Rina. 28. Fanfic Connoisseur & Reviewer. Part time writer. Here for all your fanfiction needs. 18+. Ask and you'll probably recieve. -so much fanfiction, so little time-
Just kidding. Hi! If you're reading this then please leave me a comment. I'm still alive, and I'm still reading.
I'm making this post for three reasons:
I want you guys to drop me some recs (preferably x reader with any 2D man you think is cute, I'm a whore for 2D men, so I'm not too picky) whether it's a one shot, a multi-chap, etc. I need new things to read.
I kinda want to get back into writing, I just stay so busy with work (boring ass customer service that STRESSES me out) but I do have a few WIPs, but I wanted to get some ideas from you guys on what you might wanna see.
I miss talking to my tumblr peeps. drop me a comment or a message or an ask or SOMETHING.
(bonus) I have been reading a lot though, I typically read on AO3 but I also read here, so send me those recs, but do you guys wants a list??? like a rec list of what I read recently? I could drop that.
ANYWAYS, if you read this whole post, thanks, I appreciate you.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗸 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲 ! | okay first off, WHY is this SO FUCKIN EMOTIONAL for no absolute reason. damn. consider this a 1000 follower special! likes & reblogs are appreciated! 𖹭
[𝜗ৎ] 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 : 2.9𝗄
𝓜𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏!
my husband hates me.
the thought settles deep in your chest like a stone, familiar and heavy, as you lie on the silk sheets of the massive bed.
your fingers trace the embroidered patterns on your robe—some floral design you can't see but can feel beneath your fingertips. the fabric is soft, expensive. everything here is expensive. everything here screams luxury and power and wealth.
but none of it screams love.
you hear nothing from his side of the bed.
the man is so impossibly quiet, it makes your skin prickle with unease. you've been here for three months now. three months as the wife of ryomen sukuna, the king of curses, the most feared ruler in all the lands. and in those three months, he has barely spoken a word to you.
at first, you thought it was a game.
some twisted test of patience. you were clever enough to know that political marriages were rarely about love. you'd been prepared for indifference, for coldness, for a husband who saw you as nothing more than a strategic alliance.
but this? this silent treatment that stretches night after night, this deliberate distance he keeps?
it cuts deeper than you expected.
your hand moves from your robe to your stomach, pressing against the plane of your belly. you're small. you know this. delicate in a way that makes people underestimate you. and blind. gods, the blindness. the one thing that has sent every single suitor running in the opposite direction.
princes would see your face first—the one they called ethereal, otherworldly, beautiful in a way that seemed impossible—and they'd fall to their knees.
they'd whisper sweet words, promises of devotion, declarations of love at first sight. and then you'd speak, and they'd realize your eyes didn't track their movements, didn't meet their gaze. and slowly, painfully, you'd listen to them pull away. hear the hesitation creep into their voices. feel the distance grow until they were gone.
you were used to it.
but sukuna? sukuna had looked at you once, for a single moment, and said yes. the entire empire had been shocked. the king of curses, the ruthless murderer, the emperor who had never shown interest in any woman, accepting a blind bride from a neighboring kingdom? it was scandalous. impossible.
and you'd felt hope.
you hate yourself for that hope now.
because three months of silence have taught you the truth. he doesn't want you. he tolerates you. and honestly? you'd almost prefer cruelty. at least cruelty would be a reaction. at least cruelty would mean he saw you as something worth acknowledging.
but this nothingness? this endless, suffocating nothingness?
it makes you feel like you've already disappeared.
the servants guide you through your days with practiced efficiency. they dress you, feed you, lead you through the palace halls. you've memorized the layout of your chambers, the path to the gardens, the number of steps from your room to the dining hall. you've learned to navigate this world without sight, just as you've always done.
but you can't navigate him.
you don't know where he sits at meals. you don't know if he watches you. you don't know if he even notices when you're in the same room. his presence is a void—a massive, oppressive absence of warmth that you can feel but never touch.
tonight was bad.
you'd been led to the gardens by a new servant, someone who didn't know your habits. she'd taken you left instead of right, and you'd walked straight into a hedge, thorns scratching your calves before she'd yanked you back with a flurry of apologies.
then you'd almost fallen down a staircase—the grand staircase with its uneven steps—your foot catching on the edge, your heart lurching into your throat as you'd pitched forward. a guard caught you just in time.
and the whispers.
you can't see their faces, but you can hear their voices. the concubines. the noblewomen. the servants who think you can't hear them.
"the blind empress."
"does he even notice her?"
"i heard he hasn't touched her once."
"what a waste of a pretty face."
"she must be so lonely."
"she must be so pathetic."
you'd smiled through all of it. kept your head high, your shoulders back, your voice steady. you learned long ago that showing weakness only invites more cruelty. so you'd walked through the halls with your practiced grace, your cane tapping against the marble floors, your face serene.
but inside, you were crumbling.
and now, lying in this massive bed, with your hair spread across a silk pillow and the scent of incense curling through the air, you can feel him beside you. he's so close. you know he's sitting up, his back probably against the headboard, his presence a heavy weight in the darkness.
does he ever sleep?
you've never heard him snore. never heard him shift in his sleep. he's so still, so silent, you sometimes wonder if he's even real.
a long, long time passes. the candles burn down. the incense fades. the night wraps around you like a shroud.
and you can't take it anymore.
"ryomen?"
your voice comes out soft, barely above a whisper. you hate how small you sound. how vulnerable. you'd wanted to sound strong, confident, demanding. instead, you sound like a child calling out in the dark.
silence.
you wait. count your heartbeats. one. two. three. four. five.
just when you're certain he's ignoring you, just when the familiar ache of rejection settles into your chest, a voice cuts through the darkness.
"what."
it's gruff. low. a single word that rumbles through the air like distant thunder. and it's the most he's said to you in days.
you swallow. your throat is dry. your fingers twist in the sheets.
"i...i want to ask you something."
more silence. you can feel him staring at you. you can't see it, but you can feel it—the weight of his gaze, heavy and unreadable.
"ask."
you take a shaky breath. this is it. this is the moment you've been building toward for three months. the question that's been eating you alive, consuming you from the inside out.
"do you hate me?"
the words hang in the air between you. they sound so small. so pathetic. you wish you could take them back, but it's too late. they're out there now, exposed and raw.
"hate you?" his voice is strange. almost...confused?
"because of...because i'm...y'know, blind." the words taste like ash in your mouth. "i know it's...i know i'm not what you expected. i know i'm not the best option. i know i'm—"
"stop."
the word is sharp, and you flinch. your breath catches in your throat. you brace yourself for anger, for cruelty, for him to finally confirm what you've suspected all along.
but instead of harsh words, you feel movement. the bed shifts. his weight moves closer.
and then, without warning, a hand wraps around your waist and pulls.
you let out a frightened shriek as you're yanked from your position, your body colliding with something solid and warm. your hands fly out, grasping at fabric, at skin, at anything. you're on his lap, straddling his thighs, your chest pressed against his. he's so big—so impossibly large—that you feel like a doll in his arms.
"ryomen!" your voice is high, panicked. "what—"
"quiet."
his hand settles on your thigh. it's huge. calloused. rough in a way that sends shivers down your spine. but the touch is gentle. impossibly gentle. he strokes your thigh once, twice, a soothing motion that slowly calms your racing heart.
"you really think," he says slowly, his voice rumbling against your chest, "that i hate you?"
you can't speak. your throat is too tight. you settle for shaking your head against his chest, even though it's a lie.
a low sound escapes him—not quite a growl, not quite a laugh. his hand slides from your thigh to your chin, tilting your face up. his thumb brushes across your lower lip, feather-light.
"open your eyes."
the command catches you off guard. "what?"
"your eyes. open them."
you blink, confused. your eyes are already open. you can't see anything, but they're open. you tell him as much.
"no." his voice is strange. softer. "i mean...look at me."
"i can't see you."
"i know." his thumb traces your jawline. "but i can see you. and i want to see your eyes. please."
please.
the word catches you off guard. the king of curses, saying please? to you?
you don't move. don't breathe. just let him hold your face in his massive hand, his touch devastatingly tender.
"i don't hate you," he says, and his voice cracks on the words. "gods, woman. i could never hate you."
your heart stutters. "then why—"
"because i'm fuckin' terrified."
you blink. "what?"
"do you know what i am?" his hand slides from your face to your hair, fingers threading through the strands. "i'm a killer. i've been killing for centuries. my hands are stained with blood i'll never wash clean. i'm rough, and violent, and i don't know how to be gentle."
"but—"
"but when i saw you..." he trails off. his fingers tighten in your hair, just barely. "when i saw you, i couldn't breathe. you were so beautiful. so small. so... perfect. and i thought, 'she's too good f'me.' , 'i'll break her.' , 'i'll hurt her.'"
his voice drops to a whisper.
"so i stayed away. because every time i look at you, i want to touch you. and every time i touch you, i'm afraid i'll destroy you."
tears prick at your eyes. you don't understand. you can't understand. this entire time, you thought he hated you. you thought he found you repulsive, broken, worthless.
but he was...
...afraid?
"you don't hate me?" you whisper.
"no." his forehead presses against yours. "i love you. i've loved you since the moment i saw you."
a sob escapes your throat. it's ugly and raw and you can't stop it.
"but you never—you never talked to me—"
"because i didn't trust myself." his other hand comes up to cup your cheek. "because i knew if i started, i wouldn't be able to stop."
"then don't stop."
the words leave your mouth before you can think. they hang in the air, bold and desperate.
"don't stop," you repeat. "please. i don't want you to stop."
sukuna goes still. so still that you wonder if he's stopped breathing.
"you don't know what you're asking."
"i do." you reach up, your fingers finding his face. you trace the planes of his cheeks, the sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his lips. "you're my husband. i want you. all of you."
"i'll hurt you."
"i don't care."
"i'll break you."
"i don't care."
his breath hitches. and then, finally, finally, his lips crash against yours.
the kiss is desperate. hungry. it tastes like three months of longing, of confusion, of aching loneliness. his hand fists in your hair, pulling you closer, and you gasp against his mouth. his tongue slides against your lower lip, asking for entry, and you give it willingly.
he tastes like sake and power and something darker. something that makes your toes curl and your heart race.
he pulls back, breathless.
"tell me to stop, and i will."
"don't," you say immediately. "don't stop."
he groans. his hands slide down your back, gripping your hips, and he lays you down on the bed. you fall against the silk sheets, your hair spreading around you like a halo. you can't see him, but you can feel him—his weight on the bed, his heat surrounding you, his breath ghosting across your skin.
"m'gonna show you," he says, his voice low and rough. "m'gonna kiss every inch of your body. gonna taste you until you scream my name. i want to make you feel so good that you forget every single doubt you've ever had about yourself."
your breath catches. "ryomen—"
"let me." his lips brush against your neck. "let me show you how much i love you."
you nod, unable to speak.
his hands find the tie of your robe. he undoes it slowly, reverently, like he's unwrapping a gift he's been waiting centuries to open. the fabric falls away, cool air hitting your skin, and you shiver.
"beautiful," he breathes. "so fucking beautiful."
you feel his lips on your collarbone. soft. worshipful. he kisses down your chest, his tongue tracing a path between your breasts. his hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing across your nipples, and you gasp.
"sensitive," he murmurs. "good. i'll remember that."
he takes one nipple into his mouth. his tongue circles the peak, slow and deliberate, and you arch into him with a desperate moan. he laves at you, sucking gently, nipping with his teeth until you're writhing beneath him.
"more," you gasp. "please—"
"patience." his voice is a dark promise. "i haven't even started with ya' yet."
he switches to the other breast, giving it the same attention. his hand slides down your stomach, fingers tracing patterns on your skin, until he reaches the apex of your thighs. you're already wet—embarrassingly wet—and he lets out a low growl when he feels it.
"fuck," he mutters against your skin. "you're soaked. f'me?"
"yes," you whimper. "only you."
he groans. his fingers slide through your folds, collecting your wetness, and you buck into his touch.
"tell me what you want."
"i want—" you gasp as his thumb circles your clit. "m'want your mouth."
his laugh is dark and breathless. "demanding little thing, aren't ya'?"
"please," you beg. "ryo, please—"
"shh." he kisses your stomach. "i'll give ya' what y'want."
he moves down your body, his lips leaving a trail of fire. he kisses your hips, your thighs, the inside of your knees. by the time he reaches your core, you're trembling, desperate, aching.
and then his tongue touches you.
you cry out, your hands flying to his hair. he laps at you like a man starved, his tongue sliding through your folds, circling your clit, dipping inside you. he moans against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body.
"taste s'good," he mutters against your skin. "could eat ya' forever."
he sucks your clit into his mouth, and you scream. your hips buck against his face, but he holds you down, his massive hands gripping your thighs. he alternates between sucking and licking, building a rhythm that has you climbing higher and higher.
"that's it," he praises. "let go f'me...lemme taste ya'."
his fingers find your entrance, sliding inside you without warning. two fingers, thick and long, stretching you. he curls them, hitting a spot that makes you see stars, and you shatter.
you come with a scream of his name, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash through you. he doesn't stop. he laps at you through your orgasm, drawing it out until you're sobbing from the intensity.
when you finally come down, he crawls up your body, his lips finding yours. you taste yourself on his tongue, and it's the most intimate thing you've ever experienced.
"m-more," you whisper. "m'want more."
his eyes—you can feel them—search your face.
"are you sure? we can stop. we can—"
"i'm sure." you reach for him, your fingers finding his chest. "i want you...please."
he hesitates. you feel the tension in his muscles, the restraint he's barely holding onto.
"m'bigger than ya'," he says, matter of factly. "a lot bigger. and i have...i have two dicks, woman. i don't know if—"
"i don't care." you pull him closer. "i trust you."
he groans, pressing his forehead against yours.
"if it hurts too much, tell me. and i'll stop."
"okay."
"promise me."
"i promise."
he shifts above you, and you feel something heavy and thick press against your thigh. and then another. two cocks. the thought should terrify you, but instead, it sends a thrill through your body.
he aligns himself with your entrance, and you feel the tip pressing against you. he's huge—so much bigger than his fingers—and you wonder if you can actually take him.
"relax f'me," he murmurs. "breathe."
you inhale deeply, and he pushes in.
just the tip, and you gasp. he's stretching you in a way that's almost unbearable. it hurts. there's a burning sensation, a pressure that's too much and not enough.
"shh," he soothes. "you're doing s'well. so good f'me."
he pushes deeper, inch by agonizing inch. you feel your body struggling to accommodate him, your walls clenching around his length. and then—
a sharp pain.
fuck...you forgot.
you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders. he stops immediately.
"did i hurt ya'?"
you can't answer. the pain is fading, replaced by a strange fullness. you feel something wet trickle down your thigh. warm. sticky.
blood.
his eyes slowly flicker down, and you can hear his breath stop. he's tense. too tense.
"fuck," he hisses. "you're—you're a fuckin' virgin?"
you nod weakly, biting your lip. your heart is pounding fast. loud. "is that...bad?"
"no." his voice is strained. "no, it's not bad. i just—fuck—i didn't know. i would have been more careful, woman."
"you are being careful," you whisper, fingers pressing into his shoulders "keep going."
"you're fuckin' bleeding."
"i don't care. please. i want to feel you." you sniffle. god, the pleasure is making you bold. too fucking bold.
he lets out a shaky breath. "you're going to kill me."
but he pushes deeper, slower this time. gentler. his lips find yours, kissing you softly as he sinks into you. the pain fades, replaced by a deep, aching fullness that makes you moan.
when he's fully sheathed, he stops. lets you adjust. his forehead presses against yours, his breath ragged.
"y'feel incredible," he breathes. "so tight. so...fuck...perfect."
"move," you beg. "please."
he pulls out slowly, then pushes back in. the friction is delicious, the stretch exquisite. he sets a rhythm—slow, deep, deliberate—each thrust hitting a spot that makes you see stars.
"ryomen," you gasp. "r-ryo—"
"i know," he murmurs. "i know, doll. feels s'good, doesn't it?"
"yes—yes—"
his hand slides down your stomach, pressing against the slight bulge where he's buried inside you. the feeling makes you moan.
"look at that," he says, awe in his voice. "you can feel me, can't ya'? right here."
he presses down, and you feel it—the outline of him inside you. it's obscene. it's incredible.
"more," you gasp. "harder—"
"y'sure?"
"yes—please—"
he obliges. his pace quickens, his thrusts becoming more urgent. the bed creaks beneath you, the sound mixing with your moans and his grunts.
"gonna come," he warns. "where do you want it?"
"inside," you gasp. "please—i want to feel you—"
he groans, his hips slamming into yours. and then he's coming, hot and thick, filling you so completely. you feel it—his release pouring into you, painting your walls, claiming you from the inside. his cum is already trickling down your thigh, oozing out of your cunt.
at the same time, he's stroking his other cock. you feel the wet spurts hit your stomach, warm and sticky.
he collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you. his face buries in your neck, and you feel his breath, ragged and uneven.
"i love you," he whispers, gruff. it's funny. you've always thought the word love doesn't exist in his vocabulary. but here he is, saying it over and over again. "i love you so much it terrifies me."
you wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer.
"i love you too."
a long moment passes. then another. and then—
"we're going to do that again."
you laugh, breathless.
"right now?"
"after i clean you up." he kisses your neck. "and then again. and again. and again. until ya' can't walk."
"promise?"
he pulls back, and even though you can't see him, you know he's smirking.
"promise."
you're already half asleep when he pulls you against his chest, his arms wrapped around you like he's afraid you'll disappear. his lips press against your hair, your forehead, your eyelids.
"my wife," he murmurs. "my perfect, beautiful wife."
you sat cross-legged on the weight bench, sipping water from his branded shaker bottle, trying not to drool over the way his lats flared with every rep. “you’re insane. how do you even walk with arms that big? don’t you tip over?”
he grinned, all sharp teeth and arrogance, racking the barbell with a deafening clang that rattled the protein tubs. “genetics, baby. and hard work.” he flexed both biceps, peaks popping like softballs under inked skin. veins snaked down his forearms. “speaking of… c’mere.”
you raised an eyebrow, setting the shaker down. “what? i’m not spotting you. last time i almost got crushed.”
“nah, i got a better idea.” he patted his broad shoulders, traps thick as rope cables. “lay across my back. i’ll squat you.”
you choked on air. “what? no. i’m not a fucking dumbbell. or a barbell. or whatever.”
“c’monnn.” he didn’t wait for protests. in one fluid motion, he scooped you up like you were filled with helium, muscles flexing effortlessly as he positioned you like a human barbell—your stomach draped across his traps, arms and legs dangling over his shoulders and massive chest. your face hovered inches from his, his breath hot and minty against your cheek, cedarwood body wash mixing with clean sweat. “see? light work.”
“sukuna— put me down!—” you squirmed, cheeks burning hotter than his sauna sessions. his skin was slick and warm, shifting powerfully under you like living machinery.
it was embarrassingly hot. the mirror across from you reflected the absurdity: you splayed across his back like a koala, his delts bulging on either side of your torso. “this is dangerous. what if i fall? you’ll impale me on a dumbbell or something.”
“don't be stupid, woman.” he gripped your thighs firmly to steady you, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your knees, calluses rough from years of gripping bars. smirking up at your flushed face, eyes dark with mischief. “i’ve deadlifted way heavier . plus…” he flexed his core experimentally, making you bounce. “feels good right here.”
he dipped into the first squat, thighs exploding with power, quads sweeping out like fucking tree trunks. you yelped, clutching his tank, fingers digging into the sweat-damp fabric over his pecs. “sukuna! this is not safe!”
“one,” he grunted, rising smooth as silk, glutes firing. “relax, i've got you.”
he controlled power r through him, the way his entire body flexed beneath you—traps bulging against your ribs, shoulders like warm steel under your hands, his heartbeat thundering steadily against your chest. by rep three, your protests melted into reluctant giggles, head bumping lightly against his traps with each dip.
“four… five…” he powered through, breath steady, not even winded. veins popped along his neck, sweat trickling down his spine to pool at the small of your back. “fuck yeah. you feel amazing, even better than the chains.”
“you’re so annoying,” you muttered, but you were smiling now, fingers tracing the deep v of his back muscles, feeling them shift and coil. the mirror showed his form perfect—knees tracking toes, chest up, you perfectly balanced. “don’t drop me!!”
“wouldn't even dream of it.” rep ten, smooth as the first. he straightened with a satisfied exhale, then—showing off—did a little hop, making you squeal and cling tighter.
finally, he reached back, gripping your waist, and spun you down to your feet like you weighed nothing, caging you against the fogged-up mirror with hands on either side of your head. his chest heaved just slightly, close enough you could count the droplets of sweat rolling down his sternum.
“see? told you.” his grin was predatory now, eyes raking over your flushed face, the way your thighs pressed together. “didn't even break a sweat.”
you were breathless, pulse hammering between your legs. “you pervert. you just wanted to feel me up. this whole thing was a ploy.”
“guilty.” he leaned closer, voice dropping to that gravelly rumble. “but admit it—you liked being my little gym toy. squirming on my back like that? you got me half-hard mid-set.”
you shoved his chest (it didn’t budge him an inch, solid as oak). “maybe i did enjoy it. can i help for the next set?”
his eyes lit up like christmas, fangs flashing. “fuck yes. get back up here. we’re doing lunges next. then maybe some calf raises with that ass right over my—”
content: the notorious fuckboy suddenly stopped sleeping around and nobody knows why. its totally not because he’s been secretly running around with someone that’s almost a decade older and is embarrassed to be seen with him in public || MDNI, fem!reader, age gap (gojo’s 20-21 readers late 20s), smut, porn w/ plot, fuck buddies, secret relationship(?), gojo plays rugby 🫦, readers lw so embarrassed to be seen with him LMAO, date crashing, he also calls her drunk to tell her he misses her, he's an unhinged little shit
notes: hiiii im so sorry to the ones that asked to be tagged, ive been swamped with schoolwork and im exhausted 😭 11.9k words today, enjoy the read 🙂↕️❤️
Satoru has lived his life quite simply these past few months— just school, training, and games.
Everyone’s gotten on his case about it— mainly just questioning him, but there are moments like yesterday, when he got accused of going through a crisis of some sort over his sexuality. Or last month, when the entire frathouse got together in the living room and tried to have some intervention, thinking he had depression or shit.
He doesn't. He’s also not very worried about his sexuality.
It’s crazy because he really hasn’t changed that much. He just hasn’t brought anyone over. Or gone out on dates. Or made out with anyone at parties. Anything related to girls, he hasn’t taken much part in.
But that’s it! That’s all!
He still goes to parties, still has good grades, still goes to practice, and still wins games. He’s just as present— he’s just not fucking anybody, and now everyone thinks he’s dying because of it.
Assholes.
He’s fucked half the school, for all they knew, he could’ve just been giving his dick a break! He wasn’t— but he could be, and that wouldn’t be anybody else's business but his own. He’s a grown man, despite many individuals begging to differ.
Whatever, fuck them.
Funny thing about it all is nobody seems to have noticed that he’s out of the house at certain hours throughout the week. Consistently. So really, it’s on them for not trying hard enough to find answers to their invasive little questions.
Hm. Actually, no. On the off chance that they do ask what he’s up to on a night like tonight, he’ll just lie, say he’s at the gym or something. He’s not exactly allowed to tell, which is fine; he’s more than willing to keep a little secret.
That little secret was tucked away in a nice apartment that had a view of the entire city. A tranquil little place when he’s not around, he’s pretty sure— just not when he’s around.
The bed’s steadily rocking underneath the uneven weight Satoru creates. Relentless smacking— skin to skin, hips to ass, the dirty little squelch that comes with it.
There’s a view, but it’s not the city.
“Arch that back some more— yeaahhh, just like that.”
He pounds into you, balls hitting heavy against your clit as he pulls you back to meet each thrust. Moans spill from your lips, taking every single inch he drills into you. The stretch is insane as he works his heavy cock in and out of you like it’s nothing.
If there’s one thing about him, it’s that he can fuck. He can go on for hours, put you in any position, have you begging and crying, dwindle you down to nothing but a babbling mess from how many orgasms he can work out of you.
He wears you out.
Yet still, at the end of every night—
“Kay’. We’re done here, you can leave now.”
You are so fucking mean.
The first time Satoru heard those words come out of your mouth, he was distraught. How dare you throw him out after the backshots he had given you?! He made you cum so hard you cried! Then you just throw him out of your apartment like some useless whore– like he was nothing but a fucking slut! He had more to offer than just his dick, he’ll have you know.
Now he’s a little less emotional and more…
“You sure? I could stay longer and help you with chores… or something.”
You look around your room, which is spotless aside from his t-shirt and jeans scattered on the floor. “Sure. Why don’t you start by picking up your clothes, putting them on, and then getting out?”
“Oh, come on. Seriously?” he throws his head back and groans rather childishly. “That’s a little rude, no?”
“So was the way you were talking to your little girlfriend on the phone earlier,” you hop off the bed and throw on a big t-shirt that said Modelo on it.
Satoru gets one final look at your ass as you do so and finds himself getting oddly jealous, wondering if the shirt was actually yours or if it belonged to an ex. He ends up telling himself it’s yours, ignoring that you’ve told him how much you hated beer in the past. Delusional? Perhaps, but he’d rather not hurt his own feelings right now.
“Carmen’s not my girlfriend,” he huffs out a laugh as he tries to explain, “I don’t even know why she called me. We haven’t fucked in months.”
He also tried to tell you that he hasn’t slept with anyone since he started sleeping with you, but you didn’t seem to care much about either. The entire time, you were just throwing his clothes at him while he absentmindedly got dressed. He continues to yap away once he’s up and fully dressed, so you grab him by the wrist and start walking towards the door.
“And you wouldn’t believe all the shit the guys have given me for turning girls down. One of them started calling me Celibate Satoru, can you believe that?”
“I sure can.” You open the door, walk around him, and start pushing him out.
“They don’t even know— assholes, they’d take it all back so fast if they saw you,” he huffs out a laugh, trying to cope with the fact that he’s not allowed to tell anybody about you two.
You laugh with him. “You better hope they don’t, ‘cause if they do–”
“You’ll bite my dick off– yeah, yeah. I know.” You never said you’d bite his dick off. Satoru turns around when he’s fully out of the door to reveal the dopey grin on his face. “So, same time next week?”
“Yup! Bye Gojo.”
He scoffs. “I thought I told you to call me Sa–”
He didn’t get to finish that sentence. You shut the door in his face.
Gojo was a nice guy… at least to you, he was. You’re sure a lot of others would say the complete opposite, judging by the way he snapped at the girl earlier for calling him and telling her to lose his number. You felt sorry for her and also felt thankful that you didn’t have to deal with a guy like him when you were 21.
You tried not to reflect too much, it’d just end with you being disappointed in yourself for even letting him into your apartment in the first place. It’s all for fun, but still, you should know better.
Satoru’s a piece of work. Comes from a family swimming in money and has never been told no in his life. He’s impulsive. Very hedonistic, very immature— some people grow out of it, but you have a feeling he’ll never change since he’s never had to work hard for anything in his life.
He is the last person you’d ever want to date, and for someone who usually dated older men— preferably men like his rich father— fucking a frat boy was just embarrassing on your part.
It’s too bad he’s genuinely one of the best fucks of your life— add in the dick piercing, the stamina that came with being a rugby player, and the fact that he spends every moment with you wanting to please you, and he was hard to get rid of.
You met Satoru at the gym. You’d think he’d go to the one at his university, but no, he just had to get a membership at the luxury gym that’s on the other side of town. The only reason why you chose to get a membership there, rather than the more affordable gym down the street, was so that you could avoid annoying ass kids.
Spoiler: It didn’t work.
He didn’t approach you right away. It started with a couple of stares here and there, all of which you pretended not to see since his attention was the last thing you wanted. You can admit that if he were a little older, you would’ve indulged, but it was clear he was a college student, given how he’s worn t-shirts and hoodies with his university’s name on them. Most professional settings wouldn’t allow piercings either— he’s covered in them. One on his nose, one on his eyebrow, multiple on his ears, and a tongue ring. Not to mention the one he surprised you with when he first came over.
Of course, pretending not to notice an attention whore like Satoru Gojo didn’t work, and you soon found out just how annoyingly persistent he can be.
He started going to the gym at the same time as you. It felt like the machines he used just got closer and closer to you with each visit, up until he boldly used the treadmill right next to you one day— you weren’t having that, by the way, and got off less than a minute later. You could be talking to a trainer or one of the staff members, and he’d shimmy his way into the conversation just to get you to look at him and say something, but his attempts were met with you excusing yourself.
It got to a point where he didn’t even care about what was said, he just wanted your attention, good or bad. When he finally did get it, it was neither. You were tired of him before he even opened his mouth.
Imagine this: the annoying little shit coincidentally goes into the sauna at the same time as you, even though you could’ve sworn you saw him walking out the door with his duffle bag thrown over his shoulder. How he managed to strip down into nothing but his slutty little rugby shorts in so little time? You have no clue. His knee was all scraped up though, so it was safe to assume that he fell during the process.
You gave him a curt smile and closed your eyes.
He still opened his mouth.
“Great sauna, isn’t it?”
Did he just deepen his voice? Christ.
The awkward and pathetic attempt at small talk never made you want to murder yourself more in that moment. You tried not to sound as annoyed as you were when you let out a sigh.
“It is,” you murmured back, closing your eyes again in hopes that would be the end of it.
It wasn’t.
“I love coming here— nice little escape from everything,” he blissfully said.
You couldn’t imagine what the hell that brat needed to escape from. If only you could say the same, you’ve spent more time dodging him than you have working out the past three weeks.
“Name's Satoru, by the way,” he flashed you a smile.
You’re not a heartless wretch, so you threw him a bone and told him your name, too. Which was a mistake, the one thing you’ve learned is to never feel sorry for Satoru, give him an inch and he’ll shamelessly take a mile. Minutes later, you’re internally groaning. You hated how smooth he was when asking if you wanted to grab drinks later that night. All the charm and charisma that oozed out of him would put any narcissist to shame.
“Did you seriously follow me into the sauna just to ask me out?”
He had to pause because that’s not what you were supposed to say, but he was too emotionally invested at that point to give up.
“Maybe,” he chirps, averting his gaze for a moment. “I swear I wasn’t trying to be weird, though.”
You smile as your eyes scan him from top to bottom, more so out of judgment than interest. “Stripping down into nothing but the male version of booty shorts isn’t weird?”
“Ugh— ok, yeah, fine— maybe it is a little weird,” he sighs, throwing a towel over his shoulders as an attempt to cover up. “Let's just.. Forget about that. Yeah?” You continue to just stare at him, and he clears his throat. “I’d still love to take you out sometime and get to know you a little better. Whatcha think? My treat.”
Age doesn’t matter, you’ll fold too once you see what he’s hiding under his “booty shorts”. Everyone does.
You cross your arms and lean back on the wooden bench. “I’m sorry– how old are you again?”
“I’m graduating this year,” he proudly says, making your face drop in disbelief— he’s well aware that he’s too young for you, and he’s still trying?
“Right.” The judgment in your tone was loud and clear, continuing to look at him as if he were a harmless spider— there’s no fear or concern, just peeved at how it managed to find its way into your vicinity. “So you’re 21…” You tried pulling more information out of him, “since that’s the age you need to be to order a drink.”
“Soon,” he continues to tiptoe around the truth. “Everyone knows me, though. Nobody's gonna check my I.D.”
Besides, he has a fake. He’s had one since he was 16.
“Oh wow.”
You still didn’t sound very impressed, not that it stopped him. He somehow was able to go home with your number in his phone that day, mainly because he was starting to annoy you, and giving him your number was the easiest way to get him to stop— harmless spider, remember? He was probably more of a gnat at that point, though, but harmless nonetheless.
From that point going forward, you ignored him at the gym and his text messages. You could go on your phone and scroll for a minute before seeing a text sent from your end. Now that you think about it, you only texted him back once.
Unknown Number: i feel like im being edged rn 😔 what’s a man gotta do to get a text back??
You: typing…
You:
You: typing…
You: turn 21
Unknown Number: bet
You read that response and immediately regretted it.
He came back a month later, the day after his birthday, and you unfortunately gave in.
And by giving in, you met him halfway and asked if he wanted to come over. He was hot, but there was no way in hell you wanted to be seen in public with him. Being a man as easy as Satoru, he said yes and spent the entire night putting you in every single position he’s ever imagined having you in. You swear he hit every room on purpose— just bending you over every surface and folding you up in every position.
You’ve never had someone throw you around that much before. He fucked you like it was some god-given right. You were so far gone that you would’ve done anything he told you to; you’re just glad his only goal that night was to impress you.
And he did, hence why you are still letting him come over a couple of times a week. Maybe more, maybe less.
He’s tried to get you to come over to his place before, to which you refused for obvious reasons, and berated him enough to make him never ask you a question as insulting as that ever again.
He’s also tried to coordinate your gym visits in the past.
It was a month into whatever little arrangement you had— you say that because you’ve never made an agreement, aside from telling him to never talk to you, talk about you, or approach you in public.
It would come as a surprise to no one if he spent the whole day there just waiting for you to show up.
He didn’t even give you a chance to go into the locker and put your things away before attempting to walk up to you. You had just walked past the front desk— head down, phone up— and felt like there was something off, and what do you know? He was walking in a straight line towards you as if you hadn’t banned him from speaking to you in public.
Luckily, the women's locker room was directly to your left, so you turned and walked there as fast as your legs could take you. You were pissed, slamming your duffel bag down onto one of the benches to spend a minute or two pacing back and forth. There was no way in hell you were going home, so you pulled up with messages with him and sent him a text.
You: Do not fucking embarrass me.
You: Don’t even come near me.
S. Gojo: fine .
It wasn’t another 20 minutes until you finally stepped out of the locker room, mostly ready to spend the next 30 minutes working out. Usually, it’s 45 minutes to an hour, but you gave yourself some grace, even though you really should’ve been getting the most out of your membership with how pricey it was.
The first 20 minutes were fine— peaceful. You ended up letting your guard down as you fell under the assumption that Satoru left, given how he was nowhere to be found. Then, 2 minutes into using the stairmaster, someone got on the one right next to you, despite the entire row being empty.
He was met with a scowl. The only response he had for it was throwing his palms out and grimacing right back at you, as if to say, I’m not doing anything wrong.
Minutes later, he’s reaching over and grabbing your water bottle to take a sip from. Mind you, he already had one with him. It had more water in it than yours.
That was the moment you knew Satoru really wasn’t shit.
He casually gave it back with a smile, trying to act all cute and be funny, so you sent your water bottle flying at his big head.
“Ow!” he frowns, rubbing the side of his head, having absolutely no right to look as shocked as he did. “That hurt!”
“Suck it up,” you snapped at him in a hushed tone. “You’re lucky I didn’t lodge it down your throat and drown you.”
“Why would you do either?!” he threw his arms out.
“I don’t know— why would you reach over and drink from my water bottle when you have your own?!”
“Because I wanted water that had some of your backwash in it??” he says, as if it should’ve been obvious.
To this day, you still don’t know if he was trying to throw you off or if he was being serious.
“If I hear one more word come out of your mouth while I’m here, even if you’re 10 feet away and talking to someone else, I’m fucking blocking you.”
“. . .” You could see the panic in his eyes as his face dropped. “Okay— 10 feet away is fucking crazy—”
“Stop. Talking.”
He opens his mouth, quickly decides he’d rather not find out if you were bluffing or not, and closes it.
