirar dúvidas com ele, o rostinho doce sempre que achava ter cometido algum erro... ele não era de ferro.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que era tão ruim escondendo isso dele mesmo que acabou sendo incapaz de esconder de você também: ficou bem claro logo no início que você era a estagiária favorita dele — sempre passando na sua mesa para perguntar se você precisava de ajuda, o sorriso enorme quando você fazia alguma piadinha leve (ele não era de ferro e você não era burra).
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que relutou muito em manter qualquer contato contigo que não fosse estritamente profissional, afinal seria desastroso para a imagem dele estar de caso com a estagiária novinha.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que ficou completamente sem reação quando você quem deu o primeiro passo e sugeriu que vocês saíssem no fim do expediente — e lutou contra todos os demônios possíveis (você sendo o maior deles) para ser capaz de recusar o convite.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que definitivamente não estava preparado pro quão teimosa você conseguia ser e passou a questionar o próprio senso de moral quando te sentia olhar no fundo dos olhos dele com o rostinho mais inocente que você sabia fingir ter.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que jurava que o que você sentia por ele era só um crush (daqueles que a gente tem por um professor que acha bonitinho), mas que logo ia passar.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que tinha 0 noção do quão verdadeira era a sua vontade de ter algo sério com ele.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que "cedeu" — mas não totalmente. não demorou para que vocês começassem algo as escondidas, com o 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 morrendo de medo de alguém descobrir.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que passou por uma fase esquisita contigo quando vocês estavam só ficando, na qual tentava (e conseguia) te convencer a sair com gente da sua idade só pra ver se você ia desencanar dessa ideia de namorar com ele.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que, se hoje tem um ego sinistro de tão grande, é porque não importava quantas pessoas da sua idade você tentasse pegar: era pra porta dele que você voltava no final da noite.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que fazia questão de te ouvir choramingar sobre o quão ruim a experiência foi e sobre como ninguém parece saber te tocar direito enquanto te sentia se molhar inteira só por estar no colo dele.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que não resistiu ao próprio ego por muito tempo: numa noite qualquer acabou dedando sua bucetinha bem gostoso pra te consolar depois de mais um date ruim.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que acidentalmente deu fim ao joguinho de passatempo de vocês dois nessa mesma noite, porque você passou a recusar que outra pessoa que não fosse 𝗝𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗵𝗮𝗻 tocasse no seu corpo.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que relutou mais ainda em transar contigo depois disso, porque sabia que isso iria fazer você se apegar de vez. E, por mais patético que isso soasse para alguém da idade dele, sustentou por algumas semanas um "namorinho de côrte" contigo: só beijinho e mão boba.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que estava certo. Transar fez você se apegar mais ainda. Porque nenhum homem da sua idade soube te deixar burra de tesão do jeito que ele deixou na noite em que você ferrou com a paciência dele até fazer ele te comer.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que não demorou a te pedir em namoro depois disso, porque detestava o pensamento de você sequer cogitando que ele só te via como uma fantasia.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que nunca suou tão frio como nesse dia, mas que fez questão de conhecer seus pais para mostrar que é extremamente sério sobre o que vocês dois têm.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que ainda fica meio receoso em demonstrar afeto em público, mesmo que a diferença de idade entre vocês não seja tão visível assim.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que, sozinho contigo, te beija como se você fosse o mundo dele inteirinho — encaixa tão gostoso que você sente até vontade de gravar para assistir depois.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que também se sente um tantinho fora do lugar quando você convence ele a sair junto com você e seus amigos. A personalidade jovial dele só acha conforto em você, então ele se torna mais reservado perto de gente desconhecida.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que às vezes não entende muito bem o que você fala e diz parecer que vocês não falam o mesmo idioma.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que é TÃO cuidadoso com você que parece até exagero para quem vê de fora... colocando seu cabelo atrás da orelha quando você vai beber algo, limpando seu batom quando borra, até mesmo corta sua carne antes de você comer — se ele pudesse, não te deixaria encostar os pés no chão.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que sempre tem os olhos em você (mesmo que só a visão periférica), mas curte fingir estar ocupado só porque é obcecado em te assistir implorar pela atenção dele.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que ama sua companhia quando vai fazer as "coisinhas de velhinho" dele (como você gosta brincar), mesmo que seja só para ficar em silêncio enquanto ele termina.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que prometeu para si mesmo que não ia deixar a diferença de idade ser a métrica dentro do relacionamento de vocês, mas que sempre se pega à beira de culpar sua imaturidade quando vocês discutem — ele consegue evitar na maioria das vezes, mas quando não evita a discussão acaba escalando um pouquinho.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que não tolera que você sinta ciúmes dele, afinal ele não te dá abertura para isso e deixa bem claro que passou por cima da moral dele só para ser seu.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que não é fã de exibicionismo (prefere manter a intimidade de vocês entre quatro paredes), mas que não consegue fingir que não sente tesão em te exibir um pouquinho pros amigos dele — faz questão de te ter no colo em qualquer reunião que te arrasta pra ir fazer companhia pra ele.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que é hipócrita e usa a carta da diferença de idade pra justificar o jeito controlador dele na cama te dando bronca sobre como você deveria respeitar os mais velhos no segundo em que você cogita xingá-lo por negar um orgasmo seu.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que sente a calça ficar mais apertada quando te ouve se referindo a ele como "senhor". Só um "sim, senhor" como piadinha deixa esse homem mole.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que é apegado demais em todos os apelidinhos que ele mesmo te dá e faz cada um deles soar desde a coisa mais doce e acolhedora até a coisa mais suja existente.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que não passa um dia sequer sem se sentir um pervertido nojento. Porque, por mais que tente, a fantasia mais gostosa que ele tem contigo é te ver agindo como mocinha ingênua e desesperada por ele.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que adora fingir ensinar a menininha "inexperiente" dele a fazer as coisinhas mais sujas possíveis.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que ama te olhar nos olhos quando tá fodendo contigo — diz que sua carinha de obcecada por ele fica ainda mais óbvia nesses momentos.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que tá disposto a te chupar a qualquer momento e a experiência dele vem à tona nessas horas, porque suas perninhas tremem tanto em volta da cabeça dele que você sente até um tiquinho de vergonha.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que te deixa meio intrigada: ele às vezes sequer parece ter libido, mas no segundo em que você deixar claro que quer ele te comendo igual vagabunda, ele vai obedecer.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que inclusive, te respeita até demais, então fazer esse homem te tratar como putinha ainda te custa muito esforço.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que, apesar de todo o respeito, nunca escondeu que ama te dar uns tapinhas — no rostinho é raro, mas se você pedir com carinho ele sempre dá.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que é inteligente demais para cair nas suas provocações baratas de que ele tá velho demais pra te pegar de jeito, mas que sempre faz questão de eventualmente te lembrar quem que te faz chorar de tesão só pra garantir.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que tem o aftercare mais impecável desse mundo e que, sinceramente, parece mais uma segunda preliminar de tão excitada que ele te deixa por ser tão cuidadoso com você.
[💌] para 𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗶𝗼𝘀𝗼, digite um. para 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 , digite dois.
para 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗲, digite três. e para um que se aplique a
todas as categorias, digite 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲.
oh, excelente! você apertou a tecla número 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲.
─────── 𝘆𝗼𝗼𝗻 𝗷𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗵𝗮𝗻 como seu 𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳
[🔮]: para essa temática em específico acho sempre
relevante deixar registrado que se trata de uma relação
consentida entre dois adultos muito bem formados,
então sem pensar besteiras, okay? boa leitura!
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que foi designado como seu supervisor na empresa em que você foi estagiar e era extremamente gentil contigo mesmo sendo seu superior.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que não conseguiu esconder para si mesmo que já nas primeiras interações entre vocês sentiu atração por ti — seu jeito acanhado de tirar dúvidas com ele, o rostinho doce sempre que achava ter cometido algum erro... ele não era de ferro.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que era tão ruim escondendo isso dele mesmo que acabou sendo incapaz de esconder de você também: ficou bem claro logo no início que você era a estagiária favorita dele — sempre passando na sua mesa para perguntar se você precisava de ajuda, o sorriso enorme quando você fazia alguma piadinha leve (ele não era de ferro e você não era burra).
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que relutou muito em manter qualquer contato contigo que não fosse estritamente profissional, afinal seria desastroso para a imagem dele estar de caso com a estagiária novinha.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que ficou completamente sem reação quando você quem deu o primeiro passo e sugeriu que vocês saíssem no fim do expediente — e lutou contra todos os demônios possíveis (você sendo o maior deles) para ser capaz de recusar o convite.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que definitivamente não estava preparado pro quão teimosa você conseguia ser e passou a questionar o próprio senso de moral quando te sentia olhar no fundo dos olhos dele com o rostinho mais inocente que você sabia fingir ter.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que jurava que o que você sentia por ele era só um crush (daqueles que a gente tem por um professor que acha bonitinho), mas que logo ia passar.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que tinha 0 noção do quão verdadeira era a sua vontade de ter algo sério com ele.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que "cedeu" — mas não totalmente. não demorou para que vocês começassem algo as escondidas, com o 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 morrendo de medo de alguém descobrir.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que passou por uma fase esquisita contigo quando vocês estavam só ficando, na qual tentava (e conseguia) te convencer a sair com gente da sua idade só pra ver se você ia desencanar dessa ideia de namorar com ele.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que, se hoje tem um ego sinistro de tão grande, é porque não importava quantas pessoas da sua idade você tentasse pegar: era pra porta dele que você voltava no final da noite.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que fazia questão de te ouvir choramingar sobre o quão ruim a experiência foi e sobre como ninguém parece saber te tocar direito enquanto te sentia se molhar inteira só por estar no colo dele.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que não resistiu ao próprio ego por muito tempo: numa noite qualquer acabou dedando sua bucetinha bem gostoso pra te consolar depois de mais um date ruim.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que acidentalmente deu fim ao joguinho de passatempo de vocês dois nessa mesma noite, porque você passou a recusar que outra pessoa que não fosse 𝗝𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗵𝗮𝗻 tocasse no seu corpo.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que relutou mais ainda em transar contigo depois disso, porque sabia que isso iria fazer você se apegar de vez. E, por mais patético que isso soasse para alguém da idade dele, sustentou por algumas semanas um "namorinho de côrte" contigo: só beijinho e mão boba.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que estava certo. Transar fez você se apegar mais ainda. Porque nenhum homem da sua idade soube te deixar burra de tesão do jeito que ele deixou na noite em que você ferrou com a paciência dele até fazer ele te comer.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que não demorou a te pedir em namoro depois disso, porque detestava o pensamento de você sequer cogitando que ele só te via como uma fantasia.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que nunca suou tão frio como nesse dia, mas que fez questão de conhecer seus pais para mostrar que é extremamente sério sobre o que vocês dois têm.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que ainda fica meio receoso em demonstrar afeto em público, mesmo que a diferença de idade entre vocês não seja tão visível assim.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que, sozinho contigo, te beija como se você fosse o mundo dele inteirinho — encaixa tão gostoso que você sente até vontade de gravar para assistir depois.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que também se sente um tantinho fora do lugar quando você convence ele a sair junto com você e seus amigos. A personalidade jovial dele só acha conforto em você, então ele se torna mais reservado perto de gente desconhecida.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que às vezes não entende muito bem o que você fala e diz parecer que vocês não falam o mesmo idioma.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que é TÃO cuidadoso com você que parece até exagero para quem vê de fora... colocando seu cabelo atrás da orelha quando você vai beber algo, limpando seu batom quando borra, até mesmo corta sua carne antes de você comer — se ele pudesse, não te deixaria encostar os pés no chão.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que sempre tem os olhos em você (mesmo que só a visão periférica), mas curte fingir estar ocupado só porque é obcecado em te assistir implorar pela atenção dele.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que ama sua companhia quando vai fazer as "coisinhas de velhinho" dele (como você gosta brincar), mesmo que seja só para ficar em silêncio enquanto ele termina.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que prometeu para si mesmo que não ia deixar a diferença de idade ser a métrica dentro do relacionamento de vocês, mas que sempre se pega à beira de culpar sua imaturidade quando vocês discutem — ele consegue evitar na maioria das vezes, mas quando não evita a discussão acaba escalando um pouquinho.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que não tolera que você sinta ciúmes dele, afinal ele não te dá abertura para isso e deixa bem claro que passou por cima da moral dele só para ser seu.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que não é fã de exibicionismo (prefere manter a intimidade de vocês entre quatro paredes), mas que não consegue fingir que não sente tesão em te exibir um pouquinho pros amigos dele — faz questão de te ter no colo em qualquer reunião que te arrasta pra ir fazer companhia pra ele.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que é hipócrita e usa a carta da diferença de idade pra justificar o jeito controlador dele na cama te dando bronca sobre como você deveria respeitar os mais velhos no segundo em que você cogita xingá-lo por negar um orgasmo seu.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que sente a calça ficar mais apertada quando te ouve se referindo a ele como "senhor". Só um "sim, senhor" como piadinha deixa esse homem mole.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que é apegado demais em todos os apelidinhos que ele mesmo te dá e faz cada um deles soar desde a coisa mais doce e acolhedora até a coisa mais suja existente.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que não passa um dia sequer sem se sentir um pervertido nojento. Porque, por mais que tente, a fantasia mais gostosa que ele tem contigo é te ver agindo como mocinha ingênua e desesperada por ele.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que adora fingir ensinar a menininha "inexperiente" dele a fazer as coisinhas mais sujas possíveis.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que ama te olhar nos olhos quando tá fodendo contigo — diz que sua carinha de obcecada por ele fica ainda mais óbvia nesses momentos.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que tá disposto a te chupar a qualquer momento e a experiência dele vem à tona nessas horas, porque suas perninhas tremem tanto em volta da cabeça dele que você sente até um tiquinho de vergonha.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que te deixa meio intrigada: ele às vezes sequer parece ter libido, mas no segundo em que você deixar claro que quer ele te comendo igual vagabunda, ele vai obedecer.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que inclusive, te respeita até demais, então fazer esse homem te tratar como putinha ainda te custa muito esforço.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que, apesar de todo o respeito, nunca escondeu que ama te dar uns tapinhas — no rostinho é raro, mas se você pedir com carinho ele sempre dá.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que é inteligente demais para cair nas suas provocações baratas de que ele tá velho demais pra te pegar de jeito, mas que sempre faz questão de eventualmente te lembrar quem que te faz chorar de tesão só pra garantir.
𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿!𝗯𝗳 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 que tem o aftercare mais impecável desse mundo e que, sinceramente, parece mais uma segunda preliminar de tão excitada que ele te deixa por ser tão cuidadoso com você.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ✶ ʷᵒⁿʷᵒᵒꜝᵖᵉʳᵛᵉʳᵗⁱᵈᵒ & ᵉᵈᵘᶜᵃᵈⁱⁿʰᵒ X ᶠꜝʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ ⎯⎯⎯ +18
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ☆
Desde que o namoro de vocês alcançou outros níveis… ele ficou obcecado.
Obcecado de verdade. Viciado em você.
Passava o dia inteiro pensando em você, contando as horas, ansioso pelo final de semana só pra finalmente poder te ter no colinho dele de novo. E, às vezes, nem conseguia aguentar até lá. Acabava te puxando pro banheiro do último andar da biblioteca, só pra mamar seus peitinhos um pouco, como se aquilo fosse o suficiente pra acalmar o incêndio que você acendia nele sem nem tentar.
E você se acostumou rápido com essa “nova persona” do seu namorado.
Você amava o Wonwoo tímido, aquele que ficava todo sem jeito quando ganhava um beijinho mais molhado. Mas esse Wonwoo…Meu Deus, esse você amava ainda mais.
Conforme a intimidade de vocês foi evoluindo e ele foi ficando mais à vontade, você começou a perceber que Wonwoo nunca foi o santinho virgem que você imaginava.
Ele era virgem, sim. Mas era um pervertido do caralho.
E, de todas as coisinhas que você foi descobrindo sobre seu namorado ao longo da relação, essa era facilmente uma das suas favoritas.
A última tentativa de perder a virgindade chegou bem perto, mas por um erro de principiante, Wonwoo não teve sucesso. Só que isso não significava que ele tinha saído perdendo.
Naquele dia, Wonwoo ganhou a primeira mamada da vida dele. E, nossa… todos os vídeos que ele já tinha visto, todas as cenas que ele imaginou na própria cabeça, não chegavam nem perto da sensação real.
Como eu disse: ele estava obcecado.
Obcecado pela namoradinha perfeita dele. Você.
E você também acabou descobrindo algo sobre si mesma: como amava babar seu namoradinho até ele ficar todo manhoso, implorando pra gozar.
E, porra… você também ficou viciada.
Agora, toda e qualquer sessão de amassos com o namorado acabava do mesmo jeito: você ajoelhada entre as pernas dele, chupando devagarzinho até ele choramingar.
Mas você era cruel. Na verdade, passou a ser depois que descobriu que Wonwoo gostava exatamente assim.
Sempre começava mamando o caralho ainda coberto pela cueca. A sensação áspera do tecido ficando molhado fazia ele revirar os olhinhos. Você lambia tudinho, sem pressa, até a peça estar completamente encharcada de saliva.
E Wonwoo podia tranquilamente gozar só assim. Ele nunca teve vergonha de admitir que não durava muito tempo, principalmente quando estava completamente à mercê das suas provocaçõezinhas.
Mas tentava se segurar ao máximo. Sabia que o melhor ainda estava por vir, e não faltaria muito pra você puxar o tecido já arruinado pelas pernas e dar à ele o que tanto queria.
E quando fazia, o caralho grosso saltava pra fora, batendo contra o abdômen. Fazia Wonwoo gemer por antecipação, jurando que já conseguia sentir a aspereza da sua língua sem ela nem ao menos ter o tocado ainda,
Só o arzinho quente que escapava da sua boca quando você respirava pertinho, quase encostando, já o fazia se contorcer no lugar. Cravava as unhas nas próprias palmas, quando a vontade real era de enterrar os dedos na carne fofa das suas bochechas, empurrar seu rostinho contra a própria pélvis, até você sufocar com o pau enterrado na sua garganta.
Porra. Ele sempre acabava fantasiando com isso.
Sonhando com o dia em que finalmente teria coragem de te pedir pra foder a sua boquinha até você chorar.
E se ele pedisse, você faria sem pestanejar. Era suja como ele, pervertida como ele.
Ele só não sabia disso ainda.
Todos os videozinhos salvos na conta privada do Twitter dele você já tinha visto. Os fetiches nojentos que ele tentava reprimir a todo custo eram corriqueiros nas suas próprias fantasias.
Porra… vocês eram o casal perfeito.
“Quer colocar tudo na minha boquinha, Wonu?” — perguntou manhosa, encarando-o de baixo, com os olhinhos pidões.
Viu ele assentir desesperadamente, te assistindo subir e descer a pontinha da língua pelo freio da cabecinha inchada.
Você sorriu maliciosa. Deixou o desejo escorrer junto com a saliva pelo cantinho da boca, igualzinho veneno.
Poderia provocar o namorado por mais um tempinho, mas, pelo jeito que o pau se contorcia aos estímulos mais singelos, sabia que não duraria muito. Então logo abrigou o caralho extenso dentro da boca. Metade. O máximo que conseguia antes da pontinha tocar o início da garganta.
Wonwoo engoliu um gemido gutural. As mãos subiram num reflexo, quase tocando seu rosto num aperto súbito, mas ele conseguiu se controlar, descontando a fúria do tesão no couro surrado do sofá.
Você começou a chupar devagarinho, fazendo questão de ser bem barulhenta. Queria agradar, ser boa pra Wonwoo, e sabia que ele gostava assim.
Babava tudo. Deixava a saliva escorrer pelo corpo do pau e depois descia lambendo até a base, colocando tudo de volta na boca, arrancando um chiado sofrêgo dele.
O pau espasmava contra o músculo quente. Espiando Wonwoo por cima, você conseguia ver a expressão dele se contorcer, o abdômen malhado tensionando no mesmo ritmo em que sua cabeça ia e vinha contra ele.
O desejo de sorver o sabor do leitinho do namorado parecia cada vez mais perto de se realizar. A calcinha arruinada por baixo da sainha jeans era a prova de que o tesão em engolir tudo era mais do que real.
Então, sem nem mesmo pedir, sabendo que Wonwoo seria cavalheiro demais para aceitar, você forçou o membro contra a própria garganta. Mal deu tempo de ele conter o gemido desesperado quando sentiu a ponta sensível ultrapassar o limite da sua boca, agora esmagada contra a pressão apertada da sua garganta.
Você conseguiu até sorrir fraco, de forma limitada, é claro, ao ver Wonwoo se entregar a você tão livremente como nunca havia feito antes. A sensação era sufocante. A respiração presa causava um incômodo agoniante, mas era gostoso demais. A ardência subiu pelo rosto até os olhos, fazendo-os lacrimejar mais a cada estocada que empurrava a piroca mais fundo.
Você não tirou os olhos do namorado nem por um segundo, contente e satisfeita com a maneira como ele espasmava tentando se manter no lugar, os olhinhos apertados, provavelmente com as órbitas virando para dentro da própria cabeça.
E antes que o fôlego finalmente acabasse e te forçasse a se separar da tortura gostosa que você mesma se impunha, empurrou o restante pra dentro, conseguindo encostar a ponta do nariz na pélvis, sentindo os pelinhos recém-aparados.
Você estava sendo o estopim de Wonwoo. Deus. Aquela era a sensação que ele sempre quis sentir. Socar tudo no fim da sua garganta até esfolar tudinho.
Ele se forçou a abrir os olhos, só pra ver como seria a carinha da namorada sendo fodida daquela forma. Mas se arrependeu no mesmo instante em que o olhar encontrou o seu. Era demais até pra ele.
Os olhinhos chorosos, as lágrimas escorrendo pelas bochechinhas coradas, o rosto completamente bagunçado pela saliva e pelo líquido que vazava do pau como nunca, escorrendo pra fora da boquinha judiada.
“P-porra, amor” — ele não se conteve.
As mãos tomaram vontade própria, agarrando você violentamente pelo cabelo, enrolando os fios nos dedos pra conseguir a firmeza que precisava pra empurrar e puxar a sua cabeça contra si, estocando tudo até o fundo da garganta.
Os ruídos molhados e agonizantes do seu engasgo eram como música para os ouvidos dele. Qualquer vizinho que passasse pelo corredor ouviria a bagunça suja que vocês faziam em plena sala de estar.
“Caralho, assim eu vou gozar” — soou mais como uma tragédia do que um aviso.
Afinal, pra ele era. Queria aguentar o máximo que podia. Ou melhor… o máximo que você conseguiria aguentar.
Mais uma. Duas. Três estocadas.
Você se esforçou muito, mas teve que pedir arrego. As lágrimas escorrendo em torrentes e os engasgos substituindo os gemidos alertaram Wonwoo, que se afastou rápido, agora finalmente se dando conta do aperto rude que fazia nos seus cabelos.
“Desculpa, amor… tava tão gostos…” — disse cuidadoso, sentindo-se rudemente culpado, limpando rápido o seu rosto lambuzado pela saliva, pelas lágrimas e pela baba viscosa que ainda vazava do pau grosso.
“Eu quero mais, Wonu… eu aguento” — você choramingou mimada, abrindo a boquinha carente, pedindo mais.
Wonwoo levou a mão rapidamente às próprias bolas, tentando conter a vontade súbita de gozar. Sua carinha imunda, chorando e implorando por pica, era o fim pra ele. Mas o tomzinho da sua voz, rouco e fraco, denunciava que talvez você não aguentasse por muito mais tempo aquele ritmo violento.
“Porra, mô… não quero te machucar” — ele miou choroso, quase igual a você, tentando convencer você… e a si mesmo.
Mas era tão torturante pra ele quanto pra você ter aquele pedido dengoso negado assim.
“Você tava tão perto, mô…” — explicou manhosa, fazendo um biquinho delicado nos lábios.
O namorado suspirou, já se culpando por ter negado suas vontades. Você subiu a mão direita sorrateiramente, deslizando a pontinha dos dedos pela parte interna das coxas dele, arrancando um arrepio gostoso. Desviou o caminho pela virilha até finalmente alcançar o pau sensível outra vez.
A cabecinha inchada denunciava a sensibilidade. Provavelmente estava dolorido pra caralho depois de ter o orgasmo interrompido daquele jeito.
Você bombeou o membro devagar, de cima pra baixo, apertando um pouquinho a pontinha só pra ver o líquido transparente pingar contra o abdômen suado.
“Deixa só mais um pouquinho?” — pediu carente. — “Quero te fazer gozar”
O rostinho de Wonwoo se apertou com a proposta. Ele ponderou se realmente deveria se deixar levar pelas vontades sujas, mas… como negar as vontades da namorada?
“Só assim, então…” — colocou a própria mão por cima da sua, te incentivando a firmar um pouco mais o aperto na piroca, ditando o ritmo que gostava.
Ele suspirou, exausto, mas satisfeito em sentir o estímulo novamente. A pressão conhecida se acumulava na parte baixa da barriga, anunciando o orgasmo próximo.
“Joga dentro da minha boquinha, amor” — você pediu.
E abriu a boca em seguida, colocando a língua pra fora, oferecendo a visão da cavidade exposta. Wonwoo conseguiu enxergar a gargantinha outra vez e, instintivamente, apertou as próprias bolas com a mão livre, tentando segurar a porra que ameaçava jorrar contra você.
“Na boca não, mô…” — ele queria, é claro que queria. Mas, ao mesmo tempo, se sentia tão sujo. Você era a namoradinha perfeita dele. Nem deveria estar pedindo pra engolir o leitinho. Aquilo só tornava tudo mais difícil.
“No meu rosto, então, Wonu” — propôs outra opção, insistindo em ter pelo menos um pouquinho do líquido viscoso pra si, nem que fosse escorrendo pela carinha de puta.
Você sentiu o pau guinar contra o seu aperto. Para Wonwoo, a ideia de esporrar na sua garganta era gostosa demais, mas ele tentava se manter dentro do limite da decência o máximo que conseguia. Não queria deixar transparecer aquele lado pervertido e nojento pra namoradinha dos sonhos.
Mas quando a própria namoradinha deixa escapar o lado putinha, pedindo porra na cara com um sorriso no rosto, tudo ficava absurdamente mais difícil.
Os nós dos dedos estavam brancos, as unhas cravadas no estofado do sofá, deixando claro que Wonwoo estava no limite.
“Não quero sujar seu rostinho, a-amor""— disse entre gemidos sofridos, manhoso pra caralho. Até deixou escapar um biquinho choroso, tentando se segurar quando você aumentou o ritmo das investidas.
“Eu quero, mô… por favor” — implorou por pica com a melhor carinha de puta que conseguia fazer.
Wonwoo revirou os olhos com o pedido indecente. Mas foi o fim pra ele quando sentiu o fio grosso de saliva escorrer da sua boca até a cabecinha esfolada do pau.
O aperto se intensificou até se tornar insuportável. Você sentiu o pau espasmar, sensível pra caralho no aperto molhado da sua mão, esfregando freneticamente enquanto os jatos quentinhos acertavam sua expressão de cadelinha.
E realmente… você parecia uma cachorrinha. A linguinha pra fora, sem se preocupar com o quão degradante era a cena da saliva escorrendo, se misturando ao líquido esbranquiçado que você tentava alcançar pra dentro da boquinha.
Você estimulou a piroca até Wonwoo puxar sua mão, desesperado pela sensação agoniante da superestimulação. Mesmo assim, fez questão de tirar até a última gotinha, lambendo ao redor dos lábios pra sorver o que podia. Depois, levou os próprios dedinhos à boca, chupando com gosto o sabor do namorado.
Wonwoo assistia anestesiado. Nunca havia gozado tanto, nem tão gostoso. E, mesmo depois de um ápice tão avassalador, ainda se sentia com vontade pra caralho, só pela visão da sua carinha pidona, toda sujinha de porra, com os olhinhos de quero mais.
Sem dizer uma palavra, ele acariciou seu rosto com ternura, sem se importar em espalhar ainda mais o líquido viscoso pela pele. Você sorriu satisfeita, e ele sorriu de volta, depositando um beijo molhado e grudento nos seus lábios inchadinhos.
Ele sugou seu lábio inferior com fervor, sentindo o amarguinho do próprio gosto. Então não conseguiu mais se conter, deixando escapar, mais uma vez, aquele lado devasso que tanto tentava esconder de você.
Mas que só então percebeu que não precisava. Você era tanto assim quanto ele.
Estalou um beijinho gostoso na sua boca, sugando a boquinha e soltando em seguida. Você ainda ensaiou um murmúrio de reclamação pelo carinho cessado tão rápido, mas antes disso o namorado passou a língua pelos lábios, subindo pela sua bochecha.
Lambeu com a própria boca a bagunça suja que ele mesmo havia feito no seu rosto.
Você praticamente ronronou, ficando molinha com a sensação, se entregando ao carinho. Deixou o rostinho pender em direção à boca do namorado, que lambia cada gotinha com calma, usando a própria saliva, até deixar seu rosto inteiro limpo.
Ele encostou a testa na sua, respirando fundo, tentando se recompor. O polegar deslizou preguiçoso pelo seu queixo, deslizando os dedos suavemente num carinho delicado.
Depositou mais um beijo nos lábios, mais apaixonado do que nunca, criando coragem para te pedir para realizar mais um dos seus desejos:
𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒆. “Soa absurdo, sabe? Ter asco de si mesma só
por sentir amor por alguém, mas não havia muito o que
pudesse ser feito. Porque mesmo tentando, detestava
conviver com a ideia de que 𝗝𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗵𝗮𝗻 queria entregar
o coração dele para outra pessoa.”
─── 𝗯𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗲! 𝘆𝗼𝗼𝗻 𝗷𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗵𝗮𝗻 × 𝗹𝗲𝗶𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗮.
𝗖𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗚✷𝗥𝗜𝗔: angst. 𝗣𝗔𝗟𝗔𝗩𝗥𝗔𝗦: 1706.
𝗔𝗩𝗜𝗦✷𝗦: pensamentos ruins, leitora na friendzone,
o hannie é seu melhor amigo, choro e todo o drama que
se espera de alguém que teve o coração partido.
─── 𝗡✷𝗧𝗔𝗦: valentines day e eu senti uma vontade
muito grande de quebrar meu coração.
“Achei que ia ter que te subornar 'pra conseguir sua atenção.”, ele disse num riso contido e você finalmente entendeu o fato da sua mãe quase te expulsar para o quintal numa noite tão fria. Sua justificativa te esperava aos pés da escada com as mãos nos bolsos e um sorriso ameno no rosto.
Você se arrepiou — e não foi de frio.
“Eu ainda aceito o suborno.”, brincou de volta, descendo os degraus meio embaraçada. Não achava que teria que lidar com ele tão cedo e era estúpida por pensar assim, Jeonghan nunca se fez ausente nessa data, fazia questão de te ver nem que fosse um pouquinho.
“Não preciso mais.”, deu de ombros. “Armei esse plano de sequestro com a sua mãe.”, ele olhou pela janela como se ela estivesse ali. Não havia ninguém no cômodo, mas as sombras ainda transitavam nas poucas brechas de luz.
“E o que você vai ganhar com isso?“, você cruzou os braços, a brisa gelada tocou seu corpo. “Sabe, ela era a única que podia pagar o resgate.”, crispou os lábios numa atuação meia boca que fez Jeonghan sorrir mais ainda.
“É que eu não dei o presente de aniversário da minha vítima.”, esclareceu manso, você engoliu seco — não conseguiu parar de reparar no quão lindo o homem estava desde que correu os olhos por ele pela primeira vez na noite.
“Não precisa, Hannie.”
“Precisa. É o seu dia.”, concordou com a cabeça, não te daria a opção de aceitar ou não. Retirou uma das mãos do bolso, trazendo nela uma caixinha azul. As letras prateadas reluziam em um nome que você já havia lido antes, previu por conta própria o que tinha dentro dela — mas duvidava que Jeonghan repararia e se lembraria de algo que você sequer disse em voz alta. “Feliz aniversário.”, disse ao entregá-la nas suas mãos.
“Mentira!”, você exclamou quando, junto com a caixinha, os olhos também se abriram para se encher de um brilho perplexo. Sim, Jeonghan havia lembrado. “É lindo, Hannie.”
“Gostou mesmo?”, a pergunta era retórica, a expressão de satisfação dele talvez superasse a sua: sabia ter acertado no presente. “Te vi encarando ele demais naquele dia.”, comentou imparcial, como se fosse só um detalhe.
“Eu amei.”, sussurrou, acariciando o pingente com o indicador. “Obrigada!”, o sorriso doce que ofereceu à ele não podia ser contido.
“Quer colocar?”, antecipou seus pensamentos ao te ver tirar o colar da caixa, você concordou sem pensar. “Deixa que eu faço.”, foi prestativo ao que pegou a jóia nas mãos, te deixou sem ação. Acredita não ter se virado por conta própria, tão perturbada pelos poucos segundos nos quais sentiu as mãos dele na sua cintura que acha mais concebível ter sido teletransportada para aquela posição.
Não se lembra mais da última vez em que conseguiu estar com Jeonghan sem sentir uma aflição estranha no peito e, apesar de parecer, antes não era sinônimo de incômodo, de desconforto. Antes não era. Só que deixou de ser. Desde a fatídica tarde na qual estragou tudo, a sensação não passava de um lembrete do quão estúpida você conseguia ser. Soa absurdo, sabe? Ter asco de si mesma só por sentir amor por alguém, mas não havia muito o que pudesse ser feito. Porque mesmo tentando, detestava conviver com o fato que Jeonghan queria entregar o coração dele para outra pessoa.
“Você ‘tá linda.”, tinha-o em frente aos seus olhos outra vez quando piscou. Sua cabeça parecia propositalmente apagar os detalhes, como num sonho etéreo. “Eu posso te abraçar?“, soou receoso. Você franziu a testa ao ouvi-lo perguntar, Jeonghan nunca precisou de permissão para algo assim. Ora, não era óbvio que estava errada em questionar? Em agir como se não soubesse o motivo? Foi você quem deixou as coisas estranhas. A incerteza momentânea tornou tudo pior, atrasou seu raciocínio, demorou a concordar e ele claramente percebeu. Deixou isso evidente no abraço sem firmeza alguma que te deu.
Um suspiro quebradiço deixou sua boca no segundo em que ele te soltou.
“Me desculpa.”, pediu apreensivo. Você sabia que ele não se desculpava pelo abraço, esse mesmo timbre fraco havia sido usado contigo dias atrás.
“Não importa mais.”, você negou com a cabeça, disposta a fazer pouco da situação — talvez assim fosse menos pior. “Tá tudo bem.”, assegurou num sorriso inexpressivo.
“Não. Não tá…”, Jeonghan apertou as sobrancelhas, parecia ser engolido pelo remorso. “Você nunca vai deixar de ser importante pra mim.”, nada do que dizia era raso, porém, ainda assim, nada era certo o suficiente ao ponto de evitar que você se machucasse — não podia jogar a responsabilidade para ele, no entanto, se machucava sozinha. “Eu só não quero estragar o que a gente tem.”
“Relaxa, eu já fiz isso por você.”, comentou amarga, sorrindo sem humor.
“Não desse jeito. Não foi o que eu quis dizer. Eu-”, gaguejou. Tentava se justificar outra vez por uma situação que não precisava de explicação, aliás: por uma situação que já estava muito clara na sua cabeça. Talvez não quisesse mesmo te fazer entender, era outra tentativa falha de te consolar. Jeonghan suspirou, hesitando outra vez, juntando as palavras certas na cabeça. “Se não fosse por ela eu tentaria, ____. Juro que sim.”, andou nas pontas dos pés entre as palavras, segredando baixinho. “Tentaria ser seu. Tentaria fazer a gente funcionar…”, ele engoliu seco. “Mas eu não consigo.”
Um soco no estômago. Você odiou cada segundo do que ouviu, encarar as mesmas palavras novamente foi mais doloroso que da primeira vez — estava certa de que se acostumaria, mas pecou por confiar. Provavelmente sentiria menos da dor que sentiu se ele não tivesse mencionado ela, se só te rejeitasse por rejeitar. O colar pesou no seu pescoço, quis arrancá-lo de si. Jogar fora para nunca mais se lembrar.
“Você merece tudo, todo o amor do mundo. Você sabe disso, não sabe?“, ele voltou a dizer, uma expressão penosa no rosto. Você demorou a processar as palavras, olhava-o quase anestesiada. Achava difícil encontrar na sua memória o momento no qual se deu nas mãos dele, o segundo exato no qual deu a ele tanto poder sobre o seu estado de espírito. Quando foi que se permitiu sentir tanta coisa assim? Sequer precisou tentar falar alguma coisa para saber que sua voz estava embargada, limitou-se a concordar com a cabeça com toda a sinceridade que conseguia fingir que tinha.
Do que adiantava merecer todo o amor do mundo se não podia ter o único que você queria?
A cabeça esquentava com todos os jeitos de sair logo dessa situação, de voltar para a festa e fingir para todo mundo que a porcaria do presente mais bonito que você já ganhou não havia arruinado sua noite. Virou o rosto com os olhos em brasa, tentando fazer com que a corrente de ar os fizesse secos outra vez.
Tentou olhar para ele novamente. Não conseguiu. Tinha a pele corroída pela vergonha, sentia-se nua, exposta e amaldiçoava cada segundo. Também praguejava à inocência que te fez mostrar seus sentimentos tão facilmente, deveria ter engolido cada pedaço do que sentia, o problema era menor quando só você tinha a obrigação de lidar com ele. As lágrimas que vieram como sintomas de tudo pesaram ainda mais sua consciência: detestava o quão dramático o seu corpo estava sendo, parecia agir como uma chantagista ridícula — ainda que não fizesse nada disso de propósito.
“Desse jeito eu fico me sentindo um babaca.”, o homem confessou. E não foi de propósito, definitivamente não foi. Mas ouvir Jeonghan se culpando por algo que claramente estava fora do controle dele, fazia você se sentir ainda pior. Quis fugir mais uma vez, só conseguia pensar no quão constrangedora era a cena que fazia só por ter sido recusada. A raiva que sentia das lágrimas que ainda caíam te prendia num paradoxo, pois te fazia ter vontade de chorar mais ainda. “É seu aniversário, ____. Não chora assim, por favor.”, Jeonghan recolhe uma de suas lágrimas com o polegar, o movimento vagaroso, como quem teme que você vai se afastar. Você não faz, mas se arrepende: sente um soluço surgir na garganta e precisa lutar muito para engoli-lo de volta. Ainda não se atreve a encará-lo outra vez, o olhar baixo, preso na camisa de linho. Assiste o momento no qual ele ergue a outra mão, envolvendo suas bochechas com as duas dessa vez.
Ele levanta seu rosto, a boca colando na sua num movimento só: um selo calmo, mal dá tempo de reagir. O soluço que tanto lutou para segurar acaba saindo, mas ele sequer parece se importar, abre mais a boca e recolhe seu lábio dentro dela num suspiro vagaroso. Seus olhos se fecham, o corpo treme e relaxa num prazer estranho. Você chupa o lábio dele devagarinho passando por cima do medo de afastá-lo, o barulhinho molhado da saliva quase te tira do chão.
O gosto dele é ainda mais doce que nas suas fantasias, tanto que sente estar sendo arrancada de uma delas quando ele se afasta. A pele esquentava como nunca antes, tanto que quase implora por mais um. Faria o impensável para ser capaz de experimentar Jeonghan desse jeito outra vez, até mesmo ignoraria o quão amargo o beijo era, o quão falso... seria um desrespeito, seria passar por cima da sua própria honra. É o inferno a vontade que você sente de tê-lo só para si.
Olhou-o outra vez e as borboletas teimosas no estômago não conseguiram mais te cegar, nem mesmo o jeito que seu coração parecia querer se soltar do seu peito foi suficiente para te fazer ignorar o fato: foi rejeitada mais um milhão de vezes dentro daquele beijo.
“Eu queria poder te dar isso de verdade.”
“Eu te amo…”, você confessou num sussurro quebrado, não sabe como teve coragem de fazê-lo outra vez— mas é que tinha dentro de si tanta vontade de repetir isso para Jeonghan, repetir até que ele fosse capaz de entender o quão longe o sentimento ia, repetir até que ele te aceitasse.
Jeonghan não te aceitaria agora e sabe lá se um dia vai ser capaz. Porém, isso não o poupou de repetir a confissão para você como um espelho. Quase as mesmas palavras, mas não o mesmo amor:
𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒆. “A falta de senso, inclusive, questionava a
𝗿𝗲𝗴𝗿𝗮 que você mesma havia criado e que defendia com
unhas e dentes: a de que você, 𝗠𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘆𝘂 e 𝗦𝗲𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗼𝗹
eram uma exceção.”
─── 𝗯𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗲𝘀? 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘆𝘂 × 𝘀𝗲𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗼𝗹 × 𝗹𝗲𝗶𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗮.
𝗖𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗚✷𝗥𝗜𝗔: sugestivo. 𝗣𝗔𝗟𝗔𝗩𝗥𝗔𝗦: 7194.
𝗔𝗩𝗜𝗦✷𝗦 : linguagem imprópria, bastante diálogo,
narrador não confiável (omissão), mingyu bem canalha,
tensão sexual, insinuação de sexo & cliffhanger.
─── 𝗡✷𝗧𝗔𝗦: se não fosse a @wlflia essa daqui
meio que nem iria sair... agradeçam à diva!
──────── 𝐈 . “𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄 (𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐘𝐔𝄒𝐒).”
Se toda regra tem uma exceção, é possível dizer que existe uma exceção até mesmo para essa regra? Afinal, deve haver alguma regra sem exceção — mas isso seria contrariar a regra das regras. Não sabe porque debatia isso, nunca fora grande fã de paradoxos. Havia, porém, uma má influência por trás da enxurrada de pensamentos: Kwon Soonyoung nunca foi muito de saber o momento certo de calar a boca, especialmente se houvesse bebido o suficiente — nessas ocasiões sumia com qualquer filtro ético ou senso de moral que o fizesse ter o mínimo de vergonha na cara e sabe lá onde os enfiava.
A falta de senso, inclusive, questionava a regra que você mesma havia criado e que defendia com unhas e dentes: a de que você, Mingyu e Seungcheol eram uma exceção.
Eram um caso à parte. Definitivamente eram. Vangloriavam-se com orgulho por serem o primeiro caso oficialmente registrado de amizade entre homem e mulher que não estava contaminada por segundas intenções. Pelo menos você repetia isso como uma oração seja lá para quem perguntasse e detestava qualquer um que questionasse — mas, para alguém com tão pouca informação sobre vocês três, Soonyoung já havia questionado vezes demais nos últimos trinta minutos.
Ele tinha noção de pouco ou quase nada. Sabia da extensão da amizade entre vocês três e de quanto tempo ela datava, sabia que vocês tinham gostos parecidos e que se encontravam no mesmo bar quase todo sábado. E o que ele não sabia... bom, ainda bem — ainda bem que não sabia! Sente que as perguntas se tornariam ainda mais invasivas se ele soubesse. E acredite: você teve tempo para pensar sobre aquilo.
Pôs-se a desdenhar do jeito mais educado que sabia, afinal ainda estava diante de alguém que gostava apesar de tudo. Se respondia, era de forma evasiva; revirava os olhos com discrição; suspirava em impaciência. Entretanto seu comportamento ganhou a atenção da pessoa errada:
“Tudo bem?”, Seungcheol perguntou sem esperar resposta, esboçava certo esforço para também ignorar o homem do outro lado da mesa. Você concordou apática, ele não comprou. “Você faz essa mesma cara quando finge que ‘tá contando o truco.”, ele baixou a voz, de modo que as palavras se restringissem só a você.
“O assunto ‘tá indo ‘pra um caminho estranho.”, torceu os lábios em desconforto.
“Quer que eu peça ‘pra ele parar?”, ele ajustou a postura, se fazendo mais próximo do seu corpo.
“Não é como se eu me importasse.”, deu de ombros em indiferença, não queria fazer grande caso da situação e, dada a expressão de Seungcheol, detestaria estragar o bom humor dele.
“Mas você já parou ‘pra pensar ao menos?”, a questão soou do outro lado da mesa, o tom tão aos tropeços quanto Soonyoung estaria caso resolvesse se levantar. Você e Seungcheol trocaram um sorriso cúmplice, já estavam meio sem paciência.
“Sobre o quê?”, fez-se de desentendida pela vigésima vez em trinta minutos. A bebida não tornava o homem idiota, fez uma expressão de tédio para a sua clara tentativa de fugir do assunto. “Por Deus! Já disse que nunca nem imaginei isso.”
“Papinho muito fraco, _____.”, afiou os olhos na sua direção, os dedos seguiram o mesmo caminho: apontando em tom acusatório — por pouco não derrubou a latinha de bebida na frente dele. “Com nenhum dos dois?”, insistiu só para te ver concordar outra vez. “Fala sério, vai. Qual você escolheria? Tem que ter um menos pior.”, ele forçou um biquinho esquisito para perguntar e você se permitiu rir de canto.
“Não escolheria ninguém, Soonyoung.”, reforçou e repetiria quantas vezes ele precisasse escutar até se conformar.
“Quem a ____ escolheria, Mingyu?”, ele levantou os olhinhos pequenos. O movimento te deixou intrigada, precisou olhar para cima para notar que Mingyu agora estava atrás de você e Seungcheol, os braços apoiados nas cadeiras. “Você é o único que não vai me negar uma resposta.”
“Escolheria o quê?”, Mingyu indagou, alternando o olhar entre vocês três como se buscasse por uma resposta visual.
“Entre você e o Seungcheol.”
“Escolher?!”, ainda confuso, Mingyu perguntou outra vez.
“Pra pegar.”, o esclarecimento enfim pareceu surtir efeito. Mingyu produziu um som breve como quem finalmente entendeu a situação. Ele direcionou o olhar a você outra vez e você respondeu com um revirar de olhos que o fez sorrir — eram os três muito bem acostumados com situações assim, mas Mingyu era o que mais costumava achar graça. Após fingir pensar um pouco, ele parecia ter chegado a uma conclusão:
“Teria que ser com os dois ‘pra ser justo.”, disse sincero, mas o tom era claramente de deboche. Não te pegou de surpresa à princípio, era comum que ele falasse umas bobagens assim. “Dividir é mais fácil e ninguém sai chateado no fim.”, acrescentou à brincadeira como se o que dissesse fosse sério. E talvez Soonyoung realmente estivesse bêbado demais para captar o sarcasmo, já que voltou a indagar:
“Você concorda, Seungcheol?”
E você esperou quase todo tipo de resposta. Desde um concordar ou discordar plenamente até um finalmente pedir para que Soonyoung parasse com esse assunto. Mas com certeza não esperou um:
“Não seria a primeira vez que a gente divide…”, Seungcheol respondeu com o mesmo desinteresse de quem anuncia a previsão do tempo. Você talvez pudesse culpar também o excesso de bebida, já que não conseguiu disfarçar o choque. A frase te acertou de um jeito esquisito e você não pôde evitar de arregalar os olhos na direção deles — alternava entre os homens: Seungcheol ainda indiferente e Mingyu claramente se divertindo com a sua reação.
“Tem coisa que é melhor não te contar.”, o mais novo dos dois murmurou num tom malandro e te fez torcer o nariz com o sorrisinho sem-vergonha que largou ao fim da frase. Viu-se sem saber o que dizer, sequer acreditava que devesse falar alguma coisa naquela situação. Entrelaçados os três num silêncio desconfortável, só deixaram de se encarar daquele jeito estranho quando Soonyoung voltou a falar:
“Porra, broxei com essa resposta.”, revelou num desânimo que beirava o genuíno. “Tinha apostado com o Seungkwan que era o Mingyu.”
O silêncio se instaurou novamente. A descrença com a qual vocês encararam Soonyoung definitivamente não seria percebida por ele, mas o fizeram de toda forma. Até que Mingyu, o vencedor da aposta, estendeu a mão na direção do homem:
“Me passa a chave do carro.”
── ★ ˙ ̟ ──────── . ♡
A questão é que o trio tão emblemático formado por você e pelos dois homens desperta curiosidade desde quando ele se formou. Não era incomum que vocês passassem a impressão de ser um triângulo amoroso escrito por Collins, embora não fosse exatamente esse o caso. Porém, indo de acordo com a narrativa alheia ou não, a conexão era inegável: desde que se viram cursando basicamente a mesma área do conhecimento na universidade até o momento em que acabaram como funcionários no mesmo recinto. A última parte, entretanto, merece uma ressalva: o título de “funcionário” não cabe muito bem aos três. Seungcheol, por mérito de posição hierárquica, era mais chefe de vocês que colega de trabalho de fato — ainda que não se portasse como tal e nem tomasse decisões difíceis, tinha sua posição de superioridade muito bem assegurada no futuro: era o herdeiro mais velho do acionista majoritário.
Em desajuste com os boatos — que se espalharam e que ainda enchiam o imaginário e a boca dos funcionários — seu ingresso na corporação não se devia à sua amizade com Seungcheol. Genuinamente estava lá por esforço próprio e pelo excelente histórico acadêmico pelo qual sacrificou sua saúde mental para ter. Bom, o mesmo não poderia ser dito sobre Mingyu: o favoritismo do pai de Seungcheol pelo homem mais novo nunca foi segredo para ninguém, mas era bom no que fazia apesar de tudo.
Esmiuçar o relacionamento de vocês três nunca te trouxe bons frutos e era exatamente por isso que você evitava a ação. Conseguia ser até mesmo estúpido tentar entender como uma interação tão breve desequilibrou os pensamentos que você levou tanto tempo para organizar. De repente só havia isso: Mingyu, Seungcheol e os hábitos peculiares que eles compartilhavam.
Assim, quando sábado trouxe consigo o convite incontestável de encontrar-se com os dois no mesmo barzinho de sempre, ele trouxe também a chance para que você livrasse sua mente do limbo no qual ela ficou presa desde a última vez em que estiveram ali. Pela semana que seguiu após o fato, reencenou o diálogo com Soonyoung na própria cabeça até que se sentisse satisfeita. O problema é: esse sentimento nunca veio. Modéstia à parte, era uma grande especialista em tirar suas próprias conclusões, só que, dessa vez, elas não conseguiram ser suficientes.
Escolheu não ser estúpida, recorreu ao alvo mais fácil: Mingyu — afinal, a outra opção mexia com algo que você não sentia vontade alguma de encarar. Recorreu, porém, de forma covarde. Desviou do assunto o quanto conseguiu, se enfiando na situação aleatória de agora: presa num tutorial de sinuca no qual sequer estava interessada.
“O posicionamento das pernas influencia mais do que parece, sabia?”, a concentração que você se esforçava tanto para fingir ter evaporou quando ele se aproximou ainda mais, ficando atrás do seu corpo. “Não dá só para se curvar de qualquer jeito.”, o homem trilhava um caminho cuidadoso com as palavras: coisa boa não viria. “Você precisa abrir elas.”
“Conversa muito esquisita essa sua…”, você estreitou os olhos numa desconfiança descontraída, Mingyu não se dava ao trabalho de amenizar o duplo sentido.
“Abre as pernas, _____.”, soou mais imperativo, o sorriso estampado no rosto. Seu primeiro gesto foi empurrar o taco para trás num solavanco fingindo que ia acertá-lo no quadril, porém Mingyu foi esperto em desviar.
“Assim.”, ele murmurou em aprovação quando você finalmente obedeceu. “Agora você vai forçar o quadril 'pra baixo um pouquinho mais.”, você sequer via, mas era capaz de sentir o olhar queimando nas suas pernas. Virou o pescoço outra vez, encontrando-o atrás de você na mesma posição. “É mais confortável desse jeito.”, Mingyu justificou, talvez julgando que você se virando outra vez tenha sido pela mesma razão anterior.
“Onde que eu bato? No meio da bola ou mais em cima?”, você perguntou. Não moveu-se um centímetro sequer, era desconfortável conversar com ele curvada naquela posição, mas queria ver até onde chegaria.
“Depende.”, ele deu de ombros.
“Depende de onde eu quero acertar?”
“Tudo depende.”, retrucou. Parecia alongar a conversa de propósito para te manter presa do jeitinho que estava. “Por agora, tenta ir exatamente no meio.”
Um suspiro baixinho deixou os seus lábios quando finalmente virou-se para a mesa de sinuca. Apoiou-se na borda para estabilizar as mãos, afastou mais as pernas. Gosta de pensar que só empinou mais o quadril porque queria jogar direitinho, mas sabe bem que não o fez só por isso. Tentava calcular mentalmente a força que deveria usar, o ângulo que deveria seguir… não pensava em acertar porcaria alguma, sabe bem disso e, aparentemente, não era a única a saber.
“Quando que você vai me perguntar o que tá querendo saber, hein? Me fala.”, ele te pegou de surpresa e sua concentração fingida não te deixou responder nada de primeira. Bom, talvez não tão de surpresa assim — ser o “alvo mais fácil” não configurava o homem como o alvo mais lento. Você levantou as sobrancelhas, produzindo um murmúrio de como quem não entendeu muito bem — Mingyu não era estúpido, mesmo que você quisesse que ele fosse. “Você nunca se importou em jogar direito.”, ele acrescentou, com certeza não comprou seu jeitinho de sonsa.
“Só que eu quero aprender agora.”, seletiva, você só respondeu a parte que bem queria.
“Empurra de uma vez só. Você ‘tá muito devagar.”, orientou, vendo sua hesitação em mover-se. Dessa vez, esperou que você enfim acertasse a bola para voltar a falar. “Eu vou te responder, _____. Pergunta.”