You hated being strict with people— you had no other choice but to be strict with Satoru. You could draw a line, explicitly tell him not to cross it and why, and he’d walk right up to it and tap his toe on the other side, just to see if you’d say anything.
With the way you talk about him and talk to him, it’d be easy to assume that you hated him— you complain about the shit he does, you yell at him often, you look at him at times and start to wonder if he was just a sign sent by god to finally get therapy. But you don’t dislike him, let alone hate him.
On the occasion that you don’t kick him out right after you two fuck, he’s really not that bad to be around. If circumstances were different, you wouldn’t mind being friends with him. He’s easy to talk to, easy to get along with when he’s not actively and purposely fucking around and finding out. You honestly enjoy talking to him here and there.
Truly.
Except for when he’s talking about anything frat-related. More often than not, it’s dumb and genuinely a waste of your time to listen to. Not to mention the fact that you don’t need any more reminders of who you’ve been welcoming into your home.
You were pushing thirty for Christ's sake. It'd be one thing if he were just a one-night stand, but he’s not. He raids your pantry when you’re not looking and, on multiple occasions, has purposely left his boxers behind as some sort of parting gift.
It’s gotten easier with time— the embarrassment that washes over you when he says something stupid, that is. Like whatever went down at some party he threw or some joke one of his “brothers” told him. It’s still a waste of your time, but you’ve grown to just let him talk about it rather than shut him down to avoid that pang of guilt you sometimes get when you’re around him.
There’s the disappointment and the embarrassment, and lately, there’s the odd form of pity you have for him. You’ve always known you were going to have to let Gojo down one day and cut things off completely, you’re not quite sure how he’d take it, though.
There was some hope that he’d get bored with you and move on to someone new, but that’s slowly diminishing. He’s volunteered to get tested for STDs weekly and sends you the results. He hasn’t slept with anyone else, either, which is shocking. You’ve gotten a glimpse of his phone and his messages, all of which were unopened texts from the girls he’s probably led on in the past— ignoring them all for a woman who does the same to him more than half the time.
Sometimes you wonder if he notices that, too. He has to. You say he’s stupid all the time, but he’s smarter than he lets on.
—
S. Gojo: how’s my pretty girl doing?? ((:
You: what do u want
S. Gojo: 😭damn not even a question mark?? I didn’t even ask u for anything 😔
You: i can tell when u want something. now what is it
S. Gojo: can i come over after practice today? pretty please
S. Gojo: it ends at 3 today
You: im not even home
S. Gojo: ik i have a key
You: you took my spare key?
You: give it back
S. Gojo: today? (:
You: im not even home by then. I don’t want u there, you’re gonna make a mess
S. Gojo: wtf? I never make a mess
You: what do you even wanna come over for
S. Gojo: i don’t wanna be home later
You: why
S. Gojo: there’s a few sorority girls coming over and they don’t like me
You: why
S. Gojo: it’s just bc of some bet during freshman years
S. Gojo: they’re not over it
You: pig
S. Gojo: i didn’t even tell you what it was!
You: please don’t
You: but ya, no. go to the library or something
S. Gojo: PLEEEEEAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSEEEEEEEEEEE
S. Gojo: FUCK i’ll have takeout ready for you when you get off work ffs
S. Gojo: have some compassion these bitches are gonna try to CHOP my DICK off PLEASE
You: maybe you never deserved one to begin with
S. Gojo: BRO???
You: kiddinggg
You: have some pad thai ready for me. I also expect the place to be vacuumed
S. Gojo: i got u
S. Gojo: i can do your laundry too if you want
You: stop trying to sniff my panties you fucking freak
S. Gojo: ):
You’re home at 5:15 on the dot, and you’re met with the lovely smell of all-purpose cleaner despite only telling Satoru to vacuum. So naturally, you’re in a good mood when you walk into the living room and hang your purse up in the hallway.
Satoru’s on the couch, turning to look at you and doing that stupid nod he does when he doesn’t feel like verbally greeting someone.
You slip out of your heels and walk up. “Did you clean the kitchen?”
“A little,” he hums, taking the opportunity to pretty much eye fuck you since you don’t pay much attention to him as you look into the kitchen.
“What do you want?” you ask suspiciously, turning to look at him lounging back on your couch, half-naked. He’s got nothing but a pair of socks and rugby shorts on, and you can’t help but take a look at his thighs. You don’t ask why his titties are out on display, though, knowing he’d make a comment about how hard he worked cleaning the place.
“Nothin’,” he shrugs, feigning innocence. The slight twitch of his lip right after gives him away, not that you give it much attention. “How was work?”
“Long,” you yawn. “Slow, too— felt like I was on my phone the entire time.”
He tilts his head, getting ready to fuck with you despite it not even being 5 minutes since you walked through the door. “Are you complaining about doing nothing at work today?”
“Uh, yeah,” you mimic his tone. “I hate looking at the clock all day.”
He huffs out a laugh. “I’m gonna remember this the next time you complain about work being too busy.”
You smile and hum. “Do that, and I’m shoving my socks down your throat.”
“Kinky.” You start to walk away, and Satoru takes the opportunity to reach over the couch, biting his lip as he strikes a palm over your ass. “What else are you tryna do to me?”
“Choke you,” you boredly say as you walk into your room, but end up smiling when you hear him laugh. You come out a couple of minutes later in a pair of shorts and a tank top. “Where’s the food?”
“The fridge,” he responds, seemingly distracted.
Only for him to grab your wrist right before you walk past behind him.
You whip your head around and click your tongue. “What?” you whine, eyes narrowing as you shoot him an irritated look.
“How hungry are you right now?” he asks, tongue in cheek as he keeps a firm grip on your wrists.
“Hungry enough.”
“Starving?” There’s an obnoxious glint in his eyes as he asks.
You scoff. “Does it fucking matter?”
“Mmmmmm, a little.” He blatantly checks you out as he hums, not struggling to hold on to your wrist at all. He leans over the couch to get a better look at your shorts, his other hand reaching forward to snap your shorts against your skin. “I like these.”
“Let me guess, you’d like them better on the floor.”
“Something like that— come here,” He stifles a laugh, pulling you closer until you're up against the couch. He snakes an arm around your waist to keep you from leaving, pressing kisses all over your chest. “Been waiting for you forever– give me a minute or two.”
“You expect me to believe it’ll just be a minute or two?” You smile, trying to keep your breath from hitching as he gets closer to your neck.
“Mhm. It’s a lie, though.” He places one last kiss against your collarbone, then pulls a hum out of you as he licks a slow, fat stripe up your neck. He tops it off with a couple of kisses along your jaw before nipping at your ear. “How about I work up that appetite a little, hm?”
Your lids grow heavy, each word growing breathier than the last with each kiss and touch. “My stomach’s gonna start hurting.”
“It’s fine,” he murmurs, running his big hand down your back to your ass, giving it a squeeze before his palm lands on it. “You won’t be thinking about it.”
He steps over the couch and starts nudging you towards your room, dick print against the fabric of his shorts on full display.
“No?”
“Nope,” the grin on his face grows, “I’ll keep you distracted.”
And distracted you were.
Whining as you trembled and clenched around his cock while he worked it into you. You’re at the edge of the bed— bent over for him, back in the craziest arch as he gives you the deepest strokes. The round metal studs under his tip add the right amount of pressure as it drags over your gummy spot.
He leans back, suppressing a laugh at the sight of your fucked out face and the creamy ring already starting to grow around his base. He’s barely done anything, but he wouldn’t be surprised if he saw drool stains right where your face is pressed up against. It’s always like this, your attitude just magically disappearing the moment he gets near your pussy. Doesn’t matter if it’s his dick, his fingers, his tongue— they’ve all made the miracle of getting you to say please happen.
“Shit,” he curses under his breath, just mesmerized at the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you. His attention only gets pulled away once he hears a soft, drawn-out moan leave your lips, his hands unconsciously moving up to your hips for him to knead. “You alright?”
“Mhm— go faster.” The demand sounds so sweet falling from your lips, how could he say no?
He rests a knee against the bed and leans over your body. Chest pressed up against your back, caging you in. You rest your head on his forearm, unknowingly letting him get a full view of the tears he’s about to give you. He picks up the pace, angling himself just right with each thrust, watching your eyebrows slightly pinch as your breathing picks up.
“Can’t believe you wanted to wait for this,” he starts to poke fun at you, and it somehow goes straight to your core. “The hell were you thinkin’, huh?”
“I don’t know,” you murmur.
“Were you thinking at all?”
“Shut up.” You get whinier with the change of pace. “Can you just– mmh yeah.”
“Yeah?” He grins as you lose your train of thought, rolling his hips nice and slow, working his tip right over that spot that has you curling your toes. “Like that?”
“Mhm,” you hum, fingers starting to dig into his bicep as the praises slowly fall from your mouth. “Feels so good.”
“I knoww– you’re droolin’ on my arm already,” he stifles a laugh as he mocks you, brushing some hair out of your face to grab your chin, turning your head toward him.
He leans down to kiss you, and it’s nothing short of messy. It's all tongue and wet smacks once he held you down and crashed his lips into yours, just rough and hungry. Greed is what comes to mind once you pull away— lips all swollen and covered in spit, out of breath, heat creeping up your neck.
It’s just selfish— who grabs people like that?
The hand on your jaw wraps around your neck, and you soon find yourself taking in a sharp breath as Satoru crashes his lips into yours again. His hips continue to rock into you, grinding every inch of himself up against your gummy walls, trying to knock the air out of you as he tries to take it for himself.
He bites your bottom lip, and you’re giggling as he slowly pulls back, dying out at your throat once he gets back to work. His shallow thrusts grow deep, making your eyes start to glaze over as the fat head of his cock hits and rubs against a spot you’re sure only he can reach.
“Ready?” he murmurs in your ear.
“What are you–”
He bites your bottom lip, then starts fucking you like you owed him your soul or something. He drills every single inch of his cock into you, the sharp sounds of his hips striking against your ass cutting through the air, nearly bringing you to tears from how overwhelming it all is.
“F-Fuck!” you choke out a whine, shoving your face down on the bed, unable to keep up with how fast he’s going. Your cunt stretches around his cock, walls fluttering and squeezing around his length as he pounds you into the bed. Low groans slip through his lips as he sees a mess of slick and cream starting to coat his shaft.
He goes faster. The obscene wet slaps of him pounding your pussy and his heavy balls slapping against your clit grow louder, messier. You’re clawing at your sheets and holding back choked moans each time he slams his tip against your cervix. Your legs start to tremble, struggling to keep them open when each thrust pushes you forward with all the force behind them.
You start to feel something in your core begin to wrap up and coil, and you are not ready for it. You find yourself crawling forward, trying to close your thighs, all without even realizing it. Satoru lets out a laugh that fades into a low groan as your walls squeeze and tremble around him.
He teases you as he drags you back by your hips, his ragged voice dripping in amusement.
“You running from me, baby? Where’s this pussy goin’, huh?” He nudges your thighs back apart with his knee, pulling you back on his cock and holding you in place, hips flush against your ass as he lazily grinds into you.
“Yeah, c'mere— m’not done with you yet.” he rasps, picking up the pace back up again until a messy wet squelch can be heard between you as he pounds you out. He presses your back further down into an arch, fucking into you at a deeper angle. “Mmmm— there we go— just stay right there for me.”
“Sa— fuck— t-toru!” Your breath shatters as you gasp, pressure starting to build all over again.
You don’t see the way he smirks when you cry his name like that.
“I know— M’sorry, baby.”
He’s not. A hand slides up your spine to get a fistful of your hair, pulling you up against his chest in one swift go. His pace doesn’t falter as a strong arm wraps around your waist, holding you against him while his lips graze the shell of your ear.
“Look how good I’m fuckin’ you, though— looks like you’re about to start crying.” He smiles, feeling you squeeze around him as the messy squelch in between your legs becomes more pronounced.
“T-too much,” you sputter out.
“You should probably cum them,” he offers as if it were a simple solution. “If you want, I can work it out of ya.”
“F-fuck,” you inhale sharply. “Please.”
He lets out a low, pleased hum before he just starts slamming into you, making the bed shake as he starts to knock the absolute wind out of you. His free hand snakes down, slipping down in between your legs until the pads of his fingers find your clit. You tense as he presses on it firmly, breath faltering once he starts rubbing little circles.
His grip around your waist tightens as he keeps going, not minding your nails as they start scratching and digging into his arm. Soon you’re let out a sharp cry, trembling as you start gushing all over his cock.
And the way you pussy clamps down and just starts milking him has his thrust growing sloppy, fucking you both through it.
“Fuck— fuuck,” he lets out a breathy groan, doubling over and nearly squeezing you to death when he starts pumping you full of hot cum, flooding your sensitive walls. He breathes heavy, grinding against you, giving you every last drop. “Shit— that was so fuckin’ good— are you alright?”
You’re lying limp in his arms, nodding weakly, trying to catch your breath. “Uh-huh”
“You’re so shaky right now,” he heaves, gently letting you down on the bed. “I fucked you good this time.”
“Shut up,” you barely snap at him, “Go get me my food, I can’t fucking walk right now.”
“Fuck— I’m sorry. Don’t kick me out.”
“Get me my fucking food.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he nods, putting his boxers on and walking out of your room with a little smile on his face.
. . .
He’s leaning against the fridge as he lets his mind run off for a bit, aside from the microwave whirring in the background, it’s quiet— a rare occurrence for Satoru. He doesn’t snap back to reality until he hears footsteps coming up behind him.
He looks over his shoulder to see you back in the clothes he nearly ripped trying to get off you. And that you’re walking perfectly fine.
“Thought you couldn’t walk,” he points at you, gesturing his finger up and down.
“So did I,” you shrug, wrapping your fingers around the fridge handle and pulling it open to retrieve a white claw. You can physically feel Satoru staring at you, while something in your spirit is telling you that he’s waiting for you to offer him one.
You crack it open as you turn to look at him.
“Can I help you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Initially, his eyes drift to the drink in your hand and look at it quite longingly. “That looks good.”
“It is good,” you say, then obnoxiously take a sip. “Pairs really well with noodles.”
“I’m sure.” His tones flat as he looks back at the drink.
You have no idea why he’s so set on waiting for you to offer him one, but you eventually do because you’d rather not get into some weird silent war with him. “Would you like one?”
“Yes, I would,” he says with a blissful sigh, reaching into the fridge to get one for himself.
The microwave beeps, you open it, and take the plate out yourself. “You know you can just grab one, right?”
The can cracks and he takes a sip, then nods. “I know, I just wanted you to offer me one.”
“Yeah, you made that pretty obvious,” you laugh and walk to the living room, and Satoru naturally follows. “Do you want some of my food, too?”
“No— appreciate you asking, though.”
“Sure,” you say, before muttering, “weirdo.”
He’s the first one to grab the remote and put something on, taking advantage of the fact that you haven’t pushed him out yet, like you do 60% percent of the time. The 40% is too random for him to be able to tell when it’ll happen next.
You weren’t planning on kicking him out too soon today, though, since he’s currently hiding from an entire group of women.
“Wait, so what did you do to get those girls to hate you?”
“Got dared to homie hop.” He casually shrugs, taking a sip from the can. “Over the course of one weekend.”
“What is wrong with you?” you ask with the utmost disappointment.
He points to himself. “In my defense, I was 18.”
“I guess.” You stifle a laugh before feeding yourself another fork full of food. “I’m surprised they still hate you that much.”
“Yeah, I got dared to do it again last year,” he finally mentions, just as casual as the last time.
You pause for a moment as you try to think of an answer. You never do. “Yeah, I think I’d hate you, too.”
He delusionally brushes you off. “You would’ve loved me. I’m a great friend.”
There's a contemplative look on your face as you tilt your head, thinking of all he’s revealed to you about himself, which is probably just a 3rd of all he’s done. “I’m sure you are.”
“I am,” he scoffs.
“Yeah— that’s what I said.” You laugh, wiping the side of your mouth off with a napkin before throwing it on the empty plate, getting up to put it away.
You're in the kitchen when Satoru raises his voice to say something to you.
“I am your friend, right?” he asks.
You close the dishwasher and walk back out into the living room, there’s a slight pout on his face as he walks for an answer.
“Yeah,” you let out an amused sigh. “You’re my special friend.”
“Yeah?” He sinks further back into the sofa, looking more pleased. “Special enough to talk to outside of here?”
“Fuck no,” you say with zero hesitation, wiping the smile off his face again. “You wouldn’t be special anymore. Is that what you want? You wanna be an average normie?”
There are two things in this world that Satoru would never want to be— average and poor.
He crosses his arms and scoffs. “You really know how to turn a situation around on other people, don’t you? That’s pretty evil, y’know that?”
You feign innocence, looking at him all concerned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Whatever,” he rises from his seat, accepting your evil nature and his role as your special little slut. “Can we shower together?”
You give a bored look, knowing he’s gonna try to get you to scrub his back. “Fine.”
. . .
Tonight’s just like every other Friday night. The bass of the music bouncing off the walls, loud conversations happening in every direction. Most people are having a good time, while some are crying their eyes out over something that’ll seem minuscule a couple years from now. The only thing that’s changed is Satoru hasn’t, and most likely won't, bring a girl up to his room tonight.
For once, all of his attention is on playing his fifth round of beer pong.
The guys will still give him shit for the sudden change, but it was never a bad thing, just odd. They’ve given up on theories as to why after realizing Satoru really wasn’t going to cave and tell them this time around. Not even Suguru. He doesn’t need to ask, though, he knows Satoru is fucking someone. With how secretive he’s been though, he’s most likely sneaking around with someone that’ll get him in trouble if word gets out. Like the wife of one of his father's very affluent and important friends, perhaps? It was on brand for him.
It wasn’t that serious. Suguru will find out, eventually. He just hopes it doesn’t end badly for his friend that’s brought enough scandals for his family, being the problem child he’s always been. Hell, he’s being problematic right now, pulling Suguru out of his thoughts as some poor girl tugs on Satoru’s shirt.
Suguru has no idea what she said to him, but he steps in a little closer, pretending to focus on the game as he listens to whatever his friend has to say. Satoru barely looks at her and responds, not only rudely, but with quite possibly the most ridiculous words Suguru has ever heard come out of his mouth.
“Sorry, sweetheart– I like my women a little more grown.”
Mind you, they were in the same year.
She laughs, there’s still stars in her eyes as she looks at him. “Wait, what?”
He shortens it. “M’not interested.”
“Why?” she asks, eyes growing dull.
And Satoru, having already lost his patience, takes a step back and looks at her from head to toe, looking for another reason. It’s quite embarrassing— standing there and waiting for someone to figure out what they don’t like about you.
“Yeaah, no.” He takes another look at her. “You just don’t do it for me— sorry.”
You’d think it’d be fine since he didn’t point out any of her features, but being told you ‘don’t do it’ for someone that you’ve already fucked doesn’t feel very good, nor does realizing that he completely forgot that they have, multiple times. He’s gotten drunk and fucked a lot of people. Keyword: Drunk. He doesn’t remember most of the time, hence his initial confusion when she threw a drink in his face.
Unfazed, he wipes the remnants of her drink off his face, throwing her off in the process as he treats it like it’s a common occurrence and that he’s used to it (he’s very used to it).
“You just proved my fuckin’ point,” Satoru says, still unimpressed as he takes his shirt off and continues to casually wipe himself off. “Grow up.”
The comment makes her realize he was being dead serious with his original reason for rejecting her, even though he had zero problem with fucking her at the beginning of the year. “Oh fuck you, Gojo,” she ends up cursing at him as she storms off, furious and embarrassed.
“Yeah– not happening!” he laughs and yells back loud enough for her to hear.
Suguru just laughs because fucking called it. He totally was seeing someone older, and Satoru's response gave it away. Suguru doesn’t mention it, though. “You coulda been a little nicer, y’know?”
“Whatever,” he waves him off, knowing he could’ve been ruder, but chose not to. “I’ll probably never see her again after graduation, anyway.”
Suguru shrugs. “You never know.”
Satoru ruffles his hair with the semi-damp t-shirt in his hand, wondering why his friend decided to embrace his inner Gandhi when he’s just as bad as him. Satoru literally watched him tell a girl to stop crying after he cut things off with her, then added salt to the wound by giving her some speech about how she wouldn’t run after a snake and explain how being bitten made her feel. Suguru wasn’t technically wrong, but he did not have to say all that. With that being said, he wasn’t in the mood to listen to Suguru lecture him any more though, and lets the comment go.
“I’m gonna go wash the rest of this shit off,” he says, referring to the sheer pink stain on his hair.
Suguru pats his back a couple of times as he continues to laugh. “Have fun with that. Try not to run into her or friends.”
Satoru hoped not, that mini-meltdown was enough for him. He wasn’t stumbling or anything, but having to walk through crowds to get to his room made him realize he was drunker than he realized, not that it made him feel any remorse for the words he said. They did not warrant getting a drink thrown in his face.
The first thing he does when he gets to his room is kick out a couple making out on his bed, throwing a couple of insults and threats their way as they scurry out of his room. Then he walks into his bathroom to wash his hair off in the sink, which leads to him completely stripping down in frustration and hopping in the shower, in hopes that it’d sober him up a bit.
It doesn’t— it just makes him want to call it a night.
He dries himself off and throws on a pair of boxers and sweats before sitting down on his bed with his phone in hand. His thumb hovers over the call button as he stares at your contact. The room continues to spin as he wonders if you were even awake. It was pushing midnight.
After spending way too much time wondering if you’d answer, his thumb hits the screen. The phone rings once. Twice. Then a third time.
“What do you think you’re doing calling me this late?” you immediately grill him, your smooth and unhurried tone making you sound more amused than anything.
He smiles as he stifles a laugh. “I can’t call you and say what’s up now?”
“People don’t usually call someone at midnight to say what's up.”
“M’not like other people,” he chuckles, though you know deep down inside, he wouldn’t dare put himself in the same category as a regular person. There isn’t one mirror he’s walked by and hasn’t looked at— the way Satoru looks at his own reflection could send anyone into a crisis, wondering if their spouses really did love them as much as they claimed.
“Yeah, you’re real different,” you respond blandly, coming off as trying to knock him down a peg, when really you’re just trying to move on. “Anyways, what do you want?”
“You should let me come over,” he doesn’t hesitate to say, slurring his words slightly.
“No.”
He pulls his phone away from his ear and looks at it with his brows pinched together, all hurt from how you didn’t even bother thinking about it before giving him an answer.
“Why not?” he grumbles, finding himself more offended than usual. “I miss you.”
He’s reminded that you don’t actually hate him when you begin to laugh at how endearing he can be, even when he’s just complaining. “I saw you two days ago.”
“What can I say, baby?” he murmurs, the stupid grin on his face widening when he hears you click your tongue. “You make it hard not to with that tight little p—”
Are you drunk right now?” You cut him off, wiping the smile right off that little pervert's face.
“Maybe.”
He hears you let out a disgusted scoff on the other side of the phone. “Ew, no. I don’t wanna fuck you when you’re all drunk and sloppy.”
At first, he lets out this noise that can only be described as what a pout would sound like if you could hear it. “First of all, I’m not sloppy. Second, I wasn’t asking to fuck, just let me spend the night. It’s loud here— buncha’ hooligans running around.”
“So you can fuck with my sleep?”
“Baby, I would never fuck with your beauty sleep,” he swears. “I’m a beast— not a fuckin’ monster.”
“You are such a fucking loser.” You pinch your nosebridge as you sigh and mutter under your breath. “You’ll be fine. Just take another shot and put some earplugs in.”
“I don’t have any!”
“Headphones then,” you curtly say. “Anyways, I’m going to bed now—”
“No, wait—”
“Good night~”
Click.
Satoru’s left staring at the wall in disbelief, jaw all the way to the floor. Surely you could’ve offered him a couch— but you didn’t bother, and the thought adds to the betrayal that’s already exacerbated from all the shots he’s taken earlier. It doesn’t go away, it just simmers once he’s processed the fact that you basically told him that he could suffer and fucking die, for all you cared, before hanging up.
The music’s so loud that the walls are fucking shaking, there’s no point in noise cancelling headphones when he can feelhow loud it is. His eyes dart between his phone, his dresser, and the door before finally getting up with an irritated sigh.
“Fuck this.”
. . .
Instead of sleeping, like you said you would when hanging up on Satoru, you continued to watch what you put on the tv prior to answering your phone. Though with how late it was, your eyes inevitably grew heavier with each blink, and you found yourself beginning to doze off.
Until a knock on the door and the muffled sound of your name being called snaps you right back to reality.
“I swear to god if that’s—” you begin murmuring to yourself as you walk up to the door, cutting yourself off because no shit it’s Satoru. You can’t think of anybody else who would still come over despite being told no.
You swing the door open, annoyed that it doesn’t swing outwards, it would’ve been nice to hit him with it. He’s leaning against the entryway to stop himself from swaying in place, as carefree as ever.
“What are you doing here?!”
Immediately, he begins to beg. “You have got to let me sleep here— some nasty couple fucked on my bed and there’s a group of psychos hunting me down with pitchforks.”
He was not going back there, and if a little truth-twisting is what it takes to get you to let him, then so be it.
Your face twists in annoyance. “Hunt you down for what?!”
“For turning one of them down.” He throws his arms out, pretending to be outraged. “Threw a drink in my face and everything just because I wouldn’t fuck her! And now my bed smells like rotten fish—”
“Just get inside,” you snap at him, feeling an incoming headache starting to form from his theatrics.
“Thank you.”
Despite showering and brushing his teeth, you can still smell some of the alcohol radiating off of him as he walks past you. Irritated, you shut the door a little too harshly, missing the way the man flinched as he stood there and waited for you. You completely ignore him, walking to the coffee table and picking up the remote to turn the T.V off. You walk off to your room after, with Satoru following right behind you like a lost puppy.
The decorative pillows get plucked off the bed one by one. The only reason why he doesn’t ask if you need help with anything is that he is a little too scared to ask. You pull the duvet back and whip your head around to look at him.
“Get in,” you order, and he quickly walks around to the other side, pulling his shirt over his head and leaving his sweats on. “And do not wake me up tonight.”
“Kay’,” he says quietly, slipping the covers.
You follow, after killing the lights, sighing as you lay your head back and close your eyes. He awkwardly lies there at first, arms pulling the blanket up to his chest, staring at the ceiling. It’s not how he sleeps, and frankly, he is really fucking uncomfortable. He’s also scared to move right now.
But Satoru is Satoru, and at the very last minute, turns and snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. He slides a leg in between yours, and you open your mouth to protest, only to get cut off by his slightly nervous voice.
“Good night.”
. . .
Satoru wakes up twice.
Once at 6:00 am to a pounding headache. He got up to look for an over the counter painkiller. Luckily, he found some in the first cabinet he opened in your kitchen and downed more than he should’ve before getting back in bed, throwing an arm and a leg over you, and falling back asleep.
Then again, at 11:00 am, when he hears some shuffling around the room and realizes you are no longer next to him.
He opens one eye and mumbles, “Where are you going?”
You’re in a hurry as you put a pair of socks on. “To a pilates class.”
“Can I come?” he pops his head up and asks, struggling to open both eyes.
There’s an incredulous look on your face when you pause and look at him. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one, you look like a fucking mess right now.” He didn’t really need to hear that, he already figured it out since he feels like one right now. “Two, I don’t need you sitting alone in the corner, watching me for an hour straight.”
“That’s mean as fuck.”
“Not one lie was told,” you argue back, getting the last sock on and rising to your feet. “I’m not kicking you out just yet, so you can stay if you want.”
“Oh, I fuckin’ will.” It comes out as if kicking him out was never an option to begin with, earning himself a little side eye that he was too busy stretching his arms out to notice. You quickly let it go, figuring the hangover was doing a number on him. “Do you have food?”
“Yeah, just look around in the fridge.” You look at your watch, then throw your bag over your shoulder after realizing you’re just barely running on time. “I’ll be back in like an hour.”
“Kay’,” he yawns, lying back against the pillow and closing his eyes once you're out of view.
As much as his head hurts, he’s glad he’s suffering here and not at the house. It’s quiet, your bed’s comfy, time actually feels like it’s running slow for once. There are another 15 minutes of peace before it is ruined by the ring of his phone.
Before he reaches for it on the nightstand, he takes a few seconds to shove his face into the pillow and let out a slew of curses. He picks up the phone and answers, as if his head wasn’t pounding more than ever.
It’s Suguru, who’s not as concerned as he is confused. “Hey, so— you’re not home.”
“M’not,” Satoru mumbles.
Suguru gives him room to explain, but speaks again when he realizes Satoru’s not going to take any of it. “Where are you then?” Again, not concerned, just confused.
“At a friend’s,” Satoru vaguely says. Even in his current fucked up state, he still remembers that you don’t want him talking about you at all.
“...and this is the friend that you’re not fucking and avoiding everyone for, right?”
He lets out a laugh. “Exactly.”
At least Suguru’s smart and is able to read between the lines, meaning that was enough information for him. “Alright.” He laughs with him. “I’ll let you go then. Have fun with your friend.”
“I will.”
Right after he hangs up, he hears another notification go off that’s not from his phone. He hears the ping a couple more times and quickly realizes it’s your phone hiding under the sheets. You were in too much of a rush to realize you forgot to bring it with you.
Satoru’s not one to look through someone else’s phone. He never has, never cared to, never felt the need to. So fighting the urge not to was not only something new, but incredibly fucking difficult. It’s literally right in his hand. He even knows your passcode from the one time he watched you unlock it because his memory’s perfect.
One minute. He’ll just give himself one minute to take a peek.
. . .
It’s been several.
Putting it down, while he’s in the middle of scrolling through a particular conversation, feels impossible. Even when he knows he’s just ruining his own morning by looking at it, he continues to read and make mental notes.
His names Shiu. 37 years old. Moderately successful.
Boring as fuck.
He can tell when someone’s forcing themselves to keep a conversation alive, and can’t wrap his head around why you’d even bother when it’s over shit you have zero interest in. Shiu hasn’t even complimented you once. Nothing about you physically, not even the bare minimum of making a comment about how he enjoys talking to you, since it’s you carrying all of these dry, meaningless conversations.
It's like he just expects you to talk to him.
He continues to scroll, getting closer to the more recent messages, and Satoru finally sees something interesting. Not for you or Shiu, but for him. Reservations for your date next weekend. The first date.
And also your last.
. . .
Before you met him, Shiu wasn’t someone you’d ever imagined yourself being with. He’s calm, quiet, and more of a listener than he was a talker. Not much of a joker or a gossiper.
He was just stable. Rooted. Shiu is a man who couldn’t be moved.
He was a safe choice. A smart one. A mellow man with a successful career. Given your track record of failed relationships with men that you chose based on how exciting you found them, maybe it was time to be smarter.
Some may say it was settling, but you say it’s being practical and choosing what’s best for you.
After a few weeks of casual texting, you were finally having dinner with him tonight. You weren’t exactly excited, but you weren’t nervous either— maybe this is him rubbing off of you.
You’re not sure, honestly.
It feels like there’s something missing, and in its place is the weight of something that refuses to show itself to you, as if its sole purpose was to burden you with confusion.
You take one last look at yourself before you leave, smoothing your hand over the long, tight black dress you chose to wear. Flattering, not too revealing. The same for your shoes, just simple black kitten heels.
At the last minute, Satoru manages to squeeze his way into your mind as you randomly recall the last time you saw him, which was exactly a week ago. The only thing that was off was his supernatural ability to bounce back from a hangover in under an hour. He was fine by the time you got home— at least fine enough to follow you into the bathroom for some shower sex.
You haven’t heard from him since he went home that day. You should be relieved, you wanted him to get bored with you and pull away, yet here you are, wondering why you haven’t heard from him.
. . .
Shiu wasn’t a man who couldn’t be moved— that would require being passionate about something, and so far, he’s about as dry as a matchstick.
And maybe there is something that he’s passionate about, but you doubt it. It’s not necessarily a complaint, just a change in the way you saw him. Shame on you for building up a false idea of him in your head.
At least he’s still calm and quiet— you’re just hoping that all there is to him.
As for now, Shiu was like a constant stream of water that never changed in temperature. He was a place on earth where the weather never changed. A solid 70 degrees, every single day. Acceptable. Easy to digest. Nothing out of the ordinary is ever likely to happen with him.
He’s still a safe choice.
You’re not exactly sure how it’d be what’s best for you, though. You liked surprises— they turned an ordinary day into a day worth remembering— a life without them was just a forgotten past and pointless future.
You could be acting a little dramatic over it right now, but you are honestly sick and fucking tired of getting absolutely nowhere with all the guys you’ve dated and spoken to.
Which is why you push yourself to consider that Shiu could just be a little shy, it's only 15 minutes into your date after all. You remind yourself that opening up takes time, for reasons that make only you feel better.
You haven’t had a quarter life crisis yet, but learning that you’ve spent all this time swinging sledge hammers and wrecking balls at a safe that’s been empty from the start might finally take you there.
You take a sip of your wine and set it back down. “Do you know what you’re gonna order?”
He slowly shakes his head, humming indecisively. “Not yet.”
You wait for him to say something else, but to no one’s surprise, he doesn’t. “You mentioned it’s your 9th time coming here. Do you have any favorites that you reorder?”
He hums again. “Nah. The food here’s decent, but I haven’t had anything that’s stood out to me just yet.”
It’s not often people leave you speechless, especially on first dates, but here you are. Tight lipped, eye threatening to twitch.
“Wow— you’re 9th time here, and you still haven’t found a dish that left you satisfied at the end of the meal?”
You’re really hoping he backtracks and corrects you. Coming to a restaurant you don’t like that many times was one of the most ridiculous things you’ve ever heard.
“Not yet,” he smiles and shakes his head, as if wasting his time and money on a restaurant he didn’t like was just a silly little quirk of his. “Maybe today will be the day.”
Why the fuck would he take you here?
“Fingers crossed,” you force out a light laugh, feeling your patience start to fade. “So you’re just gonna keep coming here until you’ve gone through the entire menu?”
“Yeah, I guess,” he chuckles, not catching the slight irritation in your tone. “What can you do, you know?”
“I mean… you can always try new restaurants,” you suggest.
“Nah.” He waves a hand as if that's doing too much. “Easy to stay here. I already know what to expect.”
It took the amount of discipline a sergeant had to hold back on saying that this wasn’t the doctor's office or the fucking barber shop.
You can absolutely check other places out.
Does this guy not understand free will exists?
“Makes sense,” you lie, pushing out all the enthusiasm you’re able to put forward. “No point in fixing something if it’s not broken, you know?”
“Exactly,” he proudly nods.
“There you two are!”
…You were going to kill yourself if it’s who you think it is.
At first, you ignored the familiar voice and instead took an extra big sip of wine.
He hates being ignored though, so instead of pulling up a seat between you and your date as he had originally planned, he sits right next to Shiu and smiles at the way you instantly freeze.
You hate to admit how good he looked tonight. His hair’s styled for once, loosely brushed back with some expensive styling cream. You can’t help but notice how much sharper his eyes look with his hair out of his face. More rough and intimidating. He was in a white button up, tailored to perfection, rolled up at his elbows, leaving the top buttons of the shirt unbuttoned to show off the chain he always wore. Grey tweed trousers, also tailored to perfection.
“My bad— ran into some traffic on the way here.”
Satoru turns to Shiu, who’s even more confused than you, and holds his hand out for a handshake, giving him a veryformal introduction.
Afterwards, Satoru proceeds to pluck the menu out of your date's hand.