E aquilo te custava coragem, muita. Não existia dissimulação que pudesse remediar agora, estava nessa situação por vontade própria. Observou a esfera percorrer um caminho desengonçado pela mesa, como esperado: não acertou coisa alguma. Suspirou, não por estar desapontada, mas para reunir todo o descaramento que ainda havia no seu corpo.
“Você e o Seungcheol…”, e havia muito pouco, nem terminou a frase.
“Ainda chocada que a gente divide putinha?”, a última palavra comprovou mais uma vez o quão hipócrita você se sentia, dividida entre corpo e mente. Torceu a boca em desconforto, porém foi necessário impedir a si mesma de apertar as pernas ao imaginar-se sendo referida de forma tão degradante quanto. “Esquece disso, vai... ‘tava todo mundo meio alto mesmo.”, estalou a língua no céu da boca, dando a volta na mesa. Observava as bolas dispersas como alguém que realmente tinha propriedade para isso. “O que eu sugeri era mentira, só queria ver sua reação.”, acrescentou em indiferença, encaçapando alguma coisa — você sequer prestava atenção na partida.
Aqui a situação entrou em moldes reversos: você não era estúpida, mesmo que Mingyu quisesse que você fosse.
“É sua vez de jogar. Tenta sozinha agora.”, ordenou baixinho, ainda observando o movimento breve da última jogada dele mesmo. Mingyu não precisou olhar na sua direção para saber a expressão que você estava fazendo. “Você não acredita em mim, né?”
“Não.”, rebateu de imediato. Ele sorriu ainda sem levantar o olhar.
“Certo. Talvez não tenha sido só blefe.”, enfim deu o braço a torcer.
“Então vocês realmente...?”
“Sim, a gente faz isso às vezes.”, confirmou, simplista. “É mais normal do que parece, _____. Você precisa deixar de ser puritana.”, ele te olhou, conformado de que você não voltaria a jogar nem tão cedo.
“Eu não sou.”, realmente não era e nem sabe o porquê de dar a impressão de ser. “É só que o Cheol não aparenta se meter nesse tipo de coisa.”
“E eu aparento, é?”, a pergunta era estúpida e Mingyu sabia, um risinho sarcástico enfeitando os lábios dele ao encarar sua expressão entediada. “Justo.”, aceitou enfim.
“É que ele é tão... certinho.”, sabia não ser essa a palavra correta e duvidava que Mingyu concordasse, tanto que entortou a boca ao fim da frase.
“O Seungcheol? Você não é boba…”, dito e feito. “Só é quieto em público.”, ele alcançou a latinha que havia apoiado no canto da mesa. Não demonstrava preocupação alguma em ser ouvido pela meia dúzia de desconhecidos que estavam nos arredores, só Seungcheol mais ao fundo que o faria se preocupar — mas ele estava distante demais para distinguir qualquer coisa que fosse dita. “Fica aí achando que se embebedar é o pior que ele faz. É tão puto quanto eu.”, o homem deu de ombros. Mostrava conforto com o título que havia dado a si mesmo, nunca foi de negar ser aquilo.
“É que seu patamar é meio alto.”, o comentário veio ácido, só que não pareceu incomodar.
“Ele é discreto. Só isso.”, largou a lata de volta do canto depois de um gole generoso. Sinalizou com indicador que era sua vez de jogar, você se moveu lenta, ainda muito mais interessada em escutá-lo. “Sendo filho de quem é, não pode ficar dando mole.”, ele deu a volta na mesa outra vez, apoiando o próprio taco na parede atrás de você.
“Ainda não consigo imaginar ele em algo assim.”, era meio complicado tornar o pensamento palpável. Você correu os olhos pelas bolas levemente, posicionando o taco sem saber muito bem para onde apontar. Mingyu invadiu seu espaço pessoal sem muita cerimônia, envolvendo seus braços num aperto leve — ao menos cumpriu o básico de decência: o quadril permanecia longe, ainda que ele basicamente estivesse te abraçando por trás.
“Então você ficou curiosa?”, a voz despretensiosa era um mero adereço, não servia de nada. O rosto do homem se apoiou no seu ombro, fazia do seu corpo uma extensão do dele — talvez julgasse ser mais simples te ensinar assim. “Relaxa o pulso.”, murmurou baixinho, não havia mais razão em falar alto já que te tinha tão próxima. O seu breve estado de choque dava lugar a tensão, de repente, sentia quase tudo. Deu o que tinha dentro de si para ignorar o modo como o estômago apertava ou o jeito como a pele dele era quente demais ao toque.
“Talvez.”, e era blefe, encenação, fingimento e todos os seus sinônimos. ‘Curiosidade’ sequer começava a descrever a sensação. Sentia-se muito insatisfeita pela própria lógica, precisava que Mingyu tirasse ela de você.
“Você ‘tá errando a posição de novo.”, observou mais baixinho ainda, assoprava as palavras contra o seu cabelo. “Assim. Curva a cintura.”, libertou um dos seus braços, apoiando a palma no meio das suas costas num movimento breve. Forçava seu corpo a se curvar, a tornar o encaixe nele ainda mais íntimo. “Mais baixo.”, pediu quando encontrou resistência no meio do caminho. Você se fez rígida quando sentiu o tecido da calça resvalar na parte traseira das suas coxas.
“Mingyu-”
“Encosta. Eu não vou te morder.”, insinuava-se entre as palavras, era doce, persuasivo, traiçoeiro.
Talvez pelo calor que não te deixava ser capaz de pensar, talvez pela sensação esquisita que fazia seus músculos se apertarem… mas fez a vontade dele, se curvando até que o corpo em cima do seu te deixasse imóvel.
“Quer saber o que ele faz, amor?”, quase colou a boca em sua orelha, o hálito quente provocava um pinicar estranho na pele. O apelido fez sua cabeça girar, dando vida à coisas que você teve que se esforçar muito para ignorar. De repente, ele parecia preocupado demais em ser ouvido, fazia questão que as palavras fossem ditas só para você. “Ele não sabe dividir direito, _____.”, mais um sussurro. Suas pernas já estavam fracas demais para suportar, tentou se afastar por espasmo, se sentia sobrecarregada. Mingyu forçou os dedos na sua cintura, a pegada firme não te deixaria sair dali. “É um porre quando ele começa, porque sempre acaba com a diversão. Ficam molinhas demais 'pra foder comigo.”, a língua sequer parecia pesar com as palavras, tudo saía numa facilidade sedutora demais. Você jurava que sua visão estava embaçando, sendo manchada pelo pensamento sujo de substituir cada uma das pessoas na mente do homem.
“Mingyu…”, a repetição fazia o nome deslizar de dentro da sua boca de forma mais lânguida. Esquentava somente por poder chamar pelo homem outra vez, por poder matar a saudade de um jeito tão estúpido.
“Segura firme. Vai errar a bola desse jeito.”, voltou a te orientar, os dedos se fechando mais na lateral da cintura para chamar sua atenção — como esperado: foi em vão. “Eu não vou ser hipócrita, _____.”, e você tentava recobrar um pouco do discernimento, na esperança de que a conversa se tornasse menos indecente. “E é com todo o respeito.“, e isso era sempre anúncio da coisa mais desrespeitosa prestes a ser dita: “É meio óbvio que a gente já pensou em te comer.”, foi como um soco gostoso demais para ignorar no seu estômago.
“A gente?”, a pergunta era fruto de vaidade, queria que Mingyu continuasse beijando o seu ego dos pés a cabeça — nada nesse mundo era mais capaz de fazer você se molhar tanto.
“Você se faz muito, puta que pariu.”, ele riu descrente. Talvez não fosse óbvio: mas era sim muito familiar com seu jeitinho cheio de manha. “Sim. Nós dois. O Seungcheol também.”
Foi instintivo erguer os olhos na direção do homem mencionado, a visão embaçada tamanho era o calor que sentia no próprio rosto. Ele assistia à toda a cena de longe, sentado em uma das banquetas perto do balcão. Não esboçava reação, não parecia tenso ou minimamente abalado. Discreto — exatamente como Mingyu havia descrito.
“Ele sabe do que a gente ‘tá falando.”, Mingyu agora também prestava atenção, o sorriso na voz era nítido. “Sabe que você quer.”, falou mais baixinho, confessar seu pecado a você mesma exigia toda a cautela possível. O homem roçou o nariz na sua bochecha, seus olhos embaçaram outra vez, perdeu Seungcheol de vista. “Mas ele é manso contigo, então 'cê vai precisar pedir, neném. Senão ele não faz.”, pôs-se a te contar tudo aquilo que você já sabia, porque era excitante, porque precisava te fazer ingênua.
“Comigo?” e você dissimulava, torcia a situação o quanto achava justo para que ela coubesse na sua própria vontade. Simulava a personagem que sabia ser a favorita de Mingyu.
“Ele é, amor. Olha 'pra cara dele.”, instigou, e obedecê-lo era, na verdade, satisfazer a si mesma. “Te acha princesinha demais 'pra fazer as merdas que ele faz quando ‘tá comigo.”, a justificativa te fez morder um sorrisinho dentro da boca. “Se 'tá querendo ser fodida de verdade, você precisa deixar claro”
“Mas você-”
“Não sou homem de recado, _____. Com ele você que se resolva.”, nem te deixou terminar e já rebateu, não precisava de muito para ler seu próximo passo. “Mas pelo menos comigo não vai precisar fazer doce, já saquei qual é a sua.”
“E qual é a minha, Mingyu?”, de novo, precisava ouvir tudo aquilo que já conhecia de cor. Queria se deleitar no prazer de reviver cada pedacinho do cenário que te trazia tantas saudades, que fazia seus neurônios derreterem de tanto tesão.
“Sei que sente saudades do seu namoradinho.”, o comentário acompanhou um beijinho nas costas. Por meio segundo você estava certa de que seus braços fraquejariam e que você cairia de cara, tamanho era o peso de ouvir aquilo saindo da boca de Mingyu, te deixando nua, vulnerável. “Também sei que fui um merda. Deixei a princesinha na vontade.”, roçava os lábios na sua pele o quanto conseguia, praticamente beijava as palavras contra a sua derme. “Tá querendo ver eu me redimir com você, não tá?”, o tom dengoso demonstrava um arrependimento que você sabia ser falso, no entanto não se importava. Acenou a cabeça em concordância, aconchegando-se no aperto gostoso, sentindo o corpo grande quase te engolir. “Eu vou, amor. Vou dar tudinho que você merece.”, um beijo menos casto foi deixado no seu pescoço, a saliva queimando na ponta da língua dele.
Merda, o arrepio te fez apertar os olhos, franzir a testa, pressionar mais as coxas. De repente, só pensava em deixar Mingyu tomar seu corpo bem em cima da mesa de sinuca, te fazer mulher dele ali mesmo com todo mundo assistindo. Por isso empinou o quadril sem embaraço, buscando satisfação no volume atrás de você — não tomava decisões boas para um lugar tão público, preocupada demais em sanar a carência meladinha no meio das suas pernas. Ele riu de imediato, soava muito satisfeito.
“Só que não funciona desse jeito com ele.”, referiu-se a sua falta de resistência em se entregar. Não era sua culpa se ser dominada tão fácil te fazia ficar estúpida. “Ficar se oferecendo igual putinha ‘pra mim pega mal, amor.”, provocou, como se você fosse a única ali a se esfregar de um jeito tão indecente.
Mingyu se afastou de supetão, dando uma olhadinha vaidosa em volta antes de ajustar o pau na calça. Você quase derreteu em cima da mesa ao ser largada tão fácil, o corpo inteiro pulsava e só agora dava para sentir. A pele suando, os peitinhos enrijecidos contra o feltro macio, a calcinha meladinha grudando entre as pernas… estava uma bagunça completa. Encarou o culpado de tudo isso ainda meio atônita, a cabeça totalmente fora do lugar.
“Se ‘tá tão desesperada assim, precisa abrir a boca.”, ele te mostrou as presinhas num sorriso sacana. “Ainda é sua vez, amor.”
── ★ ˙ ̟ ──────── . ♡
Fingir não se importar com o acontecido pelos próximos três dias foi tarefa relativamente simples. Talvez por não ter sido obrigada a encarar Mingyu de frente outra vez? Talvez. Nunca agradeceu tanto por uma viagem a trabalho como quando soube da ausência dele, assegurada de que conseguiria agir como uma adulta funcional pelo menos no início da semana. Entretanto a reunião marcada com parte da corporação no final daquela tarde de quarta-feira era presságio do reencontro que você definitivamente não estava ansiosa para ter, já havia sido uma grande pedra no sapato ter que responder à mensagem que ele enviou no dia seguinte — ainda que ele só tenha questionado se você havia chegado bem em casa.
Era incapaz de imaginar-se sentada a uma mesa com Mingyu do outro lado sem deixar que o vidro se transfigurasse no feltro verde que revestia a mesa de sinuca. Sabia que não conseguiria conter a própria imaginação, sequer dava conta de fazê-lo com ele estando distante. Por isso andou de mãos dadas com sua paranoia pelo resto do dia, se esgueirava pelos corredores temendo ver o dito cujo. Entretanto, não deixaria só por isso: resolveu buscar refúgio na salinha que ficava ao fim do corredor — sabia que sua salvadora estaria ali dentro e tinha o horário de almoço inteiro para ser liberta desse monstro horrível.
“Eu vou pedir transferência de setor.”, suspirou exasperada ao fim da frase. Assim que fechou a porta, deixou o corpo cair no sofá de couro mais ao canto, a porção da parede que era feita de vidro era metade fosca, então conseguia se deitar confortavelmente sem ser vista por quem estava fora.
“Bom dia primeiramente.”, a mulher nem se preocupou em levantar o olhar na sua direção. Em partes, era acostumada com o agir dramático e, principalmente, sabia muito bem do que se tratava — afinal, teve que ouvir todo o sermão ao telefone num domingo de manhã, pois você ao menos teve a decência de poupar-lhe o sono e não ligar para desabafar logo na madrugada do acontecido.
Não sabia ao certo quando vocês duas haviam se tornado confidentes. Porém sabia que, salvo Mingyu e Seungcheol, ela era uma das únicas pessoas que agia de maneira minimamente humana naquele lugar. A conexão apareceu na faculdade, Ellie era veterana de um grupo de pesquisa ao qual você se vinculou logo no início do curso e, mesmo que ela tenha concluído a formação primeiro que você, o contato ainda permaneceu depois. Por isso, foi motivo de grande alegria quando, ao finalmente se formar, você passou a trabalhar na mesma empresa que ela.
Descontando a diferença no tempo, a trajetória acadêmica de vocês duas havia sido idêntica, entretanto pelo acaso — lê-se “desvio de função” — Ellie encarregava-se de questões de consultoria, o que oferecia o privilégio de ter uma sala exclusiva para atendimentos e esta, por sua vez, logo se tornou o lugar seguro de vocês duas — onde frequentemente se encontravam para confessar todo tipo de coisa.
“É sério, Ellie. Eu…”, os pensamentos corriam desordenados demais pela mente, era difícil enfileirá-los em palavras. “Eu não sei mais como lidar com isso.”
“A manchete de amanhã vai ser: contadora morre de tesão dentro do escritório.”, gesticulou exageradamente no ar e você insinuou que iria lançar o travesseiro mais próximo na direção dela, temendo que ela chamasse muita atenção. “Eu sinceramente acho que quebrar a perna e arrumar um atestado é muito mais simples... uma troca de setor nessa altura do campeonato talvez custe seu emprego.”, soava como brincadeira, mas talvez não fosse. Havia uma tensão estranha entre os acionistas, uma competição interna meio estúpida na sua opinião.
“Não. Dar pro filho do acionista majoritário talvez custe meu emprego.”, corrigiu-a, certificando-se de diminuir mais ainda o tom de voz.
“Sei não. Você pode até ser promovida desse jeito.”, ela te ofereceu uma piscadinha cínica. Novamente: soava como brincadeira, mas talvez não fosse — o sorrisinho no rosto dela sugeria demais.
“E se eu for desligada da empresa por te agredir?”, a ameaça era inofensiva.
“Tá, mas falando sério: por quê esse fato só é relevante agora?”, ela sequer pareceu te escutar. “Antes de tudo isso você nunca se importou com o que o Seungcheol é ou deixa de ser.”, a mulher demonstrava estar confusa. ‘Não se importar’ não era exatamente o que acontecia.
“A gente não tá mais na faculdade.”, suspirou. “Ele deixou de ser só meu amigo faz tempo, é mais complicado do que era antes.”, a intenção por trás da conversa parecia se perder cada vez mais, não desabafava — na verdade, enchia a cabeça com mais pensamentos. “E se eu me demitir? Prefiro isso a ter alguém me demitindo.”, a sugestão não era totalmente retórica, realmente consideraria se não tivesse tantas contas para pagar.
“Incrível que você está cogitando toda essa maluquice, mas ‘tá ignorando a opção mais simples.”, o digitar monótono no teclado dela ainda não havia cessado e isso talvez reforçasse a ideia de que a solução pensada por ela era muito óbvia.
“Que é...?”, mas talvez não tão óbvia para você.
“Negar o convite do Mingyu e seguir com a sua vida.”, finalmente voltou a olhar na sua direção, ela movia a cabeça como se o que dissesse fosse senso comum.
“Não é simples assim.”
“Claro que é! Não é como se eles estivessem te obrigando.”, pareceu um tanto contrariada com a sua resposta. Ellie se orientava pela lógica quase que o tempo inteiro.
“É que a gente já é próximo faz tanto tempo. E se ficar um clima estranho?”, percebia que o que dizia soava, de fato, um tanto estúpido e meio absurdo, mas haviam tantas incertezas em sua cabeça que quase se via coagida a deixar o emocional falar por você.
“Ora, se fosse ‘pra ficar estranho, já estaria!”, ela ficava cada vez mais escandalizada com as suas justificativas; o exagero chegava a ser cômico. “Se o Mingyu que é teu ex faz tempo nunca deu chilique sobre nada, por que você acha que ele daria agora? Tanto que vocês voltaram a ser só amigos fácil demais pro meu gosto.”, a elevação da voz te inquietou, mas também se sentiu levemente alfinetada. Temia que alguém a estivesse escutando, porém se viu instigada demais pelo que ela disse para ser capaz de se importar tanto quanto deveria.
“Pro seu gosto?”, questionou o termo, mas tinha quase certeza que conseguia adivinhar a explicação dela. Sendo uma das poucas pessoas que tinha a noção do seu envolvimento passado com Mingyu, ela nunca deu crédito a esse acordo silencioso de “estritamente amizade” entre vocês dois.
“Você me desculpe, mas com um ex gostoso daqueles eu ia viver de briga e recaída. Não teria essa história de amigo.”, a sinceridade te arrancou uma risadinha. Você olhou em volta, temia que Mingyu aparecesse magicamente atrás do vaso de planta. “E agora que ele ‘tá tentando colocar o Seungcheol na jogada também? Você é muito puritana.”, Ellie esboçou um leve desdém. E se você ganhasse uma moeda para cada vez que ouviu isso essa semana, já teria duas.
“Não sou. Que inferno! Todo mundo diz isso.”, protestou. Não sabe o porquê, mas jurava estar escrito ‘recatada e do lar’ em algum lugar do seu rosto — só o pensamento lhe causava aversão. “São as circunstâncias. Eu não posso aceitar. Tenho que arrumar um jeito... não sei.”
“_____.”, a mulher te lançou um olhar de descrença, como quem vai explicar algo óbvio a uma criança. “Diz não. É só dizer que não quer.”, à beira de perder a paciência, ela não compreendia sua implicância com algo tão simples de resolver.
O que se seguiu foi a troca de olhares mais comunicativa de toda a sua vida. A pele esquentou, uma urgência em sorrir contra a própria vontade tomou conta de você. Tentou disfarçar, fingindo roer a unha para esconder os lábios, mas nem isso conseguiu ocultar — seus olhos eram traiçoeiros demais.
“Você quer, né?!”, ela se exaltou, exclamando em tom de deboche. “Puta que pariu, você quer isso ‘pra caralho! Olha só tua cara de sonsa.”, comentou em total descrença, afiando os olhos na sua direção. Honestamente, você foi estúpida em presumir que ela não seria capaz de ler o desejo explícito no seu rosto.
“Fala baixo!”, repreendeu ao que seu sorriso se tornava ainda maior, fugiu do olhar dela para tentar esconder a vergonha. Agora Ellie mal podia conter a própria excitação com o assunto, saltando da cadeira para se sentar ao seu lado no sofá.
“Então o lance de viver de recaída com o teu ex não é só invenção minha?”, os olhos dela chegavam a brilhar com a possibilidade. No entanto, você precisou frustrar todas as expectativas:
“É. Pior que é.”, você soou desapontada. “Desde que a gente terminou nunca mais aconteceu nada.”, e o brilho dela sumiu. “E foi... tão rápido, Ellie.”, suspirou, finalmente deixando transparecer a frustração que explicava sua teimosia desde o início. “Acho que eu sou a única de nós dois que realmente se importa com esse projeto de namoro.”, amaldiçoou a falta de consideração de Mingyu mentalmente, pois, pelo visto, sua hipocrisia também quis participar da conversa — em partes, foi você quem quis que as coisas fossem assim. Não demorou para que a mais velha parecesse pronta para te questionar outra vez:
“Tem certeza que ‘tá querendo isso pelos motivos certos? Quer dizer, ele não vai reatar contigo. Só te chamou ‘pra foder.”
“Ellie, eu juro que se você não falar mais baixo…”, olhou em volta por instinto, aparentemente estar próxima de você não amenizava a falta de discrição.
“E outra, se ele quer enfiar outro homem na história é porque definitivamente não pretende reatar contigo.”, ela completou.
“Eu sei disso. Não tô a fim de namoro.”
“Qual sua pilha então? Ainda não consegui entender.”, ela franziu a testa. Aqui você fez questão de deixá-la ver um revirar de olhos irônico, a conversa entraria em território inexplorado.
“O namoro foi rápido, Ellie.”, repetiu. “Muito, muito rápido.”, enfatizou o intensificador, desejando mentalmente que vocês duas estivessem na mesma sintonia — não queria ter que ser direta. O movimento de tentar ler a resposta nos seus olhos se repetiu, só que a mulher pareceu ser bem mais rápida dessa vez:
“Ele nunca te comeu?!”, outra exclamação, alta demais pro seu gosto. Outra vez, olhou ao redor temerosa. A expansividade de Ellie foi o que fez vocês se tornarem tão próximas, entretanto admitia que ela precisava aprender a baixar o volume às vezes.
“Chega. Cansei.”, ameaçou levantar, o corpo formigando com a possibilidade de mais alguém estar ouvindo a conversa.
“Não! Senta aqui.”, a mulher te segurou pelo pulso, fazendo com que você se sentasse novamente. “Como assim ele nunca-”, dessa vez, ela mesma pareceu perceber que um assunto tão delicado como esse exigia cautela. Diminuiu o tom: “Nunca mesmo?”, pareceu descrente quando você negou com a cabeça. A pouca abertura que você havia dado para esse assunto na época em que revelou a informação não permitiu que vocês duas chegassem nessa parte — dessa forma, Ellie havia tirado as próprias conclusões sobre a coisa toda. “Nem chegou perto?”
“Quase, muitas vezes quase.”, revisitar a memória te fazia querer enfiar a cara no travesseiro. “Mas no fim disse que não conseguia fazer isso comigo e a gente terminou.”, foi bem reducionista na explicação, mas sabia que precisaria ser menos.
“Meu Deus, que filho da puta!”
“Não pelo motivo que você 'tá pensando.”, negou, a mulher também era um tanto previsível.
“E tem outro?!”
“Ellie, com quantas pessoas o Mingyu apareceu de rolo durante a faculdade?”
“Sei lá, porra. Eu nem era do período de vocês.”, ela deu de ombros, a expressão entediada.
“Você sabe. Quase todo mundo sabia.”, você apertou os olhos em descrença, óbvio que ela tinha sim aquela informação. Assistiu-a fingir pensar.
“Ouvi falar de um monte.”
“Exatamente. E ele seguia ‘pra próxima rápido demais, não acha? Tão rápido quanto terminou comigo.”, encaixava as peças na frente dela, fazendo questão que a mulher observasse cada movimento.
“Eu não sei onde você ‘tá querendo chegar.”
“Nós três já éramos bem próximos nessa época. Eu, ele e o Cheol.”, respirou fundo, talvez precisasse seguir por outro caminho. “E aparentemente ele me respeitava demais ‘pra conseguir só ir ‘pra cama comigo e partir ‘pra próxima.”
“Caralho, que moleque desgraçado…”
“Foi o que ele me disse na época e eu demorei ‘pra entender.”, talvez não estivesse conformada até hoje, senão nem estaria tendo essa conversa. “Só saquei quando vi ele começar a ficar e terminar com uma menina de outro curso em menos de duas semanas.”, os dedos se apertaram em desconforto. “Daí ele fez isso de novo, e de novo…”
“Eu retiro o que disse sobre as recaídas.”, ela te mostrou uma expressão meio desgostosa. “Você quer mesmo ir ‘pra cama com alguém assim?“
“Tem mais camadas do que eu gostaria.”, engoliu seco, estava prestes a brincar com seu próprio senso de moral. “Não ‘tô dizendo que ele deixou de ser um canalha. Mas, definitivamente, tem mais respeito e responsabilidade emocional que antes.”, e isso era maquiar, e muito, a situação. “E parece…”, hesitou. “Parece que eu preciso disso ‘pra provar alguma coisa, sabe?”
“Você não tem que provar nada 'pra ninguém.”
“É ‘pra mim mesma, Ellie.”, disso não havia dúvidas. “E talvez... talvez pro Mingyu. Não tenho certeza.”
“Tá, mas se ele não te comeu naquela época porque te respeitava.”, ela fez aspas exageradas com os dedos. “Quer dizer que agora ele não te respeita mais?”
“Como eu disse: tem mais camadas do que eu gostaria.”, retomou. “Tinha muito a ver com a minha inexperiência também. Mesmo nunca perguntando, ‘tava claro ‘pra ele que eu era virgem…”, você se encolheu mais um pouco. “Talvez ele não quisesse arruinar a primeira vez 'pra mim.”, a voz tornou-se branda, sabia que soava como uma boba tentando isentar o erro de outra pessoa. O silêncio que seguiu por alguns segundos não te ajudou a se sentir menos tola.
“Mas e o Seungcheol? Desde o começo você ‘tá falando disso como se ele nem estivesse envolvido.”, Ellie franziu a testa brevemente e você não sabia se suspirava em alívio por conseguir sair da defensiva ou se desesperava por ter que esclarecer a parte mais complicada do assunto. “De novo, acho que você está nessa pelos motivos errados.", deu de ombros como quem sabe o que diz.
“Com ele ‘tô fazendo a mesma coisa que fiz desde que nos conhecemos.”, sabia bem como terminar. “Ignorar.”, completou. Foi necessário respirar fundo, só você sabia o quão enfiada nessa história estava, porém iria deixar que outra pessoa soubesse. “Ellie, eu posso te confessar uma coisa?”, perguntou receosa, mas faria se ela quisesse ou não.
“E tem mais?”
“Se existe um problema de verdade nessa história é o Seungcheol.”, apoiou-se no encosto do sofá, encarando uma das paredes — precisava reunir uma coragem que dependia da sensação de não estar sendo observada. “E eu não tô falando dele ser filho do homem que paga minhas contas.”
“É um problema maior que o Mingyu?”
“Sim. Não de um jeito palpável e talvez só seja coisa da minha cabeça.”
“Não consigo entender.”
“As coisas entre eu e ele são estranhas desde o começo.”, balançou uma das pernas em desconforto, o sangue parecia te cortar por dentro. “Eu odeio tanto admitir isso. Odeio, odeio, odeio…”, respirou fundo, apertando os olhos. Droga, por quê diabos resolveu falar disso mesmo? “Mas nem quando eu comecei a namorar com o Mingyu elas deixaram de ser esquisitas.”
“Vocês dois já...?”
“Não!”, negou de imediato, o corpo até saltou — morreria antes de aceitar que alguém pensasse isso sobre você. “Nunca. Nada, Ellie. Nada. Por isso parece ser só a minha cabeça.”, falava mais espaçado, tentava regular o palpitar do coração.
Seungcheol talvez fosse o juiz dos seus crimes, não precisava estar presente para fazer você se culpar.
“O problema envolve a época do namoro…”, pausou, não havia jeito simples de abordar aquilo. “Tinha vezes em que eu ficava sozinha com ele e eu sentia. Sentia que ele me olhava como-”, engoliu em seco. “Como um pedaço de carne.”, evitava até mesmo a sombra da mulher ao seu lado. “As coisas que ele dizia, o jeito que falava comigo.”, os estômago se contraiu com as memórias, remexeu-se no estofado. “Eu nem lembrava do Mingyu nesses momentos. Eu ficava tão…”, não pôde terminar
“Tão?”
“Excitada.”, arrepiou-se em admitir. “Ficava excitada ‘pra caralho e nem tinha coragem de olhar na cara do meu namorado depois, porque eu sentia que ‘tava traindo o Gyu em pensamento.”, fechou as mãos, as unhas pressionando as palmas. “Me sinto suja toda vez que penso nisso, toda vez que lembro disso.”, abriu a boca mais uma vez ao fim da frase. Tinha muito a ser dito, porém guardou.
Confiava na mulher, mas ainda assim fez questão de omitir parte da história — apesar de tudo que já havia dito, fazia o possível para proteger o próprio ego. Escondeu que certas coisas também aconteciam com Mingyu presente. Escondeu todas as vezes que sentiu o olhar de Seungcheol queimando na sua pele enquanto beijava o seu então namoradinho. E omitiu principalmente quando, mesmo prostrada no colo de Mingyu, fazia questão de abrir as perninhas porque sabia bem para onde Seungcheol estava olhando.
“Não vou te julgar nem nada se é isso que você ‘tá pensando.”, Ellie rompeu o silêncio que você deixou. “É normal sentir tesão em outro cara.”, se falava por experiência própria, você não sabia. “Sem contar que a merda que o Mingyu queria fazer contigo automaticamente anula tudo. Você não precisa se sentir errada.”
“Foi muito antes de eu saber. Não justifica. Eu ‘tava errada de todo jeito.”, se martirizou insincera, talvez só quisesse ganhar a compaixão da mulher.
“Mas já passou, _____.”, ela tentou confortar. Sua expressão abriu margem para outra coisa, no entanto. “Não? Ainda sente tesão nele?”
“Ele ainda faz eu me sentir suja…”, prendeu a respiração por dois segundos. “E eu sinto que gosto, Ellie. Ainda é tão excitante me sentir assim.”, você esperou pelo silêncio desconfortável, mas ele não veio:
“Caralho, como vocês conseguiram sustentar esse teatrinho por tanto tempo?”, era a pergunta de ouro.
“Ignorando. Não tocando nesse assunto.”, você quase levou a mão aos olhos para esfregá-los em frustração, mas estava de maquiagem. “Isso até o Soonyoung resolver abrir a boca.”
“É... tem mais camadas do que você gostaria.”
“Você me entende agora.”, riu sem humor, finalmente reunindo coragem para voltar a olhá-la. “Ai, Ellie... O que eu faço, hein?”
“Claramente existe algo que você precisa da resposta ‘pra ficar em paz.”, ela traçou o caminho que levava para uma solução apenas. “Só que conhecer a verdade talvez te custe alguma coisa depois.”, inclinou a cabeça, tinha noção de que você sabia bem onde estava se metendo.
“Igual em Adão e Eva?”, brincou, a associação foi a primeira coisa que sua cabeça fez. Conseguiu o mérito de arrancar uma risadinha dela com a referência.
“Igual em Adão e Eva. Só que você tem dois Adões.”, ainda ria baixinho quando acrescentou. “Então, Eva…”, o sarcasmo era nítido. “Você realmente quer isso?”
synopsis — of all the people in your chemistry course, you get stuck with ryomen sukuna—the most insufferable, arrogant asshole on campus. he barely does any work, runs his mouth like it’s a sport, and somehow manages to make your life even more exhausting than it already is. if this project doesn’t kill you, he just might.
wc — 26k (ONLY 1K ABOVE THE EXPECTED WC YAAAY)
warnings — explicit sexual content (unprotected sex), sukuna is quite mean in the beginning, possibly incorrect depiction of frat culture (spare me i am not american), lots of sexual jokes, brief tiny smidge of angst, reader is a bad bitch, mentions of feeling insecure, choso and toji are gym himbos.
“Please, anyone but him, professor—” You try begging, hands gripping the edge of the desk like your life depends on it. You know it’s useless, but desperation makes a fool out of you.
Professor Shimizu sighs, sympathy flashing across her face, but it’s gone in an instant. She adjusts her glasses, pushing them up her nose, and gives you a rueful smile. “I understand your concerns,” she says, “and if it were up to me, I’d happily rearrange the groups, but the pairings were assigned by the department. Something about fostering academic cooperation.” She shakes her head like she, too, thinks it’s bullshit. “My hands are tied.”
Your stomach sinks. Fostering academic cooperation? With him? You’d have better luck reasoning with a brick wall—one that could talk back and insult you for fun. You turn back toward the class, eyes darting between the clusters of students already deep in discussion. Some of them look at you with poorly concealed amusement, others with pity. And then there’s him, sitting by the window, looking positively bored like this whole situation is an inconvenience.
Ryomen Sukuna.
The campus heartthrob. The golden boy of the mechanical engineering department. A nightmare wrapped in a six-foot-something frame of smugness and muscle. A nightmare that you unfortunately have to share your CHEM10002 course with (why he’d picked a premed course as an elective was beyond you) You hate him. And not in the petty ugh, he’s annoying kind of way. It’s deeper than that. He’s insufferable. Arrogant. Egotistical. The type of guy who always has a girl in his bed but never the same one twice. He walks around campus like he owns the place, flashing that sharp grin, that lazy confidence that makes people—girls, especially—fawn over him despite his reputation. Cocky, rude, impossible to work with.
And now you’re stuck with him. Oh, hell no. Your body stiffens. No way. No fucking way. Like hell you’re going to spend the next few weeks working with him. You whip your head back to Professor Shimizu, grasping at anything—anything—to get out of this. “What if I did extra credit? A research paper? A presentation? Anything,” you plead, voice tight. “I’ll take a lower grade. Dock my participation. I don’t care—just not him.”
She sighs, but it’s not exasperated, just… tired. “I appreciate your enthusiasm,” she says, like you’re asking for more work because you love learning instead of trying to escape an actual nightmare. “But, again, I can’t change the pairings. And as much as I’d love to give you an alternative assignment, the department is very strict on this. It’s meant to ‘challenge students to collaborate beyond personal preference.’” She air-quotes it, which means she definitely thinks it’s bullshit. You slump, stomach twisting with something bitter. Collaboration? With Sukuna? The only thing he collaborates on is making everyone’s life harder.
You grit your teeth, hard. He’s lounging now, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other lazily spinning a pen between his fingers while he lazily eyes you from where he’s manspreading in his seat. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying, and that’s what pisses you off the most—he never tries. Not in class, not with people, not with anything. Everything just seems to work out for him anyway.
You hate that you know that. You really hate that you know that. But you’ve known him long enough. Long enough to remember—
Freshman Year
It was something small. Stupid, even. But you still remember the heat of humiliation crawling up your neck, the way people laughed under their breath, how he barely even looked at you afterward, like it hadn’t mattered. You had been in a required first-year seminar, and the professor called on you to answer a question. It wasn’t hard, but the nerves got the best of you—you stumbled over your words, your voice wavered.
And then you heard it. A tsk, followed by a lazy, mocking lilt:
“Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.”
Heat flushed through you, the classroom suddenly too bright, too small. A few people chuckled—some outright laughed. You had swallowed thickly, willing yourself to focus, to get through the answer. When class ended, you stormed out, ignoring the lingering stares, the murmured that was brutal from some guy behind you. But Sukuna? He didn’t even glance your way. Because to him, it wasn’t anything. It wasn’t worth a second thought. And now, here you are, stuck working with the one person who had made you feel like an idiot before you even had the chance to prove yourself.
You hadn’t even thought about it that much at the time—not really. But later, when you were alone, it festered. You were just a freshman. Barely out of high school, still figuring things out, still nervous about speaking up in a room full of people smarter, older, better than you. It wasn’t even like you got the answer wrong—you had just hesitated. That was all it took. And it was stupid, so stupid, but after that day, you started thinking twice before speaking in class. Before raising your hand. Before answering anything unless you were absolutely sure you wouldn’t trip over your words. And god, you hate that it got to you. It’s not like it was some big, scarring moment. It was one second of his life. A second he probably doesn’t even remember.
But it was yours. It wasn’t just that one time. There was another. Worse, somehow, because this time, he hadn’t even been speaking to you—just about you. It was late freshman year, after you’d spent the whole semester training yourself not to stutter, not to hesitate, not to embarrass yourself again. You were doing better. At least, you thought you were. Until one afternoon, outside the student center, when you walked past Sukuna and his group of friends—Toji, Choso, Mahito, and a couple of others, all leaned back on the benches like they owned the place.
You weren’t eavesdropping. You didn’t mean to hear it. But then—
“—was struggling so bad, I thought she was gonna pass out.”
A few chuckles. A low whistle from Toji.
“Like, just say it, dumbass,” Sukuna scoffed, sharp, mocking. “Or at least commit. That shit was painful to listen to.”
Your stomach dropped. You don’t know who they were talking about. Maybe some other poor freshman who had choked on their words mid-discussion. Maybe a random classmate. Maybe—
Your face burned. You forced yourself to keep walking, head down, pretending like it wasn’t about you, like you weren’t suddenly back in that seminar with his voice in your ears and everyone’s quiet snickers pressing into your skin. He didn’t even look at you as you passed. Of course, he didn’t. He probably didn’t even remember it was the same person. And now, three years later, you have to sit across from Ryomen Sukuna, the campus asshole, the man who probably hasn’t stuttered a day in his goddamn life, and pretend you don’t want to walk out of this classroom and never come back. You exhale sharply, pressing your fingers into your temples.
This is fine. You’ve dealt with annoying people before. You’ve had to work with partners who contributed nothing, who slacked off, who treated group projects like free rides. Sukuna is just another roadblock—one with a stupid face and a worse attitude.
And, honestly? It’s not even about the stuttering thing anymore. That was years ago, and you’d be damned if you let some insignificant moment from freshman year shake you now. Just because he made you insecure about one thing doesn’t mean you’re meek. You’ve worked too hard to let this get to you. So, with all the grace you can muster, you pull out the chair across from him, stiffly sit down, and say, “Hi, I’m—”
Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. Doesn’t acknowledge you. Doesn’t even pretend to try. Instead, he leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head, and immediately starts talking to Toji, who’s standing nearby.
“So, dinner at that steak place tonight?”
“Yeah,” Toji mutters, tapping at his phone. “Gonna see if they’ve got space.”
Sukuna scoffs. “They always have space.”
“No, dumbass, last time we went, they were booked.”
“They let us in last time,” Sukuna corrects, smirking, and that smugness makes your eye twitch. Are you being fucking ignored? You glance between them, incredulous, and then say, “I’m literally talking to you.”
That finally gets his attention. Slowly, like you’re the inconvenience here, Sukuna turns his head toward you. His gaze flicks over you, slow, unimpressed, like he’s barely registering you exist. You square your shoulders. “This project is quite hefty. We need to split up the research so we’re not scrambling at the last minute.”
He stares at you for a moment, blank, and then—
He rolls his eyes.
“Jesus,” he mutters, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “You’re one of those, huh?”
You frown. “Excuse me?”
“The tryhard type. Gets assigned a little homework and suddenly thinks they’re running a Fortune 500 company.” He tilts his head, smirking. “Relax, woman. It’s just a project.”
Woman. Your jaw clenches so hard it hurts.
“That ‘little homework’ is forty five percent of our grade,” you bite out.
“Don’t give a fuck,” he grunts, sounding bored.
You inhale deeply. “So, I was thinking—”
But he groans, dragging a tattooed hand down his face. “Are we seriously doing this now?”
“Yes, we’re seriously doing this now,” you snap. He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring. “God, you’re fucking annoying.”
You’re not sure whether you should be offended or hurt. On one hand, obviously as a normal human being, being spoken to like this from a person you’re quite literally talking to for the first time is bound to hurt your feelings. On the other hand, this guy’s dickhead personality is kind of well known through your university. Your grip on your pen tightens, but you keep your voice even.
“I’m annoying because I want to pass?”
”You’re annoying because you talk way too fuckin’ much.”
That stings more than you’d like to admit. You grit your teeth, ignoring the way your stomach tightens, and push forward anyway. “If we divide the research today, we won’t have to meet up as often,” you say, firmly. “I assume you’ll want to do as little work as possible, so let’s just—”
“Holy shit.” Sukuna pushes his chair back with a loud scrape, fixing you with an exasperated look. “Do you ever shut up?” You blink, stunned. Toji snickers.
“Oh, come on,” Sukuna scoffs, throwing up a hand. “You’re gonna sit there all wide-eyed like I just kicked your fuckin’ puppy? You started it.” Your fingers twitch against the table. “Started what?” you ask, voice dangerously calm. “This whole thing—acting like I’m some bum ass delinquent who needs a babysitter.” His eyes narrow. “If you wanna play boss, go find some other loser to be a bitch to.”
Your patience snaps. “Or you could just not be a lazy asshole. Do you lack brain cells? You’ve seriously told me to shut up like 5 times in the span of about ten minutes. Do you have a problem where you can’t focus?” The air between you shifts.
Sukuna’s jaw tics. His expression darkens, something sharp flashing through his eyes, but then his lips pull into something crueler than a smirk—something with edges, something dangerous.
“You think I’m lazy? Got somethin’ wrong with me because I can’t take your nerdy bitching?” he asks, voice low. You hesitate, but only for a second. “Glad you have the ability to comprehend what I said.” That makes him grin. “And you think I’m an asshole?”
“Yes.”
He hums, tilting his head. Then he leans forward, just slightly, elbows resting on the table. His voice drops into something smug, mocking—
“Then why the fuck are you still talking to me?”
Your blood boils.
What the fuck is his problem?
You lean forward too, matching him, refusing to shrink under his gaze. “Because I have to, dumbass,” you snap. “I tried to change my group. I begged. I offered to do extra credit. I would have written a whole goddamn thesis if it meant not sitting across from you—but guess what?” You gesture sharply between you. “I’m stuck with you.”
Sukuna raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Tragic.”
You let out a frustrated breath, gripping the edge of the table so hard your knuckles turn white. “So, as much as I’d love to pretend you don’t exist—”
“Then do it,” he interrupts, tone dry.
You blink. “What?”
“If you wanna pretend I don’t exist, go ahead,” he drawls, leaning back lazily. “Do the whole project yourself. You’ll probably enjoy it, since you’re clearly getting off on playing group leader.”
“Oh, my god.” You clench your fists, barely restraining yourself. “Why are you such a dickhead? Parents not teach you basic respect?”
“Because you don’t shut the fuck up,” he snaps, finally looking genuinely irritated.
Your lips part, incredulous. “I’m literally just trying to do the fucking project? Like any normal human being?”
“No, you’re trying to control shit,” Sukuna says flatly. “Like this is some big deal—like I haven’t passed a million of these useless classes already.”
You stare at him. “You think this is useless?”
He smirks. “Yeah.”
Oh, you hate him.
“Some of us actually give a shit about our grades, Sukuna.”
“You know my name? Cute.” You inhale sharply through your nose, trying to stay calm, trying not to launch your textbook at his stupid, perfect face. “I don’t care how many classes you’ve passed,” you say, voice taut. “You’re doing this one with me. I care about this project. And if I have to suffer through working with you, you can at least pretend to give a shit.” He tilts his head, mockingly thoughtful. “Mm. No.”
You exhale slowly, trying—failing—to stop your hands from curling into fists.
“I swear to god—”
“What, huh?” he cuts in, voice dripping with condescension. “You gonna whine to the professor again?” He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Pathetic.”
Your jaw tightens. He grins, like he’s won something. Like he’s getting exactly what he wants—like this is a game to him, something to toy with, something to waste his time on. And you refuse to let him win. So, you straighten your spine, lift your chin, and meet his gaze without flinching. “Fine,” you say, voice steely. “If you want to half-ass this, be my guest. Just don’t expect me to pick up your slack.”
Sukuna watches you, amused, as if he’s waiting for you to crack. When you don’t, he smirks.
“We’ll see.”
You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to keep your voice level.
“Well, unfortunately for you,” you say stiffly, “you actually have to do your share.”
Sukuna snorts. “Says who?”
“The professor.” You cross your arms. “Since apparently, students have been slacking on group projects, we have to submit proof of collaboration—meeting logs, progress updates, actual proof that we’re working together.” His expression darkens. You fight the urge to smirk. Suffer.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he mutters.
“Nope.” You press your lips together, trying to hold back your pure satisfaction. “So, congratulations, Sukuna. You have to meet up with me at least once a week.” He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring at you like you’re personally ruining his life. “You’re telling me I have to sit through this shit every week?”
“Yep.”
“You specifically?”
“Yep.”
Sukuna groans, dragging a hand through the unruly pink strands of his hair. Then, just as you’re about to remind him that this is literally his problem for being a shit student, he lifts his head—eyes raking over you in a slow, lazy once-over. And then, he smirks. You freeze.
“What?” you snap, immediately on edge.
His smirk widens.
“Nah, I was just thinking,” he drawls, tipping his head back against his chair. “If you were hotter, this would be way less painful.”
Your stomach drops. The words hit you like a slap, and for a second, all you can do is sit there, stunned, completely caught off guard by how casual—how easy—it is for him to say something like that. Like it’s just true. Like it’s a fact. Your fingers dig into your sleeve. And the worst part? It’s not even the insult itself that stings—it’s the sheer, blatant dismissal. The fact that he looks at you and immediately decides you’re not worth even pretending to be interested in. As if you were hoping for his attention. As if you were seeking his approval.
“Yeah?” you say, voice flat, emotionless. “Well, if you were smarter, I wouldn’t have to carry your useless ass through this class.” His grin falters, just barely, but you see it—and for once, it’s your turn to smirk. You lean forward, matching his posture, tilting your head mockingly.
“Guess we’re both disappointed, huh?”
For a moment, Sukuna just stares at you. And you don’t miss the way his jaw tightens, how his fingers twitch against the table like he’s fighting the urge to rip you apart. Good. Then—he exhales sharply through his nose, tipping his chair back slightly, acting unfazed even though you saw the flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Damn,” he muses, voice slow, dragging. “Didn’t know you had a mouth on you.”
“Yeah?” You tilt your head. “Didn’t know you gave a shit.”
Sukuna scoffs. “I don’t.”
“Then shut the fuck up and do your assigned work.”
He lets out a low, mean laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today.”
“Generous?” You nearly choke. “You’ve been nothing but a dick since the moment I sat down.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Could be worse.”
You want to strangle him. Instead, you inhale sharply through your nose, pressing your palms flat against the table before forcing yourself to stay on track. “Whatever,” you say, shaking your head. “Here’s the deal: we have to meet at least once a week. I don’t care where. I don’t care when. But we need to get the work done, and I need proof that you were actually present—because if we don’t, we both fail.”
Sukuna glares at you, as if the very concept of responsibility offends him.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face again. “You’re really gonna be a hardass about this, huh?”
You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t care about failing?”
“Not really.”
Your eyes narrow. “Then why are you even in this class?”
At this, he finally drops his chair back down onto all four legs, leaning in slightly. “Let’s get one thing straight,” he says, voice lower, more serious. “I don’t need this shit. I’m here because my old man thinks I should at least pretend to give a fuck about college.” He smirks, sharp and taunting. “But don’t get it twisted—I don’t actually give a fuck.” You pause, studying him, trying to piece together the weight behind his words. Of course, you know he comes from money. Everyone does. The Ryomen family name carries weight, old money, power, prestige—so it makes sense that college, for him, is just some bullshit obligation rather than a means to a future. Still, something about the way he says it—how bitter it sounds—sticks with you. Not that you care.
You roll your eyes. “Right. Got it. Poor little rich boy.”
His smirk drops.
For a second, there’s silence.
Then—
“You know what?” Sukuna says, voice eerily calm. “Fine. I’ll meet up with you.”
You blink, a little thrown off by how easily he gives in.
“…Okay?”
“But.” His gaze darkens, and the corner of his mouth twitches, almost like he’s daring you to argue. “You work around my schedule.”
Your stomach twists with irritation. “That’s not—”
“Not my problem,” he cuts in smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t do morning meetups. I don’t do last-minute bullshit. And if you start bitching about how I ‘don’t take this seriously,’” he mocks, voice lilting high, “I will walk out and leave you with an automatic fail. Or whatever the fuck happens to your grade if the other person doesn’t do their part. Got it?” Your blood boils. But what can you do? You already tried to get reassigned. So, through gritted teeth, you say, “Fine.”
Sukuna smirks.
“Good girl.”
–
You should have known it was going to be hell the second he suggested meeting at the East Wing library. It’s the furthest damn library on campus—twenty minutes from the dorms, uphill, and completely out of the way. Not a single other student in your class would have chosen that location. And yet, when you tried suggesting the much closer, more convenient library, Sukuna had just shrugged, barely sparing you a glance as he packed up his bag.
“Aw, did you forget that I’m in charge of where we meet up?,” he drawled, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “That sounds like a you problem.”
And just like that, the decision was final. So now, here you are, twenty minutes later, climbing the last flight of stairs to the East Wing library, already in a foul mood before the study session has even started. And when you finally get there? You find Sukuna kicked back in his chair at one of the study tables, feet up, scrolling through his phone like he’s waiting on room service instead of his own damn groupmate.
No laptop. No notes No book. Just his phone. Un-fucking-believable. You drop your bag onto the chair across from him, loudly, but he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge your presence at all.
“Seriously?” you deadpan, arms crossing. Sukuna exhales through his nose, still not looking at you. “Took you long enough.” You almost black out from rage.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, voice flat. “My dorm is on the opposite side of campus.” He hums, barely acknowledging your words, his focus glued to his phone. You take a deep breath, count to three, and pull out your laptop. “Okay. So, the project—”
Before you can even finish, his phone rings. And instead of silencing it, like a normal human being, Sukuna just smirks and answers it, right there in front of you. “Yo,” he says lazily, stretching his arms behind his head. Your eye twitches. The person on the other end—you recognise the voice as Choso—says something that makes Sukuna huff a laugh, shaking his head.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m at the library,” he mutters. “With that chick from class.” Your hand tightens around your pen. So he didn’t even know your name. Great. And you two were supposedly paired for the rest of this semester? You wanted to fucking die. Not even two minutes in, and he’s already testing your patience. Sukuna leans back, grinning as Choso says something else. “Nah, it’s just her,” Sukuna says, completely offhand. “No eye candy here, bro.”
Your grip tightens around your pen. Did this dumbass seriously just say that out loud? In a library? In the middle of your study session? You drop your pen onto the table with a sharp thud, but the sting in your chest lingers. It’s not like you expected anything different from him. It’s not like you cared.
…Except you do. Just a little. Not because you want him to think you’re pretty—fuck no—but because there’s something uniquely humiliating about being dismissed like that. Like your presence is some minor inconvenience he has to tolerate. Your jaw locks, and you square your shoulders, forcing the feeling down. Screw him. You’re not here to impress him. You’re here to get your damn work done. Sukuna finally glances up, raising a brow like he just now realized you’re sitting there. You stare at him, completely done. He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. You look like someone stuck a stick up your ass.”
“Genuinely do you have a mental illness or some shit?,” you shoot back, your irritation reaching an all-time high. “We have a chemistry project that’s 45% of our grade, and you’re sitting here talking about—”
“Bro, hold on,” Sukuna suddenly says into the receiver, cutting you off mid-rant. He holds his hand up like he’s physically silencing you, turning his head away. “Choso, you hear this? Shorty’s about to pop a blood vessel over some homework. All ‘cause I said she isn’t some eye candy. Women, right?”
Your mouth falls open.
Did he just—
“I— You—”
Your brain short-circuits for a second, tripping over the sheer audacity of him. Sukuna leans back in his chair, grinning up at you like a complete bastard. “You need to get laid or something?” A beat of silence. Your entire body stills. And then, without hesitation, you lean forwards and rip his phone out of his hand and slam it face-down in front of you.
“The fuck?” Sukuna scoffs, finally looking genuinely surprised for the first time all day. Then, his smirk returns, and he props his chin on his hand, clearly amused. “You got some nerve,” he muses.
“And you have the IQ of a fucking vegetable, but we’re still here.”
Sukuna huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Damn. What’s got your panties in a twist?”
“My panties in a twist?” you scoff, staring at him in pure disbelief. “You refuse to work, you talk shit about the way I look while I’m sitting right here, and you—”
“You are sitting right there, and you’re not really hot enough for me to notice.” he interrupts smoothly. “What, you want me to lie?”
Your eye twitches. “You could at least pretend to have an ounce of human decency—”
“Pfft,” Sukuna snorts. “For you?” Your nostrils flare. Sukuna just grins. “Oh, come on,” he drawls, waving a hand. “You’re taking this way too personally.”
“How—” You press your fingers to your temples, inhaling sharply. “How else am I supposed to take it when you—”
“And you,” Sukuna counters casually, “are a fucking headache.” You slam your hand against the table, startling the people sitting nearby. “At least I’m a headache with a work ethic. You’re a pain in the ass and can’t focus for like what? 2 seconds? Without spacing out.”