“Alright, Shiu, what are we getting tonight?”
Shiu is visibly appalled when he looks at you, but doesn’t say anything because he’s never had a stranger do that before. Especially when the stranger’s as eccentric as Satoru.
“I— I don’t know.” Your date stumbles on his words at first from the surprise of Satoru’s sudden appearance. “I didn’t get to finish looking through the menu.”
“Wait— really?”
Satoru looks at his watch and sees how you two have been here for nearly 20 minutes, and he still hasn’t picked something. He doesn’t wait for a response and hands the menu back since he already found what he liked, which sucks for you because now he can direct his attention elsewhere.
He leans back and nods at you, because you haven’t spoken at all yet.
“What’re you getting?” You catch the split second his entire expression darkens. He is fucking pissed.
“The cod and asparagus,” you murmur.
“That’s fucking disgusting,” he says through a smile, playing it off as a joke even though you both know it’s not. “Your palate sucks though, so I’m not surprised.”
“Yeah, no— it’s fucking awful,” you let out a laugh. “I need to start eating better— feels like I’ve been eating nothing but junk the past few months.”
His face drops, and just before he’s about to say something 10x ruder, Shiu cuts in.
“I’m sorry, I’m still confused,” he takes several steps back to about 5 minutes ago, “was there some sort of mix up here? I thought this was a date-date, not a dinner with… friends.” Shiu looks back at you, and you’re no help, you’re just glaring.
“A date?” Satoru huffs out a laugh, making the man look like an idiot for even thinking this was a date. “It’s been dinner this whole time. You’re the one who booked a reservation for four, our other friend couldn’t make it.”
Shiu's face twists in confusion. “What? No, no, no— I booked the reservation under two.”
“No, you didn’t. It was booked under four,” he sadly breaks it to him. “You can go ask the receptionist if you want, but I swear it’s four.”
Shiu gets up from his seat to go talk to the receptionist, because he knows he booked it for two— he’s not fucking crazy.
And it’s true, he’s not. Satoru’s the crazy one here.
He’s still gonna go home believing he is though, since the receptionist got paid to change the booking information and lie to him.
Satoru laughs just thinking about it, then downs the rest of Shiu’s wine, ready to gaslight him over that, too.
Finally, he looks back at you and feels a sick sense of satisfaction. You’re angry… baffled, in complete and utter disbelief— you’re looking at him like you’re two seconds away from jumping over the table and strangling him.
Though in the end, you gather yourself together as you finally ask: “What are you doing here, Satoru?”
“Why the fuck are you on a date with someone right now?” His tone clipped, it sounds like he’s about to throw a fit.
“I—“ you stop for a moment, reminding yourself not to yell. “Satoru, we’re not in a relationship.”
“Fine, then,” he decides to rephrase it, “why are you trying to replace me? And with him? Seriously?!”
“What’s wrong with him?!”
“He looks like a sleazy pornstar from the 80s!”
“Not everything is about looks—“
He laughs and cocks his head to the side. “Ok, what is it then? Is his dick bigger than mine?”
Your brows pinch together. Of course, he’s worried about that. “No— I haven’t even seen it yet.”
“Yet?!” his voice broke.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
You try to use a more stern tone to get him to relax, but you don’t think it’ll work. Satoru looks fucking devastated.
“What’s next, you're gonna have babies with him?”
Your jaw drops at his conclusion. “What? No! Do you not realize how dramatic you sound right now?”
“I’m being replaced by a man with fucking pornstache!” he points to himself and says.
“Excuse me?” You’re both interrupted by a timid waitress. “Um– the man that was here earlier just left.”
“I’m not surprised,” you mutter until your breath.
“Yeah…” she sighs, almost apologizing for it. “Were you guys ready to order?”
You glance back at Satoru, and he’s looking away with his arms crossed. “Could I just get the bill for the drinks?”
“Oh, no worries about that! It’s all been covered already by Mr. Gojo. You can just head out when you’re ready.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Of course! Have a good n–” she cuts herself off, knowing damn well you weren’t. “Take care.”
You would’ve laughed at how timid she was if you weren’t so irritated, and instead just nod and smile. You look back at the date crasher, contemplating whether you should thank him or not for trying to cover the bill, but hold off, knowing he probably only did it to assert even more dominance over your date than he already has.
“We’re leaving.” You rise up and grab your purse. Satoru doesn't even look at you, let alone move an inch, because he’s throwing a fucking tantrum, so you slam your hand on the table. “Get up.”
He gets up.
There’s a slight pout on Satoru’s face as he follows you out of the restaurant and into the parking lot. His hands are shoved in my pockets, dragging his feet.
“Where’s your car?” you ask.
“There,” he mumbled and nodded in its direction, then suddenly, you’re pinching his ear and yanking on it.
“Ow—”
“Walk,” you say through gritted teeth, pinching harder.
“Ow– fuck– I am,” he chokes out. “Ow, ow, ow.”
You continued to drag him through the parking lot, ignoring his pleas for you to let go.
“Suck it up,” you coldly respond. “You were asking for it when you crashed my date.”
“I’m sorry, I… ugh— I’m really not, he was lame as fuck, but still— your nails, ow.”
“Exactly, so get over it,” you continue to scold him. “Can’t believe you fucking did that.”
“Because you—”
“I don’t wanna hear it,” you cut him off, giving his ear one last tug, leaving him next to the driver's side door of his car. “Take me home. Now.”
Suguru Geto doesn’t kiss. Only hits it from the back. Doesn’t stay the night. And he definitely doesn’t chase. Everything with him is simple and transactional— until the new girl at the party rejects him without blinking. Now he’s got something to prove. The only problem? The closer he gets, the harder it is to pretend it’s just a game.
a/n: chococat and frat!geto are both so underrated >:( and the amount of times i accidentally wrote fart instead of frat
(credits to @/VoidBringerr on x for that lucious fanart :P credits to @bhavihelps for the divider :D)
Suguru Geto, vice president of the frat, walked like the world had already signed itself over to him. Girls gravitated toward him like it was instinct. He didn’t chase. He didn’t try. He didn’t need to. They lined up anyway.
Suguru Geto who rolled into lectures twenty minutes late—that was if he even showed up at all—and still somehow pulled stellar grades. Suguru Geto who submitted assignments seconds before the deadline, unbothered, unhurried, like time itself would wait for him. Suguru Geto who never really had to work for anything.
Things just came easy to him. Until you.
Shoko introduced you at one of the frats parties.
You’d been her childhood best friend before your parents moved overseas for work, and when she found out you were coming back—same college, same city—she nearly lost her mind. Promised she’d show you everything. The best cafés. The quiet corners of town. And of course, the “hot parties.”
The hot parties were always at the same place.
Infamous brothers. Infamous parties. The kind of place people warned you about and went to anyway. Geto and Gojo at the center of it all, like twin pillars of chaos and charm.
They carried a reputation like cologne—expensive, heavy, impossible to ignore.
Even you, the new girl, had heard the stories.
Frat boys who only did casual. Hook up, have their fun, and send you home before you could even fully come down from the high of it. Don’t linger. Don’t catch feelings. It was practically printed in invisible ink on the walls of that house.
And honestly? The rumors didn’t bother them. If anything, it saved them the trouble.
Most girls knew exactly what they were walking into. Some even liked it that way. No strings. No expectations. No pretending it was something deeper.
And Suguru was always clear. He didn’t chase, he selects.
No lingering.
No feelings.
No kissing.
No sleeping over.
Clean lines. Clear rules. Strictly transactional. Mutual pleasure, nothing more.
You walked into the party trying not to look as out of place as you felt.
People moved through the frat house like they owned it—like they’d been born under neon lights and bass-boosted speakers. You followed behind Shoko as she pulled you through the crowd, grinning like she was about to present you with a prize.
“Satoru, Suguru!” Shoko called out.
Shoko looked like she had personally delivered a miracle. Her hands in the air around you. Basically like that one picture of Will Smith.
They turned immediately.
“Shoko has told me so much about you!” Satoru beamed before pulling you into a hug that was all limbs and spilled alcohol. His drink sloshed onto your top and his shirt. He didn’t even care, or didn’t notice.
“I’m glad I can finally put a pretty face to the name.” He pulled back, still holding your hand, and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles. Surprisingly gentle. Almost princely.
You laughed, easing your hand back. “I’ve heard a lot about you too.”
From the side, Suguru’s eyes dragged over you—slow, assessing.
“Good things, I hope?” Satoru grinned. He knew better. Most things people said about him weren’t flattering. Just accurate.
“Something like that.” you smiled, soft and amused.
The sound of your laugh did something strange to Suguru’s chest. A small, sharp skip. He frowned internally. That was new. He’d watched girls strip in front of him without so much as a pulse change. Why did a simple smile from you feel different?
“You must be Suguru, right?” you turned toward him.
He’d already been staring. He didn’t even pretend otherwise.
“Yeah,” he replied smoothly, confidence sliding back into place like it had never left.
“It’s nice to meet you.” You said. He stepped forward and pulled you into a hug, hands settling at your waist. Familiar. Controlled. Easy.
“Nice to meet you too, pretty girl,” he murmured, shifting so his arm rested around your shoulders afterward, keeping you tucked neatly under his side.
“Let’s get you something to drink.”
The kitchen counter was cluttered with liquor bottles, and red cups stacked in the corner. He grabbed one and started mixing something without asking what you liked. You took the cup when he handed it to you. Your fingers brushing.
“Thank you.” It was small. Polite. Not breathless. Not flustered.
He showed you around the house, introducing you to the brothers and the regular girls who might as well have been honorary members at this point. The house was massive, loud, vibrating with music blasted by DJ Yu—a freshman who’d apparently been given the job mostly to prevent him from launching himself off the roof into the pool and breaking his bones.
You laughed at that. Suguru liked the sound again. Too much. “Thank you for the tour, Suguru,” you said eventually, still loosely under his arm.
“We’re not done yet,” he replied quickly. “Haven’t shown you upstairs.” He winked. This was the part where girls usually blushed. Leaned closer. Whispered something suggestive. Begged, even. Instead—
“I’m fine.” You stepped away. His arm dropped. The music kept playing. People kept going around him. But something in his head went quiet.
Rejection? That… didn’t happen.
“I’m going to look for Shoko. Thanks for the tour though.”
You waved lightly before heading toward the couch where Shoko sat between Yuki and Satoru. You slipped down next to her, and she draped her arm around your shoulders—the same place Suguru’s had been moments ago.
He stood there for half a second too long.
Then he followed.
He sat on the armrest of the couch, close enough to still be in your space, but not touching this time. Not claiming.
Something in his ego felt… dented. You hadn’t blushed. Hadn’t hesitated, hadn't chased. You just walked away. A strange feeling settled in his chest. It was small, but sharp. Annoying. His pride stung in a way it never had before. This didn’t happen to him. Usually it was easy. A lazy wink. A hand at someone’s waist. A low comment spoken close enough to feel. Girls were already leaning in, already asking to go upstairs before he even decided if he wanted them.
He didn’t chase. He never had to. So why did the thought of you walking away still sit wrong with him? It wasn’t about you. It couldn’t be. It was just the rejection. He had something to prove something to himself now. He saw you as a challenge.
And Suguru liked winning.
He had been so sure he would win.
There was something in him that needed to prove it — not just to himself, but to his friends too. Even though they hadn’t seen him get rejected by you.
Drunk,immature, and his ego bruised in a way he’d never experienced before, he’d walked straight over to the other frat brothers — Satoru, Haibara, Nanami, Toji, Sukuna — like it was nothing. Like you were nothing. “I can bag her,” he’d said with a careless laugh. “Even when she’s being difficult.”
They’d teased him, of course. Raised brows. Doubt. Curiosity. He’d leaned back in his chair, drink in hand, acting like it was already decided.
“I like the challenge,” he’d added. “She’s my challenge.”
And Suguru had always been the one who could make even the most stubborn girls soften. Fold. Give in. And to him you were certainly one of those.
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Next Friday, he stood near the couch, drink loose in his hand, eyes fixed on the front door more than he’d admit.
Waiting for you.
Satoru had insisted on the pajama party. “Intimate,” he’d called it. No one bought it. It was just an excuse to see girls in lace and silk. Satoru looked unfair as usual. Blue plaid pajama pants hanging low, thin white shirt clinging in a way that made people stare too long. He acted oblivious. He wasn’t.
Suguru wasn’t exactly subtle either.
Grey sweatpants. Black shirt. Sleeves pushed up just enough to expose strong forearms, veins faint but still prominent beneath warm skin. The cotton of his shirt clung lightly to his chest and shoulders, outlining muscle without trying too hard. It stretched when he moved, hinting at the strength underneath.
He looked comfortable. Relaxed.
The sweatpants hung low on his hips, the fabric thin enough to suggest more than it hid. When he shifted his weight or leaned back against the counter, the outline of his bulge noticeable. Not exaggerated. Just there. Impossible to ignore if someone let their eyes wander.
And people were looking. He could feel it. A few girls tried to be subtle. Most weren’t. Normally he’d smirk. Maybe lean back a little more. Let them look. Tonight, though, his attention stayed fixed on the door. Until you walked in.
Your eyes met his from across the room before you started walking toward him.
And just like that, something shifted. The air felt heavier. Quieter.
You were wearing a small purple lace and silk sleep dress — delicate straps resting on your shoulders, the fabric catching the light with every step you took. It skimmed your body just enough to leave very little to his imagination.
He loved your outfit.
The way the lace traced your silhouette. The way the silk moved softly against your thighs. The way it looked like it had been made just for you.
Heat pooled low in his stomach before he could stop it. His hand tightened subtly around the cup he was holding, pupils dilating as his gaze dragged — slow, deliberate — from your face down to the hem of your dress and back up again.
But it wasn’t just desire. It was the way you walked toward him. Calm. Unhurried. Like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.
When you hugged him — when your body pressed against his — he felt exactly how you fit against him. The thin layers of fabric between you did very little to dull the contact. Warm. Close. Distractingly close.
His body went rigid for half a second, hyperaware of every point of contact. The heat pooling low in his stomach felt even heavier, unwelcome in how fast it came.
You pulled away first. His hands lingered at your waist a second too long before dropping. He followed you into the kitchen without thinking about it. “Do you always do this?” you asked, not turning around, focused on pouring yourself a drink.
“Do what?” he replied, leaning back against the counter, palms resting against the edge behind him. Casual. Like he wasn’t watching you over the rim of his cup. “Following girls around,” you clarified, taking a sip before leaning back as well. Now you were beside him. Close enough that your arms brushed lightly.
He didn’t move away. “No. Just you.” Smooth. Effortless. Delivered like it wasn’t a line.
“You’re so rehearsed,” you snickered into your drink. You barely looked at him. Your attention drifted to the kitchen, the music, the people passing by. You adjusted the hem of your dress. Anything but him.
And that — more than anything — got under his skin. Because he was used to being the center of attention.
He was used to being watched. But you? You acted like he was optional. His jaw tightened slightly, though his smile stayed lazy.
“If I’m rehearsed,” he said, pushing off the counter. He stepped into your space, one hand bracing against the surface behind you. Close enough to crowd. Not close enough to touch.
“I wouldn’t be standing here trying to figure you out.” His head tilted slightly as he leaned in, just a fraction closer. There was something different in his tone now. Less polished. Less automatic.
He let it show — just a little — that this wasn’t routine. That he was actually trying. You raised a brow lazily, finally meeting his eyes. “But go on,” he continued, softer, almost coaxing. “If I'm rehearsed, tell me what you think I’m going to say next.”
His other hand came to rest on the counter behind you, boxing you in without quite trapping you. Testing. Seeing how much you’d tolerate. How far he could push before you pushed back.
You only chuckled. Took another slow sip of your drink. Like his proximity meant nothing. Like he wasn’t practically caging you in. You set your cup down and crossed your arms. “You’re trying to figure me out?” you said evenly. “You’re doing a bad job, then.”
A quiet beat passed. “Am I?” His voice lowered, amusement threading through it. He liked this. The resistance. The way you didn’t melt or giggle or fold. “And yet…” A lazy smirk curved his mouth. “You’re still standing here.”
The confidence was still there — but thinner now. Sharpened. His eyes dropped to your lips for a second. Just long enough. Just slow enough.
“I’m still here because I’m entertained. Not because I’m doing you a favor by letting you figure me out,” you said evenly. Calm. Almost absentminded.
You took a small sip of your drink. “I’m also curious what cheesy line you’re going to try next.”
Suguru’s lips twitched. A quiet breath left him — not quite a laugh, but close. “Cheesy?” he echoed softly. He reached up without asking, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. Slow. Deliberate. Tucking it behind your ear like he had every right to. Then he leaned in. Close enough that his breath ghosted over your skin, lips barely grazing the shell of your ear. “Wanna find out?” he murmured.
He pulled back just enough to watch your reaction. Waiting for the shift. The blush. The swallow. The crack in your composure. It never came. Your expression stayed the same. Relaxed. Mildly bored.
“I'm good.”
Two simple words. You nudged his arm away — not aggressively, just enough to move past him — and walked back toward the couch where Haibara, Shoko, and Yuki were sitting. Like it was nothing.
Like he hadn’t just made a move on you. Suguru stayed where he was. For a second, he didn’t move. He didn’t fully process it. The rejection hit slower this time. Not sharp. Just heavy. Settling somewhere behind his ribs.
His heart was still beating too fast from the closeness. From the warmth of you. From the almost. He wasn’t sure what churned in his stomach more.
The sting of being brushed off. Or the fact that he wanted to try again.
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Suguru was fucked.
The scene from last Friday wouldn’t leave him alone. It replayed in his mind in sharp, unforgiving detail. The way you looked at him. The way you sounded. The way you said I’m good like he wasn’t worth your time.
He could still remember how close you were. The warmth of your body. The faint trace of your perfume that seemed to linger in his memory no matter how many showers he took.
He had thought about that single interaction more than the dirtiest things he had ever done. And he hadn’t even properly touched you. Every time it replayed, something twisted low in his stomach. Not lust. Not exactly. Something heavier. Stranger.
Something he’d never felt before.
His lecture dragged on endlessly. Some rant about foreign economies and stock markets. The professor also spiraling about his own investments tanking.
Suguru didn’t hear a word. His thoughts kept circling back to you. When class finally ended, he left without thinking, shoulders tense, jaw tight.
Everything felt dull. Boring. Until he saw you. Sitting on a bench outside. Headphones in. Sunlight spilling over you like it was intentional. Like the universe was presenting him with something he wasn’t sure he deserved.
You looked… beautiful. Your legs crossed neatly. Your outfit soft, effortless. Your hair falling perfectly over your shoulders. Brows slightly furrowed as you stared at your phone.
Beautiful.
The word made him pause.
He’d called girls hot. Sexy. But beautiful? Perfect? That was new. And he didn’t like how easily it was when it came to you.
He swallowed the thought down quickly. It was just the chase. That was all this was. Right?
He called your name as he approached. You looked up at him. And his heartbeat ticked up, just slightly. “Oh, hi,” you said, tugging one headphone out.
“You done for today?” he asked casually, already calculating how he could stretch this interaction. “One lecture left,” you sighed, slipping your phone into your pocket and pulling the other headphone out.
“When?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Come on. I’ll walk you.”
He didn’t wait for permission. He picked up your bag from the ground and slung it over his shoulder like it belonged there.
“You don’t have to,” you called, following behind him as he started toward the main building.
“Where’s your lecture?”
He ignored the protest entirely.
“018.”
He adjusted his pace slightly so you could keep up, leading you toward the back of the building without another word.
The hallway was quieter here.
Room 018 came into view on your right.
He stopped in front of you. You stepped closer, reaching up to tug your bag off his shoulder. “Thank you for walking me,” you said lightly. “Even if it was against my will.”
He scoffed, crossing his arms. “So charming,” he muttered.
“I’ll see you later.” He ruffled your hair — casual, almost teasing — before stepping past you and walking away.
Good thing he walked away. Otherwise he would’ve seen it — the slight widening of your eyes, the faint warmth rising to your cheeks where he’d ruffled your hair.
The last time — at the party — he had been closer to you. Closer than this. But there had been dim lighting and music loud enough to swallow hesitation. Alcohol warming your skin. Shadows to hide behind. This time there was none of that.
No haze. No flickering lights softening the edges. Just daylight pouring through the windows. Just the quiet hum of campus around you. Just him standing there, fully aware, fully sober. Good thing he walked away.
Otherwise he would’ve seen it — the slight widening of your eyes, the faint warmth rising to your cheeks where he’d ruffled your hair. He would’ve known he’d affected you.
An hour later, you stepped out of your lecture hall. And stopped. Suguru was leaning against the wall across from the door. Like he’d been there the whole time.
His phone hung loosely in his hand, forgotten. He found your eyes almost immediately, a lazy smirk spreading across his face like this had been inevitable. “What are you doing here?” you asked, walking up to him.
He hadn’t prepared an answer. Not really. “Thought I’d walk you home,” he said honestly. The words leaving before he could dress them up. You blinked at him. “You waited an hour to walk me home?” A small huff escaped you — half disbelief, half something else.
“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to,” he replied, pushing off the wall. His hands slipped from his pockets, reaching for your bag again and slinging it over his shoulder like it belonged there.
You fell into step beside him this time. “For someone with such a reputation,” you said lightly, “you’re being such a gentleman.”
“And what does that reputation entail?” he asked, glancing down at you like he genuinely didn’t know. Of course he knew. He just wanted to hear what you thought and heard.
“Come on,” you muttered, looking away. “You know what people say about you.”
“I do,” he replied smoothly. “But I’m wondering what you heard.” There was something different in his tone now. Less teasing. More searching. Because for once, it wasn’t about what the campus thought. It was about what you thought.
“You’re a manwhore,” you said plainly. No hesitation. No sugarcoating. His eyebrow twitched slightly. “You don’t do face-to-face,” you continued. “And you don’t kiss.” Your gaze stayed forward, focused on the path ahead. His eyes, however, were locked on you.
“People talk,” he said simply. Even though most of it was true. He had kissed a few girls back in freshman year. Early on. Back when he was still figuring out what he preferred during hook ups.
He’d learned quickly that he didn’t. Kissing complicated things. It made girls linger. Made them think. Made him pretend he wanted something more. “So it’s not true?” you asked, your gaze snapping up to him.
“I didn’t say that,” he chuckled, glancing back at you. This time, you were the one who looked away first. A quiet beat passed.
“Why no kissing?” you asked. There wasn’t judgment in your voice. Just curiosity. That made it harder to brush off. He exhaled through his nose, shoulders rolling slightly as he considered how to phrase it.
“Keeps things easy,” he said finally. “Sex is transactional. You feel good, I feel good. End of story.”
His tone was matter-of-fact. Almost clinical.
“But most people don’t get anything out of kissing,” he continued. “You kiss someone because you want to be close to them.” His eyes flickered toward you. “Seems more personal than sex to me.” He said it like it was obvious. Logical.
Like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. And you could follow what he meant. You understood the train of thought. You just couldn’t understand him. Because to you, that sounded backwards.
Detached. Safe. And maybe that was the point. “How do you even get in the mood without kissing?” you asked. You were trying to follow his logic. You really were.
“You just do,” he replied easily. “You don’t really get in the mood to do your assignments either, but you still do them.” He said it like it made perfect sense. You giggled. It was soft. Unfiltered. And something in him twitched at the sound.
He’d had girls whisper filth in his ear. Beg. Moan. Say things far more obscene. And yet a simple giggle from you did more to him than any of it ever had. “That’s… one way to put it,” you said, shaking your head slightly.
“What about you?” he asked.
“Mh?”
“What do you like?”
The question caught you off guard.
“Uh…”
You frowned faintly, thinking.
No one had really asked you that before.
You knew how to flirt. You’ve had boyfriends before — not many, you could still count them on one hand. From the outside they’d all seemed fine. Good guys. But when it came down to it… They hadn’t really known what to do with you. Everything had always revolved around them. Their pace. Their finish. “I don’t… know?” you admitted, shoulders lifting slightly.
“What do you mean? Even virgins know what they like.” He looked at you, genuinely confused.
“I’ve had a few boyfriends,” you said quietly, a hint of pink rising to your cheeks. “But they weren’t really any good. And whenever I tried to explain or try something different… it didn’t really work.” There was embarrassment there. Not dramatic. Just subtle. Like you’d quietly decided somewhere along the way that maybe you were the problem.
“Maybe I’m just not made for sex,” you added with a small, almost self-conscious laugh.
Something in Suguru hardened at that. Not lust. Not entirely. Something sharper. Because the idea of you thinking that — of some mediocre guys fumbling their way through you and leaving you convinced you were the issue — irritated him more than it should have.
“Or,” he said calmly, cutting in, “you just didn’t have the right partners.”
“When it happens with one boyfriend, it could be coincidence,” you said with a faint, bitter chuckle. “When it happens with two? That’s not really a coincidence anymore.”
He looked at you differently then. Not like prey. Not like a challenge. Like something he wanted to prove wrong. “If you had the wrong ones twice,” he said evenly, “that just means your sample size was bad.” There was a faint smirk there, but softer than usual.
“It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.” His tone wasn’t teasing. It was steady. Certain.
And for once, he wasn’t trying to get you into bed (well not completely) He was trying to undo something someone else had planted in your head. And that might’ve been worse for him. Because this wasn’t about winning a challenge anymore. It was about wanting to be the one who showed you differently.
“Thanks,” you said softly. “That’s… oddly comforting.” For a second, something warm settled between you.
“Maybe I could be the one to show you,” he added, a wink following right after.
And just like that, the warmth shifted. A quiet bucket of disappointment washed over you. Right. He was still him. Still the campus manwhore. Still the guy who turned everything into an invitation. “Yeah,” you said lightly, pushing his shoulder with two fingers, “no thank you.”
He laughed, not offended. But something flickered behind his eyes — quick. Almost unreadable. The conversation eased after that. Safer topics. His time in college. Your time overseas. Gossip about mutual acquaintances. Who dated who. Who cheated. Who dropped out.
It felt normal. Almost easy. And that was the dangerous part. Because you genuinely enjoyed talking to him. By the time you reached your building, the sky had softened into late afternoon gold. You stopped at your door. “Thank you,” you said, taking your bag back from him. “I really enjoyed our talk.”
And you meant it. His expression shifted — subtle, but softer than the smirking version he wore so easily. “My pleasure,” he replied. Polite. Controlled.
“I’ll see you around.” He gave you a small wave before stepping back from the entrance, giving you space as you unlocked your door.
He didn’t linger. But as he walked away, hands sliding back into his pockets, something about the interaction replayed in his mind.
He enjoyed talking to you. Not flirting. Not teasing. Talking. And for the first time, Suguru wasn’t sure if that made things easier… Or infinitely more complicated.
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“Where are you going?” he asked when you took a different turn instead of heading toward your building. He was standing outside your lecture hall again, like he had been for the past few weeks. It had become a routine of sorts — he would wait for you, walk you home, and talk with you about nothing and everything.
“I have to go to the library,” you replied. “My professor assigned something last minute, and I want to get it done before the weekend.”
Suguru fell into step beside you without hesitation. “Mind if I join?” he asked, his arm settling over your shoulder in a way that had slowly become familiar. At some point, you had stopped shrugging it off.
“Sure,” you said, looking up at him with a stern expression. “If you promise to be quiet.”
“I promise,” he replied, lifting his pinky in a childish gesture.
You sighed, but your lips curved slightly as you hooked your pinky around his. A pinky promise. The library was warm and quiet when you stepped inside, the faint scent of paper and coffee lingering in the air. You led him toward a quiet corner where a small table with two chairs sat facing each other.
To your surprise, he actually kept his promise. He opened his laptop and pulled up his own assignment, though he barely looked at it. Most of his attention was on you. He watched the way your hair fell forward when you leaned down to write, the way your sweater slipped slightly off one shoulder, the crease between your brows when you concentrated, the back of the pen resting against your soft bottom lip. His textbook sat open and untouched, the words blurring together because he couldn’t stop glancing up at you.
“I have to grab something,” you said eventually, standing from your chair. He stood immediately. “I’ll come with you.”
“You do that a lot,” you remarked as you scanned the shelves. “Following behind me.”
“Are we having this conversation again?” he replied lightly, his eyes focused on you rather than the rows of books.
“You’re like a big puppy.”
He laughed at that, an actual, unguarded laugh. “That’s what I’ve been reduced to?”
“That’s what you’ve been upgraded to,” you corrected as you spotted the book you needed. It was on the top shelf. You stretched up on your toes, your fingers barely grazing the metal edge beneath it. Suguru stepped closer behind you, not quite touching you but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him at your back. He reached over you easily and grabbed the book.
Instead of handing it to you, he lifted it just slightly higher. You turned around with a small frown, your brows knitting together as you tried to reach for it again. He watched you from above, his smirk lazy but his heartbeat louder than he liked to admit.
“Not even a thank you you? Or a please,” he teased. “Didn’t think you were ill-mannered.”
“Do you want me to beg you?” you countered, your tone unimpressed. The thought alone made something stir in him. “Would you?” he asked, leaning a fraction closer.
“No,” you replied immediately, crossing your arms despite the way your stomach fluttered at his proximity.
“Then you’re not getting your book about…” He glanced at the cover. “International politics.” You flushed faintly, embarrassed that he had said the title out loud when it was perfectly normal.
“Fine.”
He waited, expecting more. “Please, Suguru,” you said flatly.
It wasn’t breathless or sweet like he had imagined, but hearing his name leave your lips so casually still did something to him that caught him off guard.
“Not good enough,” he replied, shaking his head.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” you said, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking flustered. “Do you have some sort of worship kink?”
He chuckled and stepped closer until his chest brushed lightly against your body. “Just trying to teach you manners.”
You scoffed. “Fine. Keep the book.” You pushed past him and walked back toward the table, your pride too intact to play along with whatever game he was trying to start. After a second, he followed you, the book still in his hand. This hadn’t gone the way he imagined. You didn’t fold. You didn’t beg. You didn’t give him what he wanted.
And he hated how much he liked that. “I’m going home,” you said as you began packing your bag. “Already?” he asked.
“Might as well. I can’t really go any further without that book.”
You walked ahead of him again, refusing to look back, your pride too strong to let him win.
And as he followed behind you — because of course he did — Suguru realized he admired that stubbornness far more than he should have.
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His room was quiet, the late afternoon light spilling lazily across the floor. Suguru lounged on his bed with his phone in hand, half-reading through the fraternity council group chat. Over a hundred messages flooded the screen about some reckless freshmen stunt that could get the house in trouble. Arguments about whether to kick them out or just put them on social probation dragged on endlessly. He barely cared.
His phone suddenly rang. Your name lit up the screen. The number you had reluctantly given him two weeks ago. A smile spread across his face before he even realized it.
“Sweetheart—”
“You really took that book with you?” you half-yelled through the phone.
His smile shifted into a slow smirk as he leaned back against his pillows. Usually you were composed, cool, untouchable. Hearing you slightly ruffled did something to him.
“You said I could keep it,” he replied lazily.
“I didn’t expect you to actually take it.”
“You told me to. Who am I not to comply?”
“Did you even register it, or did you just steal it?”
“It’s not stealing if I bring it back.”
He could practically hear your eye roll through the phone.
“What do you even want with that specific book?”
“For someone as smart as you, you’re awfully slow.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I dont want that book. I just want to hear you say please.”
“I already did,” you snapped.
“That wasn’t good enough.”
“Then you should’ve been more specific.”
“I was specific,” he said calmly. “Just say the words and I’ll give it to you.”
“Oh, please, Suguru,” you replied in an overly sweet, dripping tone.
It was sarcasm.
But the effect was very real.
“Go on,” he murmured, smirk widening.
“Fuck off.” The line went dead. He stared at his phone. You really just hung up on him. He almost pouted. Still, he was getting closer. You wouldn’t be this annoyed if you didn’t care.
Twenty minutes later, a knock sounded at his door. He rolled off his bed, expecting Satoru, maybe Haibara or another brother.
Instead, you stood there. Arms crossed. Cute frown firmly in place. “Give me that book.” No greeting. No smile.
“So impolite,” he tsked, leaning against the doorframe. He found it amusing that you had come all the way here for a book you could probably find online. A part of him wanted to believe you were enjoying this just as much as he was.
“Suguru, please. I have plans this weekend, and the deadline’s Monday.”
“You’re getting closer,” he replied.
You stepped inside his room without waiting for permission. It was surprisingly tidy for a frat house. You went straight to his desk and began rummaging through the drawers.
“It could save you a real headache if you just asked nicely enough,” he said, watching you search. You straightened and finally turned to face him. There was something different in your eyes now. Determined. Slightly desperate.
“Suguru,” you exhaled. “I really need the book. Please.” That one was more sincere. And it hit harder than the sarcastic ones. He didn’t move. From the outside, he looked unbothered. Inside, his stomach was flipping and his heart was beating fast enough to power a small city.
“Please,” you said again, softer this time. He swallowed. “Knew you could be polite,” he said lightly, ruffling your hair before stepping past you.
He grabbed the book from his bag. It hadn’t moved since the library. Your hands reached for it immediately. He pulled it back again. “What are your plans this weekend?” he asked casually.
Your expression shifted to mild annoyance. “Seeing a friend.”
A friend? His jaw tightened slightly. What kind of friend? Why did that word suddenly irritate him? “What friend?” he pressed.
You scoffed. “I came here to get a book, and now you’re interrogating me about my social life.”
“You want the book?” he challenged. You hesitated for a second. “I’m going on a blind date. Now can I please have my book?”
A blind date. The word landed heavier than he expected. Jealousy flared before he could stop it. It didn’t make sense. You were a challenge. A game. A mission to see how long it would take to get you in his bed. So why did the idea of someone else sitting across from you make something ugly twist in his chest?
He lowered the book without another word. You grabbed it immediately. “Thank you,” you said, smiling.
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Suguru laid quietly in his bed that same night you came storming into his room. His head clouded with jealousy and also lust.
You saying ‘please' and almost begging him really did something to him. It may have been because you wanted a book and not because you wanted him, but that didn't matter to him. The words that bordered on begging had taken their toll on him, and especially on his cock.
The room was dark, except for the faint glow of moonlight slipping through the curtains, casting shadows over the rumpled sheets. Suguru's chest rose and fell unevenly, his mind replaying the scene over and over.
'Suguru, I really need this. Please.' Fuck, the way your eyes had locked on his. It twisted something deep in his gut, even when he had completely taken your words out of context.
A hot coil of envy still in his stomach because of that stupid blind date, but his dick still throbbing with need.
He groaned low in his throat, palming himself through the thin material, feeling the heat radiate from his skin.
With a frustrated huff, Suguru shoved his boxers and sweats down his thighs, freeing his cock. It sprang up, thick and heavy, the tip already glistening with pre-cum in the dim light. He wrapped his hand around the base, squeezing firmly, and let out a shaky breath.
His mind flooded with images: you on your knees, not for your blind date, but only for him. Begging to touch him, to taste him.
'Please,' you'd probably whisper, lips parted, eyes dark with want.
He started stroking, slow at first, his fist gliding up the shaft, thumb swiping over the sensitive head to spread the slickness. A jolt of pleasure shot through him, making his hips buck involuntarily. Fuck, he was so hard it ached, veins pulsing under his grip. He picked up the pace, hand twisting slightly, imagining your mouth instead—wet and warm, sucking him down greedily.