“Congrats,” he deadpans. “You want a gold star?”
You want him to get hit by a bus.
Sukuna shakes his head, leaning back again, still looking far too entertained. “Look, we both know you’re gonna do most of the work anyway,” he says lazily. “So why not just save yourself the stress and accept it?”
“Because this is a group project—”
“Yeah, and I’m in the group. So technically, that counts.” You inhale sharply, barely keeping yourself from lunging across the table.
“Swear to god, bro,” Sukuna snorts, having picked up his phone from where you’d slammed it down, resuming his call with Choso, “I got this chick sending me, like, three nudes back-to-back last night. Shit was insane.”
“You are,” you say, voice flat, “fucking disgusting.” Sukuna smirks, clearly thriving off your irritation. “Oh? Why, ‘cause I get pussy?”
“No,” you snap, willing for your cheeks not to redden with the way he speaks so crudely. “Because we’re supposed to be working.”
He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. I got time.” You scoff. “Oh, so you do know how deadlines work?”
“Damn,” Sukuna mutters, shaking his head, lips curling into an annoyed frown. “You’re really pressed over this, huh?”
“This is not happening,” you mutter under your breath. “I am not about to let some oversized thug skate his way through a semester while I—”
“Thug?” Sukuna repeats, laughing. “You mean scholar? You hear that, Choso?” He puts his phone on speaker. “She just called me a thug.”
“Yeah, I heard,” Choso’s voice comes through the speaker, lazy and unbothered. “She’s right.” Sukuna snaps his head down at his phone. “The fuck?”
You bark out a sharp laugh, your first real one of the evening. Sukuna rolls his eyes and hangs up, tossing his phone onto the table with an annoyed click of his tongue. “Choso’s a bitch,” he mutters.
“And you’re a waste of oxygen.” Sukuna grins at you. “You’re a piece of shit.” You snatch your textbook off the table and throw it at him, eye twitching when he easily manages to catch it.
“Oh my god, please kill yourself and do us all a favour” Sukuna laughs at that, tilting his head like he’s genuinely entertained by how close you are to losing your shit. “C’mon,” he drawls, placing his phone face-down on the table—finally giving you some attention. “Let’s hear it, then. What’s our big, bad, super important assignment?”
You exhale sharply, flipping open your notes. “It’s a research-based chemistry project. We’re supposed to choose a topic related to reaction mechanisms and provide a full breakdown of the process. That includes—”
Sukuna leans back. “Boring.” You snap your notebook shut again. “Oh my god.” He grins. “This is really your shit, huh?”
“What?”
“The nerdy little projects,” he teases, resting his chin on his hand. “Bet you’re thriving right now.” You glare. “I am thriving off the idea of you getting hit by a bus.” Sukuna just chuckles, shaking his head. “Violent,” he muses. “Didn’t think you had it in you.” You press your fingers against your temples. “I hate you.”
“Yeah?” He smirks. “That’s cute.” You inhale sharply. Exhale. Inhale again. This is fine. This is totally fine. He is just a guy. This is just a project. And you are not going to let him get under your skin. You open your notebook again, forcing yourself to focus. “Our topic is—”
Sukuna clicks his tongue. “Ooooor,” he interrupts, leaning forward with a lazy smirk, “you can just shut up and do it yourself.”
You pause. You blink at him, barely processing what he just said. He shrugs. “You’re good at this shit. I’m not. Seems fair.” Your jaw clenches. “Haven’t you gotten it through your thick skull? Even if I wanted to, we have to constantly update all the meeting logs, and–.”
Sukuna just smirks wider, cutting you off in true Sukuna fashion. “But it’d be so much easier if you did all of it, wouldn’t it? And those fucking collaboration logs can be faked.” You stare at him. You are going to lose your mind. You are actually going to lose your fucking mind. You inhale one last time, roll your shoulders back, and meet his gaze with renewed determination. “Let’s get one thing straight,” you say, voice sharp. “If you refuse to contribute, I will tell our professor. And you know that they take the reported behaviour for consideration the next time they mark a group assignment from literally any other class, yeah? ”
Sukuna snorts. “Snitch.” You glare harder. “I don’t care.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head like you’re just so exhausting to deal with.
“Such a pain in the ass,” he mutters, stretching his arms above his head. “But whatever. We’ll see.”
You stare him down. You know what that means. It means he has no intention of doing shit. You exhale slowly, clenching your jaw. This is going to be the longest semester of your life.
–
You try to keep your composure. You really, really do. But after a week of dealing with Ryomen fucking Sukuna, you’re already at your breaking point. It’s bad enough that he refuses to contribute anything to the project. Bad enough that every time you try to get him to focus, he leans back in his chair like some smug, insufferable prince, making a point to not listen.
“Oh, come on,” he drawls one day in class, stretching lazily in his seat while you sit next to him, barely keeping yourself from strangling him. His shirt rides up just a bit, flashing a sliver of tattooed skin– and a happy trail– and you look away on instinct. He deserves no admiration. “You love this shit. It’s kind of sweet, honestly. Doing all the work for me like this?”
Your grip tightens on your pen, knuckles going white. “I wouldn’t have to if you actually did your part, dumbass.”
Unfortunately, the guy was worse than you had anticipated, so begrudgingly, only once or twice you had taken up his slack, deeming that he wouldn’t get into too much trouble even if you complained to the professor. It wasn’t too bad considering it was just the introductory part of the project, but you would probably complain if he pulled this shit in the middle of the semester when things got serious. Sukuna just smirks. That smirk. The kind that makes you want to throw something at his face. “Do I, though?”
Your eye twitches. “Yes.”
“Because, from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve already taken care of most of it.” He gestures lazily to your open notes—your notes, where half the research under his name is written in your own handwriting because you were sick of waiting for him to do it. “Appreciate the help, baby.” Your jaw clenches. “You—”
You exhale sharply, fingers flexing against your notebook. You swear, if murder wasn’t illegal—
Across the table, Choso (They had been lounging here with him even before you had arrived, and you were sleep deprived and tired from the venture to the East wing from your dorm, so you kept your mouth shut about their presence) chuckles. “Damn, Sukuna,” he muses, lips quirking as he glances between the two of you. “She’s really out here doing your degree for you.” Toji snorts. “Shit, at this point, just put her name on your diploma.”
You snap your head toward them, scowling. “I’m not—”
“Oh, but you kinda are,” Sukuna interjects smoothly, smirking. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure to give you a nice lil’ thank you when I graduate.” You glare. “I don’t want your fucking thanks. I want you to do your damn work.” Sukuna just clicks his tongue and leans back, propping his feet up on the chair next to him like he has not a single care in the world. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, so fucking dismissive. “We’ll see.”
—
It gets worse. Because apparently, refusing to do work and making you look like an idiot in front of his friends isn’t enough. No, of course not. Sukuna has to make sure you suffer. So, during one of your scheduled study sessions (during the most odd times of the day), while you’re actively trying to go over the research, Sukuna—in all his dickhead glory—leans back in his chair, tilts his head toward the nearest girl, and flashes that cocky, stupid toothy smile of his.
“Hey,” he purrs, voice dropping into that low, slow tone that has half the campus wrapped around his fucking finger. “You got a pencil?” The girl blinks—clearly flustered—before fumbling through her bag. “Uh—yeah! Yeah, here.” Sukuna smirks, taking it from her fingers way too slowly, thumb brushing against hers. The poor girl sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening like she’s just touched a live wire. He leans in just slightly, voice dropping to something just for her. “Thanks, cutie. Real lifesaver.”
The girl giggles, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. “You’re welcome, Sukuna.” You knew he was an asshole. You knew that his stupid, irritating grin made girls fall over themselves. But this? This was just blatant disrespect. You were right there. He was doing this on purpose. And sure enough, when you glance up, Sukuna’s already watching you—mouth twitching, eyes glinting with amusement. You slam your book shut. “Are you done?” Sukuna raises an eyebrow, playing dumb. “What?” You gesture vaguely toward the poor girl, who’s still blushing and dazed from his attention. “With your little… whatever this is?”
His smirk stretches wider. “Jealous?”
Your nostrils flare. “I’m annoyed.” He hums, twirling the pencil between his fingers. “Could’ve fooled me.” You clench your fists under the table, swallowing the very real urge to dump your coffee on his head. You refuse—refuse—to let him get under your skin. So, instead, you take a breath, roll your shoulders back, and force your voice to stay level. “Are you actually going to contribute today, or should I just log that you didn’t show up?”
Sukuna laughs—loud and unbothered. “Damn,” he drawls, leaning forward on his elbows. “You’re kinda a hardass, huh?” You stare him down, unwavering. “And you’re a waste of fucking time.” His grin widens, something sharper, meaner curling at the edges of it.
“Now, that’s just mean,” he muses, tapping the pencil against the table. “What happened, sweetheart? You just pissed off, or do you just need to get fucked? Seriously with the way you act so fuckin’ bitchy all the time, I swear you act like you haven’t had dick in ages.”
You still for half a second. Then your jaw locks. Your entire body runs hot, blood boiling, because what the fuck? You’re already on edge, and now he’s going there? You let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking your head. “You speak so disgustingly, you know that? So weird and perverted...” Sukuna leans back again, sprawled out, totally relaxed. “What? I’m just saying.” He gestures vaguely in your direction. “Maybe that’s why you’re so uptight all the time.” Across the room, the girl from earlier glances over, eyes flicking between you and Sukuna like she’s witnessing something amusing. You refuse to give her—or him—the satisfaction. You inhale sharply, steadying yourself. And then, voice cold and clipped, you meet his gaze dead-on.
“Do your fucking work, Sukuna.” He grins. And then, of course, he doesn’t.
–
The lecture hall is freezing, the air-conditioning cranked too high like the university is trying to keep students awake through sheer environmental hostility. It doesn’t work. You’re exhausted. After back-to-back shifts at work, an avalanche of coursework, and the black hole of stress that is your chem project with Sukuna, you’re running on fumes. The moment you step into the lecture hall, your eyes instinctively scan for the back row. If—when—you inevitably start nodding off, you don’t want the professor clocking it. You sink into a chair near the corner, stretching your legs out with a sigh. Heavy-lidded eyes drift toward the front, barely focusing on the professor setting up slides. You could close your eyes just for a second—
The seat next to you creaks. A familiar presence drops beside you, and you know who it is before you even turn your head. Sukuna. Of course. You don’t acknowledge him. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll take the hint and—
His knee knocks against yours, jostling you just as your head dips forward. Your body tenses, and you snap a glare in his direction. He’s manspreading like he owns the place, legs sprawled wide, one arm slung over the back of your chair like this is his personal space and not a public lecture hall. He’s wearing one of those long-sleeve compression shirts that clings to his frame, every inked line of muscle pressing against the fabric. Not that you care. But the sheer arrogance of it is annoying. You scowl, shifting as far away from him as possible. “Why are you here?”
“Dunno,” he drawls, voice low and amused. “Felt like it.” You roll your eyes and turn back toward the front, trying to focus on the professor’s voice. Your brain is barely keeping up with the lecture, exhaustion pressing against your skull like a weight. Sukuna doesn’t let up. He leans in just enough to make his presence known. “Damn,” he muses, eyes dragging over your face with something unreadable. “You look rough. Didn’t get the chance to put on concealer or whatever you women use to cover up that?” The words land heavier than they should. It’s the way he says it. Careless. Blunt. No humor to soften the edge. And you know you’re not ugly– the opposite in fact, but–
Your face drops before you can stop it. You don’t have the energy to fight back today. You just swallow whatever sharp retort you could say, fix your gaze on the front of the lecture hall, and pretend like he doesn’t exist. Sukuna notices. For the first time in ever, he doesn’t get the reaction he expects. No snark, no glare, no half-assed insult thrown back at him. Just… silence. You don’t even look at him. Something weird stirs in his chest, something unfamiliar and fucking irritating. It sits in the back of his throat, in the pit of his stomach, but he ignores it—brushes it off like it’s nothing. He doesn’t say another word for the rest of class.
–
By the time the second week of working with Sukuna rolls around, you’re wrecked. Sleep-deprived, overworked, running purely on caffeine and sheer spite. Between your job, your other classes, and this hellish project, there isn’t a single moment to breathe. You’ve been taking shifts at work to make rent, pulling late nights cramming for exams, and somehow, despite your best efforts, Sukuna is still making your life miserable. The last thing you need is another study session with him. You drag yourself into the East Wing Library, exhausted and bitter about it. The East Wing is so far from your usual haunts, practically on the other side of campus, and the walk here in the late afternoon heat is hellish. You mumble complaints under your breath the entire way—something about how your feet hurt, how this library is ugly anyway, how he should’ve come to your spot instead—but you know Sukuna won’t care. He probably won’t even listen.
Sure enough, he’s already lounging at one of the study tables when you arrive, acting like he’s been here for hours when in reality, he probably sat down two minutes ago. He’s slouched in his chair, all sprawled out and insufferable, wearing that same damn compression shirt that makes him look more like a gym rat than a student. His legs are spread so wide he’s practically taking up half the table. In fact, the table looks small compared to how long his legs are. You resist the urge to drop your bag onto his lap just to make him move. Instead, you sink into the chair across from him and immediately rest your forehead against your palm. “Kill me,” you mutter.
You sigh heavily. You don’t even have the energy to glare at him. “Gee, thanks.” He’s watching you. You can feel it. That lazy, assessing stare, like he’s about to say something that’ll make you want to slap him. Something that’ll make that weird, uncomfortable feeling go down your spine.
And then—
Nothing. You brace yourself for the insult, for the inevitable Damn, you look fucked up but it never comes. He just clicks his tongue, looking back at his laptop screen, eyebrows furrowed. You squint at him. Weird. But whatever. You don’t have the time or patience to dissect the mysteries of Ryomen Sukuna’s behavior. You flip open your notes, rubbing at your eyes. “Okay, let’s just get this over with,” you mumble. “I still have an essay to write after this.”
Sukuna stretches, the fabric of his compression shirt shifting as he raises his arms above his head. His shirt rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of inked skin carved just above his hip. You don’t mean to notice, but you do—because of course, he’s the type of asshole who shows off his tattoos like they’re a personality trait. You snap your eyes away before he catches you looking. “Relax, woman,” he drawls, voice dripping with lazy amusement. “No need to be so fucking tense.”
Your grip tightens around your pen. Woman? Again? You level him with an exasperated glare. “Tense? I’ve been doing our project by myself while you sit on your ass, and I’m the one who’s tense?” You scoff. “And stop calling me woman, you sound like you get life advice from Andrew Tate.” That earns you a sharp, wolfish grin. “Are you not a woman?” he counters smoothly, tilting his head. Before you can answer, his eyes deliberately drop—slow, pointed—trailing down to your chest. He doesn’t even try to be subtle about it, and the sheer audacity of this man has you gaping at him, heat rushing to your face in a mixture of anger and secondhand embarrassment. Your jaw clenches, your hands curling into fists beneath the table. “Are you fucking serious?” you grit out, voice low and sharp.
Sukuna just smirks, lazy and unbothered, flicking his eyes back up to yours with a knowing look. “What? Just checking.”
You resist the urge to lunge across the table and strangle him on the spot. Just breathe. Don’t get expelled for homicide.
“Also, Andrew Tate? Seriously, woman? What, you think I’d listen to a broke, bald bitch like him?” Sukuna leans forward, arms resting on the table, shoulders broad and imposing. “You’ve got some real shitty assumptions about me.”
“I’ve got accurate assumptions about you,” you correct.
He just smirks. “You say that like I’ve done nothing.”
You glare harder. “You have done nothing.”
“Have I?” he challenges, cocking a brow. He tilts his laptop screen toward you, and there, staring back at you, is a shockingly filled-out document. Your eyes flicker across the paragraphs—coherent, formatted, and even cited.
You blink. Pause. Stare at him like he’s just grown another head. Because for the past week, this man has contributed exactly two sentences to the project. “…And?” you say, deadpan. “What do you want? A gold star? A participation trophy?” Sukuna leans back, manspreading like the chair was custom-built just for him. “Don’t need validation from you, sweetheart.”
“Good,” you shoot back. “Because you’re not getting any.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh, rubbing a hand down his face like you’re the exhausting one here. “Look, I don’t see what the big deal is. The project’s coming along fine.” You inhale sharply. Count to five. Resist the urge to fling your notebook at his fat head. “It’s coming along fine because I’ve been doing all the work.”
Sukuna shrugs, unconcerned. “Teamwork makes the dream work.” You stare at him. A long, silent, murderous stare.
“You make me wanna end my life,” you finally say, voice utterly devoid of emotion. He grins, teeth sharp and infuriating. “I know.” You exhale slowly through your nose, willing yourself not to commit homicide. Instead, you rub your temples and look back at your notes. “Let’s just finish this. I don’t want to be here all night.” Sukuna hums, tapping at his laptop. “You sound so eager to spend time with me. Desperate?”
“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “It’s the highlight of my week.”
“I knew it.” He smirks. “You wanna spend the night with me, hmm? Naughty.”
You actually throw a pen at him this time. He dodges effortlessly, laughing under his breath. “Fucking finally,” you mutter. “Maybe now you’ll shut—”
“Shhh!”
You both freeze. The librarian—an older woman with a stern face and sharp eyes—is glaring at you from the front desk. You and Sukuna exchange glances. “You’re the one being loud,” you whisper harshly. Sukuna raises an eyebrow. “I’m the one being loud?”
“Yes, you—”
“Out.” The librarian’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. You and Sukuna both go silent. And then—
“…Shit,” Sukuna mutters, closing his laptop. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You are such a waste of time.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He stands, stretching. “Let’s go, dumbass. You can yell at me somewhere else.” You glare at him as you gather your things. “I will be yelling at you somewhere else.” Sukuna smirks, shoving his hands into his pockets as he saunters toward the exit. “Can’t wait.” You storm out of the library with Sukuna trailing behind you, still looking disgustingly relaxed for someone who just got thrown out of a public study space. You wish she had thrown him out alone. “Dick,” you mutter under your breath, shoving your laptop into your bag as you walk. Your head throbs with exhaustion, and the last thing you need is him making this night even worse.
Behind you, Sukuna hums, amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Your steps falter for half a second before you pick up the pace again. He, of course, notices. "You're so fucking touchy today," he drawls, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he strolls beside you, the very picture of unbothered arrogance. "On your period?" Your eye twitches. You suck in a sharp breath through your nose, gripping the strap of your bag so hard it might snap. "Okay, we're going to the study lounge near my dorm," you say, tone clipped.
Sukuna groans. Loudly. Like you're torturing him.
"The hell? Why?"
"Because you got us kicked out," you snap. "And we haven’t even done half of what we were supposed to get through today." Sukuna clicks his tongue in irritation but doesn’t argue further, shoving his hands into his pockets as he follows behind you. His pace is slower than yours, like this entire walk is beneath him, like he’s graciously putting up with it. You can practically feel his annoyance radiating off of him, thick and palpable in the evening air.
The east wing is far. Too far. You’re used to it by now—your classes are scattered across campus, your dorm inconveniently placed, and your schedule an absolute disaster. Between balancing coursework, shifts at your part-time job, and somehow squeezing in study sessions, your days bleed into each other in a never-ending cycle of exhaustion. And because Sukuna’s the most infuriating person alive, he’s been forcing you to make this trek every damn day, dragging you out to the main library just so he can half-ass his way through this project in a space that he prefers. You’ve followed along because you refuse to let this assignment tank, but every second spent with him is another test of patience you’re not sure you’ll pass. So when, predictably, about ten minutes into the walk, he lets out an exaggerated, loud huff of irritation, you already know something stupid is about to leave his mouth.
"Are we still walking?" he grumbles, scowling at the path ahead. "This is taking so fucking long." Your eye twitches. You keep walking, fists clenched at your sides, trying—trying—to ignore him. But he doesn’t stop. Because of course he doesn’t.
"This is stupid," he mutters. "Should've just stayed at the fucking library. Or better yet, we could’ve just worked at my place—"
And that’s it. That’s the last straw. You snap.
"I do this every day because of you!"
The words come out harsher, sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. You whirl around to glare at him, eyes blazing, voice rising louder than it should, this late at night. "You think this is taking too fucking long? You made me do this every night. You insisted on working at the damn library. You refuse to meet anywhere else because apparently, my dorm study lounge isn’t good enough for you!" You huff out a breath, heart pounding in your chest. "So yeah, Sukuna, it is a long walk. And guess what? I do this every single day while you sit on your ass and complain!" Sukuna stops mid-step. His mouth is half-open, clearly ready to throw some cocky remark back at you—except nothing comes out. For once, he’s quiet. That, more than anything, unnerves you. But you don’t stick around to decipher the look on his face. You turn back around and keep walking, jaw clenched, shoulders tense, because if you don’t, you might actually lose your mind. And this project isn’t worth a murder charge.
Sukuna watches as you keep walking, your back rigid with frustration, your fingers curled so tightly around the strap of your bag it looks like the only thing anchoring you upright. It’s only now, in the dim glow of the overhead lights of the university hallways, that he actually sees you. The exhaustion carved deep into the lines of your face, etched into the tight pull of your brows and the faint downturn of your lips. The way your steps drag just slightly, like your body is moments away from giving in but you refuse to let it. The dark circles beneath your eyes, barely concealed by whatever concealer you must’ve swiped on this morning.
(Yes, you ended up feeling the tiniest bit hurt and put some on the next time you saw him)
You look tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from a late night or an early morning. No, this is the exhaustion that settles deep in your bones, that lingers even after you’ve slept, the kind that never really leaves. And then there’s something else—something off. It’s not like you to get this quiet after snapping at him. Normally, you’d keep going, pushing, throwing words at him like knives, sharp and ruthless, waiting for him to hurl them right back. That’s how it’s always been between you two. You say something snarky, he says something worse. You get pissed off, he laughs. It’s a cycle. A game.
But right now? Right now, you don’t fight. You don’t even look at him. Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, irritation flickering beneath his skin—but it’s not directed at you. Not this time. He shoves his hands in his pockets, jaw clenching, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen. And for the rest of the walk, he doesn’t say a word. No complaints. No grumbling. No sarcastic remarks. Just silence.
–
The place is smaller than the library, tucked into the corner of your dorm building, but at least it’s quiet. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, and only a few other students are scattered around, focused on their own work. You drop into a chair unceremoniously, opening your laptop with a sigh. Sukuna takes the seat across from you, stretching his legs out obnoxiously under the table until they almost bump into yours. You kick him. He smirks. “Feisty.”
"Shut up."
For the next half hour, you work in silence. Sukuna pretends to read something on his screen, but you can feel his eyes flicking to you every so often, assessing. You try not to think about it. It’s quiet for a moment, and then—
"You formatted this wrong," he says. Your head snaps up. "What?" Sukuna tilts his screen toward you, pointing lazily at a section of your document. "The citation. APA, not MLA, genius." You stare at him, brows knitting together. "Why the hell do you know that?" Sukuna shrugs, leaning back in his chair. "What, you think you're the only one with a functioning brain?"
"Functioning is a strong word," you mutter, fixing the citation. He snorts, but then, because he’s him, he adds, “I mean, makes sense you’d fuck that up. You look half-dead.” Your eye twitches. "And you look like a walking midlife crisis, but you don't hear me pointing it out every two seconds." Sukuna grins, sharp and unrepentant. “Liar. You know I look good.”
“Ugly.”
“Sexy.”
"Say that again and I'll stab you with my pen."
It’s late by the time you finally close your laptop, rubbing at your temples. The day has dragged on forever, and the last thing you want is to keep dealing with him. You shove your things into your bag, ready to leave, when Sukuna—still leaned back in his chair, still looking infuriatingly relaxed—says, "Tch. Whatever. We’ll just meet here next time." You pause. Blink at him. "Huh?" He doesn’t look at you when he says it, like this entire conversation is so beneath him. "The hell, are you deaf? I said we’ll just meet here next time. Less walking." You stare, uncertain of what to make of that. Of him saying anything at all.
Then—
"Uh. Okay," you mumble. Sukuna snorts, pushing himself up from his chair, rolling his shoulders like this entire night has been a mild inconvenience to him and nothing more. “Try not to die of exhaustion before then.”
You flip him off.
He grins.
–
The dorm study lounge in your building isn’t anything special—just a couple of couches, a cluster of wobbly desks, and chairs that groan when anyone shifts. But it’s quiet, it’s close, and more importantly, it’s not the goddamn East Wing library. You’re already seated with your laptop open when Sukuna strolls in like he owns the place, hoodie thrown over his shoulder, compression shirt clinging to him in that casually smug way that makes you want to set your notebook on fire.
“Damn. You live like this?” he says instead of greeting, glancing around at the peeling posters and flickering overhead light.
“You’ve been here three times now,” you mutter, not looking up. “Get over it.” To your surprise, he actually sits down and opens his laptop. No dramatic sighs, no drawn-out complaints. Just pulls up the shared doc and starts typing. You side-eye him suspiciously. “Wait. You’re actually doing work?”
Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. “Told you I’m not completely useless.”
“You literally did none of the intro. Or the background research. Or the—”
He turns slightly, eyes narrowed. “Jesus. You want me to write your acknowledgements too?”
You roll your eyes and keep typing, but you can’t help the way your gaze flicks back to his screen every so often. He’s doing it. Slowly, a little messily, but he’s actually doing the work. You hate how that’s kind of impressive. The door creaks open an hour in and Toji saunters in with a protein bar in one hand and Choso trailing behind him, hoodie half-on like he got distracted putting it on. “Yo,” Toji says, tossing himself onto the arm of your chair like there’s no concept of personal space. “This where the grind’s happening?”
Choso raises a brow at Sukuna. “Didn’t think you actually meant it when you said you were working on your project.” Sukuna scoffs, not even looking up from the screen. “Don’t start.” They pull up chairs, half-invited, half-ignored. Somehow, you end up the only person who seems to be actually working while the other three devolve into semi-productive chaos. Eventually, the conversation drifts—like it always does when boys are left alone with too much time and not enough supervision.
“Yo, did you see that blonde on the cheer squad last game?” Toji starts, popping open a protein bar like it’s part of the ritual. “The one with the ribbon thing in her hair. Face card was solid.” Choso smirks, still half-focused on his phone. “I think she followed me on Insta. Or her friend did. Can’t tell—cheer girls got that same face filter thing going on.”
You hum under your breath, noncommittal. You’ve learned how to tune this out. Let the background noise of testosterone and ego bounce off while you focus on your screen. But then—
Choso glances up, flicking his gaze between you and Sukuna like he’s just had a thought worth sharing. “Actually… Sukuna’s got the best deal out of all of us.” You pause your typing. Slightly. Toji quirks a brow. “How you figure?”