His free hand clutched the sheets, knuckles white, as he jerked faster, the slick sound of skin on skin filling the quiet room. His balls tightened, drawing up as the pressure built low in his belly.
He muttered your name, head falling back against the pillow.
In his mind, you were there, begging louder, your voice breaking as you rode him, pussy clenching around his cock. He thrust into his fist, chasing that fantasy, breaths coming in ragged pants.
He couldn't hold it anymore.
With a choked groan, Suguru came, hot spurts of cum shooting over his hand and stomach, his body shuddering with the force of it. He milked himself through it, every last pulse, until he slumped back, spent and sticky. The jealousy lingered, a dull ache.
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Suguru had almost manifested it — the worst possible outcome.
And somehow, the night had gone exactly that way.
That’s how you ended up still wearing your date outfit — burgundy dress, black heels — on a grimy frat couch, completely out of place in the chaos of the house. But right now, you didn’t care.
The bass thumped through the house hard enough to rattle the walls, music vibrating through the floorboards. The air was thick with sweat, perfume, and cheap alcohol. Out in the yard, a small group lingered in the glow of porch lights, passing a blunt between them and laughing too loudly. Satoru stood near the kitchen island, effortlessly charming two girls at once, his grin bright and shameless, while across the dance floor Toji had a girl pressed flush against him, moving in a way that made it very clear neither of them cared who was watching.
Suguru sat beside you, arm wrapped loosely around your shoulders. His thumb traced slow, absentminded patterns along your arm while he held his cup in the other hand, occasionally bringing it to your lips so you could take a sip.
You leaned into him slightly.
He leaned back into the couch, gaze lazily fixed on you, pretending he wasn’t studying every expression on your face.
“He was barely taller than me,” you complained, arms crossing. “And in the same sentence he claimed he was 6’1.”
Suguru brought the cup closer to your mouth again. You took a sip.
“That sucks, sweetheart,” he murmured, rubbing your arm soothingly.
“He wore this stupid expensive watch and could not stop talking about it. I swear I just sat through a forty-five minute TED Talk about watches.”
You let your head fall back lightly against his chest.
His heartbeat picked up immediately.
Your perfume. The warmth of your body. The way you looked — dressed up for some idiot who didn’t deserve it.
He kept his expression neutral. Secretly, he was relieved it had gone badly.
“And then,” you continued dramatically, “he showed me his stock portfolio. And then not even his car — the car he’s planning to buy after college. Like that’s supposed to impress me.”
“Business major?” Suguru asked knowingly.
“Ugh. He was.” You groaned into your hands. Hands completely covering your face now.
He chuckled quietly, then set his drink down and gently grabbed both of your wrists with one hand, pulling them away from where you’d buried your face.
You reached for his cup instead and took a long drink before handing it back to him.
“I don’t get it,” you sighed. “I think I’m cursed when it comes to men.”
His jaw tightened slightly at that.
“Or,” he said calmly, “your taste is just terrible.”
You shot him a look. He smirked faintly. “Good thing I could fix that for you.”
You chuckled and nudged him lightly with your shoulder. For once, you didn’t follow it up with a snarky comment or a casual rejection. You just laughed. And he hated how much that did to him.
It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just a laugh. Just you relaxing around him for once. But something warm and unfamiliar twisted low in his stomach. Maybe turning this into a challenge hadn’t been his smartest idea. Because somewhere along the way, it had stopped feeling like one. He told himself it was still about the chase. About winning. About proving that even you would fold for him eventually.
But hope had started to creep in. And that was dangerous. “Wouldn’t that just make you one of my bad decisions?” you asked, tilting your head up at him.
His eyes were already on you.
“You think I’d treat you like that?” he asked, and for once there wasn’t much teasing in it. There was something almost earnest there, like he genuinely needed to know.
“You want me to be honest?” you chuckled lightly.
“Depends,” he said, though his voice wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be.
You studied him for a second.
“I think some bad decisions could be worth it.”
His breath caught before he could hide it. For a split second, his composure cracked — eyes widening just slightly, jaw tightening like he was processing what you had just given him.
Worth it.
His heart was pounding in his throat now, loud enough that he was sure you could feel it through his chest.
His hand on your shoulder tightened slightly, pulling you closer without him fully realizing he was doing it. Your gazes didn’t break — not once. Slowly, his free hand slid down to your wrist. He lifted it carefully, like it was something fragile.
His lips brushed against the pulse point there — soft, lingering just long enough for you to feel the warmth of it.
Then higher, to the center of your palm. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t showy. It was deliberate. He looked back up at you. The music in the other room felt distant now. The world narrowing to the space between you.
“You won’t regret me,” he said quietly.
At first, the kiss was soft — exploring, tentative. But as it went on, it took on a life of its own. His tongue flicked against your lower lip, seeking entrance. When your mouth opened for him, he pressed closer, his body fitting against yours.
The kiss grew more urgent, more demanding. His hand left your cheek and tangled in your hair, pulling you even closer. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the way his body pressed against yours without an inch to spare. And the sounds he made — low, almost desperate — sent a shiver down your spine.
His mouth left yours, trailing hot kisses down your jawline, to the spot where your pulse thundered in your throat. You felt him smirk against your neck — he knew what he was doing to you.
“Wanna go?” he murmured against your neck, his breath hot where your pulse fluttered.
You nodded eagerly. he was already on his feet.
Your hand stayed in his as he pulled you up with him, fingers tight around your wrist as he led you through the crowd and up the stairs. The music downstairs faded with every step, replaced by the sound of your own breathing and the rush of blood in your ears.
The second you stepped into his room, the door shut behind you with a heavy click.
He didn’t waste time.
His hands gripped your waist firmly, pulling you closer as his mouth crashed back onto yours. Tongues tangled languid and heated– exploring each other with deliberate strokes.
You toed off your heels with a quick kick, the clatter lost in the thrum of music drifting up from downstairs. His fingers found the zipper of your dress, tugging it down slowly.
The fabric loosened, slipping around your shoulders like a whisper of surrender. "Let me make you feel good," he murmured against your lips, voice low and rough, pulling back just enough for the words to sink in.
"I'll show you what your previous ones couldn't." His hands slid the straps down your arms, the dress pooling at your feet in a silken heap, leaving you exposed in nothing but your lingerie—lace clinging to your skin, a fragile barrier.
His mouth claimed yours again, the wet smacks of kisses echoing in the room, mingling with the bass-heavy rhythm from below. Both hands cupped the underside of your ass, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs hooked around his hips, and he carried you like that, devouring your mouth as if it were the last kiss he'd ever steal—deep, insistent, stealing your breath.
He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, settling you on his lap. One hand traced the curve of your waist, skin warm under his palm, before dipping lower to toy with the delicate lace of your panties.
His fingers lingered, teasing the edge, brushing close enough to make you ache. Then he slipped inside, parting your folds with a confident stroke. His thumb circled your clit in slow, firm circles while two fingers curled into you, pressing against that sensitive spot deep within. The stretch was perfect, building friction with each deliberate thrust—curling, twisting, scissoring to stretch you open. "This okay?" he asked, voice a husky murmur, smirking as he watched your face twist in pleasure.
"Must feel good, huh?"
You could only nod, breath hitching as he ramped up the pace, fingers pumping faster, thumb relentless on your clit. He leaned in, capturing your mouth briefly before his lips trailed to your neck, nipping at the skin. With his free hand, he reached behind you, unhooking your bra in one smooth motion. The lace fell away, and he palmed your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples, rolling them until they peaked hard under his touch.
Your whimpers filled the air, soft and desperate, and he groaned low, his cock twitching harder against your thigh. It had been straining against his pants since you kissed him back, thick and insistent, your sounds only adding to it.
Pressure coiled tight in your core, his fingers relentless, curling just right to hit that spot over and over. Your body arched, thighs trembling around him as the wave crested. A burst of colors exploded behind your closed eyelids—an orgasm ripping through you, fierce and shattering, the kind you hadn't felt in ages. Your walls clenched around his fingers, pulsing as you came undone, slick coating his hand.
You panted, chest heaving, but he was there instantly, mouth sealing over yours, swallowing your gasps like they were his to claim. You tried to kiss back, lips clumsy against his, but the aftershocks still quaked through you, leaving you boneless.
"Need a moment?" He leaned back onto the bed, propping himself on his elbows, biceps bulging against the fabric of his shirt, veins standing out in sharp relief.
The haze cleared just enough, and you slid off his lap, dropping to your knees on the cool hardwood floor. The chill bit into your skin, grounding you.
"You don't have to," he said, thumb brushing your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.
"Let me give you something back," you whispered, hands already at his belt, fumbling with the buckle in your eagerness. Your fingers shook, haste making them clumsy.
"Calm down, sweetheart," he chuckled, the sound dark and fond, his hand covering yours to steady it, unfastening the belt and popping the button with ease.
His cock sprang free as you tugged his pants down, thicker and longer than any you'd known before—heavy, veined, the tip already glistening with precum. You wrapped your hand around the base, stroking once, twice, before leaning in to swirl your tongue around the head, tasting him on your tongue.
He hissed, fingers threading into your hair as you took him deeper, lips stretching around his girth. You bobbed slowly at first, hollowing your cheeks, tongue pressing flat along the underside as you sucked. Saliva slicked him, your hand twisting in tandem with your mouth, working him with eager pulls.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he groaned, hips bucking slightly. "So proud of you, taking me like this. My sweet girl." His praise washed over you, spurring you on, but just as his breaths grew ragged, his grip tightened in your hair.
He pulled you off with a wet pop, right before he could tip over the edge. "Not yet," he rasped, eyes dark with intent. "I want to be inside you when I come."
In one fluid motion, he shrugged off his shirt, revealing his muscular chest and abs. Then he scooped you up from the floor like you were weightless, manhandling you onto the bed. He flipped you flat on your stomach, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settled behind you. His cock pressed hot and heavy against your ass.
"Sugu," you moaned, voice muffled against the sheets, body arching back in desperate invitation.
He didn't make you wait. Lining up, he thrust in deep, filling you in one smooth stroke. The prone position let him grind against you, cock dragging along your walls with every snap of his hips.
His hands roamed—one sliding up to cover your mouth, fingers pressing against your lips, "Open," he commanded softly, and you did, sucking on his fingers as he fucked into you harder, the wet sounds of skin meeting skin filling the room.
"Bet you've never felt this good, huh?" he groaned against your ear, pace unrelenting. "You're so gorgeous like this.”
“How does my cock feel? Come on, tell me."
You could barely form words, pleasure overwhelming you—mewling around his fingers, body rocking with each thrust. It felt too good, too full, his dirty words stoking the fire higher.
But after a few minutes, he slowed, a frustrated huff escaping him. This position—it wasn't hitting right– not like he thought it would. He usually stuck to from behind, keeping emotional distance, but now... He pulled out fully, the sudden emptiness making you whine.
Grabbing your waist, he flipped you onto your back with effortless strength, manhandling you again, your legs splaying open. His cock looked even harder, flushed and straining as he positioned himself between your thighs.
"Fuck, needed to see you," he muttered, slamming back inside, the angle deeper, hitting new spots that made stars burst behind your eyes.
"Want to see your pretty face." His hand found your clit, rubbing in tight circles as he drove into you, mouth descending to yours in a messy, claiming kiss.
The combination shattered you—his cock stretching you, thumb working your clit, lips bruising yours. Tension snapped like a wire, your orgasm crashing over you, walls fluttering around him as you cried out into his mouth.
"I'm right behind you," he panted, thrusts erratic now, chasing his release. With a final, deep grind, he came, spilling hot inside you, body shuddering. "My pretty girl," he whispered, voice wrecked. "So pretty just for me."
You both rode out the waves, breaths mingling as he collapsed beside you, pulling you close. The high faded slowly, but even as warmth lingered, his thoughts lingered.
He had broken two of his rules to get you into his bed. No kissing. No face-to-face. Both gone. And he had hopefully broken your man-curse.
This was supposed to be simple. A challenge. A bruised ego that needed repairing. A girl who had rejected him and needed proving wrong. That’s what he had told himself from the beginning. That he was chasing the thrill, not you.
But somewhere between kissing you and needing to see your face, something shifted. He had never needed that before — never cared about eye contact, never cared about expressions. It had always been easier that way. Detached. Controlled.
With you, it hadn’t been controlled at all. He wanted to see you. Needed to. Needed your face in front of him like proof that this wasn’t just another meaningless night.
And that realization unsettled him more than anything. He liked you. Not because you rejected him. Not because his pride had taken a hit. Not because he had something to prove. He just liked you.
Still, even as that truth pressed against his ribs, he tried to smother it. This is why you don’t kiss. This is why you don’t do face-to-face. It complicates things. It makes it real.
You were just a challenge– a bet he had made with himself. So why did something twist painfully in his chest when he saw you slipping out of his bed?
You moved quietly, gathering your dress from the floor, smoothing it down like you were preparing to step back into your own world.
His hand reached out before he could stop himself, fingers closing gently around yours.
“Where are you going?” he asked, and the softness in his voice surprised even him.
You glanced over your shoulder at him with a faint, knowing smile.
“Thought you had rules,” you said lightly. “No staying over, and all that”
His thumb brushed slowly over your knuckles. Instead of letting go, he lifted your hand to his mouth and pressed a slow kiss against your skin.
He tugged you back toward him, and you fell against his chest, your body fitting against his like it had earlier. “I don’t think those rules really matter when it comes to you,” he admitted quietly.
He leaned in, pressing slow, unhurried kisses along your cheek, your jaw, your temple. There was no rush this time. When he reached your mouth, he paused, studying you for a second before kissing you softly. “Rules don’t apply to you,” he murmured against your lips.
You smiled despite yourself. The rational part of you knew better. It told you he probably said similar things before, that this was just another smooth line delivered in the afterglow.
But the part of you still tangled up in him, warm and softened and wanting to believe, chose not to argue.
“Besides. I'm not done with you”
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You and Suguru had settled into something dangerously undefined in the six weeks you’d been seeing each other.
Not official. Not casual.
If he wasn’t at your apartment, you were at the frat. There was barely a day you didn’t see him. He still walked you home almost every evening like it was routine, like it had always been his place beside you. But now it didn’t end at your door.
Now he’d stop halfway down the street and say, “You studied for hours. That deserves food.”
He called it a reward. He always paid. And when you’d protest — because you always did — he’d just shrug with that lazy grin of his. “You already do enough for me,” he’d say lightly when you would try to pay him back. And without fail it would always send a wave of heat within you.
And it turned out you weren’t cursed when it came to men. The men before had only cared about themselves. Suguru had proven that wasn’t a universal rule.
Your things had started to mix with his. Your apartment was slowly overtaken by his hoodies, sweatpants, jackets, a toothbrush he’d left behind and never taken back. But his room wasn’t much better. Duplicates of your skincare products lined his sink because he “wanted you to feel at home.” Your panties mixed into his laundry. Your perfume soaked into his sheets.
It was a challenge for Suguru at first, but that feelings were quickly replaced by something real– feelings? love?
You were tucked away in the library now, headphones snug over your ears, soft music humming in the background as you tried to focus on your textbook. Four hours of studying had drained you, and nothing new was sticking.
With a quiet sigh, you packed up your bag and started weaving between the shelves toward the exit. That’s when you heard it. “Have you seen Suguru and his girl?”
Satoru. You recognized his voice. Too loud for the library. You slowed instinctively. “Looks like he’s finally mature enough to have a girlfriend. Finally done with the ‘I have rules’ bullshit,” Satoru added, amused.
“Yeah, right,” another voice responded. Sukuna his voice.
You couldn’t see them clearly from where you stood, just shapes a few shelves away. You should’ve walked away. You didn’t. “Remember what he said?” Sukuna continued.
Satoru sounded confused. “What?”
“His ego got dented when she rejected him at that first party she showed. Said it was a challenge for him. Wanted to see how long it’d take for her to give in.”
The words hit before you could brace for them. Your heart dropped. The air felt thin.
“Oh,” Satoru muttered after a beat. “I feel bad for her. She’d be good for him.”
“She would,” Sukuna said. “Too bad he’s… him.”
Your vision blurred before you even realized tears had gathered.
Challenge.
The word echoed louder than anything else.
All the late nights. The borrowed hoodies. The way he’d said rules didn’t apply to you. Your stomach twisted violently. You didn’t wait to hear more. Your legs moved on their own, carrying you down the aisle and out of the library before your brain could catch up.
You were supposed to go to him today. You couldn’t. If Satoru and Sukuna knew, how many others did? How many people had watched you and thought you were just part of some ego game? The humiliation burned hotter than the hurt.
By the time you stepped outside, tears were already spilling freely down your face. You walked fast, almost blindly, ignoring the strange looks from people passing by.
You didn’t care. You just needed to get home.
You got home after what felt like eternity, and let your bag drop by the door. Your apartment felt different now. Smaller. Louder with memories.
Every corner held him. The couch where he’d pull you into his side. The kitchen where he slow danced with you at 4:00am after a rager. The bed where he made love to you multiple times. The faint trace of his cologne still lingering in the air like it refused to leave.
You walked to your closet to grab pajamas. It was littered with his stupid hoodies and shirts. You’d stolen them absentmindedly over the weeks, and he’d never asked for them back.
You pulled one down. Even after sitting in your closet for days, it still smelled like him. Ridiculous. Your throat tightened again. You changed slowly, forcing yourself to breathe, pushing the tears away with the heel of your hand. But the second you lay down on your bed, it all came rushing back.
Challenge. You were just a challenge to him
The words echoed over and over. Apparently that’s all you were. A dented ego. A game. A timer he had started the moment you rejected him. Your mascara smudged against the pillow, but you didn’t bother fixing it. You were too embarrassed. Too humiliated.
How many people knew? How many had watched you walk into that frat house nearly everyday while they secretly pitied you. The room blurred. You cried until exhaustion dragged you under.
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When you woke up hours later, the apartment was dim. Your face felt tight, puffy. You reached for your phone. Notifications flooded your screen.
Seven missed calls.
Twelve messages.
All from Suguru. Right. You were supposed to go over after the library. Your chest twisted. You dropped the phone back onto the mattress like it burned.
In the kitchen, you opened the fridge and stared at it without seeing anything. There was food. Plenty of it. You just weren’t hungry. Your stomach felt full of something heavier. Regret. Shame. Hurt. You closed the fridge and went back to your room, curling in on yourself again.
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Suguru stood outside your lecture hall the next morning, scanning the crowd. You weren’t there. He checked his phone again. Still nothing. That wasn’t like you. You always texted back. Always.
He sent another message.
Then another.
Then called. This time it went straight to voicemail. You declined him?
Something cold slid down his spine. Had he done something? He replayed the last few days in his head, searching for a misstep.
Nothing made sense.
Within minutes he was outside your apartment, slightly out of breath from walking too fast. His heart pounded harder than it should have.
He knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again.
Still nothing.
His jaw tightened as he knocked a third time, more urgently.
The door finally opened while you stood half-hidden behind it. Your eyes swollen. Skin blotchy. Dark circles under your lashes. It hit him like a punch.
“Sweetheart—” He stepped forward instinctively, but you shook your head. “Don’t,” you whispered.
His chest tightened immediately. “What’s wrong?” he asked, voice softer than he meant it to be.
“I’m not feeling well,” you said. The lie was obvious. Being sick might explain missing class. It didn’t explain the puffy eyes.
“Let me take care of you,” he said quickly. There was uncertainty in his voice now. Fear, almost.
“I’m fine.”
You started to close the door, but his hand caught it gently. Your eyes lifted to him again. God. The sight of you like this hurt more than he expected.
“Sweetheart, please,” he said quietly. There was no cockiness left. No smirk. No lazy grin. Just concern.
“No,” you said, firmer now. “I said I’m fine.” There was bite in your voice this time. He hesitated. But then slowly stepped back.
His hand dropped to his side and the door closed. And he stood there, staring at it, something unfamiliar and heavy settling in his chest.
He knew it now. You were mad at him.
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Suguru tried everything. For two weeks straight, he showed up at your door.
Sometimes you didn’t open it at all. Sometimes you did. And every single time, his heart climbed into his throat. The seconds between knocking and hearing the lock turn felt unbearable. A mix of dread and hope twisted together in his chest. Relief when you opened it. A selfish flicker of happiness just from seeing you.
And then the guilt.
Because every time you stood there, you looked a little more tired. A little more guarded. Like something inside you had dimmed. It was subtle to anyone else but not to him.
Your eyes didn’t light up when you saw him anymore. You didn’t lean into the doorway. You didn’t tease him. You didn’t call him Sugu.
He stood in front of your door with coffee from your favorite place and the sandwich you always ordered. It was early, but he knew you’d be awake by now. He had gotten up earlier than usual just to make sure he got it before the morning rush.
It took a while before the door opened. When it did, you looked the same as the night before. Puffy eyes. Skin slightly blotchy. A fragile kind of tiredness that made his chest tighten.
“How are you feeling?” he asked carefully, like speaking too loudly might break you. “Fine,” you said again, your voice still rough from sleep.
“I got you breakfast,” he added, holding up the cup and the small paper bag. He tried to smile, but it felt wrong when you didn’t mirror it. You took the food from his hands.
“Thank you,” you said politely. The door closed before he could say anything else.
You didn’t eat it. You couldn’t. The sandwich stayed untouched in the fridge. You took a few sips of the coffee, but even that tasted wrong.
The next day he showed up again, this time closer to evening. You still opened the door for him. That alone gave him a flicker of hope. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said softly.
Your eye bags were lighter, but the tiredness hadn’t left. Your lashes looked heavy, your nose faintly red like you’d been crying recently. He noticed. He didn’t mention it, he didn't want to push it.
“Dinner from your favorite place,” he said, lifting the bag slightly. You hesitated before taking it.
“Thank you.” The door closed again. More firmly this time.
The day after that, he tried something different. Maybe it wasn’t about food. Maybe it was about effort.
It was noon. You didn’t have lectures. He stood outside your door with a bouquet of your favorite flowers tucked under his arm. He raised his hand to knock. The door opened before he could.
You startled slightly when you saw him there. You were dressed to leave — skirt, sweater, jacket, scarf wrapped around your neck. You looked put together.
Beautiful.
But the dullness in your eyes was impossible to miss. The spark that used to be there when you looked at him wasn’t there.
“Hi,” he said quietly. It felt strange standing this close to you again.
“Hi,” you replied.
“Going somewhere?”
“grocery store.” A lie. Your fridge and pantry were still stocked. You just needed some air.
“Ah,” he said, holding out the bouquet. “These are for you,” He watched your face carefully, searching for anything — softness, annoyance, something.
You took them. “Suguru, please stop doing this.” The flowers rested against your chest.
“Doing what?” he asked, though his voice was tighter now.
“Whatever this is. Stop wasting your money.”
You stepped back into the apartment and walked toward the kitchen. He half expected you to throw them in the trash. Instead, you grabbed a vase and placed them inside. Careful.
That hurt more.
He stepped inside slowly, unsure if he was overstepping. You returned to the doorway and stood there, leaving a respectful distance between you. Too much distance.
He took a step closer. You took one back.
His heart shattered.
“Please tell me what’s going on.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
Not angry. Not screaming. Just tired.
“Did you win?” Your voice was steady. Cold. But your eyes betrayed you — glossy with tears you were trying very hard not to let fall. He frowned slightly. “What are you—”
“The challenge,” you cut in, your hands sliding into the pockets of your jacket like you needed something to hold onto. “Did you win the challenge?”
You said it clearer this time. Slower. His stomach dropped.
It had started as something stupid. A careless comment. An ego he didn’t know how to soothe when you rejected him. He had never been rejected before. Not like that. Not calmly. Not without you even flinching. You had unsettled him. And instead of admitting that, he’d turned it into a game. A challenge. Something to conquer. He had said it drunk once. Careless. Laughing it off in front of people who didn’t matter. But somewhere between chasing you and actually knowing you, it had stopped being about pride.
It had become something else. Something he hadn’t planned on. You leaned back against the counter, watching his expression carefully — the shock, the dawning realization.
“Where did you hear that?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.
“That’s what matters to you?” you scoffed, pushing yourself off the counter. You walked toward the door.
A bitter laugh slipping out before you could stop it. One tear finally escaped, sliding down your cheek. He moved before thinking, his hand closing gently but firmly around your wrist.
You didn’t turn around.
“It started out that way,” he admitted. The words felt heavy coming out. “But it didn’t stay that way.” Silence filled the space between you.
“The first time you rejected me, at that party” he continued quietly, “I didn’t know how to handle it. I’ve never been told no like that. You left me feeling… off. And instead of dealing with that like an adult, I said something stupid to my friends.”
He stepped closer. You didn’t pull away this time.
“But when I got closer to you— when I realized I actually wanted to get closer to you… not to win, not to prove anything, but because I wanted you—” His composure held, but his voice cracked just slightly. “That’s when it stopped being a challenge.”
You finally turned your head just enough for him to see your profile. “How does that fix anything?” you asked quietly.
Your eyes were glossy now, tears threatening to spill, but you refused to let them fall again. You stood straighter, trying to hold yourself together. He saw through it immediately. And it broke him.
“I can’t fix how it started,” he said, voice low, steady but strained. “I can’t erase what I said. I can’t pretend I didn’t humiliate you.”
For a second, he just looked at you.
Then, before he could overthink it, he let go of your wrist — only to drop down in front of you.
Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just… down. Both knees hit the floor. You blinked in shock.
“Suguru—”
He took your hands in his before you could pull away, holding them gently, like he was afraid they’d disappear.
“I can’t change the past,” he said, looking up at you now. No smirk. No ego. No control. “But I can change what I do next.”
Your breathing faltered.
“I don’t want to win you,” he continued. “I want to deserve you.”
His thumbs brushed lightly over your knuckles.
“It started stupid. It started with my pride. But after everything. it stopped being about proving anything.” His jaw tightened slightly. “You weren’t a game to me. You weren’t something to conquer. You were the first person who made me want to stay.”
That word hung heavy between you.
Stay.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he added, quieter now. “And I don’t expect you to believe me just because I’m here.” His grip softened.
“But I’m not getting up until you understand that you were never just a challenge.”
Your fingers threaded through his hair, the movement so natural it felt like second nature. When your lips met his, he inhaled sharply, the sound almost a gasp. Your touch was soft, the kiss gentle but filled with longing.
His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into the kiss, his hand coming up to cradle your face. He held you like you were something precious, something fragile.
As you broke away, he looked up at you, his expression vulnerable.
“Stand up," you ordered, voice sharp like shattered glass, cutting through the heavy silence of the kitchen. He rose slowly, eyes locked on yours,
You pushed up on your tiptoes, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that was more punishment than passion—fierce, biting, a reminder of the hurt you carried. Pulling back just enough, your breath ghosted over his mouth. "I'm still mad at you."
Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly, not in affection but in the raw need to anchor yourself to something, anything, amid the ache in your chest. "That's okay," he murmured, voice breaking just a fraction as he leaned in, capturing your lips again.
His hands found your hips, shoving you back against the counter, the cold marble slamming into your spine like a slap. It stole your breath, the chill seeping through your shirt. He broke away for a heartbeat, eyes dark and pleading. "Take it out on me."
Your hands fisted the collar of his jacket, yanking him with you as you backed toward the bedroom, the hallway blurring in your periphery. He followed without resistance, letting you lead, letting you use him like a weapon against your own pain–something he caused.
In the dim light of the bedroom, you shoved him down onto the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. You climbed onto his lap seconds later, straddling him, your skirt riding up your thighs. His hands hovered at your sides, hesitant, waiting for your cue. "Tell me what you need," he said, voice thick with desire, eyes burning into yours like he was memorizing every fractured line of your face.
"Touch me," you replied, the words vague, laced with the numbness you wielded like armor. But he knew. God, he always knew.
In a swift move, he flipped your positions, pinning you beneath him on the bed. The shift stole the air from your lungs, his body heavy and warm over yours, a stark contrast to the ache inside. His hands slid down, hooking into the waistband of your skirt and panties, dragging them off in one rough pull. Leaving you bare and exposed for him.
His fingers parted your thighs, tracing the slick between them before diving in. One digit slipped inside you first, slow and deliberate, testing your readiness despite the tension coiling in the room.
You were wet—traitorously so—your body responding even as your heart screamed no. He added a second finger, curling them deep, pressing against that spot that made your hips buck involuntarily. His thumb found your clit, rubbing in firm, insistent circles, building the pressure with each thrust of his hand.
The wet sounds of his fingers working you filled the space, obscene against the quiet sobs building in your throat.
He watched you, unblinking, as your breaths turned ragged, your walls clenching around him. "Let go," he whispered, voice raw, like he was begging for absolution.
The coil snapped, pleasure ripping through you in a violent wave—your orgasm crashing hard, leaving you trembling and spent. Tears welled up, spilling hot down your cheeks, not from bliss but from the pain he gave you, the reminder of what he had done to you. You cried softly, the sound muffled against his shoulder as he held you through it, his touch gentling but never pulling away.
He kissed the tears from your skin, murmuring your name like a prayer, but you turned your face away, the intimacy too much, too raw. When the haze cleared enough, you shifted, rolling onto your stomach, presenting your back to him—a wall he couldn't breach. He paused, hands stilling on your hips. "Why are you turning around?" His voice cracked a little, laced with confusion, the question hanging heavy in the air.
"Don't wanna see you right now," you said, the words heartless, slicing through him like a blade. You heard his sharp intake of breath, felt the way his grip faltered for a second, his heart shattering audibly in the silence. But he didn't stop. He couldn't. Positioning himself behind you, he freed his cock—hard, aching, a testament to how deeply he still craved you, even in ruin.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, filling you with a stretch that bordered on pain, your body yielding despite the emotional chasm. He moaned your name, voice breaking on each syllable as he began to move, thrusts deep and measured, grinding against you from behind. "I missed you so much. Fuck, I missed you–." His words were a litany, desperate pleas wrapped in groans, his hips snapping harder as if he could fuck the distance away.
You bit the pillow, stifling the moans that threatened to betray you, the pleasure building traitorously even as tears soaked the fabric. He reached around, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in time with his pace, drawing you under despite yourself. Your body clenched around him, the orgasm pulling you apart—waves of heat pulsing through you, leaving you gasping, spent once more. He followed seconds later, spilling inside you with a broken groan of your name, his release hot and claiming, body shuddering as he collapsed over you.
He always came with you, your body the one thing that could still unravel him completely. But the warmth faded fast. He barely caught his breath, chest heaving against your back, before you were shoving him off, scrambling out of the bed. The sheets tangled around your ankles as you snatched your discarded clothes, pulling them on with frantic hands.
"I have to go," you said coldly, the fleeting spark of vulnerability from moments ago snuffed out like a dying ember. You didn't look at him, couldn't bear the devastation in his eyes. "Please leave as soon as you can."
The words landed like a final blow, the door clicking shut behind you as you fled to the bathroom, leaving him alone in the wreckage of the bed, heart in pieces on the floor.
To your surprise, when you stepped out of the bathroom, Suguru was gone. For a second, you just stood there, staring at the empty space where he had been. You had expected him to still be there. Leaning against the wall. Waiting. Stubborn.
A part of you had wanted him to stay. You just didn't want him to see you fall apart again. During Sex? a little embarrassing but could just be from the pleasure. But afterwards?
You needed a distraction. And he was right there. But now the silence felt heavier.
The tears came again, hot and uncontrollable. You didn’t bother wiping them away this time. You let them fall as you changed back into your clothes, hands trembling slightly as you pulled your sweater over your head.
You didn’t crawl into bed.
Instead, you slid down beside it, sitting on the cold floor with your back against the frame. Your knees pulled tightly to your chest, arms wrapped around them like you were trying to hold yourself together.
You missed him. That was the worst part. Not the humiliation. Not the anger. The missing. Because after he made a joke out of you and your self-respect, you still missed him.
His words replayed in your head.
It started that way, but it didn’t stay that way.
You didn’t know if you were strong enough to believe.
⋆˚꩜｡𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
Suguru was a wreck.
He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands. The dark circles under his eyes were deeper than they had been when he’d stood outside your door. His room was quiet, but his mind wasn’t.
It felt like he was already halfway to completely losing you.
You had gone cold. You stopped replying the way you used to. No calls. No lingering touches. No softness in your voice. And the worst part was that just a few days ago, he’d thought things were finally going well.
You had let him into your space. You had kissed him. You had sex with him. And then you’d looked at him with those same eyes and said you didn’t want to see him when he fucked you. When you told him to leave, he felt something in his chest physically crack.
A knock sounded at his door. He didn’t move. “Come in,” he called out, his voice rougher than usual. Satoru pushed the door open without hesitation. “You missed the meeting today.”
Right. The fraternity council meeting. It had completely slipped his mind. Then again, everything had slipped his mind lately. The only thing replaying on a loop was the way you had looked at him when you said he needed to leave.
“Sorry. Forgot,” he muttered, still staring at the floor.
Satoru raised a brow and walked further into the room before dropping down beside him on the bed.
“What’s up with you?” he asked, nudging Suguru lightly with his elbow, trying to keep it casual.
Suguru turned his head slightly.
The dullness in his eyes, the exhaustion etched into his face, the way his hair hung loose around his shoulders — it was enough to wipe the grin off Satoru’s face. Suguru looked forward again, jaw tightening.
“She found out.” That was all he said. Satoru didn’t need more context.
“I’ve been trying to fix it for two weeks,” Suguru continued, his voice quieter. “I thought I was getting somewhere.” He stopped there, but the strain was obvious. Satoru leaned back slightly. “What happened?”
“She let me in,” Suguru said. “She let me into her apartment. She kissed me. We had sex. And then she told me she couldn’t look at me when i was fucking her. Said she didn’t want to see me.”
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “And then she made me leave.”
Satoru tilted his head. “Isn’t that usually your thing?”
Suguru let out a hollow laugh. “Yeah. It was.”
The old him would have shrugged it off. No strings, no expectations. A girl walking away first would’ve been convenient. But this wasn’t convenient. “I don’t want that with her,” he said quietly. “I don’t want it to be casual. She’s not like the others.”
Satoru studied him for a moment before placing a hand on his back. “Then tell her that.”
“I did.”
“Then tell her again,” Satoru replied simply. “And again. Until she believes you. You don’t get to mess something up like that and expect one confession to fix it.”
Suguru frowned.
“You hurt her pride,” Satoru continued. “You made her feel like a joke. That doesn’t disappear because you look miserable.”
Suguru’s jaw clenched.
“So what do I do?”
“Show up. Not to win her. Not to convince her. Just show up because you want to be with her. "Be consistent." Satoru said while he gave Suguru a pat on his shoulder.
⋆˚꩜｡𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
A month had passed. Almost every single day, he showed up at your doorstep and would walk you to school or the library.
At first, it was awkward. You would put your headphones in and walk a step ahead of him, pretending he wasn’t there. But he didn’t complain. He was just grateful you hadn’t told him to leave.
After a while, the headphones disappeared.
You still weren’t chatty like you used to be. Conversations were short, polite. “Hi.” “How are you?” “Good.” But even that felt like progress. Hearing your voice again felt like something he didn’t deserve but desperately needed.
He felt like he was starting over. Now he carried the weight of every silence, wishing he could go back to one stupid drunken comment and erase it from existence.
Two weeks in, you spoke to him first.
Just a question about class. It was small, almost insignificant, but it felt like a door cracking open. After that, conversations came in fragments — short, cautious exchanges. He didn’t push. He took whatever you gave him.
His feelings didn’t fade with time. They worsened.
Every day you looked impossibly prettier to him. He found himself craving small things — the sound of your voice, the way your perfume lingered when you walked past him, even your soft smile that wasn't even directed at him but a stray cat lounging on the pavement.
After three weeks, it almost felt like before. You walked beside him instead of ahead. You talked about something dumb a professor said. You even laughed once. You were still guarded. He could feel it.
But he was a greedy man.
After four weeks, you let him wrap an arm around you once. Just once. He had to focus on breathing because his heart felt like it was trying to climb out of his throat.
And now, a full month had passed. He stood outside your apartment like he had every day before.
“Hey,” he said softly when you opened the door. You weren’t dressed for class. You were wearing a simple white dress and a jacket. Casual, but clearly not for studying. You looked beautiful.
“Suguru… it would be better if you didn’t walk me today,” you said, leaning against the doorframe.
Something uneasy stirred in his chest. His brows furrowed. “Why?”
You hesitated just a second. “I have a date.” The word hit him harder than he expected.
Date.
His mind went blank for half a second, like someone had cut the power. “What do you mean?” His voice came out softer than he intended.
“I’m going on a date,” you repeated.
He felt it then — panic. Not loud. Not explosive. Quiet and suffocating. Like something tightening around his lungs.
“Why?” he asked again, the question more raw this time.
“I thought it would be good for me to get back out there,” you replied.
Get back out there.
Like he was already something behind you. He stood there for a moment, unable to process it. He had known he wasn’t entitled to you. He had known you didn’t owe him anything. But hearing it felt like the ground shifting under his feet.
“Please don’t,” he said quietly. The air between you grew heavy. He wasn’t jealous in the old way. This wasn’t ego. It wasn’t competition. It was fear. Fear that he had taken too long. Fear that the progress he thought he’d made wasn’t enough. “Please don’t go,” he repeated, his voice unsteady now. You looked at him, unreadable.
“I don’t think you’re in a position to tell me whether I can,” you said, crossing your arms. You were right. That made it worse. “I’m going to be late,” you added, pushing off the doorframe.
He moved without thinking, his hand landing on your shoulder. He stepped closer, gently pressing you back against the frame. Not rough. Not forceful. Just desperate.
His hand slid from your shoulder down to your hand, his fingers wrapping around yours.
“Please,” he said again. His eyes were glossy now, and he didn’t even try to hide it. “It took me too long to say this properly,” he continued, his voice cracking just slightly. “But I’m in love with you.”
The words hung between you, heavier than anything he’d said before. “I still want you,” he went on. “I still need you. This past month has been torture. Watching you walk ahead of me. Not knowing if you’d ever look at me the same again.”
He swallowed hard. “I don’t care about pride. I don’t care about being right. I just— I can’t watch you walk away like this.”
“I’m so sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t trust me,” he said, the words rushing out before he could stop them. His grip on your hand tightened slightly, not to hold you there, but like he needed something steady. “I would do anything to prove to you that you’re going to be it for me.”
“Suguru,” you said softly.
Your voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t angry. It was tired.
A tear slipped free despite yourself, trailing down your cheek. His thumb came up instinctively, brushing gently beneath your eye to catch it before it fell further.
“Stop,” you whispered. But he shook his head slightly. “You’re the first girl I’ve ever wanted to prove myself to,” he said, his own eyes glassy now, his composure barely holding. “And I plan on you being the last.”
Your breath hitched, and that small sound almost broke him.
“I don’t want to win you,” he continued, his voice quieter now, steadier in its vulnerability. “I don’t want to chase you because my ego’s bruised. I want to choose you. Every day. Even if you don’t choose me back right now.”
“I want to be better for you,” he said. “I really do. Even if it takes the rest of my life to prove it.”
There was no cockiness left in him. No pride. Just something raw and honest sitting in his chest, waiting for your answer.
Your hand found his wrist and gently pushed it away from your face.
“I want to believe you,” you said, your voice trembling despite your effort to keep it steady. “But I don’t trust you.”
This time, you wiped your own tears away. He didn’t try to stop you.
“I felt used and stupid” you admitted, the word sticking in your throat. “Because of you.”
His expression shifted immediately, something wounded flashing across his face. “I never used you,” he said quickly. “And you’re not stupid.”
“But that’s how I felt.”
That landed. Hard.
It knocked the air from his lungs because he knew it was true. It didn’t matter what he meant. It mattered what you felt.
And he had done that.
He had let you fall for him while knowing how it started. He had kept that piece of truth tucked away because it was easier.
“Please,” he said quietly now. “Give me the chance to replace that feeling.”
He looked wrecked. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just… worn down. Like someone who hadn’t been sleeping properly. Like a man who knew he had messed up something precious and was terrified of losing it. His shoulders weren’t squared the way they usually were. His confidence wasn’t sitting on him the same.
“I’m scared, Suguru,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “I don’t ever want to feel like that again.”
His jaw tightened. “Then I won’t give you a reason to,” he said, almost immediately.
His hand rose slowly, carefully, giving you enough time to pull away if you wanted to. When you didn’t, his fingers slipped gently beneath your chin, tilting your face up just slightly. So gentle.
“Please,” he murmured. “Let me prove it.” There was no arrogance in him now. No ego. Just hope. And for the first time in weeks, you smiled at him. Small. Fragile. But real. The tight, suffocating feeling in his chest loosened instantly, like something had finally unclenched.
“I really don’t know what to do with you,” you said with a shaky chuckle, another tear slipping free. The sound of your laugh — even broken like that — made warmth spread through him. That faint sparkle in your eyes, the one he’d been missing for a month, flickered back to life.
And he realized he would spend the rest of his life protecting that sparkle if you let him. “Don’t make me regret this,” you whispered as you wrapped your arms around him.
For a second he just stood there, stunned. Then his arms came around you — firm, almost desperate — pulling you into his chest like he had been holding that hug in for weeks. His warmth surrounded you again, familiar and grounding, and something inside you finally unclenched.
He exhaled into your hair. When he pulled back, it was only enough to look at you. Your eyes met his. You rose onto your toes slowly, giving him more than enough time to move away if he wanted to. Instead, he stayed completely still.
You pressed the smallest kiss to his lips. Barely there. Soft. Careful.
It had been a month, but it felt like relearning something delicate. Testing if you still fit each other.
His breath hitched almost imperceptibly.
One of his hands came up to cradle your cheek, not guiding you, not pulling you closer — just resting there. Letting you know he wasn’t taking control this time.
You were. You kissed him again. Still soft. Still unsure. Like the two of you were introducing yourselves all over again.
When you tugged him gently inside and shut the door behind you, he followed without resistance. No urgency. No hunger.
Just closeness.
Your lips met his once more — slow, polite, almost shy. There was no claiming in it. No desperation.
Just warmth.
He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your skin. For a moment neither of you moved. It felt fragile — like one wrong step could undo the careful rebuilding of the past month.
You kissed him again. Soft. Intentional.
He followed your lead immediately, matching your pace, letting you set the rhythm. There was no urgency in him, no greedy pull of his hands. Just patience. Every time you shifted closer, he responded. Every time you slowed, he did too.
He wanted you to feel it — that you were in control.
His hands rested at your waist, steady but light, as if he was afraid of holding you too tightly. When your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, he let out a quiet breath against your lips.
Not rushed. Not claiming. Just there.
You tilted your head slightly, deepening the kiss by a fraction, and he followed without hesitation, his thumb brushing gently along your side in a slow, grounding motion. He wasn’t leading. He was responding. Learning you again.
When you pulled back just slightly, he didn’t chase your lips. He stayed close, his nose brushing yours, waiting.
He let himself be guided by your movements, his mouth moving softly against yours. His hands remained at your waist, his touch light but firm, anchoring you to him.
He was almost hesitant with the way he kissed you, like he was re-learning the shape of your lips, the touch of your tongue. Every movement was deliberate, every breath synchronized.
He was letting you set the pace, following your every whim, like your body had become his compass. And as your hands tangled in his long hair, drawing him closer, he went willingly.
Every sense was heightened — the taste of him, the way he smelled, the way he felt under your fingertips. It was intoxicating, the way he responded to your touch.
You pulled away from his lips, but only to wrap your arms around him again. Your hands slid around his neck, your cheek resting against his shoulder as if you needed to make sure he was real.
“I missed you,” he whispered, his voice low and almost disbelieving.
One hand stroked gently over your hair, slow and soothing, while the other traced absent patterns along your waist.
“Me too,” you replied softly. It was barely audible, but he heard it. He always did.
His arms tightened slightly around you, like he was afraid the words might disappear if he didn’t hold you close enough. Without rushing, he slipped one hand beneath your thigh and lifted you carefully. You instinctively wrapped your legs around him as he carried you toward your bedroom, steady and protective.
He set you down gently on the edge of the bed. Instead of climbing next to you, instead of escalating, he walked to your closet.
He pulled one of his hoodies from where it hung among your clothes and handed it to you.
“Change,” he said quietly. In his other hand were the sweatpants and shirt he’d left at your place weeks ago.
“I’ll change in the bathroom,” he added before stepping out.
When he returned, he was wearing gray sweatpants and the black shirt you loved on him— the one that made you stare a little too long whenever he wore it. The hoodie swallowed you the way it always did, sleeves falling past your hands, fabric bunching around your thighs.
You sat on the edge of the bed waiting for him.
You did actually have a date tonight.
But you hadn’t been excited about it. Not really. Shoko had pushed you to try. To move on. To protect yourself. But your thoughts stayed on Suguru.
And here you were, listening to Suguru like it was second nature. He placed his folded clothes neatly on your desk before turning back to you. Then, instead of climbing into bed, he knelt in front of you. Right at your feet.
His head rested gently against your knee.
“Wanna be with you today,” he said quietly. “Forget that date please. I just want it to be me and you.”
Your fingers slipped into his hair, guiding his face up slightly. Your thumb brushed over his cheek.
“Please don’t go,” he added, looking up at you — eyes soft, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed anyone to see.
“I won’t,” you said. You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his lips — slow, certain.
Then you tugged at his hands, pulling him up with you. He let himself fall back onto you– his arms keeping from crushing you, both of you landing in a quiet tangle of limbs and fabric.
He pulled the blankets over you instinctively, wrapping them around the two of you like a shield from the outside world. For the first time in weeks, there was no tension. No fear. Just warmth. He held you close, your head tucked beneath his chin, your legs tangled together.
His heart felt full — steady, content. And this time, he wasn’t going anywhere.
The rest of the day blurred into something warm and quiet. You stayed in bed far longer than either of you meant to. At some point your phone buzzed again — the date calling, then texting, asking where you were.
Suguru reached over without hesitation, glanced at the screen, and blocked the number before you could even respond.
You blinked at him. “What?” he muttered defensively. “He doesn’t need an explanation.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue.
Eventually you crawled out of bed, but Suguru followed immediately — wrapping himself around you and following behind you like an oversized puppy. you complained half-heartedly as you tried to move toward the kitchen.
“And yet you’re not pushing me away,” he replied, his chin resting on your shoulder.
You ended up making dinner while he hovered behind you, arms loosely around your waist, occasionally pressing a kiss to your shoulder or cheek. It wasn’t possessive. It wasn’t heated.
It felt like he was afraid that if he let go for too long, the moment might disappear.
You ate at the small table in your kitchen, talking about mundane things — a professor’s weird habit, something stupid Satoru had said, a cat you saw earlier that week.
Halfway through a show on the couch, you noticed Suguru wasn’t even watching.
He was watching you.
When you caught him staring, he didn’t look away.
You fell asleep curled into him, his arm firm around your waist, your legs tangled together. The television kept playing long after neither of you were awake.
Morning light filtered through the blinds, casting soft stripes across the room. The TV screen displayed a quiet, glowing message:
Are you still watching?
Suguru was breathing steadily behind you, his chest rising and falling against your back.
You tried to gently shift out of his hold, wanting to brush your teeth and freshen up before he woke. His grip tightened instinctively. “Don’t go,” he murmured, still half asleep, his face nuzzling into your shoulder.
“I’m just going to the bathroom,” you whispered. He groaned softly but loosened his arms.
A few minutes later, as you stood at the sink, toothbrush in hand, you caught movement in the mirror.
Suguru was leaning in the doorway, hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep.
He walked over without saying anything and reached for his toothbrush — still sitting in the cup beside yours.
He paused briefly, almost surprised it was still there. You hadn’t thrown it away. He didn’t comment on it. He just started brushing his teeth next to you.
The bathroom was quiet except for the soft sound of running water and the hum of the light above you. It felt strangely intimate — domestic in a way that didn’t require effort.
When you finished and set your toothbrush down, he immediately stepped closer again.
His front pressed gently against your back, arms slipping around your waist.
He rested his chin on your shoulder, eyes half closed.
You could feel it now, his hard-on pressing against your ass. He left a small kiss on your shoulder, before turning your chin gently to meet his gaze in the mirror. His eyes held yours, full of quiet intensity. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he whispered, voice low and earnest, giving you the space to breathe, to choose.
But you didn't want to stop. You leaned into him, your head tilted to his and he captured your lips in a deep kiss.
His hands slid up your sides, turning you around when he broke away for a second. He lifted you effortlessly onto the bathroom sink counter, the cool porcelain a sharp contrast to the heat of his body. Your legs parted instinctively, the kiss growing hungrier, tongues sliding together in slow, languid strokes.
His palms roamed your body without a word, one hand cupping your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it peaked under his touch. The other hand traced the curve of your hip, dipping lower to squeeze your thigh, pulling you flush against him. You arched into his caresses, fingers threading through his long hair, tugging lightly as his mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, nipping softly. He kneaded your ass, grinding his erection against you through the fabric, the friction building a delicious ache. Your breaths mingled, heavy and uneven, bodies pressing and shifting in a wordless dance of rediscovery, his touches tender yet possessive, mapping every inch like he was afraid you'd vanish.
Finally, he broke the kiss just enough to scoop you up again, carrying you from the bathroom to the bed with ease. He laid you down gently on the soft sheets, his eyes never leaving yours as he hovered above.
Starting at your collarbone, he pressed a feather-light kiss there. He moved to your nipple, taking it into his mouth with a gentle suck, tongue flicking over the sensitive bud until you gasped, his mouth ghosted wet kisses across your stomach, each one a promise, leaving a trail of heat.
His hand was already between your thighs, fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. He rubbed slow circles at first, coaxing slickness from you, before dipping lower to tease your entrance.
Then his head followed, settling between your legs. He licked a broad stripe up your folds, groaning against you as if savoring the taste. "You're so gorgeous," he murmured, voice muffled but fervent, before diving in fully—tongue lapping at your clit with frantic urgency, sucking gently as his fingers slid inside, curling to stroke that perfect spot.
"Missed you so much," he breathed between licks, the vibrations humming through you. His free hand gripped your hip, holding you steady as you writhed. "Never letting go of you again."
He sucked harder onto your clit, tongue swirling, drawing whimpers from your throat. "So sweet," he praised, fingers thrusting deeper, faster. "Let me spoil you—let me make it all better." The words spilled out in a rush. His mouth working you relentlessly until the pleasure washed over you, your body tensing and releasing in shuddering waves.
“Sugu” A soft cry on your lips.
He crawled back up, lips glistening, and kissed you deeply. You didn't care about the taste of yourself on his tongue—it was intimate, raw, a shared secret that made your heart swell.
Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer as he positioned himself, the blunt head of his cock nudging at your entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open with a delicious burn that turned to fullness. You moaned into his mouth, and he swallowed it, kissing you through the initial thrust, his hips rolling in a steady rhythm.
It was all soft moans and heavy breathing now, the room filled with the quiet sounds of skin meeting skin. He braced on his forearms, gazing down at you with eyes full of adoration, thrusts deep and unhurried, grinding against your clit with each pass. "My sweet girl," he whispered against your lips,
voice breaking with emotion. "I love you." He kissed your forehead, your cheeks blushing with each declaration. "I'm so in love with you." His pace quickened, but it stayed tender, loving.
"I'm all yours—always." He said through panting. You clung to him, nails digging into his back. Lost in the connection, the way he filled you completely, body and soul.
A few tears slipped from your eyes, A mix of overwhelming joy and the relief of being wanted so fiercely.
He noticed immediately, pausing to kiss them away, his lips soft on your damp cheeks. "I've got you." he murmured, nuzzling your nose with his
He shifted then, pulling back from your face to grab your leg, lifting it gently. He pressed a kiss to your calf, eyes locked on yours, before draping it over his shoulder. The new angle let him sink deeper, his cock hitting that spot inside you with every thrust, drawing gasps from you both.
The pleasure coiling tighter with each shared breath, each whispered endearment. Your walls fluttered around him, and he felt it, hips stuttering as he chased the edge with you. "Come with me," he breathed, voice husky, and you did—climax crashing over you in sweet, rolling waves, your body arching into his.
He followed right after, spilling deep inside with a muffled groan against your neck, holding you close as tremors shook you both.
His arms wrapping around you, peppering your face with lazy kisses as you came down, murmuring how much he loved you.
He stayed buried inside you for a moment longer, his chest heaving against yours in rhythm with your slowing breaths. His weight was a comforting anchor.
He lifted his head just enough to gaze into your eyes, a soft smile curving his lips. “So proud of you,” he whispered. He brushed a damp strand of hair from your forehead with his thumb, then leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your temple.
Slowly, he eased out of you. “You did so well for me,” he murmured, his lips finding the shell of your ear. “My perfect girl.”
You melted into his touch, the praise wrapping around you warmer than the sheets tangled at your feet. He left you for a short while to come out of the bathroom with a warm damp towel.
With deliberate care, he began wiping you down, starting at your neck where sweat glistened on your skin. The cloth glided over your collarbone, tracing the swell of your breasts, circling each nipple until they pebbled again under the gentle friction. He paused to kiss the spot he'd just cleaned.
The cloth pressing tenderly between your thighs. Mindful of your sensitivity, his free arm holding you steady. “Look at you,” he said softly, eyes dark with lingering heat but softened by love.
“Still so beautiful, even after I wrecked you.” He kissed your shoulder, then your arm, working his way down to your wrist.
He tossed the cloth aside and gathered you closer, pulling the rumpled sheets over both of you. His body molded to yours from behind now, spooning you perfectly, one arm draped over your waist while the other pillowed your head. He nuzzled into your hair, inhaling deeply.
Your eyelids grew heavy under the weight of his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest lulling you. His hand splayed possessively over your stomach, fingers tracing lazy circles as sleep crept in. You drifted off, limbs entwined, hearts beating in sync—the world reduced to this moment.
⋆˚꩜｡𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
Suguru was waiting outside your lecture hall again. He still insisted on walking you everywhere. To class. To the café. Back home. Today, though, he didn’t turn toward your apartment. He turned toward the frat. You glanced at him but didn’t question it. He held your hand the whole way up the stairs, a little quieter than usual.
When you reached his room, he opened the door and then turned to you with a strange expression — somewhere between excited and terrified. “Stay here,” he said. “And close your eyes.”
You raised a brow. “Suguru—”
“Please.”
You sighed dramatically but shut your eyes anyway. You heard him moving around. Something fell over. A soft curse. Then the sound of plastic rustling. “Okay,” he said, a little breathless. “Open.”
You opened your eyes.
He was standing there holding a huge Chococat plushie and a bouquet of your favorite flowers. The plushie had a small tag tied around its neck.
You took a step closer, reading it.
Will you be my girlfriend?
Your lips parted in surprise before you let out a soft giggle.
“Sugu…”
You took the plushie from him first, then the bouquet. He looked almost painfully nervous — hands hovering like he didn’t know what to do with them.
It had only been a couple of months since you’d started seeing him again. Officially unofficial. Rebuilding. Healing.
And even though your anxiety had lingered in the beginning, even though some nights you still remembered the hurt — the way he treated you now didn’t feel like strategy. It felt like certainty. He looked at you like you were the only person in the room. Like you were the only person.
“Well?” he asked, trying to play it cool and failing miserably. You stepped forward, your hand sliding up to rest against the side of his neck. Instead of answering, you kissed him. Slow at first. Then a little deeper. When you pulled back, his eyes were wide.
“Is that a yes?” he asked, a nervous laugh slipping out. You nodded eagerly. Relief washed over his face so fast it was almost funny. He let out a breath he’d clearly been holding for the last thirty seconds — maybe the last month.
“You bought Chococat because I said you reminded me of him?” you teased, hugging the plush to your chest.
He nodded immediately.
“You said I had the same energy,” he defended. “You do,” you giggled.
He didn’t waste another second. He wrapped his arms around you, lifted you clean off the floor, and spun you around like he couldn’t contain himself.
“You’re officially my girlfriend,” he said, grinning like an idiot.
You laughed, clinging to him.
He set you down only to cup your face and press a firm, happy kiss to your lips.
“Won’t be long until you’re my wife,” he added, half-joking, half-not. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile.
I don’t want to be your friend, I want to kiss your neck.
summary: What happens after secrets reveal themselves in the dead of night?
WC: 12.6k
warnings: 18+ slow burn, soft soul touching smut, takes place a few months after season five not exactly canon accurate (he still has his beamer), steve is picking up the pieces of his life, reader has no knowledge of upside down, moved back after the military disappears, touch and love starved steve (reader is similar), mild angst, lots of yearning, mentions of holiday sadness, smoking, one bed trope, p in v van sex, scar kissing & touching (steve has scars).
authors note: I don’t how how to express how happy everyone’s reactions and sweet words have made me. I started this the week after volume one aired in a really bad place and spent the last two months writing it and I’m sad and happy to finally let it go. I hope you enjoy it as much as part one 💕✨
✨<- part one // master list
The bright warm light that bleeds through the cracks in your blinds flutters your eyes open with its ivory glow, waking you up first. Steve’s hand is still under your shirt, the long fingers that were once sprawled across your back are now balled up in a lazy fist keeping you pressed to his chest. It’s not like your position is any better though with your face pressed into the crook of his neck, cold hands buried under the warmth of his sweater, fingers curved around his rib cage, while the others are lost in the rough hair of his happy trail.
Last night comes back to you in fuzzy memories, the deep sleep you fell into still hanging heavy like a fog. Whispered secrets, wandering hands and lips that never quite give into what they want overwhelm you as it all starts to come into focus. It warms your cheeks, as the unknown starts to twist, tightening the coil in the pit of your stomach, uncertainty making your palms sweat. Your universe tilting off its access from your spot tucked away inside of Steve’s arms.
“So beautiful.”
The words he whispered in the blue glow of midnight, come rushing back to the forefront of your mind, waking up the butterflies that flutter, stretching their wings in your chest. Glancing down at the end of your bed, the digital clock on your microwave flashes 7:06 AM in bold red numbers. You finally work up enough courage to look up at him.
His eyes move behind closed lids, lost deep in whatever dream he’s having, long lashes kissing the tops of his cheeks. A lighter smattering of freckles reveal themselves from their camouflage in the brighter light under the faintest lines of crows feet, and it makes you wonder if you’ll ever find them all.
The collar of his sweater is pulled down giving you a better look at the scar you noticed on the roof top, your heart thumping a few beats quicker. It looks fully healed but still fresh enough to know whatever happened wasn’t that distant of a memory. Its jagged edges are uneven with silver tips and a pale pink center that gets wider in the middle before tapering off at the ends. It’s hard to resist the urge to reach up and press your lips to it.
He stirs slightly like he can feel the heat of your gaze, so you muster up enough will power to slowly start to untangle yourself from him as carefully as you can no matter how much your body yearns to stay.
There's a desperate need to make him coffee before he wakes up that has every anxious molecule in your body buzzing. It turns your brain into the kind of jittery mess that has you convinced that a perfectly made cup would be the security blanket you need in case he wakes up and regrets every decision that brought him here last night.
Cause coffee will do that, right?
The cold pads of your feet move quietly around the kitchen once you’re free from the warm restraints of his arms, carefully opening cabinets with both hands so they don’t slam shut. You set two travel mugs on the counter as softly as you can, just for the coffee maker to start whirring to life with a loud continuous drip hitting the bottom of the glass pot. Steam blows out from the sides in a low whistle as the water boils going through the filter. It’s loud. So loud.
You cringe, having a silent back and forth with yourself on whether or not you should turn it off, as the rich smell of the beans fills the small space of your apartment. The heat kicks on in a loud hum, and you watch Steve begin to stir in your bed. He grumbles something you can’t understand while still half asleep before turning over with a big hand that reaches across the mattress. He’s searching for you.
He pats around the empty spot where you were not that long ago with his face still buried in his pillow. His movements freeze when he’s met with nothing but the leftover warmth on the sheets, a heavy breath exhaling through his nose before he runs that same hand down his face in an attempt to rub the drowsiness off as he rolls onto his back. Stretching his long legs with a grunt, your heart rate quickens enough that you can feel it pulsing in your wrists because Steve Harrington is waking up in your bed and you almost kissed last night.
Your stomach folds in on itself doing summersaults in preparation for the kind of unchartered territory that comes with a morning after a night like that. An unrelenting fear that after laying himself bare to you, he’d retreat back to his cave and seal it up tighter than before. Leaning against the counter trying to seem nonchalant, your canines bite into your thumb nail, the nervous anticipation of watching him slowly start to sit up bringing back a bad habit.
He rubs the sleep from his eyes with his palms, grumbling like his bones hurt. Your fingers itch at your sides with the need to run through the kind of bed head that has his hair sticking out in almost all directions. The sheer messiness of it has the corners of your lips twisting. He blinks a few times before his eyes finally focus, finding you already staring at him from the kitchen. The blush that paints his cheeks is almost instant, a lazy smile stretching across his face. That’s a good sign.
“Good morning.” He croaks before clearing his throat, face going a deeper shade of crimson because of it.
“Morning.” You squeak, unable to stop the rambling that follows “I’m making coffee — you know, since I promised. I didn’t want you to wake up and not have it, I was just trying to be a good host, but I wasn’t expecting it be so loud I’m really sor —“
“Thank you,” he cuts you off, offering a life line. “You’ve been an amazing host given the circumstances. Feels like — what are those places called? A bed and, and-“
“Breakfast?”
“Yes!” he snaps, nodding with excitement pointing at you, “that!”
“I don’t have breakfast for you though, just coffee.” You pout, hearing the last few drops fill the rest of the pot.
“Same thing.” Steve shrugs, throwing his sock covered feet over the side of your bed, finally running a hand through his hair before standing up.
“Definitely not, but I appreciate your blind support.” You giggle, turning around to turn off the machine taking a deep breath through your nose. Why does it feel like your heart is trying to climb its way out of your throat?
You busy yourself with pouring coffee, secretly thankful to give your nervous hands something to do to distract yourself. The floor boards creak with each step he takes, slow and steady until the wood groans right behind you. Even if it wasn’t for your frozen foundations giving him away, his left over cologne would be enough to tell you that he’s close. The silence that falls between you is charged with the remnants of last night, a burning question dangling in front of you like an eye sore.
What does this mean?
”Don’t mind me, just making sure you’re putting the right amount of sugar in there.” His voice comes out low right next to your ear.
Goosebumps pebble along your skin from the warmth of his breath that fans down the side of your neck. Gentle hands playfully grab at your hips just soft enough to feel his finger tips. It’s timid and unsure, but it's still enough for butterflies to break from the knotted cocoons of your nerves, your lips curving up in the kind of smile that you try to hide ducking your chin down.
“Don’t worry, Steve. I’ll put in half the bag.”
He snorts, the tip of his nose a whisper against the shell of your ear. You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the growing urge to just turn around and do what you should have done last night. Kiss him. You don’t though, and by the time you’ve made up your mind he’s giving your hips a gentle squeeze before letting you go.
”I’m gonna go check out the damage and start digging my poor girl out.” Steve sighs, backing away with a card of his hair and you already miss the feeling of him being close. “Can’t have the boss late for work.”
”How about I pour your coffee down the sink?” You turn around with a sarcastic smile that quickly turns into a real one at the wide grin that splits his face in two. The gold in his eyes shimmering in the sunlight.
“Hmm, I think you like me too much for that.” He winks, making your face go gaze meeting the ground.
”There’s the confident guy I knew from high school.” You manage to tease through the nerves that tighten, constricting in your chest but you’re proud of the eyeroll you get in return despite it.
There’s a weird normalcy in the way he shuffles around the apartment in his wrinkled jeans searching for his shoes and coat. Like the secrets shared in the silver glow of the moon are kept hidden under the blankets of stars that disappear once the sun comes out. Everything feels different in the light of day, and the reminder of reality bounces off the blinding reflection of the snow outside.
Steve comes back in the kitchen once his coat is half way zipper up, white teeth gleaming when he sees you already holding out his tumbler for him. Nike covered feet close the distance between you in just two long strides, long fingers brushing with yours when they wrap around the warm metal of the cup. He crowds your space just enough for your back to hit the counter, the smell of leather and coffee invading your senses.
“Thanks, honey.” He breaths, staring down the slope of his nose with a vulnerability in his eyes that feels an awful lot like testing the waters.
Looking up at him from under your lashes, you reach up, pulling the zipper of his jacket all the way to the top.
“Anytime, handsome.”
Maybe those secrets aren’t so hidden after all.
———
Steve’s car creaks and groans with every turn, the plastic of the dash expanding in the heat flowing freely from his vents. The metal of his keys clink as his tires drive through the sloppily plowed roads. It all sounds so loud in the silence that’s settled between you, as words beg to come out from behind sealed lips that won’t let them. Fingers yearning to intertwine but settle for resting just close enough to feel the warmth emanating off of them.
Your gaze wanders in his direction, nervous teeth digging into the fat of your bottom lip. His brows are furrowed, eyes staring out at the road like he’s concentrating but you know after these past few months that's not what’s happening. You wonder what kind of thoughts are racing through that complicated head of his as he runs long fingers through his hair, getting caught on a knot at the end that he works out. A deep breath pushing out through his nose.
“I’m sorry you had to sleep in your jeans last night.” You half joke, willing your tongue to work, mouth relearning how to form sentences breaking the silence.
He looks over at you, confusion painting his features before realization dawns on him and he finally joins you back in reality with a soft laugh.
”It wasn’t so bad.” He shrugs with a lopsided grin, “I mean, am I ready to take them off and not wear pants for the next 24 hours? Yes.”
Your laugh bounces off the foggy windows, echoing in the small space of the car, the sound of it brightening his face, freckle covered cheeks pushing up high.
”Honestly, I don’t blame you.” Smirking, you try to ignore the way warmth spreads through your body at the mental image that tries to worm its way in.
”Yeah, Robin’s just gonna have to deal. I’ll let her take my turn at picking the movie tonight or something, she won’t care about anything after that.” He chuckles, shifting gears letting the tips of his fingers brush your knuckles. Electricity buzzes on every inch of your skin because of it.
”You guys have movie nights?” The idea of them having a weekly tradition swells in your chest, curling the edges of your lips.
”Yeah, it was something we started when we worked at Family Video together a few years ago. It just kinda stuck, probably one of the only things that kept us sane during lockdown, honestly.” He explains with a pretty shade of light pink dusting the apples of his cheeks, removing another rock from his wall in the light of day. “For those two hours every night we could escape to anywhere we wanted.”
”What’s your favorite movie?” You question, trying not to make a big deal about it despite it feeling anything but.
“Oh easy, Top Gun.” He snorts like it’s a no brainer, “Danger zone? Are you kidding? Another classic.”
”I’m going to assume that you two have very different tastes in movies as well.” You tease, giving anything to be a fly on the wall in their apartment during a fight about what to watch even though you already know he gives in every time.
“Oh god, it’s even worse with movies.” Running a hand down his face he sounds exasperated like he’s having war flash backs.
The gold in his eyes dances, shimmering with the emerald that surrounds it at the giggle he gets from you. He turns onto the main road that leads to the station, a brief moment of silence settling in the warm space of his car at the realization of the limited amount of time left with each other. It creates a desperate need that claws at the back of your throat to keep the conversation going because you aren’t sure what comes after this.
The unmistakable intro to Take Me Home Tonight comes out muffled from his speakers, catching in your ears at the same time. Steve's head snaps in your direction, his mouth formed into an excited ‘O’.
”How can anyone hate this song?!” He argues turning it up, head bopping and fingers tapping on his steering wheel.
”They have no taste, clearly” You agree, breaking out into the kind of laughter that has your ribs sore as he starts to belt along with the song both passionately and off key.
”I see why you work the soundboard.” Narrowing your eyes playfully, you meet his gaze a little flirty from under the thickness of your lashes, baiting him.
”Pfft, this town wouldn’t be able to handle me on the mic. That’s why I work the soundboard, honey.” He winks, turning the music down, pink tongue poking out to wet his lips.
”Yep, I’m sure that’s it.” You agree sarcastically, doing your best to ignore the pang of sadness that hits your chest when his tires crunch along the winding entrance of The Squawk. “Maybe we can work in your own show this summer then.”
His smile freezes, squinting his eyes, giving extra focus on the road.
”Well, no, don’t — don’t do that.”
“We could use the boost in listeners.” You press, getting sick pleasure out of watching him squirm biting back your laugh at the glare he sends your way.
“Wow, that sounds like the kind of idea a station manager would have.” He counters, pulling up next to the WSQK van that blocks your practically buried car.
”Wow, are you always this annoying in the morning?” You sigh, fighting off the way the corners of your lips twitch but he sees it, letting his own curve up celebrating his win this round.
“That’s not a nice thing to say to the guy who’s about to spend the next hour digging your car out.” He chastises, turning off his engine reaching over to squeeze your thigh with a pout.
He looks at you from under his lashes, tying knots in your stomach, the warmth of his hand bleeding through the denim of your jeans. Unfortunately, just like the rest of them, you don’t know how to back down from a challenge.
You lean forward on the arm rest, invading his space, catching the quiet hitch in his breath. He doesn’t move away, the hungry gaze returning from last night flicking down to your lips dilating his pupils. The hand on your thigh dares to move up just enough for your lashes to tickle at the tops of your cheeks.
”You’re right,” you breathe, trying to regain control. “That wasn’t very nice of me, can you forgive me, Steve?”
You swear the faint sound of a whine slip from the back of his throat, the tip of his nose nudging yours, the coffee on his breath fanning against your lips.
”I think I can, but I need something from you first.” He whispers, the hand on your thigh moving up to cup your cheek, the pad of his thumb resting at the corner of your mouth tilting your chin.
”Yeah? And what’s that?” The desperation in your voice is undeniable, every thought leaving your brain when his top lip gets dangerously close to brushing against your bottom.
He was going to do it, he was going to kiss you.
A loud smack on the driver side window breaks you both apart so quickly that your back hits the hard plastic handle of the passenger door.
”Jesus Christ!” Steve yells whacking his knuckles on the stick shift, elbow bumping hard against the steering wheel.
He turns around to see who the culprit is, anger flaring his nostrils and the daggers in his eyes sharpening coming face to face with none other than Keith who scoffs at his glare waving him off. He signals for the boy you almost got to kiss for the second time in 24 hours to roll down his window. They stare each other down in a silent challenger before Steve begrudgingly obliges.
”What do you want, asshole? You could have broken my window just now.” The amount of venom in Steve’s question is enough to put an army down.
”Shut up, don’t be such a drama queen, Harrington.” Keith bites, and you really start to understand why he was banned from secret Santa.
”What’s up?” You cut in to relieve the tension as Steve’s lips curl in, muttering insults under his breath.
Keith scrunches his nose at the former king in a mixture of annoyance and disgust, mocking him before bringing his attention back to you.