“He gets to sit across from her every day,” Choso says casually, jerking his chin in your direction. “Dude’s been staring at that face for what, like a week straight?” Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
Choso lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Just saying. When you’re not chewing him out, you’re actually kinda—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just gives a slow, meaningfully raised brow like the conclusion is obvious. Toji lets out a low whistle, the corner of his mouth twitching. “No, wait—he’s right. You’ve got that whole mean girl, academic weapon, doesn’t-look-up-in-lectures thing going on.” You just blink at them, caught somewhere between wanting to melt into your chair or hurl your laptop at both their heads. Sukuna, up until now half-listening while scrolling on his screen, exhales like this whole conversation is beneath him. “Shut the fuck up.” His voice is flat. Lazy. Like he's bored with their entire existence. But his eyes flick up—and linger on you just a beat too long. There’s no smirk. No wink. Just that unreadable look again. Heavy-lidded. Slightly narrowed.
Toji raises a brow. “Struck a nerve?” Choso glances between you and Sukuna, curious now. “Damn. Didn’t know you were the territorial type.” Sukuna doesn’t even rise to it. Just drags a hand through his hair and mutters, “You idiots hear yourselves talk?” That seems to be enough. Toji snorts and mutters a half-apology under his breath. “Alright, alright. Chill.”
Choso shrugs. “She’s still bad though. No take-backs.” You clear your throat and mutter, “Thanks… I guess?”
No one hears it except Sukuna, whose gaze shifts back to his laptop—but his ears are slightly pink now. Not that he’d admit it. And just like that, the boys forget they ever had a filter. They’re back to talking about the football coach and some frat party coming up next weekend. You, meanwhile, keep your eyes glued to your screen—but your skin feels hotter, like that look Sukuna gave you never quite left. You try to refocus on your screen, but your heart’s still thudding in your chest in a way you hate. You don’t want to be flustered. Especially not over Sukuna, who has the emotional depth of a spoon. Still, when the session winds down and Toji and Choso finally get bored and wander off, Sukuna leans back and says, with the same bored tone he uses when talking about the weather, “I’ll see you here again next week. I’ll finish up some of the work at my place before I come, so we don’t hafta sit here on our asses long enough for these idiots to show up again.”
You blink. “Uh… okay.” He doesn’t wait for a response. Just slings his bag over his shoulder, walks off like he hasn’t just stunned you into silence with the barest sliver of consideration, and mutters under his breath on the way out:
“Better chairs anyway.” You stare after him. Annoyed. Confused. Unsettled. Slightly amused. And a little less sure about how much of a dick he really is.
–
It’s been three weeks since you started meeting in the dorm building’s study lounge. The sessions are no less exhausting, but they’ve become… bearable. You still argue. He’s still insufferable. But Sukuna actually does the work now. Not without the occasional passive-aggressive comment or that maddening little smirk when he catches you getting flustered. But he contributes. Sometimes he even takes initiative—like today, when you arrived and found he’d already opened the shared doc and annotated the latest journal article. Miracles, apparently, do happen.
You're both seated on opposite sides of the same table, a precarious peace holding between the clack of your keys and the scratch of his pen against paper. Sukuna's in a black hoodie—which really emphasises how broad his shoulders are–paired with some low-slung sweatpants. He’s got one leg up on the chair, knee almost brushing the table’s underside, completely manspreaded in a way that takes up far more space than necessary. Typical. You’ve tuned it all out. Almost. The only sound in the lounge is the soft hum of the vending machine and the low rustle of paper. That is, until your phone buzzes.
You glance down.
[8:37 PM] Yuna:
pls tell me ur free next friday night
frat party at Theta house
i need a plus one u owe meee
You pause. Theta house. The name sparks something in your brain—a half-formed association, faint and unimportant until now. You’ve heard it muttered in passing, caught glimpses of its parties plastered all over people’s Instagram stories. Flashy. Loud. Too many red solo cups and too little self-respect. But more importantly: it rings a specific bell. Something familiar. Your eyes flicker back to the message on your screen, rereading Yuna’s plea. Your brows furrow. You bite the inside of your cheek, lips tugging downward as you try to decide if this is worth the impending social fatigue, or if you can just ghost her and fake a fever. Maybe a paper cut. Across the table, the scratch of pen on paper falters. You don’t even notice until Sukuna’s voice cuts in, sharp and dry.
“What’re you making that face for?” he asks without looking up. Flat, disinterested, like your expression is an inconvenience. You blink, mildly startled. “...What face?”
“That weird one.” He finally lifts his head, narrowing his eyes at you with vague irritation. “Like you just found out you forgot to pay your car registration or somethin’.” Your mouth opens, closes. “It’s just a text,” you say eventually, letting out a quiet sigh as you flip your phone facedown. “My friend’s dragging me to a frat party next week. She needs a plus-one.” At that, Sukuna stills. Not dramatically. Just... a subtle pause. His elbow stops bouncing. His pen hovers above the page.
“What frat?” he asks. The question is casual, but his gaze sharpens ever so slightly. You hesitate. “…Theta house. I think.”
He snorts. Loud and unmistakable. “That’s mine.”
Your head snaps up. “What?”
He leans back lazily, one arm thrown over the back of the chair, looking maddeningly relaxed. “Theta. That’s my frat. Toji, mine and Cho’s. Didn’t ya know? They were talkin’ about it before.” You blink, momentarily at a loss. The realization hits with a muted thud—of course. It all makes sense now. The flashy parties, the obnoxiously loud music every other weekend, the guys who walk around campus with too much cologne and too few responsibilities. Of course he lives there.
“Oh,” you say finally. It hangs there—awkward, brittle, like a glass ornament someone forgot to put away after Christmas. You both look back down at your notes, pretending the moment never happened. You reread the same sentence in your textbook three times and still can’t register what it says. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it isn’t comfortable either. Just... weird. Like there’s something in the air that neither of you wants to acknowledge. Then, after a minute, Sukuna exhales slowly and leans further back in his seat.
“You should swing by,” he says offhandedly. So casual it sounds like a throwaway line.
You glance up. “Huh?”
“The party,” he says, eyes flicking briefly toward you, then back to the ceiling. “Your friend’s already going. Might as well.” You study him. His expression is unreadable—calm, indifferent. No trace of smugness, no expectation behind the offer. It’s almost too nonchalant. Like he wouldn’t care either way. You narrow your eyes a little. “Are you… inviting me?”
He shrugs. “You’re not special. I’m inviting everyone.” Your lips twitch at that, but you don’t call him out. “Right. Of course.”
Still, you hear your voice soften slightly.
“I’ll think about it.”
Sukuna hums in response, eyes drifting downward—right to your hoodie, baggy enough to cover you from neck to knee, sleeves tugged over your hands. You can practically see the judgment forming. “Just don’t show up dressed like this,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching. You snort before you can stop yourself. A short, surprised laugh bursts out of you. “Seriously?”
He gives you a deadpan look. “It’s a party, not a cult meeting.” You raise your brows, amused. “Clearly, you don’t know me at all if you think I dress like this everywhere.” Sukuna tilts his head, studying you like you just issued a challenge. “So you do have real clothes.”
“I’m a woman of mystery,” you say smugly, folding your arms. “You don’t get to know.” A rare smirk twitches onto his face—brief, dry, almost like he’s trying not to be amused. “That sounds like a yes.” You roll your eyes, grabbing your highlighter again. “Focus on organic chemistry, casanova.”
He chuckles under his breath but doesn’t argue, returning to his notes. The mood shifts again—easy now, fluid in a way you didn’t expect. The banter lingers, like a residue in the air, and for once, you don’t feel like you’re dodging landmines when you speak. You work in silence for a while longer, but it’s not the same brittle quiet from before. It’s something softer. Settled. And maybe—for just a second—it doesn’t feel like you’re enemies anymore. Not friends, either. But not enemies. When you finally pack up for the night, Sukuna doesn’t say anything. He just slings his bag over his shoulder, glances at you once, then jerks his chin toward the door like let’s go. You fall into step beside him, not speaking, the click of the lounge door swinging shut behind you. You don’t even know how it happened. How somehow he waited for you by the staircase that led up to your dorms before departing back to where he lived. The hallway is quiet. The air, cool and crisp, smells faintly of late-night ramen and floor cleaner. You say nothing. But somehow, that moment stretches longer than it should. And it stays with you. All the way back to your dorm.
–
“Yu— I don’t know,” you say, pulling at one of the spaghetti straps of your top and glancing at your reflection in her full-length mirror, “I like wearing shit like this but… don’t you think it’s too much for a frat party?” Your voice comes out unsure, tinged with that all-too-familiar pre-party doubt that creeps in five minutes before you’re supposed to leave. You’re still adjusting the fabric over your chest—this stupid, tiny top that clings a little too perfectly to your figure, exposing just enough skin to make you question if you’ll even make it through the front door without second-guessing everything. The bra underneath? Completely unintentional. You didn’t even mean to match it—had just grabbed something clean and vaguely push-up-ish from the drawer, but of course, it had to be your most expensive set. Lacy, pink, and not remotely subtle. Victoria’s Secret, you realize with mild betrayal, had made your boobs look criminally good. Like, pause-a-man’s-conversation good.
The top itself wasn’t the issue—it was cropped, sure, but cute. Flimsy fabric and soft color, something you could probably dress down if you were pairing it with anything other than this damn skirt. The skirt was what had you feeling like you were in over your head. And it wasn’t even yours. It was Yuna’s. A distressed, light-wash denim mini that was practically a belt. It hugged every curve, curved a little more than you were used to, and sat low enough on your hips to make you feel a tiny bit scandalous with every breath. If you shifted too fast, it felt like it’d ride up and expose everything. And with the panties that came with your VS set—thin, lacy, and technically classified as lingerie—you felt dangerously close to flashing someone if the wind so much as thought about picking up.
“I look like I’m trying to seduce someone’s dad,” you mutter.
“Oh my god,” Yuna gasps from behind you, eyes wide as she stops in her tracks. “You look so fucking hot. I’m not hearing any complaints about this.” She spins you around, hands on your shoulders as she takes in the full outfit like she’s styling you for a Vogue shoot. Her perfectly manicured fingers trail to the hem of your skirt, and with a gleam in her eye, she gives your butt a dramatic, playful slap.
You glare at her. “Can you not grope me right now?”
“Sorry,” she says, completely unapologetic. “You just look so good. Like, painfully good. Like—‘oops, I just made that guy trip over a keg because I walked by’ good.” You attempt to give her your best unimpressed stare, but it’s hard to hold when she looks that excited—and especially when she’s standing there in a sparkly, strapless top that’s practically glued to her skin and a skirt shorter than yours. Not to mention the rhinestone eyeliner and lip gloss she reapplied twice already. You sigh, defeated, because if she looked hot, and you looked hot, maybe it wasn’t the worst idea to just embrace it.
“Ugh, okay, fine,” you mutter. “You look sexy too.”
“So do you,” she grins, squeezing your wrist before spinning toward the mirror to grab her purse. “We’re gonna be the baddest bitches there.”
You snort. “That’s not exactly a high bar. I saw someone show up to one of these in a Pikachu onesie.”
“Exactly,” she says, throwing a jacket over her shoulder. “We’ll be legends by comparison.” Despite yourself, you laugh—and when you turn back to the mirror, something about the reflection feels less terrifying than it did five minutes ago. The outfit was bold, sure. But with Yuna beside you, her energy electric and effortless, you could feel yourself slipping into that mindset, too. The one where you were allowed to be hot without apologizing for it. You slip on your shoes, grab your phone, and follow Yuna out of the dorm. The hallway’s quiet, dimly lit with that weird yellow lighting all college buildings have after 10 PM. You both walk down to the street where your Uber is already waiting, music faintly thumping from the frat row just a few blocks away. And for once, you’re not dreading it. You’re a little nervous, maybe. But with your favorite person beside you, in outfits that could start wars, heading into a night with no plans other than chaos—you’re ready.
The Uber ride is a blur of Yuna’s makeup touch-ups, last-minute accessory debates, and Spotify blaring a throwback remix that has both of you scream-singing the chorus. The nerves in your stomach ease up a little more with each passing minute. Maybe it’s the way Yuna keeps hyping you up or how good the outfit actually looks under the glow of the passing streetlights—but by the time the car pulls up in front of Theta house, you’re no longer on the verge of changing outfits or ghosting the night entirely. The frat house looms ahead like every other frat house you’ve ever seen—loud music already spilling out from the open door, string lights tangled across the porch, people clustered out front with red cups in hand like it’s a high school movie come to life. You can hear someone whoop as a beer pong shot lands across the front lawn, and someone else yells “Take it off!” from an upstairs window.
Yuna’s eyes sparkle. “Home sweet home,” she says, linking her arm through yours. Inside, it’s chaotic—but weirdly cozy. Warm. The air smells like cheap beer, cologne, and weed, the floors already sticky under your heels. There’s a crowd around the living room-turned-dance-floor, another bottlenecking at the kitchen where a keg is set up beside a counter full of jungle juice and liquor. You spot a couple of people you vaguely know from class or mutuals through Yuna—most of them already tipsy, greeting her with hugs and loud compliments. Someone hands you a drink you don’t ask for, and you take it anyway, sipping something vaguely fruity and deceptively strong. The thrum of music settles in your chest, rattling the floorboards beneath your feet, and for the first time in weeks—maybe even months—you feel something close to relaxed. You’re halfway to the kitchen to grab a chaser when it happens.
You turn a corner and bump into someone—shoulder to chest. Solid. Firm. Tall enough that you instinctively glance up before you even register who it is.
Sukuna. He looks down at you, expression unreadable for a moment—until his eyes very obviously drop from your face to the low neckline of your top. And linger. There’s the barest flicker of something—surprise? amusement?—in his eyes, but it’s gone too fast to confirm. You step back, blinking. “Oh my god. You are so weird.”
He lifts a brow. “Excuse me?”
“You’re literally checking me out like I’m a Victoria’s Secret window display,” you deadpan, tugging your top slightly higher—not that it helps much.
“You wore that and expected no one to look?” he says, voice dry and annoyingly smooth. His eyes flick lazily down again. “Also, hate to break it to you, but your bra’s doing a lot of heavy lifting right now.”
You scoff. “You’re actually such a freak.” He shrugs, tilting the water bottle in his hand toward you. “Not denying it.” You’re about to roll your eyes and walk away, but then he says it—so nonchalantly it barely registers at first.
“You look nice, though.”
You freeze mid-step.
“…What?”
His mouth quirks up slightly, like he didn’t just toss a grenade into the conversation. “You heard me.”
You stare at him, trying to gauge if he’s mocking you. But there’s no smug grin, no teasing lilt. Just that lazy drawl, that unreadable expression that always keeps you guessing. You fold your arms, shifting your weight to one hip. “Well,” you say slowly, “clearly you don’t know what to do when I’m not wearing my usual two layers of oversized fabric.”
Sukuna snorts. “Thought you were gonna roll up in your campus hoodie again. Kind of a shame, actually. I miss how it swallowed your whole body. You looked like a walking laundry pile.”
“Wow,” you deadpan. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“I try.”
You take a slow sip from your drink, hiding the small grin tugging at your lips. “So this is what you’re like when you’re not being the biggest dick on the planet.”
“I’m not the biggest dick, although I’d say I have the biggest dick” he retorts with a snicker. “You’re just distracting now.”
You blink. “Distracting?”
He shrugs again, way too casual about the whole thing. “You look good. I’m not blind.” You glance around to make sure no one’s listening, then mutter, “You’re way more tolerable when there’s alcohol involved.”
“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re way more tolerable when you’re not scowling at me for breathing too loud.” You glare. “That happened once.”
“It happened twice.”
“Once,” you insist.
He just smirks and takes a sip from the water bottle in his hands. His gaze flicks past you, toward the hallway, and he jerks his chin slightly. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to some people who won’t talk about your bra.” You narrow your eyes. “Is that your idea of an apology?”
He smirks again, already walking off. “Take it or leave it.” You roll your eyes and follow—only because your drink’s almost empty and the kitchen’s in that direction anyway. Obviously. And maybe—just maybe—because being around him like this, when he’s not being a complete jackass, isn’t the worst thing in the world. At least not tonight. Sukuna leads you through the crowd like he’s done this a million times before—which he probably has. You catch a couple of people eyeing him as he walks by, and you wonder if it’s because he’s hot or because he radiates that unapproachable energy like it’s cologne.
“This is…?” someone asks when you both approach a small group gathered around a tall keg table. He jerks a thumb toward you lazily. “My chem partner.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the title. “Hi,” you say instead, a little wave as you flash a quick grin.
“Yo, you’re in Shimizu’s class too? That woman’s a menace.”
“Tell me about it,” you groan. “I swear she adds extra steps to procedures just for fun.” Someone laughs. “You actually talk to her? I just fake nod through half of her lectures.” You slip into conversation easily after that, bouncing off the group's energy. You’ve always been extroverted when you’re comfortable, and it’s oddly easy here, surrounded by strangers who are just buzzed enough to be nice. It’s even easier when you catch Sukuna watching the group banter from a short distance, sipping from his water bottle again, his expression unreadable. You break away to get another drink, winding toward the makeshift bar on the patio. The music's loud, the air sticky with alcohol and cologne, and just as you reach for a clean cup, a shoulder brushes into yours.
“Shit—”
You turn, and there he is again. Ryomen Sukuna. Up close this time. “Jesus, what is your problem?” you mutter, looking up at him. “Do you teleport?” He looks unfazed. “You walked into me.”
You snort. “You walked into me.”
He doesn’t argue. Just leans slightly back and lets his eyes flick down, over your outfit, and—yep. Not subtle. Not even trying to be. Your eyes narrow.
“You’re such a creep. I don’t care if I’m slightly drunk, I can definitely tell you’re staring at my boobs.” He scoffs, openly amused. “Well, sorry. I’m a man. And those are practically fighting for their lives in that top.” You gasp, smacking his arm. “You’re disgusting.”
He shrugs. “And you’re the one who wore it. Don’t act surprised people are looking.” You roll your eyes but the corner of your mouth twitches. “Whatever. At least I can pull it off.”
“Who said you couldn’t?”
You pause for half a second too long. Then you glare. “You’re pissing me off.”
“And you’re drunk,” he retorts, smirking.
“I’m not drunk yet. You’d know if I was drunk.”
“Oh?” He raises a brow. “What, do you start crying or something?”
“No,” you scoff. “I just get… more honest.”
“Terrifying.” You give him a sweet smile that’s anything but. “What, afraid I’ll hurt your little ego?” He looks down at you—really looks. Like he's taking in the pink flush in your cheeks, the glint in your eye, the way you don't back down even when he’s standing so damn close.
“Nah,” he says. “My ego’s huge.”
You blink. “...That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”
He laughs, low and dry, then tilts his bottle at you in mock cheers before walking off again. You stand there for a moment, a little dazed, before grabbing another drink. Eventually, a while later, you find your way back to Yuna, who’s already three sips away from shouting compliments at strangers. She gasps when she sees you. “Babe. Baby girl. My precious. Did I just see you with Sukuna?”
You blink. “Yeah, why?”
“You know him?”
“We’re in the same chem class,” you mutter, sipping your drink. “Group project.” Yuna grabs your arm. “And you didn’t say anything?” You eye her suspiciously. “Say what?”
“That he’s literally the hottest man on this campus?!” You make a face. “He’s not that hot.” Yuna gives you a look like she’s been personally offended. “You’re lying to yourself. Also, you two have like, that weird tension. It’s kind of hot.”
You groan. “Yuna—”
“Just fuck him.”
“What is wrong with you?”
She only cackles in response before she gets whisked away by a guy who’s clearly her on-again-off-again situationship. She doesn’t even look guilty as she leans in to whisper something to him. A few minutes later, you get the text.
sorry i love u but i’m gonna go with him ok i’ll send u money for an uber ily don’t die xx
You stare at the message, swaying slightly on your stool. The room blurs a little when you blink. You swipe over to the Uber app. Try to log in. Error. Try again. Error. The third time your phone crashes entirely and you groan, bracing your elbow on the edge of the bar counter and burying your face in your hand. Your heels are starting to hurt and you can already feel tomorrow’s hangover tap dancing in your brain.
“You good?”
You lift your head slowly. And of course. Of course. It’s Sukuna again. Leaning one arm against the edge of the bar like he’s been summoned by your suffering. “You’re like a cockroach,” you mutter. “You just keep showing up.”
He grins lazily. “Still here?”
“Yeah, unfortunately. My friend ditched me and my Uber app’s being a little bitch.” He hums, gaze flicking over your glazed expression, your flushed cheeks. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I might,” you admit. “If I don’t cry first.”
There’s a beat of silence before he says, “I’ll drop you off.” You blink. “What? No. You’ve been drinking.”
“I haven’t. Can’t have everyone in the frat house drunk. Someone’s gotta babysit these idiots.” You blink again, the lag in your brain buffering like bad Wi-Fi. “...You?”
“Yeah, me. Shocking.”
“You know where I live?”
“You told me. Last week. After lab.”
You squint at him. “I don’t remember that.”
“Yeah, well, I remember everything.”
“Ew.”
He just stares at you, expectant, one brow cocked like he’s got all the time in the world.
You exhale dramatically. “Fine. But if you kill me I’m haunting your frat house.”
“I welcome it. It’s been boring lately.”
“Freak.”
He smirks and plucks your phone straight from your hands to toss it into your purse, ignoring the half-hearted slap you aim at his wrist.
“Come on.” You groan, dragging yourself off the barstool, your legs not cooperating in the slightest. Your heels were cute in theory—silver with a tiny bow on the back and barely any support. Very much not made for trudging across dark college lawns and cracked sidewalks. You follow him out, still kind of mad at the universe for letting your Uber app crash. He opens the door like it's nothing, like he’s a gentleman or something—gross—and the cold night air wraps around your skin instantly. As it does, you swear you hear him mutter something. You turn, squinting through the haze. “What?”
“Nothing.” But it wasn’t nothing. It was something. And you're drunk, but not that drunk. It sounded suspiciously like you look pretty tonight. But you don’t say anything, just frown and follow him out into the night. Until you realize he’s not heading toward the street. He’s heading toward the back lot. Behind the frat house.
You pause. “Wait—where the hell is your car?”
“Other side,” he says, without slowing.
“What do you mean other side?”
“I live here, dumbass. The resident lot is across the quad.”
“Are you kidding me?” You groan. “My feet are going to fall off.”
“Shouldn’t’ve worn stripper heels.”
“Shouldn’t’ve been born with a stick up your ass.” He snorts, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he walks ahead of you, like he's not dealing with a barely coherent girl in a miniskirt and heels struggling to walk in a straight line. You try to keep up, but the lawn dips, uneven and soft, and your ankle rolls slightly to the side. Your foot catches. Your knee gives out. And suddenly you’re stumbling, arms flailing, balance gone—You land hard on your ass with a sharp oof.
“FUCK,” you hiss, grabbing your ankle, already feeling the sting. You stay there a second, stewing, overwhelmed and overstimulated—the lights from the party still flickering behind your eyelids, your chest heaving from the sudden jolt, your mouth dry and head spinning. “You good?” Sukuna’s voice comes from somewhere above you, way too calm for someone whose lab partner just ate shit in front of him. “No, I’m not fucking good,” you snap, scowling up at him. “My feet are bleeding, my brain is melting, and your car is apparently in Narnia.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“You’re such a dick!”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, suddenly stepping closer. “Just—fuck it.” You barely register him moving before there’s a sudden shift in gravity and your world tips sideways.
He scoops you up like it’s nothing.
Bridal style.
Your arms instinctively hook around his neck as you squeak, instinctively clinging to his hoodie as your legs leave the ground. “What the fuck are you doing?!” you yell, even though your voice comes out way too breathless to be convincing.
“Carrying you. Because you’re useless.”
“Put me down!”
“No.”
Your mouth opens to protest again, but your brain short-circuits because—
His hand. One of them—large, warm, calloused—is curled under your thighs, gripping firmly but not rough, fingers splayed slightly against the bare skin between your skirt and where your panties ride up your ass. But it’s the other hand that breaks your brain. It’s pressed right beneath your chest, right where the thin fabric of your top clings to your ribs. His knuckles graze the underside of your boob with each step. Not on purpose. Probably. Hopefully. But your body registers every tiny movement, every bounce and shift. Your breath stutters, nipples tightening under the lace, and—
God, you need to shut your brain off. He smells like expensive cologne and weed and something darker—musk and leather and sweat. The hoodie under your palm is worn soft, like he's had it for years, and his chest is so warm against your arm it’s making you feel dizzy. You go quiet. Not because you want to, but because your mouth won’t work right. He notices. “What, no snarky comment? Are you dying?”
“Just… conserving energy,” you mumble, trying to ignore the way your head is now resting against his shoulder, half from exhaustion, half because it feels nice there.
“Shame. I was enjoying the sound of you bitching.” He makes it to his car—a black ‘09 Civic parked in the furthest back row—and sets you down gently, like you're glass. Which somehow feels even more ridiculous than being carried. You try to get your balance again, but before you can even reach down, he crouches and grabs your ankle.
“Hey—what are you—”
He’s already unbuckling your heel. “Your feet are bleeding,” he mutters, slipping it off carefully. Then the other. “Why are girls like this?”
“Because we suffer for fashion,” you reply, watching as he sets them neatly in the footwell of the passenger side. “Idiots,” he mutters, straightening and helping you into the seat. The door is still open as he leans in and buckles you up, the seatbelt snapping into place just under your chest.
“Don’t look at my tits,” you mumble, half-asleep, half-defensive.
“I’m not looking.”
“You are. You’ve been staring all night, you absolute perv. I might be drunk but I’m not blind.” He sighs, shuts the door, walks around to the driver’s side, and slides in beside you. The car’s interior is cool and clean and smells like the same cologne that’s still clinging to him. Once the engine’s on and the headlights glow, he glances over at you.
“Sorry I’m a man. My bad.”
“You are bad. And that’s not an excuse.”
“And yet here you are,” he drawls, pulling out of the lot, his hand casual on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift. His thighs spread slightly as he adjusts, and you don’t mean to look but—
Yeah. No. You’re drunk. Because there’s no way you’re checking out his hands or his stupid muscular legs or the way his jaw clenches every time he shifts gears. Absolutely no way. You fold your arms and press your forehead against the window, trying to cool your cheeks down, but it doesn’t work. The drive is short. He doesn’t play music. Just lets the silence sit, and somehow it’s not awkward. Just… quiet. Kinda warm. When he pulls up in front of your dorm, he doesn’t speak right away. Just sits there for a second. You turn to him slowly. “Thanks… for not letting me pass out in a bush or get murdered.”
He shrugs. “Would’ve ruined my grade if you died.”
You scoff. “So romantic.”
A pause. His eyes flick to yours, and his voice drops just a bit.
“You’re welcome.”
And you don’t know why, but that makes your stomach flip a little. You nod, mumble something incoherent, and go to open the door. But he stops you, reaching across you suddenly to grab your purse from the floor. His arm brushes your chest again and you freeze. He pretends not to notice. But the corner of his mouth twitches. He hands you your bag without a word, and you climb out, the night air immediately biting your skin. As you shut the door and start toward your building, you hear his voice behind you—low, amused, maybe even a little genuine.