”My cousin’s gonna be here soon, so if you don’t want any dead air, I suggest you come inside, like now. He’s the guy who plows the roads so he’s on a pretty tight schedule. ” He explains almost like it's something to brag about, and Steve’s face twists into a sarcastic sneer, butting in.
”Oh your cousin plows the roads? That checks out because I was just thinking about what a shit job it was on the drive here.”
“I didn’t know you knew how to operate a snow plow, I’ll make sure to tell him, I know your opinion really matters to him.” Sarcasm drips from every word flipping Steve off.
”Okay! I’m going in now.” You interrupt loudly, unbuckling your seatbelt, putting an end to their bickering. The heat that was simmering just under your skin from the silk of his lips cooling down.
Steve huffs out a loud irritated breath through his nose, eyes finding yours with the kind of longing inside of them that threatens to swallow you whole because he knows the moments lost.
And it’s all Keith’s fault.
”You can go do your job now, she said she’s coming in.” Lashing out, he shoos him away with his hand like a dog.
Keith makes another face at him, flipping him off one more time for good measure before heading back up to the station. Steve watches till he disappears mumbling a sting of curse words after him.
”God, I really hate that guy.” He huffs rolling his window back up.
”Really? I couldn’t tell.”
This gets Steve to laugh, the anger rolling off his shoulders as you zip up your coat, gearing up to venture outside. He glances at your lips one more time before finally accepting his fate, opening his car door. You want to grab his hand and drag him back and say that he can, that there’s still time, the moments not gone. It’s never going to be gone. Keith can wait.
Instead, you follow him out into the cold.
”Thank you so much for doing this again, Steve.” You say with a small smile as you walk around to his side, trying to hide the nerves that come back like a tidal wave because outside of his car feels like a different world. “I probably would have ended up in a ditch.”
”That’s okay I would have gotten you out of it, even if you did.” He teases with a wink, rubbing his hands together to warm them up.
You finally look at your car, heart sinking when you see just how buried it really is.
”You really don’t have to dig it out if you want to go home. I mean look at it! That’s crazy. I can always do it when I get off later.” You start rambling, guilt eating you alive.
Steve grabs your hips pulling you to him with gentle strength as he leans his back against the door. Cedar and a little bit of sleep mix with his leftover cologne, calming the nerves that kick your heart rate up, as your hands slide up the cold leather of his coat hooking your arms around his neck. Steve bends down just enough to press his forehead to yours the heat of his breath fanning against your already cold bitten cheeks.
”Don’t worry about your car, I’m gonna take care of it.” He whispers, hazel eyes following the lines of your face, memorizing it for when he can’t stare at you anymore. “I want to talk about - we should talk about last night at some point.”
”Yeah, I agree.” The words are shy coming out, looking at him from under your lashes.
One of his hands leaves your waist to cup the side of your face again, pulling away just enough to tilt your head up, the pad of his thumb catching the pout of your bottom lip. He holds your gaze like he’s trying to communicate it to you without words. You know what he is trying to say because you want to say it out loud too, but you can’t.
I like you.
Leaning forward he presses a kiss on your forehead that lingers just long enough to make you want more.
“You better go in before the village idiot throws a fit.” He rolls his eyes with a dry laugh, finally letting you go.
“He really is the worst.” You finally agree with the dread of having to see him again, inside.
“We’ll talk soon.” He sticks his hands in his back pockets, the shyness from before coming back at the thought of confessing what you both already know is true.
“S-sounds good.” Stuttering, the bubble the two of you have been lost in the last twenty four hours finally pops, the real world waiting for you inside the double doors.
“Have a good shift, honey.” He smiles, giving you one last look that feels like he’s trying to take a mental image of you right here in this moment.
”I hope you throw those pants away when you get home.” You call out walking backwards, enjoying the red that paints his cheeks despite his laughter.
He waves at you one last time, watching you walk to the double doors and out of sight.
——
Christmas Eve Night
The wheels of the rolling chair squeak as you push yourself around the small space of the studio room. Billie Holiday’s album Solitude spins on the record player, the needle landing on Blue Moon. The first keys of the piano float through the speakers, soft brass mixing with her bittersweet timbre. You stare at the small Christmas tree in the corner of the common room, the colorful lights twinkling just like the ones strung up around you. The shimmering red gift bag that sits on Steve’s soundboard taunts you to over think what’s inside of it hidden under the fluffed green tissue paper.
Boredom has the feeling of self pity trying to burrow itself inside of your thoughts because this was how you were spending Christmas Eve. Alone at work. It was a joke made last week that was only meant to rile Robin up but it quickly became a reality, cause it turns out Keith really does have family out of town. Successfully giving both her and Steve another reason to hate him.
You twirl around in the chair fighting the way your mind wanders to The Wheeler’s and the fact that Nancy is most likely there sharing her grand adventures from Emerson. An even meaner part of your brain imagines Steve listening to them with that same enamored look in his eyes that swallowed you whole just a few nights ago.
Questions you don’t dare to ask float through your brain faster than you can concentrate. Has she seen his scars? Does she have them too? Deep down you know the answers. Pushing the thought of them together out of your mind, you work hard not to dwell on the way you’re clearly trying to hurt your own feelings. She left and will leave again because she doesn’t want him, at least, not like that.
It was Steve you weren’t too sure about.
You hadn’t been alone with him since the car ride back to work that morning. The past few days around the station have been nothing but near misses and stolen looks with shy smiles after getting caught. Perfectly made coffee with fingers that brush handing Steve his mug. Hazel eyes holding yours like maybe if he stared hard enough the two of you could communicate telepathically. But you already know what he’s trying to say.
We need to talk.
Yesterday he almost made it to your office with the kind of grin twisting up his full lips, like he was finally going to get what he wanted. In fact he made it so close to the doorway that your stomach flipped on itself, just for a frantic Robin to intercept him. Foiling yet another attempt to get to you.
The song reaches its last note, cutting the record off bringing you back to reality, and giving you something to do besides over-think. Gentle fingers slide Frank Sinatra’s Nice ‘N’ Easy from its cover, lifting the needle to start it from the top. That Old Feeling’s melody bursts from the speakers with deep baritone and powerful strings. A small smile playing at the edges of your mouth at the much nicer thought of Steve listening in, wondering if you’re playing it just for him.
You were.
A flash of brown catches in the corner of your eye as you put the Billie Holiday album back on the shelf. Freezing, your heart thumps wildly as all the worst episodes of America’s Most Wanted you’ve ever watched come rushing back. You try to mentally count how many seconds it would take to lock the door from where you’re standing before gathering enough courage to turn around. Dramatically preparing for death, you aren’t expecting to meet the hazel eyes you haven’t stopped thinking about on the other side of the glass.
Steve smiles, snow flakes sticking to the ends of his hair that looks like it was styled with the utmost care tonight. That big swoop curling over his forehead just begging to be pushed back, your fingers itching to do it. He’s got your favorite sweater on, the thick woven cream one with his brown leather coat on top of it. It’s paired with light washed jeans that wrap tight around the legs that were tangled with yours a few nights ago. His usual white Nike’s covering his feet.
You can’t stop the curve of your lips, no matter how nonchalant you wish you could be, butterflies erupting when his teeth gleam just the same. Finally pushing the wild strand back, he starts to make his way towards the door with a messily wrapped present in his other hand. The round shape of it not doing his skills or the red Santa printed paper any favors.
“What? Do you just appear anytime someone plays Frank?” You tease to try and hide just how happy you are to see him when he steps inside the sound proof room, the amber of his cologne immediately hitting your nose.
“Yeah, you didn’t know? I thought that’s why you did it.” He plays along with a straight face, earning the kind of giggle from you that has his eyes sparkle with something that makes your thighs press.
“Not that I’m not happy to see you, but what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at Nan— The Wheeler’s?” You try to correct, the jealousy you thought was snuffed out sneaking into your words. Steve catches it, his gaze narrowing slightly.
”I went and said hi to everyone, hung out for a little bit,” shrugging, he sets his gift down next to yours, looking at his name scribbled in your handwriting on the tag before leaning back on the desk, holding your eyes in his. “Then I came to where I really wanted to be.”
He says it with the kind of confidence you can’t mistake for anything else.
“Besides, what’s the point of going to a secret Santa gift exchange if mine is stuck at work.” He winks, revealing that the mess of a wrap job is indeed for you.
”Well, I guess it works out.” You say a little breathless, your eyes admiring how handsome he looks in the low light, not exhausted from holding everything together for once. “Since you were mine too.”
“I didn’t want to assume when I saw the bag, thought maybe you just liked me that much, cute handwriting by the way.” His left cheek pulls up in a lopsided grin, enjoying the eye roll and fake huff he gets from you in return.
”So nosy. Way to ruin the reveal.” Your tongue pokes the side of your mouth to try and stop the way your smile won’t stop growing. “And if I remember correctly, I’m not the one who said there’s no one who works here that’s worth ten bucks.”
“You and I both know I meant Keith.” He argues, running a hand through his hair, “god, I really hate that guy. Even more after tonight.”
”You hate Keith for having a family?” You snort, watching the way the corners of his lip twitch at the sound.
”Is there something wrong with that? It’s inconveniencing me, I’m trying to you know — do something here and because of him you have to be at work.” Scoffing, he crosses his arms like it’s a completely justified reason.
”What exactly are you trying to do here, Steve?” Looking at him from under your lashes, he squirms a little under your gaze before regaining his confident charm.
”Well, you’ll have to abandon your post and follow me to the van to find out.”
“I’m not surprised that it’s you of all people asking me not to do my job.” Sarcasm rolls off every syllable, and you wonder if he notices the way all the blood rushes despite it.
”Listen, I know the boss, she really won’t care.” Steve smirks, a full bellied laugh shaking his shoulders when you flip him off in response.
“You’re lucky I just started this record.” You point asternly, before finally giving in. “We’ve got like an hour. Tops.”
—-
The van is already running when the two of you step outside, the low hum of the engine cutting through the wind. Snow crunches under your converse, thick and heavy just like the flakes that fall steadily from the dark lavender sky. The serene scene of the woods that surround the station is breathtaking, making you realize that you can’t remember the last time you had a white Christmas.
“Wait, how long have you actually been here?”
The puzzle pieces slowly begin to slot together as you cross your arms in an attempt to protect yourself from the sharp wind that hits you like knives, cursing the split second decision to not grab your coat.
”Maybe like an hour — hour and a half?” He says from a few steps ahead of you, throwing a look over his shoulder. “Hey, do you want my jacket?”
”What? Steve! An hour and a half!” You gasp, swatting his arm, shock painting your features, ignoring his second question because he’s already shrugging it off before you can say no.
”Hey! It’s fine, relax!” He laughs, making a dramatic show of rubbing the spot you smacked before turning around to drape the leather over your shoulders.
It takes every ounce of will power not to press your nose into the collar when the warmth of it envelopes you. He tugs the sides of the jacket for good measure, winking at you down the slope of his nose before continuing his path to the van. A soft glow shines through the small square windows of the back doors, the yellow light shimmering in the snow. His long strides stop once you get close enough to feel the heat emanating from the engine, turning to face you with rosy cold bitten cheeks meeting your gaze down the sharp slope of his nose. He traps you in the mossy green forest of his eyes, keeping you there as the tips of your shoes brush against with a soft squeak. The pads of his fingers search for yours, tugging you closer when he finds them.
“I did this because I wanted to.” He whispers, reassuring the nervous way you tug your bottom lip between your teeth taking it all in.
Any response is lost on the tip of your tongue, the corners of your lips curling up into something shy. You meet his gaze from under the hood of your lashes, rocking back on your heels mustering a nod. It’s enough for him, flashing you the kind of smile that threatens to buckle your knees, before opening the large metal door. The rusted hinges creak so loudly it echoes into the darkness, the view inside nearly stealing the breath from your lungs.
The golden twinkle of string lights line the roof of the van, another set swooping underneath them in a curved zig zag. They paint the space in warm citrine, relaxing the dark edges the glow of them can’t reach. Everything’s cast in shadows, even softening the ugly colors of the shag rug that covers the floor. There’s a mini Christmas tree that you saw on the clearance shelf at Bradley’s Big Buy a few days ago sitting on the small table right next to a plate of leftovers from the party. The Squawk plays on the radio, Frank Sinatra’s smooth voice crackling through the bad nearly blown out speakers.
“Steve this is — this is so cute.” It comes out quieter than intended, your brain trying to wrap around the fact that he did this for you trying to take in the details of it all with a heart that feels so full that it might burst.
“Yeah?” He questions with an uncertainty that you can’t believe is there. It’s enough for you to tear your eyes away from the shimmering light, your fingers tightening around his.
“This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” You whisper, taking a step closer to look up at him. “Thank you so much, handsome.”
The endearment has his cheeks turning a pretty shade of red, perfect teeth tugging his full bottom lip into his mouth, a free hand running through his snow-covered hair.
“Let’s get inside before we lose all the heat.” He smiles, pulling your hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss on your knuckles, the warmth of his breath soothing cold skin.
—-
You sit across from each other on the blankets he’d spread out over the rug, your legs bent slotted between his, knees knocking together every so often. Throw pillows you’re pretty sure are from his living room line the edges of the quilt on either side, while your snow covered shoes and his jacket sit discarded in the front seat to dry.
Steve stares at you with the kind of smirk that makes you feel like your body is a livewire, the ends of his hair a little wet from the snow that melted once you got inside. The pad of his thumb swipes gently on the top of your socked foot, electricity seeping through the thick cotton, tingling against your skin. The heat pouring from the vents fogs up the windows, hiding you from the outside world. Safe again.
“So who goes first?” You question, nervous fingers fiddling with the string handle of the gift bag.
There’s a brief moment where you swear panic flickers across his face, but he recovers quickly, clearing his throat. The notion that he’s just as nervous as you relaxes a little bit of tension in your shoulders, knocking your knee into his with flirty purpose.
“Ladies always first.” He says it like it shouldn’t even be a question, grabbing the messily wrapped present from his side handing it over to you. Electric currents running through touching finger tips.
Whatever it is feels heavy in your hand as you spin it around, examining the crazy amount of tape that’s plastered all over it. You make a show of shaking it next to your ear to stop him from hiding under the weight of his thoughts that has him staring at his hands, earning you the flash of teeth you were looking for.
“Don’t break it please.” He laughs, running that signature stressed hand through his hair, filling you with a sense of pride that you’re the cause of it this time.
“I would never!” You gasp dramatically, the pads of your fingers tugging on the edges of the paper. “Whatever is inside of this immaculate wrap job is about to be my favorite thing in the world.”
”Not all of us back down from a challenge and take the lazy way out with a gift bag.” He taunts catching your sarcasm with a grin that has you rolling your eyes, the corners of your lips curving up.
You fight to regain your focus on the task at hand and not the boy you haven’t stopped thinking about sitting across from you. The quick thumping of your heart pounds muffled in your ears as you slowly start to unwrap whatever it is, the heat of his stare making you squirm. Breaking the last little bit of tape holding it together with your index finger, the last thing you’re expecting is the candle that rolls into your palm.
There’s no label on the glass jar holding the sea foam green wax with a long white wick that sits slightly off center sticking out of the top of it. Curiously, you lift it up to your nose and inhale only to be met with the kind of scent that takes you to a time you haven’t stopped day dreaming about all winter long. Not a specific memory but a collection of where all your favorite ones took place. It smells like 9pm sunsets and late night drives with the windows rolled down. It’s barbecues at the lake with way too much sunscreen yet somehow not enough at all. Ice cold lemonade in red solo cups with condensation from the heat dripping down the sides, sulfur stinging in your nose from Fourth of July sparklers. It smells like summer. Your perfect summer.
”Oh my god.” You groan, taking another big huff trying to figure out how to live inside of it for the next few months. “Where did you get this?”
”You like it?” He asks wearily, cracking his knuckles, nervous eyes hyper aware of all of your reactions.
”Like it? Steve, I’m obsessed with it.” You sniff it again for good measure, and somehow it keeps being better than the last time. “Seriously, what brand is this?”
“You see — I - I uhh.“ He scratches the back of his neck, looking down at his lap like he’s struggling to find his words before meeting your gaze from under the thick hood of his lashes. “Dustin’s mom makes candles, as like, a hobby or whatever. So I forc - I mean I paid — he helped me make you one.”
”Wait, you made this for me?” You question in whispered disbelief ignoring the subtle coercing of his younger friend. He nods, crimson deepening in his cheeks as he runs another hand through his hair.
Flowers that Steve’s started to water bloom deep in your chest threatening to crack it open. The unmistakable sting of tears wells up in the corners of your eyes, and you do your best to blink them back. Setting the candle down at your side, you sit up on your knees. He stretches his legs, laying them flat against the floor to accommodate whatever you’re doing without question as you crawl onto his lap wrapping your arms around his neck. It takes him a moment to realize what’s happening, but when he does, his arms snake around your waist tugging you even closer. Your knees land on either side of his hips as he buries his face in the crook of neck, inhaling deeply like he’s been waiting for this all his life. His hands spread wide across your back, warm palms sliding up the dip of your spine, nudging at the hinge of your jaw with the tip of his nose, a satisfied hum tickling against your skin.
“Thank you Steve, I love it.” You whisper, lips brushing against the shell of his ear as the greedy tips of your fingers curl into the soft wisps of chestnut at the nape of his neck.
“I wish you knew how happy that makes me.” He murmurs, pulling back just enough to meet you with a heady gaze that threatens to swallow you whole with wandering hands finding a new home on the curve of your hips.
Leaning forward, you press forehead to his tugging lightly at his baby hairs that curl around the bottoms of his ears. Your breath mingles in the little space that’s left between your begging lips, so close they could brush with the slightest tilt of your chin.
“Your turn.” You say, the corners of your mouth curving up softly, his grip on your sides tightening in response.
He runs the tip of his nose along the length of yours before pulling back enough to have you miss him, a hunger his stare that sets a fire a blaze on every inch of your skin.
“Let’s see it.” He readjusts beneath you with a grin, the hold on your hips staying iron clad, making sure there’s no misunderstanding that he’s keeping you there.
Reaching behind to grab the gift bag, nerves make your palms sweat while the another part of you is excited to get rid of the thing that’s haunted your every waking thought since wrapping it. It crinkles loudly in your hands, the smile on his face growing wide enough to split it in two.
“Whatever it is, even if it’s just a pair of socks you got from the thrift store, I’m gonna love it.” Steve reassures with gentle palms sliding up on either side of your rib cage, tiny wings taking flight underneath his fingers.
“Well it’s definitely not that. And also that’s oddly specific. Has someone gotten you that before?" You snort a little confused, trying to distract from the slight shake of your hand as you bravely hand it over.
“Don’t worry about it.” He teases, lifting the bag up to his ear mimicking the way you shook his gift, earning the smack on his chest and roll of your eyes he was looking for.
”Steve! Stop it!”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry!” He laughs, grabbing your wrist before you can fully pull your hand away. Holding you in the golden honey that drips warm in his eyes, he slowly brings your palm back up his mouth softly pressing a kiss to the soft skin there. “I’m gonna open it now, promise.”
The gesture sends your body buzzing, nervous teeth digging into your bottom lip as you try to remember how to breathe. Pulling the green tissue out first, he tosses it on the other side of the throw pillows in a messy ball as your heart tries to claw its way out of your throat watching him peer inside the bag. Steve’s body freezes between your thighs. The familiar itch of panic threatens to set in after a few moments of silence, with nothing but the howling wind outside and the crackle of Frank Sinatra’s voice through the speakers.
It’s enough to have you start to squirm uncomfortably on his lap, the movement shaking him out of whatever daze he was lost in, meeting your gaze with glassy eyes from under his lashes.
“First of all, this is way more than ten dollars.” He laughs lightly, trying to break the unexpected tension, but there's no mistaking the shake inside of his voice as he pulls out a map, compass and a camera.
“For all the adventures waiting for you on the other side of Indiana state lines.” You whisper a little nervous that maybe you’ve over stepped, that what he shared with you in that car ride to your apartment wasn’t to be talked of again.
Disbelief floats around in his watery gaze like a life boat because you see him when he’s not sure he’s ever really seen himself.
“I think I’m falling in love with you.” He breathes like he can’t hold it in anymore, searching for the answers in the lines of your face because the curves of it have become his favorite thing.
It wasn’t the response you were expecting and it sparks an avalanche of unspoken feelings that burst at the seams of your chest trying to get out. Words not dared uttered out loud but have done nothing but spin on a loop in your mind, worming their way into every thought both awake and lost in your dreams. The universe shifts at his confession, your world tilting off its axis because Steve Harrington snuck up on you in a life altering surprise.
“I think I’m already there.” You admit, eyes casting down at your fidgeting hands because ‘falling’ is a lot different than ‘in’, but in the spirit of honesty, you lay your cards on the table too.
“Hey,” His voice comes out soft just above a whisper, long fingers tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. “Me too, I was just saying that so I wouldn’t scare you off.”
You can’t stop the watery giggle that slips past your lips at his confession, the whites of his teeth shining at the sound.
”Wow, I didn’t even think about scaring you off until after I said it. But by then it was too late.” You grin, pressing your forehead to his again brushing the tip of his nose with your own.
”Good thing it worked out, for you yet again huh?” He teases, bringing his hand back up to cup the side of your face.
”Mmhmm,” you hum, daring to hold his gaze as you slide your palm over the top of it leaning into the warmth of his touch. The sunbursts of color in his hazel eyes darken as he pulls you closer, making you brave enough to ask for the one thing you’ve wanted since that night under the stars.
“Steve?”
“Yeah, honey?” He whispers, eyebrows marrying together like he’s begging you to put him out of his misery.
“Kiss me.”
He wastes no time closing the space that’s left, pouring all of his want into the first press of his lips, the pad of his thumb running along the heated skin of your cheek. Needy fingers find a new home, tangling themselves in the thick dampness of his hair, tugging him closer when his tongue swipes against your lower lip, begging you to let him in. It’s easy to say yes. You meet him in the middle, the muscles moving together languid and slow, savoring it. The grip he has on your hips tightens, his nose pressing into your cheek exploring your mouth with the kind of intensity that dares to get messy. A satisfied moan rumbling from his chest when your tongue starts to battle for dominance.
You could do this for hours, you think, and never get tired of it. Never get tired of him.
“Baby.” He murmurs against your lips, the new endearment pulling you from your love drunk thoughts, sending the word ‘baby’ buzzing through your veins.
“Hmm?” You half answer, too distracted by the way he busies himself leaving open mouthed kisses down the length of your jaw, a big hand coming up so he can tilt your chin to get to your neck.
”The music stopped.” Steve breathes against your skin, nudging the side of your face with the tip of his nose, pressing his lips to the sensitive spot behind your ear. “Dead air.”
He straightens up, pulling away from where he’d been focusing his attention and brings it to your flushed face. Pressing his forehead to yours, he squeezes his eyes shut like stopping this is the hardest thing he’s ever done. Chests rise and fall, lungs desperately trying to get the oxygen they crave, but you just want Steve.
“Fuck the dead air.”
You steal his lips without a second thought, and it’s your tongue that asks for permission this time. Steve smiles into the kiss granting it to you with ease, one hand coming up to the side of your face. The pad of his thumb tugs at the edge of your mouth, opening you up more for him, building a hunger that threatens to scrape teeth together, hips swiveling on their own accord. He shudders underneath you, a half choked moan escaping the back of his throat when you do it again, only this time with purpose.
Wrapping a strong arm around the small of your back, his fingers spread wide along the curve of your spine. He pulls you close to his chest before lifting you up, laying you both down on the blankets. Slotting himself between your legs that spread for him, big hands land on either side of your head, caging you in. He pulls away from your mouth like its torture, staring down at you like you’re the reason the sun rises and falls every morning. The intensity of it swells deep in your chest, fingers reaching up letting the pads of them trace the warm lines of his face. He’s always felt like sunshine to you.
“You’re sure about this?” He whispers, the strain of maintaining self control evident in the shake of his voice.
“This is the first thing in my life that I've been absolutely certain of.” You admit with a grin, never wanting to leave whatever this little space he created tucked away from the outside world is. At least not yet. “What about you?”
Steve’s eyes flutter closed for a second, chasing your touch nuzzling his face into your palm as the pad of your thumb glides over the clutter of moles on his cheek. Your favorite constellation. Leaning further down, the tip of his nose runs along the length of yours, a slow smile spreading across his lips.
“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more.” Leaning down, the tip of his nose runs along the length of yours, a slow smile spreading across his lips.
“Then what are we waiting for?” The question comes out quiet, wrapped in the kind of ache that's so palpable you can feel it in your bones.
He holds your gaze searching for any trace of apprehension that he’ll never find, the blacks of his irises taking over once he’s satisfied. His hand slides down the curve of your waist with more purpose as he drops his full weight onto you, the smell of cedar and bergamot all encompassing. Your spine bends, pressing your body into his yearning to get closer, the pine of his shampoo tickling your nose, driving you mad.
“So damn pretty.” He murmurs into your mouth before collecting it with a roll of his hips, greedily swallowing the gasp that follows.
His tentative fingers fiddle with the hem of your sweater until it’s your hips that meet him this time, giving them all the permission they need. A deep groan rattles from deep in his chest when you do it again. Calloused fingers tickle the soft skin of your tummy, flitting up the contour of your ribs, the pad of his thumb sliding under the wire of your bra. Your determined hands travel down the broad expanse of his shoulders before they dip down the lean length of his chest lingering at the bottom of his thick woven turtle neck.
You pull away from his lips that chase you to come back, whispering “Can I?”
His body tenses at your question as panic starts to burrow deep in your gut, the butterflies retreating back to their cocoons at the thought of ruining this already.
“Only if you’re comfortable,” you remind him trying to salvage it, kissing the edge of his mouth, adding softly, “I’ll want you no matter what you decide.”
The tight muscles in his shoulders relax at the soft affection in your voice, the pad of his thumb swiping under your bra again before squeezing at your side. Steve hides his face in the crook of your neck, leaving an open mouthed kiss behind your ear, doing it again relishing at the keening noise you give him.
”You first.” He murmurs quietly against your skin before lifting his head, drowning you in the rich amber of his eyes.
”Do it for me?” You’re shy with the way you ask, meeting him under the hood of your lashes.
“Baby.” His breath fans hot against scorched skin, the tip of his nose running down the slope of yours with brows furrowed in the kind of want that steals the air from your lungs.
Steve greedily captures your lips one more time before sitting back on his haunches. He runs a hand through his now sweaty hair, a pretty shade of red creeping up his neck as he tries to regain some self control. Propping yourself up on your elbows, it's hard not to notice all the ways you affect him, especially in the tight jeans he always wears. Your cheeks burn remembering all the rumors about him in high school. A smirk tugs up one side of his mouth, making you realize that you’re staring, but you can’t bring yourself to look away.
“I swear this wasn’t some master plan to get in your pants or anything like that.” He huffs out a laugh shuffling back between your thighs, hands curving around the bend of your knees, thumbs brushing softly against the caps.
“I know,” You try to hide your smile by biting into the fat of your bottom lip, sliding your hands up his thighs as you sit all the way up. Hooking your fingers into the belt loops of his jeans, the new position putting the center of his chest at eye level.
“Jesus Christ.” He grumbles with a shaky breath, running his fingers through his hair again before letting them curl under your chin tilting your gaze up even more. “You’re trying to kill me.”
The giggle he earns in response makes him grin as you tug lightly on the denim.
“Lift your arms for me, pretty girl.” His command drips with honey, the pearly whites of his teeth peeking out, sliding the pad of his thumb along your pouty bottom lip.
You do as you're told, heart racing so fast it pounds in your ears while his soft eyes follow your movements. Wetting his lips he slowly peels your sweater from over your head, tossing it to the side before really taking you in. If it wasn’t for the admiration that glimmered bright in his eyes, you would be self conscious with how he stares at you without saying a word for what feels like the longest time.
“Come here, please.” He pleas in a whisper, urging you to your knees.
His hands feel like they are everywhere when you meet him at eye level, greedy fingers squeezing at your soft curves before warm palms spread wide across your back pulling you in. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, littering your heated skin with the same open mouthed kisses that were your undoing just minutes ago. A needy whine slips from between your lips, your fingers finding themselves back in his hair, tugging him closer. Making his way down your neck, his eager mouth feels like it’s on the hunt, devouring all the new skin that's presented to him. He presses a kiss to your collar bone before perfect teeth nip at the swell of your breasts, expert fingers undoing the hooks of your bra with ease.
”Oh my god, Steve.” You say a little breathless, arching deeper into him searching for the kind of friction you’re not going to get like this.
He hums against your skin, before bringing his attention back to where you want him most. Cupping the side of your face with one hand, the pad of his thumb tugs at your chin, licking into your mouth. Meeting his tongue with feverish need, your teeth scrape together at the warm palm that squeezes your breast, nipples pebbling under his touch. You don’t think about it when your hands slide down to the hem of his sweater, too lost in your desperation for more until he grabs your wrists with a soft “Hey” in between kisses that finally you wake up.
”I’m - I’m sorry.” You break away trying to create some distance, embarrassed that you lost control.
”Hey, no — no, no, don’t be sorry honey.” He coos, pulling you back to him pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth for good measure, meeting your gaze with the same adoration as before. “Will you - will you just let me do it?”
“You don’t have to -“
“I want to.” He says it with such conviction that it leaves you little room to over think his answer, whispering ‘I want to’ one more time, nudging your nose.
All you can do is nod shuffling back to give him space, arms wrapping around your chest out of instinct. Steve takes a deep breath, rolling his shoulders, staring intensely at the patterns on the quilt beneath you. His wrists flick at his sides with the kind of nerves that make you want to say you’ve changed your mind, that it’s okay, he doesn’t have to do this but it’s more than just that, you can tell, so you hold it in and trust him.
He doesn’t look at you when his arms cross at his waist, fingers curling under the hem of his turtle neck slowly pulling it up.The dark hair of his happy trail reveals itself to you first, another cluster of moles dotting the side of it that you’re desperate to kiss. There's a slight shake to his hands when his sweater gets higher up his torso the same kind of jagged edges peeking out that are identical to the one wrapped around his neck.
These ones though, are much bigger.
They spread wide, taking up space along both sides of his rib cage like saw-toothed wings. Uneven skin pinches together pink in some parts, smooth and silver in others. The raised edges outline the mean looking bites that stop right under his chest that’s covered in an even thicker dark patch of hair. His scars unfurl like water colors that bleed into paper from too much water, beautiful and messy just like him.
Tossing his sweater with yours, he runs both his hands through his hair before finally meeting your gaze with a vulnerability inside of them that threatens to break your heart. Dropping your arms you move slowly, coming closer holding his stare. You can feel the nerves that radiate off of him, chest rising and falling in quick succession.
“Can I touch you?” You ask quietly, like you’re trying not to spook him.
It takes him a second to answer, brows furrowing as he looks down, pink tongue poking out to lick his lips.
”Yeah - yeah.” He nods, bringing his gaze back to you, long fingers curling around your wrist, slowly guiding your hand to the one on his rib cage.
Steve sucks a breath between his teeth feeling the warmth of your palm on skin that hasn’t been touched in months, his body shuddering when you press softly into the uneven markings. There’s a roughness to the middle of it, the raised skin on the ends more smooth and firm. The pad of your thumb brushes against it, encouraging him to bring your other hand to the one just under his chest on the other side, fully letting you in. He studies your reactions, desperately trying to read your mind, the amber of his eyes turning glassy with apprehension.
”You’re so handsome, Steve.” You say holding his stare, tentatively bending down before you lean forward slowly testing the waters. His breath comes out in nervous huff, but he doesn’t stop the press of your lips.
Your kiss is tender against the biggest one that almost spreads the entire expanse off his ribs, sending another shudder through his body, a whispered ‘honey’ slipping from his mouth. His palms slide over the tops of yours as you make your way down his chest, peppering more along the other side giving all of them your equal attention. You self indulgently kiss the cluster of moles next to his happy trail before working your way back up to include the one at the base of his neck.
The warmth of your hands moves up his broad shoulders meeting his gaze with heavy eyes. His fingers glide down your arms before they tickle the dip of your spine. Hooking your wrists around his neck, you bring your soft kisses to his waiting lips, his hold tightening crushing you to him he can never be close enough.
Your mouths move slowly against each other, finding the perfect rhythm, tongues meeting in the middle savoring the taste of each other, taking your time. It’s you who pulls him back down to the blankets, thighs spreading for him to lay between them. The rough feel of his scars against your skin sends goosebumps pebbling, your body curving up insatiable for more of him. He moans into the kiss, his hands working their way down, deft fingers unbuttoning your pants before pushing under the waist band of your soaked underwear.
“Shit,” He breathes, breaking apart from your lips. Pressing his forehead to yours, his fingers finding the effects of his touch. ”So wet, baby.”
”Mmhm.” You whimper, hips meeting the slow circles he starts to rub on your bundle of nerves. “Want you, Steve.”
His lips curl up against the side of your warm cheek, hearing his name making him brave. The pads of his fingers slide further down letting a knuckle stretch you out. You gasp when he adds a second, pulling him back to your mouth, meeting the slow movements of his wrist with another roll of your hips. He pushes a third finger into the heat of your squeezing walls, prepping you for what’s pressing hard against your thigh.
You find the will power to break free from the way he starts to tighten the coil deep in your gut, impatient fingers finding the button of his jeans, eager hands shoving them down his hips. He helps you, lifting them enough to kick off as the pad of his thumb threatens to become your undoing, putting just enough pressure against your clit for your jaw to go slack.
“Please,” You beg as his lips keep making their way up your jaw, your palm finding the hard length of him straining against the white material of his boxer briefs.
He moans hot against the shell of your ear, another shudder rippling through his body, hips bucking on their own accord, your touch sending him over the edge.
“Fuck, I need you. You have no idea how bad I need you.” His hushed words come out desperate, like he might go insane if he can’t have it.
His fingers curve, hitting that spot inside of you that threatens to make you see the stars that you’re convinced he hung in the sky. His name leaves your mouth like it's the only word you know, eye brows furrowing together when they pick up the pace. Their determined movements become your undoing as he sucks on the sensitive part of your neck, leaving a mark. Your world tilts off its axis at the unexpected intensity that washes over you, walls fluttering hard against his fingers, trying to push him out.
“God, you’re so beautiful like this baby.” He groans, teeth nipping softly at the hinge of your jaw. “Always so damn pretty, wanna see it again.”
It takes you a moment to come back down, words getting lost on the tip of your tongue at his affection. His greedy lips waste no time traveling a path down your chest, his hot mouth enveloping your nipple into the wet heat of it. He sucks just hard enough to earn a gasp, fingers finding their way back to the damp softness of his hair, getting lost in the silk of it as he peppers messy kisses down your sternum stopping just at the top of your navel.
You lift your hips, you help him push the rest of your pants down, taking your underwear with it. Laying yourself bare, his eyes that had turned into a dark shade of chestnut devour you. He sits back up on his haunches to really take it all in, pushing that infamous wild strand back.
“I’m sorry it took me so long.” He whispers, a sincerity in his gaze that shows a hint of misplaced guilt. ”I can’t believe I could’ve had you this whole time.”
”Steve,” his name comes out gentle, finding the strength to push yourself up meeting him in the middle. Your hands wrap around his hips, the pads of your thumbs brushing against the edges of his scars. “That doesn’t matter, we’re here now, and you weren’t the only one.”
His palm comes back up to envelope the side of your face in its big hold, staring down at you with the kind of affection that makes your heart skip two beats.