“Get home safe, dumbass.”
You turn over your shoulder.
“Night, perv.” Then you're gone. And his car stays parked for a few more seconds than it needs to.
–
It starts slow. Just like always, you two keep meeting up for study sessions, mostly in the same tucked-away campus library room. And technically you’re still working on your project. There's still the usual back-and-forth, the occasional threat of flinging a pen at his head, and your ever-reliable "God, you're so annoying" whenever he pushes too far. But something's changed. Some invisible shift. Like the night of the frat party cracked something open. You still bicker, still throw jabs like it's oxygen, but now—
There’s laughter. Actual laughter. From you. And snickering from him, like he’s low-key delighted when you call him a dickhead with that little smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. Now he leans closer than necessary when you’re reading. His arm brushes yours and he doesn’t move. His eyes linger on your mouth when you talk and when you call him on it, he just shrugs and says, “Sorry, your lip gloss is distracting.” You throw your pen at his forehead. He catches it without looking. You start referring to the group project as our child, and he calls himself the hot absentee father. You start keeping a tally of how many times he sighs dramatically when he doesn't get the answer before you. He keeps a separate one of how many times you chew your pen cap when you’re stressed and says it’s “borderline erotic.”
“I will murder you,” you say sweetly.
"That's what makes it erotic," he replies. But it’s not just that. There’s more. Quieter things. One time, he walks in late with two iced coffees and just drops one in front of you without a word, like it’s normal now. (It becomes normal. He starts bringing snacks too. Sometimes even the weird granola bars you said once in passing that you liked.) When you’re tired, he starts reading sections aloud to you in a voice that's somehow both mocking and comforting. When you're scribbling notes and your pen runs out, he's already tossing you a spare. And eventually—
You exchange numbers.
It’s just for “convenience,” you both claim. So you can update each other on meeting times. So he can send you stupid memes related to your topic. So you can text him "you forgot the rubric again, dumbass" when he shows up with nothing but a Monster and the same black hoodie he’s worn four sessions in a row. You never call each other, of course. Not yet. But the texts get more frequent. More casual. Sometimes you’re not even talking about the project. Sometimes it’s just:
You: tell toji to stop calling me your lil nerd wife
Sukuna: don’t flatter urself. he called u my leashYou: even worse??
Sukuna: not to me 😏
And one day, you're the first to arrive. You’re early, even. Kinda excited to see him, which you don't interrogate too hard because you're a busy girl with academic priorities and definitely not thinking about his stupid shoulders lately. So you sit. And wait. Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Finally, you send a text.
You: where u at bruh wtf im already here
There’s a delay. Then your phone buzzes. It’s a photo. A mirror selfie. Gym bathroom. Fluorescent lighting. He’s shirtless—no, wait, technically his shirt is in his mouth, bitten between his teeth. His abs are cut like they were designed in a lab. There’s a sheen of sweat on his chest, and the pinkest hint of a happy trail disappearing into black shorts. And god– the tattoos that intricately line his hips, and you’re ashamed that you’re zooming in to see them a bit more clearly. Toji’s in the background throwing up a peace sign and smirking like a menace. And the caption?
Sukuna: gym
You stare at your screen like it personally offended you. Because okay. Fine. You tolerate him now. You maybe even like him a little. Like, as a person. As in, you don’t fantasize about choking him out every time he opens his mouth. That’s progress. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the way your stomach plummets at that photo.
It’s shameful, really. You’re sitting alone in the study room, already annoyed that he’s late, your phone clenched in one hand and your cold coffee sweating on the table. You only texted him out of impatience, fully expecting some lame excuse. And instead, you get that. His abs are right there. Cut. Sharp. Obscene. His happy trail is a faint pink stripe leading down, dusted just enough to make your thighs clench, and you hate yourself for it. Your face heats so fast you think you might spontaneously combust. You look around the room like someone else might have seen it, like that would somehow make this a shared crime and not just your own private downfall. You blink at the photo. Then again. Then you lock your phone. Then unlock it.
You type.
Delete.
Type again.
Backspace halfway. Then finally give in and hit send.
You: keep those freaky selfies to urself bro
Sukuna: u sure? u stared at that one a little too long
You: YOU CANT SEE ME
Sukuna: can feel it tho
You: ew
Sukuna: ur welcome
You throw your phone face down on the table like it just slapped you. He shows up twenty minutes later. Hair still damp, gym bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie half on, clinging to the edge of his frame like it was trying to slide off. There’s still that smug grin curling on his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing. You don’t even say hi. You just cross your arms and raise your brows as he strolls in like he owns the place.
“I said keep the thirst traps to yourself, gym rat.”
He collapses into the chair next to you, legs spread way too wide, stretching his arms back behind his head with a low groan like he’s been working so hard—and the motion tugs his hoodie just enough for you to catch a flash of skin. A line of muscle. That stupid V again. “Thirst trap?” he echoes, voice low and lazy. “Nah. That was community service.”
You make a show of rolling your eyes, flipping a page in your notes. “You’re disgusting.” He leans over, chin propped in his hand, eyes glittering with something sharp and amused. “C’mon,” he says, his voice dropping, thick and playful, “you’re telling me you didn’t like it?” You don’t answer. He grins like that’s an answer. Then, slow and deliberate, he leans back again—slouches down in the chair like he owns it, hands behind his head, and lets his hoodie inch up. Not a lot. Just enough. Enough to show the ridges of his abs. The line of his hipbones. The tattoos. The happy trail, pink and soft and infuriating, peeking above the waistband of his shorts like he planned this entire thing. Like this is a setup and you walked into it willingly. “Sure about that?” he murmurs, eyes heavy-lidded and watching you now. You make a strangled sound in your throat and smack a folder in front of your face.
“You are so weird,” you mutter from behind it. He laughs. Real, deep, warm. And you hate the way it makes something loosen in your chest. And it keeps happening—these strange, flirty little moments you don’t know how to explain. He starts texting you just to annoy you. You start sending him selfies of your weird coffee orders with captions like for our child (the project). He calls you baby mama when you least expect it and winks every time you make eye contact. And maybe the worst part?
You start dressing better. Not for him, obviously. That’d be dumb. It’s just… you’re a girl. Sometimes you want to look cute. Sometimes you want to wear something other than an oversized hoodie and leggings. So you start showing up in cropped tops. In fitted shirts. In actual shorts when it's warm out. Sometimes you even—God forbid—do your hair. Not for him, of course. Except... he notices. You’re bent over your laptop one afternoon when you catch him staring again. Not like he’s trying to be subtle. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking lazily.
“What?” you say, defensive.
“You look good,” he says, so bluntly it makes you blink. Then, almost offhand: “But I liked when you wore those weird baggy clothes, too.” You snort. And suddenly the words tumble from your mouth, words you didn’t expect to say at all.
“Yeah? Didn’t you say the project would be easier if I was hot?”
His smirk falters for the first time. He pauses. Then—quietly, sincerely, and in that very Sukuna way—he says, “Yeah, well. I lied about that to piss you off. Obviously.”
A beat.
“You’re touched in the head if you don’t think you’re hot.” You go quiet. The air goes weird again—thick and strange and soft around the edges. You blink down at your notes, unsure what to say. Then, like it’s nothing, he shrugs. “Also… sorry. About that. And all the other comments. Shouldn’t’ve said that shit.”
You glance at him. He’s not looking at you. Just fiddling with the ring on his finger like he’s not even sure if he meant to say it out loud. You swallow. Your stomach flips. Something tender and unfamiliar blooms in your chest. Then, because you can’t handle the softness, you bump his foot under the table and mumble, “You’re still annoying.” He grins like he’s won something. You work in silence after that—your legs stretched out, your ankles resting comfortably on his lap. He doesn’t move them. Just shifts to make space. At one point he starts absently tracing circles on your sock with one finger. And you don’t move either. You just let it happen. Because whatever this is—it’s not nothing anymore. It’s weird and slow and unfolding. It’s not sharp like it used to be. It’s soft. It’s warm.
And you don’t know what this thing is. Not yet. But it’s something. It’s teasing and warm and slow and building. It’s softer around the edges now. His glances linger longer. His jokes don’t always have a bite. He starts giving you the better chair. He moves his laptop so you can stretch your legs out and rest your ankles on his lap like it’s no big deal. He taps your water bottle when you forget to drink. He waits for you after class sometimes now. He starts noticing things. When you’re tired. When you’ve skipped lunch. When your leg’s bouncing under the table and you’re clearly spiraling about a deadline. He just reaches over and taps your water bottle. “Drink something. You look like you’re about to combust.”
And one day you realize—
You’re not dressing better because you feel like it. You’re dressing better because something inside you wants him to look at you. Want him to notice. Wants him to sit across from you with his dumb jawline and his pretty mouth and his stupid gaze and look. Like he sees you. And he does. It’s horrifying. And kind of thrilling. You don’t say anything. You just keep showing up. You let your shirts fit a little tighter. Your hair falls a little smoother. You wear that one necklace that always rests right at the tops of your chest. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s nothing.
–
The last few weeks of the semester come fast and loud. Finals hang heavy in the air, coffee-fueled library sessions and group study chaos around every corner, but somehow, Sukuna still finds a way to plant himself next to you in every single lecture. Literally. He doesn’t even ask anymore—just drops into the seat beside you like it’s his birthright. Kicks his legs out wide under the desk, slumps dramatically back in the seat, leans over with that lazy, smug-ass voice to ask if you did the pre-lecture reading (you did, obviously; he did not, obviously). Sometimes he brings snacks. One time, it was gummy worms. Another time, chips he smuggled in the sleeve of his hoodie like a middle schooler. He offered you one and you made a face but still took it. He grinned.
Your chem project is basically wrapped up. You’re in editing and final-presentation mode now, which somehow translates to even more time together. Study sessions have blurred into hangouts, your text convos half-project, half weird jokes and chaotic memes. He still calls you names—airhead, goblin, menace—but sometimes his voice gets soft when he does. He still teases you, but the silences in between stretch warm and easy. So when you’re walking out of a bookstore downtown one Saturday afternoon and spot him across the street, it’s almost normal. He’s with Toji and Choso, the three of them leaning against a car like they’re posing for some kind of delinquent calendar. Sukuna clocks you first. His eyes catch on you, and he lifts his hand in a lazy, beckoning wave.
You cross the street.
He smirks. "Didn’t know you had business on this side of town. What, you stalking me now?" You roll your eyes. "Relax. I was running errands. There’s a stationery shop over there that sells the pens I like."
"Nerd," Choso says, but he sounds kind of fond. Toji just nods like, fair. Sukuna tilts his head. "You taking the bus back?"
"Yeah, why?"
"It’s getting dark," he says like it’s a passing observation. Then, in that dry, effortless way: "You look like a perfect kidnapping target. All spaced out and clueless. C’mere, little lamb."
You gape. "Okay well you’re the type of person to be the one doing the kidnapping."
"Uh-huh. Get in. I’ll drive you."
You’re protesting before he even finishes the sentence. But Toji just shrugs, opens the passenger door for you like this is something he’s used to, and Choso’s already climbing into the back. You sigh and slide in, heart pounding for reasons you refuse to name. The drive starts off easy. After a while, he drops off both Choso and Toji to the gym– where they were apparently headed for an evening grind session. Spending time with these three makes you think that the gym might be their second home besides the frat house where they live. You lean your head against the window, watching the city pass by in a blur of dusk and brake lights. But traffic hits near campus—an accident or something up ahead—and the car slows to a crawl.
You sigh, long and dramatic, throwing your head back against the seat. “Well. Looks like we’re stuck.” Sukuna shoots you a flat look, one hand tapping the wheel while the other lazily rests across his lap. “Incredible deduction, Sherlock. What gave it away? The line of cars stretching into the abyss?”
You flip him off without looking. “I’m putting on music.”
He sits up a little straighter. “Don’t you dare play weird indie-girl shit.” You’re already unlocking your phone, smug. “Too late.” And then it begins—those soft, dreamy guitar chords of She Won’t Go Away, spilling out through the car speakers like a bubble bath in audio form. Sukuna visibly flinches.
“What the fuck is this?” he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This sounds like it belongs in a movie montage of someone getting dumped in the rain.” You grin, curling your legs up into the seat and pressing your temple against the cool glass of the window. “It’s art. It’s emotion. It’s currently the only thing keeping me alive during finals.”
You’re already humming under your breath, voice quiet but matching the lilt of the lyrics like you’ve done this a hundred times alone in your room. You don’t even notice you’re doing it at first—just this soft, distracted singing, like muscle memory. Like breathing. Sukuna groans again, leaning back against his seat like he’s physically in pain. “Put on Playboi Carti like a normal human being.”
“No,” you reply sweetly, already queuing the song again. “I’m hyper fixated. That means I’m playing it at least three more times.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, but doesn’t reach for the aux. Instead, he leans his head back against the headrest and shuts his eyes, as if surrendering to the inevitable. His tattooed arm is draped lazily along the console between you. The setting sun outside paints soft orange lines across the curve of his throat, the ridges of his knuckles, the cut of his jaw. You glance over. Just for a second. His damp pink hair is curling a little where it rests against his forehead, the collar of his shirt a little stretched from where he tugged it off earlier. His hands are relaxed, but you’ve seen them clenched around a pen, a steering wheel, a can—so often that it’s weird to see them soft like this.
When the chorus hits again, you can’t help it—you clutch your water bottle like it’s a microphone and sing along, full volume, completely tone-deaf. Your voice cracks on a high note. You don’t care. The car is stuck, the sun is bleeding out across the horizon, and for once your brain is quiet enough to let you just be. Sukuna cracks an eye open to stare at you. There’s an expression hovering on his face—part judgment, part amusement, all exasperated affection. “You’re fucking insane,” he murmurs, but doesn’t tell you to stop. You play the song two more times. The last time, he even taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat. By the time the traffic thins and he pulls up in front of your dorm, it’s fully dark out. The streets are quiet. A light breeze rustles the trees overhead, and your building glows warm from the windows.
The car idles for a moment. Neither of you moves. You fiddle with your bag strap. “Thanks. For the ride.” Sukuna shrugs like it’s no big deal, hand still resting casually on the steering wheel. “Didn’t want you to get kidnapped. I’ll be pissed if I have to deal with a new project partner this late in the semester.”
You snort. “So heartwarming. Hallmark should hire you.” But still, your smile softens. You open the door, start to slide out—
“Hey,” his voice cuts in, low. You turn back. He’s watching you, one elbow propped against the window, his mouth tugged into something just barely resembling seriousness.
“You’ve got a nice voice,” he says, slow. “When you sing.”
You blink. Then: “I mean—it’s not good,” he adds quickly, defensive. “Just—nice. Like. You know. Tolerable. Shut the fuck up.” You’re already laughing, your whole face warm, stomach fluttering for a reason that makes you want to scream into your pillow later. You shake your head, half-dizzy, and wave him off.
“Freak.”
He grins. “Obviously.” And then he’s pulling away, the soft glow of his taillights disappearing around the corner as you stand there on the curb, heart doing something you really wish it wouldn’t.
–
The dorm lounge is dark. A sad, crooked little sign is taped to the door, flapping slightly from the draft in the hallway: CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. You stare at it in disbelief.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you mutter. Sukuna makes a noise behind you—something between a groan and a sigh that says of course this would happen now.
“We walked all the way here,” you grumble, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “And East Wing Library’s still under construction as well.” You sigh, then shove your phone back in your pocket. “Whatever. Guess we’re not studying tonight.” Sukuna scratches at his jaw, eyeing you sideways. “We could go to my place.”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
“My frat house,” he clarifies, as if that helps. You squint at him.
“Yeah, no offense, but the last thing I wanna do is walk into a testosterone-infested lair filled with Axe body spray and half-naked dudes playing Call of Duty.”
Sukuna smirks. “What do you think a frat house is, Animal House?” You raise a brow. “Is it not?”
“It’s…marginally cleaner.”
“Uh-huh.”
He grins, lazy and wolfish. “What, you scared you’ll get corrupted?”
“Oh please. I’m scared I’ll catch a fungal infection from your couch.”
“Wow.” He mock clutches his chest. “That’s the same couch Toji had sex on junior year.” You wrinkle your nose. “You’re not helping your case.”
–
But you’re already walking beside him as he pulls his keys out of his pocket, smug as ever. The house is surprisingly... not awful. It’s big, for one. Tall windows, wide wraparound porch. Someone’s put effort into decorating the front room—there are actual plants. A couple are plastic, sure, but still. Progress.
“Don’t touch anything,” Sukuna says as he unlocks the door. “You might set off a trap.” You snort and follow him inside. Almost instantly, voices erupt from the kitchen.
“Yo!” someone calls. “Sukuna brought a girl? What the fuck?” You round the corner and find a man with gauges, hair tied back into a bun, leaning back in a chair with his feet propped on the table. Choso’s there too, hair also tied up in a low bun, sipping some horrifying green drink out of a mason jar.
“Holy shit,” Suguru grins, “she real?”
“She’s not my date,” Sukuna says, already annoyed. “She’s my lab partner.”
“Uh-huh, he’s actually not making up bullshit this time, Sugu,” Choso says, nodding solemnly between Sukuna and you. “Suguru, you shoulda seen the way he talks about h–.”
“Shut up, bitch.”
“She’s cute though,” Suguru adds, eyeing you with an arched brow. “You sure this isn’t, like, your redemption arc?”
You just raise a brow. “This what you call hospitality?” Suguru snorts. “She talks back. I like her.”
“Bye,” Sukuna says sharply, grabbing your wrist. “Upstairs. Now.”
You’re still laughing as he drags you past the second floor landing. “Damn. Didn’t know you hadn’t brought anyone home in months.”
“Jesus,” he mutters.
“What’s wrong, celibate king? Losing your edge?” He stops in front of a door, turns to face you with that cocky smirk curling up again. “You wishing I haven’t gotten laid recently?”
You blink at him innocently. “Just surprised you haven’t. With how obsessed you are with yourself.”
“Yeah, well,” he says, pushing the door open, “standards.” You snort. But his room is… not what you expected. It’s neat. Cleaner than yours, probably. Dark wooden desk against the wall, books stacked haphazardly but intentionally. An unmade bed with black sheets and a dark grey hoodie tossed over the pillow. There’s a little lamp glowing low in the corner and a record player next to a speaker. You hate how nice it smells in here. You set your bag down on the floor. “Why does it smell like... sage and expensive soap?”
“Because I’m not disgusting?”
“Debatable.” You both settle on the floor, laptops out, papers scattered. He brings over a half-full bag of spicy chips and a water bottle, which he throws at you without looking. It hits you square in the chest.
“Dickhead.”
“You’re welcome.”
The first twenty minutes are actually productive—notes reviewed, graphs tweaked, last-minute slides double-checked. But inevitably, the banter creeps in. His foot nudges yours under the desk. You nudge back. He leans over to steal a gummy from your bag and you slap his hand away.
“Stop stealing my candy.”
“You ate my gummy worms last week.”
“I didn’t steal them. I accepted them.”
“Wow. You’re so full of shit.”
“Eat dirt.” He laughs—low, under his breath—and it shouldn’t affect you the way it does, but it sinks into your skin like heat, lingers in your bloodstream. It’s not the usual cocky bark of a laugh he throws at you when he’s being a menace. This one is quieter. Throatier. Less sharp edges, more velvet. Like he’s amused with you, not at you. It wrecks your focus. He’s leaned back against the edge of his bed now, legs splayed carelessly, one knee bent, the other stretching toward you like it owns the space. His shirt rides up a little at the waist, just enough to flash the hard lines of his stomach, the deep cut of his hipbones disappearing under black sweats. One of his arms hangs lazy over his knee, veins taut beneath inked skin, fingers playing absently with a red pen. And his hair—fuck. It's a mess, falling over his forehead in soft waves, a few strands catching on his lashes when he looks down. You want to brush it back. You want to tug on it.
You shift slightly, trying to re-cross your legs, trying to re-engage your brain with the paper in front of you. But your sweater dips with the movement—a soft, oversized thing you threw on without much thought. It hangs loose over your collarbones, dips just enough to expose a hint of skin and the swell of your chest where the neckline falls low. You feel his gaze before you see it. A flicker—subtle, but deliberate. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s staring.
“You're staring.”
Sukuna doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t pretend to be caught, doesn’t have the decency to look embarrassed. He just meets your eyes, unashamed, and shrugs one shoulder in a way that’s all smooth arrogance. “Can you blame me?” You snort, but it comes out quieter than intended. Your throat’s a little dry. “You’re gross.”
“Yeah?” He shifts a bit, elbow sliding behind him so he’s leaning fully back now, neck tipped against the wall, gaze still locked on you. “Don’t act like you didn’t wear that on purpose.”
You scoff. “Excuse me?”
He lifts a brow, lazy. “The sweater. The whole off-duty art girl thing. You knew what you were doing.”
“I didn’t,” you protest, but your voice slips a bit, too defensive. “I just… liked the color.” Sukuna hums like he doesn’t believe you. His eyes stay exactly where they were—lingering, slow, blatantly appreciating. You glare at him. “You're an asshole.”
He grins. “True.” But then, softer. Less teasing. “You look cute.”
It lands differently. The words settle between you like something solid, something heavy. Not a joke. Not just banter. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of everything—how warm it is in the room, how quiet. The hum of the old radiator. The scent of whatever he uses in his laundry detergent—something clean and citrusy and a little intoxicating. You don’t respond. Your heart is thudding against your ribs, a little too loud, a little too fast. He watches you. Waits. Then, finally, you manage: “Stop being weird.” But your voice isn’t sharp anymore. It’s soft. Uncertain. He smirks, but his eyes stay serious. “You love it.”
You roll your eyes, trying to drag your gaze back to your notes, to anything other than the way his gaze is dragging over your skin like a physical touch. You pretend to read, pretend to write, but you feel it—the tension, thick as syrup in the air. He’s close. Closer than before. You can feel the heat of him next to you, the way his thigh shifts slightly, brushing yours. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s already watching you. His expression is unreadable—equal parts amusement and hunger. He’s studying you like he’s memorizing. Like he’s waiting for the exact right moment to pounce.
And then he moves. No warning. No smart remark. Just a slow lean forward, one hand braced near your thigh as he closes the distance—eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back again, like he’s giving you a chance to pull away.
You don’t.
And before you know it, his lips are melding against yours. The kiss is slow. Careful. Not tentative, but measured, like he’s savoring the first taste. His lips are soft, warm, coaxing yours open. His hand comes up, rough fingers brushing your jaw before settling lightly at the base of your neck, thumb against your pulse. You inhale sharply when his mouth deepens against yours, tongue sliding over your bottom lip, teasing, asking—and when you give in, he groans, low and satisfied in the back of his throat. The sound goes straight to your stomach. He tastes like cinnamon gum and spice, something dark and smoky underneath. His teeth scrape lightly against your lip and you gasp into him, fingers fisting in the hem of his shirt without even realizing. When he finally pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His breath brushes against your mouth. His eyes are lidded, lashes low, lips parted and slightly swollen. He looks fucking wrecked. And somehow still manages to smirk. “Still think I’m gross?”
You blink at him, dazed. “Yes.” He laughs, that soft velvet-laced one again. You don’t even hesitate this time. You kiss him again—harder, needier, something unspoken unraveling fast between you. Your fingers curl tighter into his shirt, pulling him closer, and he doesn't resist—in fact, he deepens it like he's been waiting for this, like every smartass comment and every prolonged look was just him biding time. His hand drifts, slow, from your jaw to your throat—not pressing, just resting, thumb stroking just under your jawline, grounding you. The contrast of his rough fingers against your softer skin sends heat spiraling straight down your spine. Not just that– The hand on your throat sends a wave of heat right between your legs. Like he’s showing you who’s in control.
He pulls away just slightly, breath ragged, forehead grazing yours. "You kiss like you’ve been thinking about this.” You giggle against his mouth. “What if I have?”
That makes him groan—low, deep in his chest—and then he’s kissing you again, more urgent this time, less slow-burn and more fuck, finally. His hand slides into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he tilts your mouth open wider, tongue sliding against yours with a filthy kind of rhythm. You shift instinctively into his space, knees brushing his thighs, your body angling toward his like gravity made the call for you. His hands trail from the length of your back to your ass, squeezing it in his large, calloused palms. It gets hazy, fast. The taste of him, the weight of his palm as it trails from your throat to the dip of your collarbone, fingers catching on the edge of your sweater. He breaks the kiss just long enough to look down—his hand still on you—and you see the shift in his expression the second he remembers your neckline. He hooks a finger into the v-line of the neckline, exposing the swells of your pretty tits to his hungry gaze.
“See,” he murmurs, voice rough now, barely-there smile curling the corners of his mouth. “You did wear this shit on purpose. Look at the way it just falls down so easily– ‘S like you wanted me to stare at your tits.” You breathe out a laugh—shaky. “You’re so full of yourself.” He ducks his head, mouth grazing your collarbone now, slow and deliberate, hands palming your breasts. “You’re not denying it, though.”
Your response gets swallowed by the way his lips brush the base of your neck, warm and soft, and then he bites—not hard, just enough to make your breath catch.
“Fuck—Sukuna—”
“Say that again,” he mutters, voice vibrating against your skin. “Say it like that.” You yank at his shirt in response, pulling him closer until he's practically between your legs, notebooks shoved aside and forgotten. He lets you, smiling against your neck, one hand situated on your breast, the other settling on your thigh now, fingers pressing just enough through the fabric of your leggings that it sends your heart into a tailspin.
“You’re—I don’t even like you like that,” you breathe, even as your hips shift slightly forward, even as your body clearly wants him, your heat pressed directly on the very evident bulge in his sweatpants. He drags his mouth back up to yours. “So stop kissing me.” You kiss him harder.
His hand slides up your thigh, slow but sure, fingers skating over your hip, his palm pressing warm through the fabric. You gasp into his mouth when his thumb brushes just below your waistband, teasing, testing. Still not rushing. Sukuna’s the kind of guy who knows exactly how to draw something out until it burns. His kiss slows again—like he’s dialing it back, testing your limits. “Tell me to stop,” he says, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. “If you want me to.” You shake your head before the words even leave his mouth.
“Don’t.” He exhales, almost like relief. “Good.”
Because now his fingers are slipping under your sweater, not even pretending to be shy, tracing the warm skin of your stomach, the skin above your waistband. When he feels the way your breath stutters, he pauses—lifts his head to look at you.
“You good?” His voice is soft. Different. You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. I’m good.” His lips twitch like he’s amused with how breathless you sound, but he doesn’t say anything cocky this time. He just kisses you again, slower now, more methodical, hands exploring like he’s cataloguing every inch of you. You’re vaguely aware that you're still in his room, that the door’s closed but the walls are thin, that you’re half-on, half-off his bed surrounded by a mess of notes and highlighters and open laptops. And none of that matters. Because the way he’s looking at you now—eyes dark, mouth kiss-swollen, hair a mess from your fingers—it’s not just heat. It’s hunger. Craving. Like he’s been waiting for this since the day he sat next to you in chem lab with that annoying smirk.
And now that he has you? He’s going to take his time. You're not sure when studying officially got left behind. Somewhere between the first kiss and the way his hands slid under your sweater, books became background noise. The project became irrelevant. Now, he’s laying you back on his bed—slowly, carefully, like he’s trying not to make you overthink it. The room is dim, golden light spilling in from the desk lamp. Your legs are tangled with his, your sweater halfway off your shoulder, and he’s hovering over you, kissing you like it’s something he needs to do, like he’s been trying not to all semester and finally gave up. You feel his hand slide under your sweater again, this time pushing it up your ribs, warm palm skating over your skin like he’s memorizing it. He doesn’t even rush—he just looks down at you like you’re something to unravel, slowly.
“You sure?” he says again, quieter this time. His thumb brushes just under your bra, like he’s offering you a way out, even now. You nod, heart stuttering. “Yeah.” That’s all it takes. Because after that, Sukuna moves like a switch flips. His hands are suddenly everywhere—sliding your sweater off completely, tossing it somewhere behind him, and then he’s kissing you again, this time lower, trailing his mouth down your neck, down the line of your collarbone, licking into the dip between your breasts like he’s been thinking about doing it forever.
His hand tugs off your bra roughly, making you squeak– you’re not sure if it’s from the surprise from having the material ripped off of you so roughly, or the fact his long fingers are pinching at your nipples. He takes one in his mouth, sucking and rolling the sensitive bud around, before doing the same to the other one. With each action, you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, to the point you’re half wishing he’d just take your leggings and panties off, and just get on with it.
“Fuck,” he mutters, half against your skin. “You’re—god, you’re driving me fucking crazy.” He pulls off your nipple with a resounding pop, eyes darkened by the sight of the sheen of his saliva on your breasts. You laugh, breathless. “You’re literally the one climbing on top of me right now.”
He looks up at you, hair falling in his face, mouth wet and swollen. “Yeah, because you look like this. Wearing that stupid little sweater. Coming to my room. Being all—” He cuts himself off with a groan. “You knew what you were doing. You expected me not to do all this?” He punctuates this with a light pinch to your nipple, making you squeal.
“I came here to study!”
“Yeah, and now you’re in my bed. About to get your little pussy wrecked until you can’t walk. Real tragic how that worked out.” You feel yourself heat up– like your entire body aflame at his vulgar words, mouth opening to retort something back at him. He kisses you again before you can reply, this time rougher—his hands slipping under the waistband of your leggings, tugging slow and deliberate. You lift your hips to help him, cheeks flushed as he pulls them down and off in one fluid motion, leaving you in just your underwear. His eyes darken.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re unreal. And wet. Fuck, I can practically see your pussy because of how wet you are.”
You reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. “Take this off. It's unfair I’m the only one half-naked.”
He grins—sharp, pleased—and yanks it over his head in one smooth move. Suddenly you’re staring at the body that you’ve been unconsciously (consciously) staring at everytime he wears something even slightly form fitted. Defined, lean muscle, broad chest, ink curling along his side. Do you even need to mention the pink smattering of hair below his navel? It makes your thighs clench uncomfortably, making your eyes darken. He catches your look and smirks. “Like what you see, huh?”
“Shut up and get back here.” And he does. He presses his body flush against yours, warm and solid, one hand braced beside your head, the other cupping your waist. You can feel how hard he is through his sweatpants now, the heat of it making your breath catch. His hand trails down, teasing the edge of your underwear. “Still good?” You nod, hips shifting toward him. “Sukuna, please.” He growls, soft and low in his throat, and hooks his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down. He kisses your neck as he does it, slow and hot, and you shudder. He gets them off and then leans back, just for a second, to look at you spread out in his bed, wet and inviting. His eyes are practically black now, jaw tight like he’s holding something back.
“Holy fuck,” he mutters. “You’re actually gonna kill me.” You tug at the waistband of his sweats. “Then die faster.” He laughs, breathless, and strips them off, boxers too. Holy fuck. It’s impressive. Thick and girthy, leaking from the pink tip. You try not to stare—try being the operative word—and he notices.
“Cute,” he says, climbing back over you. “You’ve been a nuisance to me all semester and now you’re blushing over my dick?”
“You’re literally about to be inside me. Give me a break.” That shuts him up real quick. He leans in, kisses you slow, hand sliding between your thighs. He teases you with his fingers first, dipping the long digits in and out of your wetness, making sure you’re ready, whispering things against your neck—“You’re so wet already,” and “Fuck, this tight for me?”—until you’re shaking, seeing stars just from two, thick fingers of his, clinging to his muscled arms. Once he’s deemed that you’re pleasantly even more wet than you were pre-orgasm, he strokes his shaft, the tip pink and angry as he stares with a half lidded gaze at the glistening area between your legs.
And then he’s there, lined up, pushing in slow. You gasp at the stretch, the pressure, your hands grabbing onto his biceps as he sinks into you inch by inch. “God,” he grits out, forehead pressed against yours. “You feel—fuck—you feel insane. Oh my– Shit, I’m never letting this pussy outta my sight.” You can’t speak. You just hold onto him, breathing through it, until he’s all the way in and stills. Gives you a second. Kisses you again. When you finally nod, his hips start to move—slow, deep strokes that make your whole body arch into him. It’s hot and messy and intense, but there’s something else in it too—something careful. He watches you like he wants to memorize every expression you make, every sound you let out.
It builds fast—frustration and release and months of tension finally cracking open. His name falls from your lips more than once, and he groans each time like it’s doing something to him.
“S-Sukuna—fuck—I’m—”
“I got you,” he mutters, kissing your shoulder. “I got you. Come on, baby. Make a mess on my dick. Yeah, mhm. Fuck.” And when you come, it hits like a wave—sharp and overwhelming, your whole body curling into him, his name leaving your mouth in breathy moans. He follows not long after, hips stuttering as he barely manages to pull out, his warm seed splattering on your stomach, head buried in your neck, cursing softly against your skin. He kisses you briefly, heading quickly to his bathroom to grab a warm washcloth to wipe your stomach clean, tossing the balled up cloth into the hamper in some corner of the room.
Afterward, there’s just heavy breathing and tangled limbs. His hand finds yours under the sheets, fingers interlacing. You’re the first to speak, voice still shaky. “That was–That was not studying.”
Sukuna laughs—hoarse, wrecked. “Yeah, no shit.” You glance at him. “So… do we pick the project back up tomorrow?” He rolls over, smirking at the ceiling. “Maybe if you let me come inside next time.” You throw a pillow at his face. He catches it without flinching. “Worth it.”
And you laugh, falling back into the sheets beside him, skin still buzzing, body still flushed. For once, everything’s quiet.
–
You stretch, groaning into the pillow, body aching in a way that’s half delicious and half criminal. Your thighs hurt. Your back hurts. Your soul might hurt a little. From across the room, you hear the sound of Sukuna's shower turning on. “No,” you croak, face still buried in the pillow. “I am not moving. I live here now. This is my bed.”
“You’re literally lying on my hoodie.”
“Then it’s mine now too.”
He snorts. “Get your ass up. We should shower before everyone in the frat wakes up and thinks I killed someone in here.” You peek out with one eye. “You can go first.”
“I wasn’t offering,” he says, walking out of the bathroom with just a towel slung low around his hips. Drops of water are still clinging to his chest, and the tattoos on his ribs look somehow worse in the daylight. In the best way. “Come on.” You blink at him. “You want to shower… together?”
He raises a brow. “Yeah?”
“No.” He squints. “Why not?”
“That’s intimate.”
He stares. “My dick was inside you last night.” You wave a hand. “That’s physical. This is emotional.” He laughs—actually laughs—and crosses the room in two strides. “You're such a weirdo.”
“I’m serious! Showering together is, like, emotionally naked. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s so vulnerable. That’s like… domestic. That’s, like, soft.”
He rolls his eyes, completely unfazed. “You’re such a freak.” Then, before you can protest further, he grabs you—still very naked, still very sore—and throws you over his shoulder like a caveman. His hand slaps across your ass lightly, snickering to himself.
“SUKUNA—”
“I’m not listening to you spiral about emotional nudity,” he says, totally calm, carrying you into the bathroom like you weigh nothing. “You moaned my name like a porn star last night. You can handle a shower.”
“I can’t walk!”
“Which is why I’m being a gentleman and carrying you.”
“You are the opposite of a gentleman.” He kicks the bathroom door shut behind him and sets you down on the edge of the counter. Steam curls around both of you, hot and fragrant—his shampoo smells stupidly good, which is somehow infuriating.
You stare at the water, then at him. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
Sukuna grins, dimples flashing. “Obviously.” You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips a little anyway. The second you step under the spray, your muscles sigh. Hot water hits your back, and you slump forward with a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a prayer. Sukuna slides in behind you, and his hands immediately land on your hips, holding you steady like he knew you were about to collapse.
“I told you I couldn’t stand,” you mumble, leaning back against his chest.
“I didn’t realize you meant it literally,” he says, smirking into the curve of your neck. “You should work on your stamina.”
“You should get bent.”
“Hm, I think I bent you. Very successfully, actually.”
You try to elbow him, but he catches your wrist easily, still grinning. “Want me to wash your hair?” You eye him warily. “What are you gonna do? Douse me in Axe body wash?”
“Hey. That’s slander.” He grabs a bottle from the ledge and starts working it into your scalp before you can protest. His hands are warm, gentle, and surprisingly careful. He’s quiet for a second, and so are you. Then he murmurs, “You smell good.”
“It’s your shampoo. That’s like self cest. You’re saying I only smell good because I smell like you?”
“Yeah, but now it’s on you. It’s different. Not self cest. You just… Shut up and lemme wash your hair.” You glance up, heart doing something stupid in your chest. “You’re being weird again.”
“Yeah?” He ducks down slightly, voice lower now, breath ghosting against your ear. “And what if I said I like being weird with you?” You freeze. Then you shove a palm into his chest. “Shut up. That’s so corny.” He laughs, but his grip on your waist doesn’t falter. You stay under the water a little longer, letting the heat and his hands and the way his chest feels against your back melt the rest of the tension out of you. When he reaches for the soap again, you catch his wrist. “Do not start anything. I physically can’t take another round.” Sukuna leans in, kisses the side of your jaw with a smirk. “Don’t worry, baby doll. I’ll be good.” He’s not. Safe to say you ended up begging for it too.
–
The hallway’s cold. Way colder than your dignity can handle when you’re limping barefoot behind a shirtless Sukuna in his frat house, wearing his hoodie and a pair of his shorts that might as well be pants. Your hair’s damp, your thighs are wrecked, and your pride? That’s somewhere on the floor of his room with your underwear.
“You didn’t have to break me in half,” you mutter under your breath, wincing with each step. Sukuna snorts, completely unbothered. “You seemed fine last night. And in the shower.”
“I was faking it.”
He glances over his shoulder, smug. “You were screaming.”
“Faking it loudly, then,” you snap. He just chuckles, steps into the kitchen like he’s not Satan incarnate. Toji’s already there—standing shirtless in front of the stove, flipping protein pancakes in a pan that looks like it’s seen war. He glances up the moment you hobble in behind Sukuna, eyes trailing from your flushed face to the unmistakable fact that you are wearing Sukuna’s hoodie and walking like you’ve been in a car crash.
Toji freezes. Then grins. Slow. Evil.
“Oh shit.”
You want to die. You want the linoleum floor to open up and swallow you whole. You press the sleeves of Sukuna’s hoodie over your face. “I knew I heard something last night,” Toji says, flipping a pancake like this is the best morning of his life. “Told Choso it wasn’t the pipes. That’s gotta be why he slept on the couch.”
“I hate this house,” you mumble. Sukuna yawns. “Shut the fuck up, Toji.” Toji just cackles. “She’s limping, bro. You broke her.” Your head snaps up. “Shut up! Don’t say it like that—”
“Toji,” Sukuna says again, voice dropping low now. “If you say one more thing, I’m banning you from ever speaking in the kitchen again.” Toji raises both hands, innocent. “Damn. Y’all are sensitive this morning.” Sukuna grabs a water bottle off the counter and throws it—nails Toji square in the chest. Water explodes. Toji wheezes laughing.
“I’m putting a ban on the entire house,” Sukuna mutters, turning toward the hallway. “Nobody comes out of their fucking rooms for the next twelve hours.” Toji wipes water off his chest with a paper towel. “That’s not how a frat works.”
“It is now.”
You, meanwhile, are dying silently in the corner of the kitchen, gripping the counter for dear life like Bambi on ice. Your legs genuinely might give out. You pull the hoodie lower and try to disappear into it. Toji eyes you, smirking. “You want a protein pancake, champ? You’ve earned it.”
“I swear to God—”
Sukuna slams a mug down on the counter. “TOJI.”
“Okay, okay! Damn. Sensitive and possessive.”
Sukuna grabs two mugs, fills them with coffee, then turns to you like nothing happened. “C’mere.” You shuffle over, still avoiding eye contact with the man who just witnessed your walk of shame, and accept the mug gratefully. Your fingers brush Sukuna’s as you take it, and he glances at you. That look again. The one that’s always a little cocky, a little smug. But softer now. Like he hasn’t quite recovered either. You sip the coffee to avoid saying something dumb.
Toji, of course, ruins the moment by smacking the spatula on the counter. “So when’s the wedding?” Sukuna chucks a pancake at him. And despite the embarrassment, despite the ache in your thighs and the fact that your ego might never recover… when Sukuna leans against the counter next to you, shoulder brushing yours, and murmurs, “Still think showering’s more intimate than sex?”—you don’t argue. You just bump his hip with yours and whisper, “Next time, you’re the one limping.” He barks out a laugh at that, looking down at you.
“You sound like you’re gonna peg me.”
“Keep embarrassing me like this and I might just peg you.”
–
It keeps happening. Somehow, even after you swore you weren’t gonna end up tangled with a smug frat boy who wears rings like armor and calls you “menace” every time you breathe wrong—here you are. The project is basically done, but that doesn’t change much. You still see each other constantly, like it’s built into your week now. Study sessions, late-night editing, grabbing food on the way back from the library. He still comes over unannounced and flops onto your bed like it’s his, still kicks his shoes off and demands snacks and calls you bossy for forcing him to fix his citations.
And okay, yeah. You keep hooking up. It’s not even subtle anymore. Sometimes he’ll press you into your mattress before your laptop’s even warmed up, muttering something like “five minutes” that always turns into an hour. You fall asleep tangled in his limbs more often than you’d like to admit, his hand wrapped around your waist like it belongs there. And it’s not just sex—it’s everything. The way he orders your coffee without asking. The way he instinctively tilts his head down when you talk so he hears every word. The way he looks at you, like he’s memorizing you. Toji and Choso have basically stopped pretending it’s casual. Every time you come over to the frat house, someone whistles or yells, “Yo, Sukuna’s girl’s here!”
You always roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm anyway. Sukuna usually throws a middle finger over his shoulder and drags you inside like he doesn’t care—but you’ve caught the smirk on his face more than once. But then. One Wednesday, you walk into class a couple minutes late. You’re digging for a pen in your bag, not paying attention, until you hear it—his laugh. You glance up. He’s already in your usual seat. But he’s not alone. There’s a girl next to him—cute, brunette, sparkly earrings. Laughing with her hand on his arm like they’re in the middle of a joke. And Sukuna? He’s laughing too. That low, easy laugh he uses when he’s genuinely amused. His whole body turned toward her. His eyes crinkled at the corners. Familiar.
Too familiar. It shouldn’t matter. He’s not your boyfriend. You never asked him to be. But something curdles in your stomach, this horrible bitter twist of heat and nausea. Because he’s never laughed like that with anyone else—not that you’ve seen. That was yours. You sit on the other side of the lecture hall. You don’t text him back that night. Or the next. You’re not cold. Just… distant. Muted. Detached. You don’t flirt. You don’t roll your eyes when he calls you names. You don’t even rise to the bait when he eats the last of your chips and says, “You snooze, you lose.” You just nod, distracted. Quiet. The first time he tries to pull you into his lap during a break, you shrug him off.
The third time it happens, he snaps. “The fuck is going on with you?” You glance up from your notebook, eyebrows raised. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit,” he says, jaw tense. “You’ve been acting weird all week.” You look at him flatly. “I’ve been busy.”
“With what? Avoiding me?” The words hang heavy in the air. He stares at you across the room, breathing hard, the project open on your laptop but completely forgotten. Your throat is tight.
“Forget it,” you mutter, pushing back your chair. He grabs your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to make you stop.
“Tell me what’s wrong.” You inhale, shaky. “I saw you. In class. With that girl.”
His expression shifts, confusion tightening into something sharper. “What girl?”
“The one you were laughing with,” you say, voice brittle. “It’s not a big deal. I just—forgot who you are, I guess. You can talk to whoever you want.” He stares at you. Like he doesn’t know whether to scream or laugh. “Are you serious right now?”
You rip your arm from his grip. “Yeah, actually.”
“That was my cousin, you idiot.” You freeze. “What?”
“My cousin. From Osaka. She was visiting campus and sat in for class,” he says, exasperated. “Jesus, you thought I was flirting?”
“You were laughing with her!”
“I laugh with you more than anyone! Does that mean I’m flirting with you too?”
“Yes!” you blurt, and then immediately regret it. His eyes narrow. “So you do see it.” You open your mouth. Close it. Your face burns. He steps forward, close enough to make your pulse jump. “You’re jealous.” You look away. “No, I’m—”
He cuts you off. “You are. And you know what? Good. ’Cause I’ve been going fucking insane pretending we’re just study buddies who coincidentally spend every second together and coincidentally fuck and coincidentally sleep in the same bed, but can’t call each other anything real.” You stare at him, breathless.
“I like you,” he says, low and hoarse. “I like you so much it’s driving me nuts. And if you don’t feel the same—fine. But don’t act like I haven’t been making it obvious.” You swallow hard. “You have a fucked-up way of showing it.”
He snorts. “You’re one to talk. Giving me the silent treatment because I laughed once?”
“You laughed like you do with me,” you whisper. “That’s what hurt.”
Something flickers in his expression—something soft and real. He cups your jaw.
“I only laugh like that with you,” he says, voice thick. “I only want to laugh like that with you.” Your heart stumbles. “Now shut up,” he mutters, “so I can kiss you.” You do. And he does—hard, hungry, like he’s been waiting for years. Hands are in your hair, yours are on his shoulders, and everything finally clicks into place. When you pull back, flushed and breathless, he grins. “Well. You’re my girlfriend now.” You blink. “That’s not romantic at all.” He kisses your cheek. “Didn’t say it was. But it’s the truth.” You shove his chest. “You suck.” He just grins harder, tugging you back in. “Not what you were saying last week. In fact, you were sucking it.” You groan. But you don’t argue. Because yeah—you’re his now. And he's yours. Officially.
–
Sukuna’s room is warmer than usual. The window’s cracked, the scent of pine air freshener battling the distinct smell of boy—clean laundry, leftover cologne, something vaguely woodsy. You’re cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by notebooks and crumpled printouts, while he’s sitting in his desk chair with one foot up on the edge, tapping away at the final slides of your presentation. Toji passed by the door earlier and shouted, “Yo, project couple!” before Sukuna flipped him off and slammed the door shut with his heel. You’re both halfway through your second coffees, the last dregs sloshing around your cups. The project’s done for real now—just tweaks now. Alignment stuff. Graph polish. The usual shit that seems small until it’s 2 a.m. and your brain starts melting.
“You typed ‘photochemistray,’” you murmur, leaning forward to peer at his screen. He doesn’t even look up. “No I didn’t.”
“Yes you did.”
“I don’t make typos.” You snort. “You make so many typos.”
“I make sexy typos.”
“‘Photochemistray’ sounds like a bootleg brand of nerd lingerie.” He finally glances over, one brow raised. “You say that like it’s not a market I could corner.”
You throw a pillow at him. He laughs, full and low and so familiar it warms your stomach. That sound’s become muscle memory at this point. Embedded into your damn soul. The moment settles. Quiet for a beat. His keyboard clacks, and you start flipping through your notes, eyes skimming blankly. Then, out of nowhere, your voice slips into the silence. “Y’know… we’ve technically talked before this semester.”
He glances up. “What?”
“Like, you and me. Before we got partnered.” He blinks. “When?” You hesitate. “That freshman welcome thing. In the orientation lecture hall. They made people from different majors introduce themselves. I stood up and said something about being interested in environmental science.” He frowns, clearly digging through his brain.
“And I stuttered,” you add, dryly. “And you—very loudly—mocked me from the back row.” There’s a beat. His face changes. Just slightly. Jaw tightening.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. You said something like, ‘Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.’”
He winces. “Shit.” You shrug, trying to brush it off. “I mean, whatever. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Yeah, it was,” he says immediately, looking at you now with that intense, unreadable stare. “I was an asshole. I didn’t even remember that was you.” You shrug again, but it feels a little thinner this time. “You weren’t wrong. I was stuttering.”
“Doesn’t fucking matter,” he says. “I was a piece of shit. I’m sorry.” The quiet that follows isn’t awkward—it’s just… charged. The way he says it, that gravel in his voice. The way he’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, rings glinting under the dim desk lamp. It does something to you.
“Didn’t think the Ryomen Sukuna apologized,” you say lightly. He lifts a brow. “Only when I mean it.” You nod slowly. Then: “Guess I’m honored.” His eyes narrow—playfully, but there’s heat there now. “You should be.” Your heart skips. You stretch your legs out, feigning boredom. But the hem of your shorts rides up, and his gaze flickers down—lingers. You see the change in his posture. The way his foot drops from the desk, his chair creaking as he shifts.
“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he says, voice lower now. “But you’ve been sitting there looking like that for the past hour and it’s getting hard to think.” You blink. “Like what?”
He tilts his head, mouth twitching. “All pretty and smug. Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to me.” You raise a brow. “I’m literally in a hoodie and gym shorts.”
“And yet,” he says, slowly standing. “Here I am. In physical pain.”
You scoff. “Maybe focus on the final slide instead of your dick.”
“Maybe stop sitting there looking like a fucking sin,” he mutters, now crossing the space between you. You don’t move. You can’t. Your breath is caught somewhere in your chest as he stops right in front of the bed, towering over you, eyes hooded. “Can I?” he asks, voice quieter. Rougher. You nod. The shift is immediate. His hands slide up your thighs, slow and deliberate, as he kneels onto the bed, caging you in. His mouth brushes the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Didn’t like that I hurt your feelings.”
You swallow. “You didn’t. Not really.”
“I did,” he murmurs, kissing the side of your neck. “And now I’m gonna make it up to you.” Your breath stutters. He pulls back just enough to look at you—his thumb grazing your jaw, eyes dark and locked on yours. “You good?” he asks, tone shifting just slightly—checking in. You nod. “Yeah.”
“Say it.”
“I’m good.”
That’s all it takes. His mouth crashes into yours, all heat and teeth and months of tension bleeding out between your lips. His hand finds your waist, gripping you like he’s been starving. You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. The laptop slides off the bed with a thunk, forgotten. You pull him down with you, and he goes easily, one knee slipping between your thighs, his weight bracing over you. He kisses like he studies—focused, intense, overwhelming. His tongue licks into your mouth and your brain just short-circuits. He looks at you for a long second. Then, suddenly, grabs your waist and pulls you into his lap.
“Also,” he murmurs, breath hot against your neck, “for the record, if I’d known the hot chem girl from freshman year would end up riding me like five times a week, I would’ve introduced myself sooner. And not have been such an asshole to you.” You slap his chest. “That’s your way of apologizing?”
“Yeah, but you like it.” You kiss him to shut him up, and somehow, that turns into another hour of not reviewing the presentation.
–
it’s the final day, and your name’s being called. You head to the front of the class with your laptop while Sukuna follows, looking every bit the cocky, casually dressed bastard he’s always been—except now he’s your cocky, casually dressed bastard. He nods at the front row like he’s about to win a Grammy, and you nudge his ribs. A significant portion of the project requires an overview accompanied with an oral presentation, so here you are.
“Behave.”
“I’m always well-behaved,” he mutters, grabbing the clicker. You start the intro. He takes over halfway through. You can’t help but grin a little—because he’s good. Actually good. Clear, confident, no stuttering, and he even makes Professor Shimizu laugh with a sarcastic quip about the data trend in one of the chemical reactions. And then, without thinking, he leans down and kisses your cheek. Like it’s second nature. The room doesn’t even react that much—probably because no one’s shocked anymore—but when the class ends and people start packing up, Professor Shimizu catches your arm. She grins. “Isn’t that the same boy you were begging me not to pair you with at the start of the semester?”
Your face burns. “We had…a rocky beginning.”
“Mmm,” she says, amused. “Well, you turned it around. Solid work. And the chemistry was palpable.” You groan. “Please don’t say chemistry.” But she’s already walking away, still smiling to herself. After class, Sukuna drives you back to your dorm like always. One hand on the wheel, one resting over your thigh like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. Halfway through the drive, he queues something on his phone. And the soft strum of Faye Webster's She Won’t Go Away fills the car. You whip your head toward him. “No fucking way.”
He doesn’t look at you. “Don’t start.”
“You said this was depression music for people who get dumped in the rain.” He clicks his tongue.
“Yeah, well. Maybe I like that kinda concept now.” You cover your mouth with a gasp. “You’re evolving.”
“I’m gonna shove you out of this moving car.”
You’re already singing by the chorus, and even though he groans, you catch him mouthing the words beside you. He tries to act like he’s just being ironic, but his fingers tap the rhythm on your leg, and he keeps the song on repeat the whole ride. By the time he pulls up to your dorm, the sun’s setting. You lean in, eyes soft, smile lazy. “That was kinda romantic,” you murmur.
He scoffs. “Don’t get used to it.” You kiss him anyway. And when you pull back, he’s watching you with that grin. The one that’s half smug, half stupidly, hopelessly fond. “You know,” he says, “if you weren’t so annoying, I might’ve asked you to be my girlfriend sooner.” You blink. “That was the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Like, worse when we had that little argument and you just told me that I was your girlfriend now.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “You didn’t fall for me because I’m romantic.”
You narrow your eyes. “Why did I fall for you, actually?”
He leans in close. “Probably the dick.” You shove him away, laughing. “God, you’re disgusting.”
“And yet,” he says, as you open the car door, “you’re still letting me hit. Also, this song, I actually really like it–”
You squint. “Are you saying this to get laid?”
“No,” he mutters. “But if it works, I won’t complain.” You slam the door in his face, but you’re grinning. And he’s still smiling when you look back through the window.
a/n: i had way too much fun writing this lollll now i need sukuna!!!
also, honourable tag for @writesvani bc of whom i actually had the motivation of writing this because she sent the most beautiful words of support 2 me after whisper of the heart. thank u so much and ily immensely <3