”Now, come here and don’t make me wait any longer.” You tease, looking up at him from under flirty lashes.
Steve’s smile stretches so wide, it splits his face in two, his white teeth shimmering in the twinkling lights. You tug at the waste band of the only piece of clothing keeping you apart, pulling him back down with hardly any effort at all. His briefs getting lost at your feet as he comes back to his favorite place between your thighs.
Hovering above you, the ends of your noses touch, lips curling into something sweet as you tangle your fingers back into the hair at the nape of his neck. The tip of him slides between your slick, his head catching on your bundle of nerves making your back arch, legs spreading wider. A deep groan escapes from the back of his throat, vibrating from his chest at the feel of you, his forehead resting against yours shuddering, doing it again.
You kiss the sharp edge of his jaw, encouraging him to keep going with a roll of your hips, one hand leaving his damp roots to reach down to guide him to the place you need him most. His eyes pinch closed, your jaw going slack at the initial stretch that’s even bigger than you imagined.
“Ohmygod, Steve.” It comes out in a desperate whine, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders from under his. Tethering yourself to him, you need an anchor when he pushes the rest of the way in.
”Jesus, you’re so — god, you’re so tight.” He groans, panting against your open mouth.
Steve doesn’t move, letting you adjust to his size, his arms trembling at the fluttering of your walls. You feel so full letting him melt into your body like this, taking it over and all you want is more. You think you’ll always want more. The grind of your hips catches your sweet spot on the rough patch of hair at the end of his happy trail, blunt nails digging crescent moons into the galaxy on his back.
He presses a kiss to the edge of your mouth before messily capturing it with a deep thrust, tongue licking into you, swallowing your moan. You meet him with eager hips, a sharp exhale leaving through his nose. Moving together slowly, you take all of him with an insatiable body that begs him to go deeper even though there's where else to go.
“You feel so good.” You whimper against his cheek, breaking away from his hungry lips to catch your breath. “So fucking good.”
“Yeah?” He huffs, hot breath tickling your ear, his strokes becoming more pointed at the squeeze of your walls when he hits that spot. “You’re perfect, made for me. I swear.”
Resting his forehead to yours, he presses the full weight of himself on you, the dark pools of his eyes drowning you in their abyss. One of his hands travels down the soft curve of your waist, squeezing at your hip before hooking your knee over the crook of his elbow.
He opens you up more for him, driving deeper, a guttural moan escaping from the back of his throat at the feel of you. It’s loud enough to drown out the high pitch whine you give in return. The intense need to keep close has you clawing at his skin, your spine bending pressing your body further into him.
“Never gonna get enough of you.” He pants, the heat of his breath fanning against your kiss bitten lips. “I need you to be mine.”
He sounds love drunk, his hips stuttering at the squeeze of your walls at his words.
“I’m yours Steve, that was never a question.” Fingers weaving into his hair, you tug him close, stealing the kind of kiss that tries to convey just how much you mean it.
He meets your mouth with the kind of intensity that sends butterflies fluttering in your chest, the familiar coil in your gut tightening again. His thrusts start to become more sporadic, like his self control is slipping, completely lost in the silk of you.
”I’m not - I’m not gonna last much longer.” He confesses pulling away, his fingers spreading across your chin tiling your face up to his so he can really see you. “Need you to cum for me again pretty girl, can you do that for me?”
All you do is nod, too intoxicated off of him to form full sentences anymore. Your jaw goes slack as he slows down to a grind, the rough thatch of hair at the base of him catching on your clit with just the right amount of pressure again. He nudges his nose with yours whispering a gentle ‘come on,’ that sends you falling over the edge for a second time, your vision going white behind eyes that close tight.
”So good, god, you’re so fucking good.” He moans, driving his hips into yours with the kind of intensity that tells you that he’s close, milking your release that becomes his demise.
His body tenses on top of yours, the hold on your leg tightening as a shudder ripples through his body spilling into you. A loud moan rattles from his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. It’s almost enough for you to give in for a third time, rolling your hips, greedy walls taking him for all he’s worth. Tugging at his damp roots, you pull him close, relishing in the way he surrounds you, solid and warm. It takes him a moment for his muscles to fully relax after shocks rolling through his body until the hold on your leg finally comes loose.
Steve’s fingers glide up your thigh, curving around your rib cage, while his other hand that was holding your chin cups the side of your face. The pad of his thumb traces the contour of your cheekbone, wet lips peppering lazy kisses where he still hides. Your fingers run through his hair, scratching at his scalp, the corners of your mouth curving up at the low hum that tickles against your skin.
“Let’s never leave.” He grumbles, finally showing signs of life.
“Deal.” You giggle, pressing soft lips to the crown of his head, feeling the smile that spreads in against your skin.
His nose nudges at your jaw, finally coming up to meet your eyes, rosy pink creeping across his cheeks.
“Hey,” He greets shyly, studying the lines of your face before continuing. “I just want you to know I meant everything I said. I wasn’t just lost in the heat of the moment or something like that.”
Your hands untangle themselves from his hair, making a new home holding his face, whispering,
“Me too.”
He bends down, pressing his lips to yours with something delicate behind it. Pouring his adoration into every part of you. It’s overwhelming because you feel the same way, but you’re not sure a lifetime will be enough time to even scratch the surface.
“Travel with me.” The words come out in a hot breath against your mouth, running the tip of his nose up the slope of yours.
”Steve -“
”No, I mean it.” He argues with a grin, a smoothness to the lines of his handsome features you haven’t seen before. “We can go where it’s summer all the time.”
”Yeah?” You whisper, a full garden blossoming in your chest.
“Absolutely, I’ve actually already planned the whole thing in my head.” He teases, earning the kind of giggle he wants to bottle up so he can listen to it whenever he wants.
”That does sound pretty nice.”
“Who else am I going to take pictures of anyway?” The smile that spreads across his face is contagious as he bends down, stealing a kiss that you already missed.
Laying tangled up in the back of the van, you weren’t expecting to fall in love when you moved back. The kind of surprise that you’re pretty sure just changed the trajectory of your life, but you know you’d choose this timeline every single time.
Warnings: major angst, breakups, heartbreak, allusions to cheating, self doubt, mean!Steve, King!Steve, hurt/comfort, love triangle, mentions of an ED, past trauma
Parings: Steve Harrington x fem!cheerleader!reader | Eddie Munson x fem!reader | Steve Harrington x Nancy Wheeler
Summary: Steve was slipping through your fingers and you desperately held onto him not realizing that his heart wasn’t yours anymore. Dealing with the aftermath of your breakup turns out to be harder than you thought. Steve’s presence still lingers and while he keeps a hold of your heart, someone else sneaks their way into it too.
prologue | part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | part ten | part eleven | part twelve | part thirteen | part fourteen | part fifteen | part sixteen | part seventeen | part eighteen | part nineteen | part twenty | part twenty one | part twenty two | part twenty three | part twenty four | part twenty five | part twenty six | part twenty seven | part twenty eight | part twenty nine
Those Days Are Over (Don’t Worry, Baby) — Steve Harrington (2)
pairing — ex!steve harrington x fem!reader
word count — 16.9k
summary — Four years ago, Steve Harrington had chosen his future and it wasn’t you. You’d chose to leave Hawkins entirely and that worked out fine until it didn’t. Now you’re sleeping in your sister’s guest room and picking up your nephew from baseball practice where Steve Harrington is teaching kids how to slide into home. Some things, it turns out, you can’t outrun.
warnings — (18+ Minors DNI!!!) sexual content, no intercourse, fingering, me also being really bad at writing smut, heavy making out, crying, SO much crying, both of them, multiple times, breakdown during intimacy, ongoing emotional trauma, public emotional moments, alcohol mention, intimacy while intoxicated, breakup scene, second chance romances, he fell first AND he fell harder (eventually), right person wrong time -> right person right time, small town, forced proximity (??), jealous steve. yearner steve. like so badly yearning i’m sorry i got so carried away.
author’s note — this was probably the worst Almost Hookup aftermath. i also got so carried away writing this and i know i’ll look back on it and realize how bad it was lmao but steve is such a yearner in this. i also would loveee to write an epilogue or something for this + drabbles because i’m thinking so much about them and don’t wanna let them go just yet so lmk if that’s of any interest !! ♡
part one
"Hi," he breathed against your lips.
"Hi, Steve." Your hands found the hem of his shirt, fingers slipping beneath to find warm skin. He took in a sharp intake of breath he tried to hide.
He shuddered, the tremor beginning in his shoulder and rolling down through his chest, his stomach. His hands left your face and slid down to your waist, then lower, fingers digging into your hips so hard you’d feel it tomorrow as he hauled you against him.
“Fuck.” The word punched out of him and he pressed his hips forward, letting out a low groan as he said, Been thinkin’ about this all night.
“Just tonight?”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and you could feel strands of his hair—softer than it used to be, less product—brushing against your forehead as he lowered his head. His pupils were blown so wide you could hardly see the hazel. His expression was so open it made your chest ache. “Longer.”
Your breath caught. For a second neither of you moved, and you let his eyes bore into your own. “Steve—”
“Since you showed up again.” His thumb found the sliver of skin where your jeans, the Levi’s you’d found in a thrift store near college, sat low on your hip. “Maybe longer. Maybe I never really stopped.”
You should probably tell him not to say things like that. Yes, you should remind him—so you can remind yourself—that this was just scratching an itch, just getting it out of your system. But his forehead was pressed to yours and his hands were warm and solid on your hips and you couldn’t get yourself to care about should.
“Kiss me again,” you said instead.
He wasted no time. His tongue slid against yours and you made a sound you’d be embarrassed about later, pulling him closer by the shirt. The fabric bunched in your fists and you could feel his heart beating against your palms.
“Bed?” you managed to say when you pulled for air.
He kissed along your jaw, down your neck, finding that spot below your ear that made you gasp. "Just give me a second."
"We're still by the door."
“‘m aware.” His hands were pulling your sweater up, impatient in a way that made you smile against his mouth because that was familiar; Steve wanting too much too fast, Steve getting ahead of himself. You lifted your arms to help him and the sweater caught on your necklace—the delicate gold chain with your initial you never took off, the one your mom gave you for graduation —before it came free and dropped to the floor next to your bag. Your keys were probably tangled in the strap and your lip gloss was definitely getting crushed.
Then his hands were on your bare skin, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra.
You pulled at his shirt and he helped you, yanking it over his head in one motion that messed his hair up even more. And then you were both breathing hard, pressed against the door, and you couldn't remember why you'd wanted to move in the first place.
Your eyes traced over him in the dim light from the window. He really had filled out, shoulders broader, arms more defined, the suggestion of actual muscle instead of the lanky basketball-player frame he'd had earlier.
“Hey,” he said, softer this time. His hands cupped your face again as he stroked your cheekbones.
"Hi." You traced the line of his collarbone with your finger, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. "You got broader."
He laughed, surprised. "What?"
“Your shoulders. They’re—” You ran your hands over them, feeling the muscle there. “You filled out.”
"Four years of actually working out instead of just pretending to for basketball will do that." His hands slid down your sides, settling on your waist. "You got—"
"Careful how you finish that sentence."
"—even prettier." He said it simply, like it was obvious. Like there was no other possible word. "I was going to say even prettier."
Something in your chest cracked wide open. "Steve—"
"This is new." He mused as he hummed while his thumb traced the outline of the black lace. "Pretty girl,” he murmured.
“You don’t know that.”
His eyes flicked up, dark and a little smug. “Yeah. I do. I remember all of them.” His thumb dipped beneath the lace, brushing bare skin, and he kept his eyes on your face. “The pink one. The white one with the flowers. The red one you wore for—”
“Okay, okay,” you cut him off, face heating. “Point made.”
“Just saying,” he said, tilting his head as he grinned, that cocky smile that used to drive you crazy. “I paid attention.”
“Clearly.”
“Had to.” He hummed as his fingers came up and around your neck, warm and possessive. “You were my girl.”
Were. God. The word hung between you for a second before he was kissing you again, erasing it, swallowing it, taking it back. His tongue slid against yours and you forgot what you were thinking about, forgot everything except the way his hands were moving you, confident now. Like he was more sure.
“Bedroom,” you said against his mouth. “Steve, we gotta—”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” But his hand was already sliding higher, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, and you gasped. “Fuck, you sound—”
“Steve.” Your voice was firmer now.
“Bossy,” he said, smirking as he pulled away from you.
He grabbed your thighs and lifted you. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically and his hands gripped you tight, fingers digging into your ass as he he walked off. “Show off,” you murmured against his neck.
“You love it.”
“Maybe.”
He let out a throaty laugh. “Definitely.” He squeezed and you bit his shoulder in retaliation, which only made him laugh harder. “Careful. Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
“Who says I can’t finish it?”
His laugh was cut off by a groan you felt vibrate through his chest. “Okay, yeah. We’re—let’s go, before I drop you.”
"I might." But his grip tightened, hands flexing against your thighs as he navigated through his apartment. You could feel every step, the way his muscles shifted, the controlled strength in how he held you. He'd always been strong—basketball had seen to that—but this was different. Deliberate. Like he wanted you to feel exactly how easily he could carry you.
You kissed along his jaw, his neck, finding that spot behind his ear that used to make him crazy. Still did, apparently, because he stumbled slightly, shoulder hitting the doorframe.
"Jesus—" He course-corrected, finally making it through the doorway. "You're the worst."
"You love it."
"Maybe," he said, throwing your words back at you, and then he was setting you down on the bed. Not gently—with enough force that you bounced once, twice, and had to catch yourself on your elbows.
"Smooth," you said, grinning up at him.
"Shut up." But he was grinning too as he braced his hands on either side of you, leaning down until his face was inches from yours. Close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his pupils were blown wide. "Hi."
"Hi."
His knee pressed between your thighs, and the grin faded into something more serious and intense. "You good?"
"Yeah." Your hands found his shoulders, sliding down to his chest. You could feel his heart racing under your palm. "You?"
“Yeah. Really good. Just—” He stopped, and something flickered across his face, something more vulnerable. “Can’t believe you’re really here.”
“Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know. Anywhere but here.” He said it like he’d truly thought you’d change your mind somewhere between the bar and his bedroom. “With me.”
Your throat felt tight. “Steve—”
He kissed you before you could finish. His knee pressed between your thighs and you gasped into his mouth. He shifted his weight, pressing closer, and the friction made you both groan. His hand found the button of your jeans. "Can I?"
"If you don't, I'm doing it myself."
He laughed, pleased. "Bossy girl." He was already working the button open, sliding the zipper down with maddening slowness. His knuckles brushed your stomach and you sucked in a breath.
"So sensitive everywhere," he said, more to himself than to you. He traced the path his knuckles had made, watching your face. "I remember that. How you'd get goosebumps when I—" He did it again, firmer this time, and you shivered.
"Steve—"
"Yeah, baby?"
The endearment made your stomach flip. "Keep going."
"So demanding," he said, but hooking his fingers in your jeans, tugging them down over your hips. You lifted to help and they joined the growing pile on his floor. He sat back on his heels, just looking, and you fought the urge to cover yourself.
“What?” you asked when the silence stretched on.
“Nothing. Just—” His hand settled on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this. I mean—” His hands slid higher, fingers running over the edge of the lace of your underwear. “So pretty,” he murmured, this time more to himself. His touch went from teasing to reverent. “Can I take these off?”
He pulled them down slowly, pressing kisses to your hip, your thigh, the inside of your knee. By the time they were gone, you were breathing so hard you felt dizzy.
"Okay?" he asked, settling between your legs again.
"Yeah. Yes. Very okay." You reached for his belt. "Your turn."
"Impatient."
"You're one to talk."
He helped you with his belt, both of you fumbling with the buckle until it came free. Then his jeans were open and you could feel him, hard and hot against your hip through his boxers.
"Fuck," you breathed.
"Yeah." He kicked his jeans off the rest of the way. "That's—yeah."
You laughed despite yourself. "Eloquent."
“Shut up.” He smiled as he kissed you and his hand slid up your ribs, as his thumb found your nipple through the lace and you arched into the touch. “You make me stupid.”
"Pretty sure you were stupid before me."
"Definitely." His mouth found your neck, that spot below your ear. "But you make it worse."His words were muffled against your skin.
His hand moved lower, between your legs, and you stopped caring about conversation entirely. His fingers found you and you gasped.
A corner of his lips kicked up at your sound. “That good?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me.” His fingers moved in slow circles. “C’mon, baby. I wanna hear you say it.”
“It’s—good—” His fingers kicked up the speed a notch. “Good. Fuck, Steve—”
“That’s my girl.” His voice had gone rough. “Let me make you feel good. That’s all I want.”
His fingers moved faster and you grabbed his shoulder, nails digging into his skin. The tension was building low in your stomach, and you shifted your hips but he held you down with one of his palms.
"Steve—"
"I know. I've got you." His mouth was on your neck, your collarbone, your chest. "Just let me take care of you, baby. I've got you."
Your eyes squeezed shut and your head tilted back and—
And that's when you saw it.
Your eyes had drifted in a haze without meaning to, unfocused, looking for something to ground yourself, and there it was. On the dresser, three feet away. A picture frame catching the amber streetlight that filtered through the closed blinds. There were five people, but the only one who you could focus on was Steve, with his arms around Nancy Wheeler. Nancy was laughing at something, head tilted back, looking carefree and perfect right next to Steve. Nancy, who belonged in that picture. Nancy, who belonged in Steve’s life, on a picture he wakes up to every morning—
Your body went rigid without meaning to. Every muscle locked; your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. The heat that had been building in your stomach—the want, the need, the almost—all of it just stopped, went cold. Like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over your entire body.
Steve noticed. Of course he did, the switch was so crystal clear he couldn’t have ignored it even if he wanted to. His hands stilled between your legs and he looked up at you, breathing hard. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t even look at him. Your eyes were still fixed on the dresser. Or maybe they weren’t, you couldn’t really process the information from your eyes to your mind all that well.
It’s fine, you told yourself desperately. It’s just a picture. A picture that tells you nothing about yourself. This is casual anyway. This doesn’t matter. It doesn’t— But your throat was getting tight and your eyes were burning.
“Baby?” Steve’s voice had changed, gone from rough and wanting to worried. “Did I hurt you? Was it too much?”
You shook your head but still couldn't speak. Couldn't look away from the picture.
Just close your eyes. Just ignore it. Just let him keep going. You can do this. You can be normal about this.
But you couldn't. Because Nancy was right there. Nancy who he'd chosen. Nancy who'd been worth leaving you for. Nancy who was still here, in his bedroom, in his life, looking perfect and happy while you were—
“Talk to me.” You didn’t know when he’d retracted his fingers, but his hand was on your face, trying to turn your head towards him. “Please, baby. You’re scaring me.”
The concern in his voice—the genuine fear—was what broke you. A full-body sob came from somewhere deep in your chest, and it sounded like you’d been holding it for four years. The kind that made your shoulders shake and breath come in gasps.
“Shit.” Steve pulled back slightly. “What did I do? What do I do? What happened?”
You pressed your palms to your eyes but the tears kept coming, hot and fast and unending. “I’m sorry,” you choked out between sobs. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry—”
"Why are you apologizing?" He was hovering over you now, hands fluttering near your arms, your face, like he wanted to touch but didn't know if he was allowed. "Just tell me what's wrong. Please. Did I do something? Did I hurt you?"
"No." You shook your head frantically. "No, you didn't—"
"Then what?" His voice cracked. "What happened? Two seconds ago we were—and now you're—"
You tried to stop crying. You tried to get control of yourself. But every time you almost had it, you'd think about Steve's arm in that picture, about how easy they looked together, and the sobs would start again.
"I'm sorry." You couldn't stop saying it. "I'm sorry. I thought I could do this. I thought—"
"Do what?" He was sitting back now, running his hands through his hair. "I don't understand what's happening."
"This." You gestured between you with shaking hands. "I thought I could—I told myself I could just hook up casually. Just get it out of my system but I—" Your voice broke completely. "I can't. I can't do this."
Steve went very still. "What?"
“I can’t.” You were trying to clutch your face and cover your eyes again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You wanted—we were supposed to—and I messed it up by getting emotional—I feel crazy—”
“You’re not crazy—”
“I am.” You finally looked at him and his face was stricken and pale, like you’d said the worst things he could imagine. “I’m crying in your bed about something that happened four years ago and that’s crazy.”
“What—” His voice broke. “What—what are you saying?” he asked carefully, like he was afraid of the answer.
You looked back at the dresser, at the picture. And even through the blur of tears, you could see it perfectly. Nancy's smile. His arm around her. The way they fit together. You’d seen it everyday at school, and now…
Steve followed your gaze. You watched him see it. And you watched understanding start to dawn on his face.
"That's—" He stopped. "That's from Robin's birthday. Last summer. It's everyone."
“Okay.” Your voice was barely a whisper.
“So what’s—” He stopped, then dug his teeth into his lower lip. “It’s Nancy?”
You nodded slowly, fresh tears slipping over.
“We’re friends,” he said slowly. “We’ve been friends for years. That picture is just—it’s all of us. I don’t even really look at it anymore. It’s just there, it’s just been there so long—”
“I know.” You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to cover your body as much as possible. “You don’t have to explain. This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”
“Hey, what—” His face changed. “What does that mean?”
You couldn't answer because you couldn't tell him that you'd been lying to yourself all night. That nothing about this felt casual. That being in his bed, under his hands, hearing him call you baby, it all felt like falling back in time. Like being seventeen and in love and believing in forevers.
"Look at me." His voice was gentle but insistent. "Please."
You lifted your head and he was right there, close enough to touch. His eyes were red now too. Wet.
“I didn’t think this was casual,” he said quietly, his head tilted down to look at his bedspread, as he shook his head. “Why would it be?”
“Because—” you started, voice rising. “Because it can’t be anything but casual. It can’t mean anything—”
“Why?” he asked, like there was a point he knew he was completely blind to.
“Because I fucking can’t—” Your breath hitched. “Everytime I close my fucking eyes I see you choosing her. And I know it was so long ago and I should be over it but I’m not.” Fresh tears spilled over. “I’m still the girl who wasn’t enough for you to stay.”
Steve was shaking his head the entire time as you spoke, and you barely caught all the emotions that ran through his features. The pain, the realization, the grief. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He just stared at you and you watched something crack behind his eyes as they glazed over with dampness.
“Stop saying things like that.” Steve parted his lips, staring at you with unguarded hurt covering his face. “Please.”
“I won’t because I know I wasn’t.” You wiped at your face with the back of your hand. “I know I wasn’t, and I know it now, too.”
"That's not—" His voice broke completely. He pressed the heel of his hand to his chest like something hurt there. "That's not true. That's not what happened."
“Then what did happen” Your voice came out desperate and sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, Steve, you met Nancy Wheeler in AP English and suddenly I wasn’t—”
He was quiet for a moment, and you watched him struggle with something. His jaw worked, his hands flexed, and when he finally spoke, his voice was different. Smaller. “I don’t know.”
You stared at him.
“I don’t—” He pressed his palms to his eyes. “I’ve spent all this time trying to figure it out and I still don’t know. I just—one day, I was with you and everything was good. And then I—” He dropped his hands. His eyes were red. “I started thinking about her. And what it would be like. And I couldn’t stop.”
The honesty of it was worse than any excuse he could’ve given you. Isn’t this what you wanted?
"I tried," he continued, voice cracking. "I tried to stop. To just—focus on us. But it was like—I don't know. Like I'd already fucked it up just by thinking about someone else. And I felt so guilty and I thought maybe—maybe if I just ended things it would be cleaner. Better for both of us."
"Better for both of us," you repeated flatly.
"I know how that sounds—"
"Do you?" Your voice was shaking. "Because it sounds like you got bored. Like you wanted something new and exciting and I was just—what? Comfortable?"
"No—"
"Then what?" You were crying harder now. "What was it about her? What did she have that I didn't?"
"Nothing." He shook his head frantically. "It wasn't about you not having something. It was—I don't know. She was different. New. And I was seventeen and stupid and I thought—" He stopped. "I thought maybe I didn’t need to decide forever. Nobody was—" His voice broke. “And that’s so fucked up. I know that’s fucked up. But that’s what I was thinking.”
The words hit like a physical blow. You couldn’t process what he was saying. You didn’t fucking want to. You couldn’t breathe.
“I know I made the biggest mistake I could’ve,” he said, and he had his hands in the air gripping on nothing as he spoke.
“The only mistake was me loving you too much, Steve,” you said quietly. He opened his mouth to respond, but you continued, “Don’t say it isn’t true. I loved you so much I couldn’t see you didn’t—that you weren’t—” You stopped, trying to hold back another embarrassing sob building up in your chest. Then, you breathed in, then out. “I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it coming earlier.”
“There was nothing to see,” he said, shaking his head frantically. “I loved you. I did. I just—”
“Just not enough to say,” you said through a bitter, final laugh.
He parted his lips, breaths growing faster, and you could see his chest going up, down. Up. Down. He looked like he was running through everything he could say, but nothing came out. “Please.”
The corners of your lips curved downwards, frowning. “It’s okay, Steve,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. You stood up, grabbing your underwear off the bed, putting them on, then standing up to pick up the jeans in the pile on the floor. You moved around without meeting Steve’s face.
As you were buttoning up your jeans, you looked at him from the corner of your eye. There was a single tear running down his cheek and he was frozen to the spot on the bed.
You clipped on your bra quickly. Your sweater was by the door outside, so you’d have to grab that.
You cleared your throat, then turned to look at Steve finally, an arm hugging your torso because you felt just too exposed. “It’s okay, Steve,” you repeated, voice cracking.
“Please don’t go,” Steve said, voice cracking completely. “Don’t—leave like this.” He stood up, hands shaking. “I’ll do anything. I’ll—tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
“Steve,” you said, and this time there may have been something in your voice that reached all his neurons because he walked closer to you immediately, hurried.
His palms closed over your shoulders as he tipped his head down to look at you. “Hey, hey. Please. Just not tonight. Not right now. It’s late, I don’t want you walking out of here like this.”
You looked up at him and his face was so close. Close enough that you could see every tear track, every red rim around his eyes, the way his bottom lip was trembling slightly like he was trying to hold back more tears.
"I can't stay here." Your voice came out broken. "I can't—I can't be in your bed and pretend this doesn't—"
“I know.” His thumb pressed into your shoulder, grounding. “I know it hurts. But it's—" He glanced toward the window where the darkness pressed against the glass. "It's late and you've been drinking and you're upset and I just—" His voice cracked. "I can't watch you leave like this. I can't."
"Steve—"
"Please." The word came out desperate. "Just—just until morning. That's all I'm asking. Just stay until morning and if you want to leave then, I won't—I won't stop you. I promise."
You wanted to argue. Wanted to push his hands off and walk out anyway because staying felt dangerous. It felt like crossing a line you couldn't uncross.
But you were exhausted. Your whole body ached—from crying, from tension, from holding yourself together when all you wanted to do was fall apart. And the thought of getting dressed, walking home, facing your sister's questions—
"Okay." It came out barely above a whisper.
His eyes closed briefly and you watched relief flood his features. His shoulders sagged and his grip on you tightened for just a second before he seemed to catch himself. "Yeah?"
"Just tonight." You had to make that clear. Had to protect yourself somehow. "And you're—you're sleeping on the couch or something."
"Yeah. Yes. Of course." He was nodding quickly, hands still on your shoulders like he was afraid if he let go you'd change your mind. "Whatever you need. I'll sleep on the couch. You take the bed."
You looked down at yourself. At the bra and jeans that suddenly felt too tight, too constricting. "Can I—" You gestured vaguely. "The sweater?"
"Yeah. Here." He finally let go of you, moved at lightning speed grab the t-shirt from earlier off the floor in the hallway. He held it out. "Take whatever you need."
You took it, pulled it over your head. You were suddenly hyperaware that Steve was still standing there. Watching you with red eyes and shaking hands.
"I'll just—" He seemed to realize the same thing. "Let me grab some stuff and I'll give you privacy."
Steve had stopped at the doorway, pillow and blanket clutched to his chest. He was looking at you with this expression you couldn't quite read. Something between grief and longing and regret.
"Bathroom's right there if you need it," he said, nodding to a door you hadn't noticed. "And uh—there's a spare toothbrush in the drawer under the sink. Never been used."
"Okay."
He stood there for another moment, like he was waiting for something. Or maybe working up the courage to say something else.
"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I know that doesn't—I know it doesn't fix anything. But I'm sorry. For tonight. For all of it."
Your throat felt too tight to respond. You just nodded.
He nodded back, wiped at his face with the back of his hand, and turned to leave.
"Steve?" The word came out before you could stop it.
He froze in the doorway, turned back immediately. "Yeah?"
You opened your mouth, then closed it. You didn't even know what you wanted to say. Just that him leaving felt wrong somehow. That the thought of being alone in his bed while he was on the couch felt—
"Nothing," you said finally. "Never mind."
His face fell slightly but he nodded. "Okay. Well—I'll be right out there. If you need anything. Anything at all."
The door closed softly behind him.
Steve hadn’t been sleeping. Not really. The couch was comfortable enough. The only thing uncomfortable about it was knowing that you were only a few footsteps away, in his bed, and he could do nothing about it. It felt worse from when you were hundreds of miles away for some fucked up reason. It made it impossible for him to relax. Every creak of the floorboards, every shift of the mattress springs through the wall, he heard it all. He was hyper-aware of your presence in a way that made his chest ache.
He’d been staring at the ceiling for hours, watching the shadows shift as maybe three or four cars passed outside. Replaying everything. The picture. Your face when you saw it. The way you’d looked at him like he’d destroyed you all over again.
But he hadn’t, had he? All over again. No, he’d made you hold onto it and carry it for four years like some fucked up souvenier of his cowardice. And tonight, he’d just reopened the wound. He had reminded you exactly why you’d left, why you had to leave this place, why you’d spent four years becoming someone who didn’t need him.
Except you’d come back. You’d walked into the baseball field all those months ago and his entire world had flipped all the way fucking sideways. He’d been picking up bases and thinking about what to make for dinner, and then he’d looked up and there you were. Steve’s brain had entirely stopped working.
You’d looked the same. Different. The same. Your hair was longer, falling past your shoulders instead of the collarbone length you’d had junior year. You held yourself with your shoulders back and chin up. But your eyes were the same. They were the specific shade of colour he’d tried and failed to describe to Nancy once, back when he’d been stupid enough to think talking about you would make it hurt less. It hadn’t worked. Nothing had.
And tonight it happened. Tonight, when you showed up to the bar in that sweater, the cropped one that showed just a sliver of skin when you moved, he’d known that the careful restraint he’d been practicing would dissolve the second you looked at him like you did at the pool table. Like you still wanted him.
And then everything had fallen apart. Because of course it had. Because he’d been living in his apartment for one year and he saw that picture every single day and it had never occurred to him—not once—that you might see it too. That you might see his arm around Nancy’s shoulder and remember.
He pressed the heels of his hand to his eyes until he saw stars.
A sound from his bedroom made him freeze. Soft footsteps and the quiet creak of his bedroom door opening.
His heart jumped like it had its own silly, uncontrollable mind. Maybe you couldn’t sleep either. Maybe you’d come out here to, what? Talk? Yell at him? But the footsteps weren’t heading toward the living room where he laid, they were heading towards the door.
You were leaving.
The realization hit him like a punch. Of course you were leaving. Of course you couldn't even wait until morning like you'd said. Why would you stay with the guy who'd—
His throat felt tight. His chest felt like something was sitting on it.
You'd promised. You'd said you'd stay until morning and you were leaving anyway and he was going to lose you all over again and this time he couldn't even blame you because he'd done this, he'd caused this, he'd—
“You just gonna sneak out?”
You froze by the door, and Steve realized just how naive he’d been all this time. What had he expected? For you to wake up the next morning and have breakfast with him? For you to sleep on it all and come out on the other side forgiving?
You cleared your throat as your palms settled flat against your upper thigh. “I think—” You stopped yourself, letting out a small exhale he could hear from his spot on the couch. “We should pretend like tonight didn’t happen.”
And Steve had faced consequences in life, so much that after skating half his life without them, he was bombarded with a slew of the aftermath of his decisions that were sure to haunt him till time. But this, you. God, Steve had never felt anything that cut through him quite like this did.
“Pretend,” he echoed, like the word was foreign to him.
“Yeah.” You still weren't looking at him, and your hands had moved to grip the doorknob now like it was the only thing keeping you standing and reminding you of your decision. “We just… We forget about it. Move on.”
“Move on.” His voice sounded so hollow. “How—how am I supposed to do that?” His voice cracked. “It was all going so well. We were—”
“I know,” you said, cutting him off, as your voice shook. “I know. That’s why we need to forget about it.”
“I can’t do that,” he said, voice going softer now, as he pushed himself off the couch. You gripped the doorknob tighter. “I’ve spent so long trying to forget you and I can’t. I can’t fuckin’ do it. So how am I supposed to forget tonight?”
“Well, that’s how it works, Steve,” you said, the sharpness of your voice cutting through the thickening air instantly. You turned to look at him, the streetlight from outside catching your face, and he could see the fresh tracks of tears on your cheeks and he just wanted to—he just wanted to fucking help. Do something. But your voice held him back. “That’s how it works. If you could throw away three—three years so quickly, then you can forget about one night now.”
The words hit him like a ton of bricks. He staggered back a step, feeling something twist inside his chest.
“That’s not fair,” he said quietly, shaking his head.
“Fair?” You laughed, and it was the worst sound he’d ever heard, all bitter and broken. “You wanna talk about fair? Was it fair when you left me for someone else? Was it fair when I had to see you everyday after with someone else? Was it fair I had to spend years thinking I wasn’t—” Your voice cracked completely, like the sorrow had manifested into a physical thing and swallowed your words whole. “Don’t talk to me about fair.”
“You’re right.” He held up his hands.
“Stop—stop looking at me like you’re the one this is hurting.” He opened his mouth, hands shaking beside him, but you continued, “Don’t act like I’m breaking your heart when you—when you—”
You couldn’t finish, only stood there swallowing back sobs, shoulders shaking. Steve had never felt more helpless in his entire life.
He shook his head, lips trembling. “I just want you to know how I feel.”
You dropped your hand. “I don’t want to know how you feel. I don’t want to hear about how you missed me or how sorry you are. Or how tonight meant so much to you. None of it matters because you left. You still chose her. And I—” Your voice broke. “I can’t unhear that. I can’t fucking unknow that.”
Steve raised his arms, then dropped them to his sides. You tracked his movement and your palm turned the doorknob. It was like he’d blinked once and you were gone, the door closing softly behind you.
March. Junior year. His BMW was in the parking lot behind the football field.
You’d known something was wrong for weeks, maybe longer. He’d started saying “I’m tired” when you asked him to come over. His hand felt looser in yours when you walked through the hallways. He’d stopped calling the phone in your room before bed. He’d stopped showing up to your locker between classes with a stolen cookie from the cafeteria because he knew you always woke up too late to eat your full breakfast.
Small and tiny things. All things you told yourself you were imagining because Steve loved you and you loved him and that was enough. That had to be enough.
But then he’d asked you to meet him after school in between classes and his voice had been so careful when he said it, like he was testing each word before saying it.
You’d gotten into his car and the heat was too high. It was always too high because Steve ran cold and you ran warm, and usually you’d reach over and turn it down while he protested and you’d compromise on a temperature that made neither of you happy but at least you were together. But that day you just sat there and let the heat blast your face until your eyes watered.
You’d sat in his passenger seat hundreds of times. There were dents left in the leather from the studded jeans you wore. Your perfume was embedded in the fabric. There was a scrunchie of yours in the cupholder. A study guide you’d left in the backseat last week. Evidence of you, it was everywhere.
What confirmed it was him not looking at you. Steve looked at people when he talked to them. It was one of the first things you’d noticed about him, back in eighth grade when he’d asked to borrow a pencil and actually looked you in the eyes. That was probably the first example that stopped translating eye contact as a concept in your mind. But now his hands were on the steering wheel even though the car was stationary, and he was staring at the brick wall of the gym.
There was a coffee stain on his jeans. The dark roast you'd bought him that morning because you'd gotten to school early and wanted to surprise him. You'd drawn a terrible heart on the cup in Sharpie and he'd laughed, real and bright, and kissed you in front of his locker. That had been six hours ago. It felt like a different lifetime.
“Steve,” you said, and your voice came out steady even though your hands were shaking in your lap. You pressed them flat against your thighs. “Just say it.”
“Say what?”
“Whatever you asked me here to say.” You were still looking at him even though he wouldn’t look at you, or couldn’t look at you? “Come on, Steve,” you urged, but your voice was hollow, probably because you didn’t want to hear it. “We’ve been together for three years. You owe me a clean break, at least.”
Steve flinched like you’d hit him. “I don’t—” He breathed through his nose. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
“Then don’t leave me.”
God. It came out before you could stop it. It was desperate and completely raw. It wasn’t how you’d practiced it. You’d meant to be collected and easy, make this easy for him so he wouldn’t call you dramatic. But your voice betrayed you, cracked right down the middle, and now he was finally looking at you. His eyes were red.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Your chest felt like something was sitting on it. You pressed your palms flat against your sternum and felt your heart racing underneath. The heating vents were blasting recycled air.
“Is it Nancy?”
You shouldn’t have asked. You shouldn’t have said her name. But it had been sitting in your throat for three weeks, choking you, and now it was out.
His face almost looked relieved and guilty, like you’d said it before he could, taking the weight off his shoulders. That was answer enough, wasn’t it? But he still said it.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, it’s—I met someone.”
Your body knew before you brain caught up; your stomach dropped, your hands went numb, your vision went blurry until you could only see his profile, not facing you. Your hand pressed to your chest and you realized you were trying to hold yourself together physically. If you pressed hard enough, you could keep from falling apart.
“How long?” Your voice came out steadier than you expected.
“We haven’t—nothing’s happened—” he said quickly and desperately. “I wouldn’t do that to you. We’ve just been working on this project and talking and I—”
His jaw worked. You watched a muscle jump in his cheek, watched him dig his teeth into his bottom lip the way he did when he was working up the courage for something. You'd seen him do it before free throws, before asking his dad for the car keys, before telling you he loved you for the first time at the quarry with the radio playing and his hands shaking worse than yours were now.
“You what?” You needed him to say it.
“I think I like her.” He said it so quietly, like if he whispered it, it wouldn’t hurt as much. “I didn’t mean to. I swear, I didn’t mean to. It just—happened. I tried to ignore it. I tried to just focus on us, but I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
You were nodding. Why were you nodding? Maybe because your body needed something to do to process what was happening.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” He finally turned to look at you, confusion cutting through the guilt on his face.
“What should I say, Steve?” You were surprised by how calm your voice sounded. “Should I ask why? Because I know why. She’s smart and pretty and she probably makes you feel different than I do. Should I ask when you realized? Because I felt it weeks ago. I just hoped I was wrong. Do you want me to ask what she has that I don’t? Because I don’t want to know the answer to that”
“You didn’t do anything wrong—this isn’t about you being—”
“Enough,” you finished for him. “Everyone says that. ‘It’s not you it’s me.’ But it is me, isn’t it? Something about me—” Your voice wavered, and you pressed your lips together for a moment. “Something about me made you look somewhere else.”
“No—” He reached for you, like his palms were going to cup your face, and you pulled back. His hand hung in the air for a moment before dropping. “No. That’s not—you’re perfect. You’ve been perfect. That’s almost what’s—” He stopped himself, physically reeling back as he ran his hand through his hair. He pressed his head against the headrest, eyes focused on the roof of the car. “That’s almost the problem.”
“I don’t understand,” you said quietly, shaking your head.
“I don’t understand either.” He pressed his palms against his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I want. And I thought I did. I thought—” He looked at you, and the small crinkle between his brows and the desperation in his eyes made your chest tight. “I thought I wanted forever with you. I really did. But then I met—” He skipped over saying her name. “—I don’t know anymore. And it’s not fair to you. To keep dating you when I don’t know.”
“So you’re breaking up with me because you’re confused,” you said flatly.
"I'm breaking up with you because you deserve someone who's sure." His voice broke completely. "You deserve someone who doesn't have doubts. And I—" The words seemed to cost him something. “I’m not sure anymore.”
You never thought you could do the same things as someone, be in the same position as someone, but be so far apart in your minds. He genuinely thought he was doing you a favor. Thought he was being noble by letting you go instead of stringing you along.
“We had plans,” you said quietly. “We were gonna—we circled schools together. We talked about getting an apartment in a few years.”
“I know—”
“We picked out colors, Steve.” Your voice cracked on his name. “We have a whole folder of apartment listings I printed at the library. You organized them by price.” You breathed through your nose because your chest was getting tight. “You said you wanted to wake up next to me every morning. You said that. Do you remember?”
His face crumpled. “I remember.”
“Then what changed?” You weren’t crying but your eyes were burning. “What changed between then and now? Between you saying you couldn't wait for our future and you not being sure you want one with me?”
“I don’t know—”
You twisted to face him fully. The seatbelt dug into your shoulder but you couldn’t care about it. “Are you scared? It sounds like it all got too real and now you’re looking for an exit.”
“Maybe I am scared!” His voice rose to match yours. “Maybe I am. We’re fucking seventeen. We’re seventeen and you’re talking about apartments and forever and—and you expect me to marry you!”
The words hung in the air like something sharp and jagged that cut both ways.
You stared at him, chest rising and falling through your top. “What?”
He pressed his palms against his eyes again. “I didn’t mean—”
“You expect me to marry you,” you repeated his words slowly. “Like—like that’s a bad thing?”
“That is not what I meant—”
“No.” Your voice had gone quiet. “You said it like it’s some sort of—what? Burden? Like I’ve been forcing you? Trapping you?”
“No—”
“I never asked you to marry me, Steve.” You were shaking now. You could feel it in your hands, legs, voice. “You’re the one who gave me this.” Your index brushed over the promise ring on your left hand as you raised it. It caught the light, the tiny diamond chip throwing a rainbow across the dash. “You’re the one who gave me this eight months ago in front of everyone we know. Your family. My family. You said you’ll replace it with a real one. Not me.”
His face had gone pale as you talked. “I know.”
You were twisting the ring around your finger now, yanking it. It caught on your knuckle. You’d worn it every single day since he’d given it to you and your finger had slightly swelled around it. “Do you know what you did? You made a promise. You looked me in my eyes and you promised me a future. And now you’re acting like I’m the one who made it all up in my head?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“Then what are you saying?” The ring came free suddenly, painfully. You gasped and something lodged in your throat at the empty finger, but you just held it in your palm. This tiny piece of silver and stone that had meant everything. The thing freshman girls would look at and swoon over. “Was I not supposed to expect all of it?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
“You know what?” you said, sweat prickling through your skin. “Take it.” You held it out to him. It sat there between you for a moment, tiny and meaningless. Just a piece of jewelry.
“I can’t.” He shook his head, eyes focused on the logo on the steering wheel.
“Take the ring, Steve.” Your voice was steady now. “You’re giving back the promise. So, take the ring.”
“Please—” His voice cracked, shaking his head more forcefully. “Just keep it. Please.”
“I don’t want it.” You pushed your palm toward him, and your arm was starting to feel heavy now. He turned his neck to look at the ring in your palm. “Take it. Take it or I’m throwing it out the window. It’s your choice.”
His hand shook as he reached for it. The movement was so slow and so reluctant, like he was hoping you’d change your mind. But it was happening. His fingers closed around the ring. When his skin brushed yours, you felt nothing. No spark. No electricity. Not even a ghost of what his touch made your whole body light up. The only thing you could feel was the absence of what used to be there.
He pulled his hand back and stared at the ring in his palm. Small compared to his hand. His shoulders were shaking like he was trying to hold something back, and you almost wanted to reach out to comfort him and make this easier.
But you didn’t because he’d done this. He’d chosen this.
“I should go,” you said quietly.
“Wait—” he said as your fingers curled around the door handle. “I—I really hope you find someone. I know you will.”
You smiled bitterly. By tomorrow, everyone would know. By Monday, you’d walk through the hallways and feel their eyes on you filled with pity and curiosity. You didn’t want to tell Steve you weren’t sure you’d ever find anyone again, not when right now, it seemed all the love you had, you’d already given to him. He had become the only person you knew how to love, and that had never, ever been a problem before because you never thought it would be.
“Yeah,” you said, voice hollow. “Sure.”
You pushed the door open. The cold March air rushed in and hit your overheated face like a slap. You could hear the squeak of sneakers from basketball practice, the distant sound of someone's car stereo playing too loud, the ordinary sounds of an ordinary day where your entire world had just ended.
You stepped out. Your legs were shaking so badly you had to grip the car door to stay upright. Through the window you could see Steve still sitting there, the ring clutched in his fist, his shoulders shaking with sobs he was trying to hold back. His other hand was pressed against his mouth like he was trying to keep something in.
You wanted to say something else. Something cutting or final or profound. But there was nothing left to say. He'd made his choice. It was over. So you just slammed the door.
You showed up late on purpose. The plan had been to arrive right as practice ended—5:45 PM—grab Carter, and leave before Steve could do more than wave across the lot. Clean and simple with no prolonged interaction required. Except you’d forgotten how Steve always ran practice five minutes over because the kids never wanted to leave, and he was too nice to cut them off mid-enthusiasm.
So when you pulled into the parking lot, practice was still very much happening.
You could see them on the field, a cluster of middle schoolers in various states of athletic coordination, and Steve in the middle of them with a baseball bat, demonstrating something. His backwards cap was crooked. His coaching jacket had dirt smudged across the shoulder. He was laughing at something one of the kids said, head thrown back, completely unguarded.
Your hands tightened on the steering wheel. You could leave and come back in ten minutes. You could pretend your shift had run late or traffic had been bad or literally any excuse that didn't involve admitting you'd timed this specifically to avoid him.
But Carter had already spotted your car. You watched him point, say something to Steve, and start jogging toward the parking lot.
Steve's head turned. His eyes found your car.
Even from this distance, you saw it happen. The way his whole face lit up for half a second—hope, raw and unguarded—before reality crashed back in and the light died. His expression smoothed out into something carefully neutral. Carefully friendly.
You got out of the car because there was no choice now. Your legs felt unsteady. You'd slept maybe three hours last night, kept waking up with your hand pressed to your chest, trying to breathe through the tightness there.
Carter reached you first, sweaty and grass-stained and completely oblivious to the fact that your entire world had imploded five days ago. “Can I get ice cream? Please? I've been so good and I haven't asked all week—”
“We'll see.” You ruffled his hair, grateful for something to do with your hands. “Go grab your stuff. We gotta get home for dinner.”
“But ice cream could be dinner—”
"Carter." Please.
Fine." He groaned dramatically and jogged back toward the dugout where his water bottle was probably lying abandoned in the dirt.
Which left you standing by your car, very aware that Steve was walking over.
He'd taken his cap off and was holding it in both hands, turning it over and over like he needed something to do. His hair was a mess from the hat, sticking up at odd angles the way it always did. You used to fix it for him. Would reach up without thinking and smooth it down while he smiled at you like you'd done something miraculous instead of just touching his hair.
Your hands stayed firmly at your sides.
"Hey," Steve said when he got close enough. His voice was careful.
"Hey."
The silence stretched out. Two syllables and you'd already run out of words. Four years of not seeing each other, then months of cautious rebuild, then one night that had blown it all apart, and now you were back to hey.
Carter was taking his time gathering his things. Probably trying to negotiate five more minutes of playing catch with another kid.
“How was your day?” you asked, because someone had to say something.
“Good. Yeah. Good. Everyone’s really excited for the game soon.” Steve turned the cap over in his hands. “Think Carter might start that game.”
“That’s great.”
“Yeah.”
Another stretch of no words. Another silence. You could hear everything else. the other kids shouting, a car door slamming in the parking lot, a bird making some kind of aggressive territorial call from a nearby tree. All of it too loud in the space between you and Steve.
“Work?” It sounded like he pushed out the word.
“Fine.” You shifted your weight and crossed your arms, then uncrossed them because that looked defensive. “Benny Ward’s mom came in today, so that was—” You let out a forced laugh at the mention of the boy from your high school year.
Steve sucked in a breath, pressing his lips into a thin line as he shook his head. “Must’ve been a blast.”
“Mhm.” You nodded slowly. “A real ball.”
Carter was finally heading back over, water bottle in hand, chattering with another kid about something. You had maybe thirty seconds before he reached you.
"I should—" you started.
"Yeah, of course—" Steve said at the same time.
You both stopped. The silence was worse now because you'd spoken over each other, created a weird overlap that felt like a physical thing between you.
"You go ahead," Steve said quietly.
"I was just gonna say I should get him home. Devon's probably wondering where we are."
"Right. Yeah. Of course." Steve took a step back. Then another. Creating distance that felt both necessary and completely wrong. "I'll see you Thursday?"
It was framed as a question. Like you might say no. Like you might decide that picking up Carter wasn't worth this—standing in a parking lot making painful small talk with your ex-boyfriend who you'd almost slept with five days ago before having a complete breakdown in his bedroom.
"Yeah," you said. "Thursday."
"Cool. That's—yeah. Cool."
Carter crashed into your side, immediately launching into a detailed play-by-play of every single thing that had happened during practice. You made appropriate noises, nodded in the right places, let him talk while you very deliberately did not look at Steve.
Emily was the only one who'd stayed late.
Most of the kids had filtered out twenty minutes ago, grabbed by parents or older siblings or carpools, chattering about homework and dinner plans. But Emily had asked—voice tentative, hopeful—if she could stay and practice the turn sequence one more time. She almost had it, she'd said. She just needed like fifteen more minutes.
You'd said yes because of course you had. Because she reminded you of yourself at that age, determined and perfectionist and so afraid of letting anyone down.
So now it was just you and Emily in the gym at 6:15 on a Wednesday, the overhead lights humming, the sound system playing the same eight bars of music on repeat while Emily turned and turned, trying to nail the timing.
When the gym doors opened, you expected it to be Mrs. Stone coming back for something she’d forgotten. Instead, it was Steve. He stopped just inside the doorway, one hand still on the handle, like he was already second-guessing this decision. “Mrs. Stone asked if I could move these tomorrow before the assembly. But if you’re still—I can come back—?”
“It’s fine,” you said even though your stomach dropped at the sight of him even though everything had been going perfectly normal between the two of you for the past week. Back to square one, yeah, but normal. “We’re almost done anyway.”
“Cool. Yeah.” He walked in and let the door close behind him. The sound echoed.
Emily had stopped mid-turn, was looking between you and Steve with barely concealed interest. You could practically see the wheels turning in her head. She'd definitely heard things. The whole school had heard things. Everyone know everyone, and someone’s someone must’ve known you and Steve way back when.
“Keep going, Em,” you said firmly. “Show me what you’ve got so far.”
She spun back, but you caught her eyes flickering to Steve.
The music kept playing. Emily turned. You called out corrections—"Spot! Hold your core! Good!"—while Steve very deliberately started moving gym mats across the gym.
It shouldn't have been weird. It was a big space. Plenty of room for both of you to exist in it without interacting. Except you were aware of exactly where he was at all times. You could track his movement in your peripheral vision; lifting a mat, carrying it across the gym, stacking it by the door. The muscles in his shoulders and back flexing under his t-shirt. The way he'd push his hair back when it fell into his eyes.
"I think I got it!" Emily's voice broke through your spiral. She was grinning, slightly out of breath. "Can I show you one more time? For real?"
"Yeah, of course." You reset the music. "From the top."
Emily took her position. The music started.
And she did it, the full turn sequence, properly spotted, held through the end without wobbling. When she finished, she looked at you with this expression of pure joy, the kind that made your chest ache because you remembered exactly what that felt like. The first time you'd nailed something you'd been working on forever.
"That was perfect," you said, and meant it. "Em, that was so good. You've been working so hard on this."
"Really?" She was bouncing on her toes now. "It felt good but I wasn't sure if—"
"Really. I'm proud of you."
Her whole face lit up.
The gym doors opened again.
A man in scrubs walked in, looking apologetic and slightly harried. He was tall, athletic build, probably mid-twenties. He had the same nose as Emily.
“Hey, Em. So sorry—” He stopped when he saw you. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Is practice still?—”
“We’re done,” you said quickly. “You’re good.”
Emily grabbed her bag and was shoving her water bottle into the side pocket. “I finally got it,” she said to him.
“That’s awesome.” He smiled at her, then looked at you and extended his hand. “Tyler Bennett. I’m Emily’s brother. Sorry I’m late—we had this thing at the hospital that ran over and traffic was—anyway. Sorry.”
You shook his hand. His grip was firm and warm. “It’s okay. She did great today.”
“She can’t stop talking about this.” He ruffled her hair and she swatted him away. “I think I’ve heard the soundtrack approximately nine hundred times.”
“It’s good.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t. I said I’ve heard it too much. There’s a difference.”
You laughed slightly, eyes bouncing between them. Behind Tyler, you could see Steve. He'd stopped moving gym mats. He was standing there holding one, just watching. His face was very carefully neutral but his knuckles were white where he gripped the mat.
"Well, we're all done for today," you said, forcing your attention back to Tyler and Emily. "Same time Friday, Em. Don't forget to practice at home."
"I won't!" She was already heading toward the door.
Tyler lingered for a second, that apologetic smile still in place. "Thanks for staying late with her. I know she’s a bit of a… perfectionist?”
You smiled slightly, shrugging one shoulder. “She’s a hard worker. Makes my job easier, honestly.”
“Well, I appreciate it.” He shifted his weight, hands going to his pockets. “I’m Tyler, by the way. I don’t think I said—I mean, I did—” He laughed slightly, self-deprecating, and shook his head before meeting your eyes again. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve seen it before. I’m a receptionist at the dental office.”
He quirked up a brow. “Yeah? Which one?”
“Dr. Feldman’s. Over on—”
“Tyler!” Emily’s voice echoed from the doorway. “Come on, I’m starving.”
“I’m coming!” He turned back to you, still smiling. “Sorry. High schoolers. You know how it is. Thanks again.”
“No problem.”
He started toward the door. Emily was already halfway down the hallway, her voice carrying back as she launched into a detailed explanation of her entire day.
Tyler paused at the door and turned back.
"This is—god, Em's gonna kill me for this, but—” He laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “You seem really nice and I just got out of this thing and I’m apparently horrible at this now, but—would you maybe want to get coffee sometime? Or dinner? Or literally anything that doesn’t involve being at a high school?”
You froze in your spot. You were aware of several things happening at once, from Tyler’s hopeful expression to Emily’s delighted gasp from the hallway, and also the sound of something hitting the floor across the gym.
You looked over and pursed your lips. Steve had dropped the gym mat and it had landed directly on his foot.
“Shit—” He stumbled back, hand shooting down to grab his foot. “Fuck.”
Your eyebrows furrowed at the sight. His face was bright red. He was looking at everything else but you.
Tyler turned at the noise. “You okay, man?”
“Fine.” Steve’s voice came out strangled. He was bent slightly, hands still gripping his foot through his sneaker. “Just wasn’t paying attention.”
Emily’s voice broke the silence from the hallway as she sauntered back in and looked at you mischeviously. “You should totally say yes. Tyler’s like, super nice. He volunteers at the animal shelter on weekends and makes oreo pancakes and he’s been single for like six months, so he’s definitely ready to date—”
“Emily.” Tyler’s ears started turning red. “Oh, my god.”
“What? I’m helping.” She raised her brows like she was confused. “You’re always saying you wanna meet someone who’s not from work—”
“We’re leaving,” Tyler said, grabbing her arm and steering her toward the door. “Right now.”
“But—”
“Now, Em.”
“Fine, but just think about it!” Emily called back to you as Tyler physically dragged her toward the door down the hallway. “He’s got good insurance, too.”
"Emily, I swear to god—"
Their voices faded as they disappeared around the corner, leaving behind a silence so thick you could feel it pressing against your skin.
You were still standing in the middle of the gym. Steve was still standing by the pile of gym mats, favoring his left foot, not looking at you.
“Is your foot okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Steve bent down to pick up the gym mat, moving carefully. When he straightened, you could see him testing his weight on it. Trying not to limp. "Heavy mat. Should've been paying attention."
"Steve—"
"You should say yes." He said it to the gym mat in his hands, not to you. Then, he started walking it over to the pile by the door, that slight hitch in his step that he was trying to hide. "He seems like a good guy."
You watched him stack the mat with the others. Watched the way his shoulders were tight, the way he was moving with too much precision, like if he focused hard enough on the task he could ignore everything else.
"I didn't say yes," you said.
Steve's hands stilled on the mat. "You didn't say no either,” he said quietly, eyes looking down at the ground.
You swallowed harshly, shaking your head. “He asked me out in front of you,” you said softly. “And his sister. I wasn’t going to—”
"You can go out with him." Steve turned around finally, and his face was doing that thing again. He looked carefully neutral and blank. Except his eyes were too bright and his jaw was too tight. "You don't need my permission or whatever. I'm not—we're not—" He stopped and shoved his hands in his pockets. "You should go out with him."
"Why do you keep saying that?"
"Because it's true." His voice was firm now. Almost too firm. "He's probably a good guy. He seems to have his shit together. He’s not—”
He stopped himself but you knew what he was saying. Not like me. Not complicated. Not carrying three years of history and a picture of his ex-girlfriend on his dresser.
You nodded because he was right.
The applause was almost deafening. You stood in the wings with your hand pressed to your mouth, watching the kids take their bows. Sarah’s ponytail had come half undone; Marcus was grinning so wide his face had to hurt; Emily was actually crying, actual tears streaming down her face as she held hands with the freshman next to her, both of them shaking with relief and joy and the adrenaline crash that came after six weeks of work culminating this.
They had been perfect. Almost flawless—Sarah had still dropped her shoulder on the fifth count during the opening, and one of the boys been half a beat behind in the bridge—but they had been together. They’d moved as one organism and told the story exactly how you’d imagined it in your head at two in the morning when you couldn’t sleep, scribbling formations in your sketchbook. You’d done it. You’d actually done it.
Mrs. Stone materialized beside you, her hand warm and gentle on your shoulder. “Get out there, sweetie,” she said, giving you a gentle push toward stage left. “They want you.”
“I can’t—God, I’m not—” you tried to say through a choked up laugh.
“Yes, you can. Go.”
Before you could form another protest, Sarah had spotted you in the wings. She was waving frantically, mascara smudged under her eyes, and then she was shouting your name. Suddenly, all fifteen of them were turning, reaching for you, and Emily was yelling, “Get out here!” and running into the wings.
“Come on,” Emily said, grabbing your hand with both of hers, tugging you hard enough that you stumbled forward. “You have to come out.”
“Em, I don’t think—”
But she was dragging you onto the stage and the lights were too bright, washing everything in white-hot brilliance that made you squint. You couldn't see the audience clearly—just dark shapes and the occasional pinprick flash of a phone camera, the red glow of EXIT signs at the back—but you could hear them. Still clapping, some standing now, and the sound was so big it felt physical.
The kids surrounded you immediately. Sarah crashed into your left side, Marcus your right, and then they were all there, arms around your shoulders and waist, a tangle of sweaty teenagers who smelled like hairspray and stage makeup and pure, undiluted joy.
"You did it!" someone was saying, maybe the freshman who'd been so scared of it all she cried on the first week. "We actually did it!"
“You did it,” you corrected, trying to hug all of them at once, voice thick. “You all worked so hard. I’m so—I’m so proud of you guys—”
Your voice cracked on the last word. You were crying now, too. Couldn’t help it, not a smidge. It was the kind of crying that came from somewhere deep in your chest where you’d been holding tension for years straight.
When they finally released you—when the applause started to fade and the curtain began rolling down—you just stood there for a moment, center stage, trying to catch your breath, trying to hold onto this feeling before it slipped away. You gasped and hiccuped as you wiped your face slightly.
You'd forgotten what this felt like. What it was like to work toward something and have it actually pan out. To put in the hours and the effort and have it mean something tangible, something you could point to and say I did that.
The kids were filing offstage now, high-fiving each other, already dissecting every moment in rapid-fire teenage chatter. You could hear them behind you—"Did you see when I almost fell?" "That was so good!" "My mom is going to freak out—"
Parents were starting to congregate near the front of the stage. Your eyes were scanning the auditorium, searching through the crowd filtering back toward the lobby.
Fourth row. Aisle seat.
Steve.
He was standing, hands in his pockets, and the second your eyes found him, his whole face transformed. The smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed all teeth graced his face. The same smile he wore when he used to wait for you after practice, a cookie and juicebox in hand. The smile that said he was so proud of you, so proud he couldn’t contain it. It was a release from the careful one he’d been giving you for weeks, the one that never quite reached his eyes.
And something in your chest cracked wide open. Your feet were moving before you could make a conscious decision, down the stage steps—you nearly tripped on the second one but caught yourself on the railing—and through the small cluster of parents already making their way forward. Someone had touched your elbow, a congratulations you barely registered, and you mumbled thank you without stopping, without looking away from where Steve was standing.
He'd taken his hands out of his pockets now. His expression had shifted from proud to confused, eyebrows drawing together as you got closer, weaving between seats.
"Hey, that was—" he started.
You crashed into him.
You threw your arms around his neck and hugged him with everything in you, so tight you could feel his surprise in the way his body went stiff and rigid, his breath catching sharply. For half a second, he just stood there, frozen, and your brain caught up with what you were—
Then his arms came up to your waist, pulling you closer, one hand splaying across your back and the other curling around your ribs, and he was solid and warm and completely real. You felt your feet lose hold of the ground as he tightened his arms around you, slightly lifting you in the air and rocking you back and forth for a couple seconds.
Your face buried into his chest, the almost-dried tears probably leaving a stain on the baby blue sweater he was wearing. “Thank you,” you said, words muffled against his body. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”
“Hey,” he said, voice rough and barely a whisper—you almost forgot there were people surrounding you—and his arms tightened around you even more like he was trying to hold you together. “You don’t have to thank me. You did all the—”
“You made this happen for me.” You pulled back just enough to look at him but didn’t let go, couldn’t let go yet. Your hands were still on his shoulders, his were still on your waist. “You told Mrs. Stone about me. You gave me this. And I just—” Your voice cracked as something lodged in your throat. “Thank you, Steve. For believing I could do it.”
Steve’s eyes had gone too bright, like he was fighting to keep his own composure. His smile had gone softer now, more gentle, and his thumb was moving in tiny circles on your waist, barely perceptible. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. One of his hands moved up to the back of your head and he pulled your face closer to his chest and pressed his lips against your hair, lingering for a moment.
“You earned it,” he said quietly against your head. “I knew you’d be incredible at it. I knew the second I remembered you in high school and when I saw you with Carter, breaking down the cartwheel for him, I just—” He stopped and swallowed hard, and you felt his body move with it. “I’m really proud of you.”
The words shouldn't have hit as hard as they did. Shouldn't have made your eyes burn all over again, shouldn't have made your chest feel so full it hurt.
"Steve—" You pulled your head back to meet his eyes.
He smiled softly, hands shaking slightly as they ran over your hair. “You looked so happy up there,” he said, his voice going thick. His hand came to cup your jaw, a ghost of a touch, as his thumb brushed just under your cheekbone. “I remember you tapping your fingers on the desk doing counts. I remember you making me watch you run through combinations in the backyard even though I had no idea what I was looking at or how I could help. I remember—” His hand was still on your face, fingers gentle against your skin like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. “I remember thinking you were going to do amazing things with it someday. And you did. You are.”
The observation was too much. It was too raw. It was too honest what the two of you were supposed to be now. You stood there for a moment that stretched too long, his hands on your face, your hands on his shoulders, too close and not close enough all at once. People were definitely watching now. You could feel their eyes like a physical weight, hear the whispers starting to ripple through the crowd still lingering near the stage.
But Steve was looking at you like nothing else existed. Like the auditorium had emptied and it was just the two of you in this bubble where history didn't matter and broken promises could be forgotten and four years hadn't passed since the last time he'd held you like this. Since before the breakup and college and all the ways you'd both tried and failed to move on.
“Auntie!”
Carter’s voice cut through whatever moment you were having. You dropped your hands quickly, and his fell from your face and got shoved in his pockets, and the both of you looked to see your nephew barreling toward you through the crowd.
He crashed into your side with enough force to make you stumble. Steve's hand shot out automatically to steady you, brief contact on your elbow before he pulled away.
"That was so cool!" Carter was bouncing on his toes, words coming out in a rush. "All the dancing and all and the girl was so good and there was this part where everyone spun at the same time and it looked like—like a kaleidoscope or something—"
"A kaleidoscope?" You laughed, ruffling his hair even though you were still trying to catch your breath, still feeling the ghost of Steve's hands on your face. "That's a big word."
"We learned it in science. But seriously, that was awesome. Can you teach me how to do that? The spinning thing?"
"You want to learn that?"
"I want to learn how to spin without falling over. That seems useful."
“Hey, kiddo,” Steve said, voice warm and still a little rough from whatever emotion he’d been holding back moments ago. He'd taken a step back to give you space, hands still firmly in his pockets, but he was smiling at your nephew with affection. "Pretty cool what your aunt pulled off, huh?"
"So cool! Did you see it, Coach Steve? Did you see the part where they all jumped at the same time? How do they do that without crashing into each other?"
"That's what she does," Steve said, and you could hear the smile in his voice even though you weren't looking at him. You were very deliberately not looking at him. "Your aunt spent weeks teaching them how to move together like that. It takes a lot of patience."
"Weeks?" Carter's eyes went wide. "That's so long. I get bored after like five minutes of practice."
"Yeah, I've noticed." Steve's tone was teasing, affectionate in that coach way he'd perfected.
Behind Carter, your family was approaching. Devon with her knowing smirk already firmly in place, your mom dabbing at her eyes with a tissue that was definitely beyond salvageable at this point, your dad looking proud in that uncomfortable way he got when emotions were involved and he didn't know what to do with his hands.
But they all stopped short when they saw Steve standing there and noticed the careful distance you'd put between yourselves that somehow still felt too close. They saw the way you were both flushed, eyes too bright, like you'd been caught doing something you shouldn't.
Devon's smirk widened into something absolutely dangerous. "Steve Harrington. Been a minute."
"Hey," Steve's smile was polite, careful, but you could see the tension creeping into his shoulders, the way he straightened his posture like he was bracing for impact. "Good to see you."
"Is it?" Devon's eyes were doing that thing where they cataloged every detail with surgical precision. The way Steve's hair was slightly messed up on one side, from your hands, oh god. The way his sweater had a wet spot on the chest from your tears. The way you were both standing too carefully, maintaining distance that felt deliberate and obvious. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks pretty complicated."
"Dev," you warned, voice low.
"What?" She raised her eyebrows in mock innocence. "I'm just making an observation. The show was great, by the way. Really great." She turned back to Steve, and her smile had teeth now. "My little sister's talented. But you already knew that, didn't you?"
The emphasis on already made your face burn hotter.
"She is," Steve agreed, and his voice was steady but you could see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the tell he'd had since high school when he was uncomfortable but trying not to show it. "The kids were really lucky to have her. Mrs. Stone made a great choice."
"Oh my goodness." Your mom had finally found her voice, and when she spoke it was thick with too many emotions to name. She was staring at Steve like she was seeing a ghost. "Steve? Steve Harrington? Is that really you?"
And here it was. The moment you'd been dreading since you'd thrown yourself at him in front of half the town.
Steve's smile shifted when he saw your mom, became something more genuine despite the clear discomfort radiating off him. “Hi,” he said, addressing your mom. "It's really good to see you."
“I had no idea you were—” Your mom’s eyes were bouncing between you and Steve like she was watching a tennis match. “Are you two?—”
“No,” you said quickly. “No, Mom. Steve teaches at the high school and he coaches Carter’s baseball team.”
“Coach Steve is the best!” Carter interjected, still bouncing with leftover excitement from the show. “He taught me how to slide into base without getting hurt and he always brings orange slices even though they're kind of a pain to peel and he lets us have extra practice if we want and he doesn't even get mad when Toby throws his glove because Toby’s working through some stuff with his parents' divorce—”
"That's great, bud," Devon said, but she wasn't looking at Carter. She was still watching you and Steve with that expression that meant you were in for a very long, very uncomfortable conversation later. Probably in the car on the way home. Probably with her asking pointed questions while you stared out the window and pretended not to hear her.
Your mom stepped closer, and you watched recognition and memory and something complicated flash across her face. She'd liked Steve, back then. She’d invited him to family dinners every Sunday and asked about his college applications and genuinely believed you two were going to make it. She had bought into the fairy tale the same way you had. And then the breakup happened, and graduation, and you'd left for college six hours away, and your mom had spent the first month calling you every night to make sure you were eating and sleeping and not completely falling apart.
You'd lied every time. Said you were fine. Said you were adjusting. Said the breakup was for the best.She'd known you were lying but had let you pretend anyway because that's what mothers did.
Steve cleared his throat, eyes darting to you, wide. “Health,” he squeaked out. His hands were buried in his pockets. You could see him curling them into fists, then relaxing, then curling again. “Also some P.E. classes when the coach needs me to cover. And yeah, I coach middle school baseball.”
“That’s wonderful,” your mom said, smiling brightly. “That’s so different from—” So different from the basketball scholarship you used to talk about. So different from the party boy we all thought you’d be forever.
"Yeah," Steve said simply, and he didn't elaborate.
"And you recommended our daughter for this position?" Your mom's eyes were sharp now, focused.
"I did." Steve glanced at you, and something in his expression softened despite the careful neutrality he was trying to maintain like he couldn't help it. As though his face just did that automatically when he looked at you. "Mrs. Stone was looking for someone to choreograph the musical and I remembered—" He stopped, corrected himself. "I knew she'd be perfect for it. And she was. The kids were really lucky."
Your mom’s face softened and hardened at the same time, if that was possible. She remembered, too. She was remembering Steve picking you up for your dates, promising your dad to have you home by 10:30 on the dot, Steve talking about apartment-hunting. And also the Steve at graduation who could hardly meet her eyes when she hugged him goodbye.
Carter was looking between all the adults like he was trying to figure out why everyone was being weird. Devon was openly enjoying your discomfort now, smirking like this was the best entertainment she'd had in months. Your dad had appeared from somewhere—probably the bathroom, he always disappeared during emotional moments—and was now standing slightly behind your mom, looking uncomfortable and ready to escape.
"Well." Your dad clapped Steve on the shoulder, one of those firm pats that was borderline aggressive, the kind men did when they didn't know how else to communicate. "Good to see you, son. You look well. More grown up than last time."
Last time was graduation. Steve surprising your parents with a different girlfriend. You, with your college decision six hours away, like a lifeline. Your dad had shaken Steve’s hand and said, “Good luck with everything,” in a tone that meant do not ever come near my daughter again, even though the damage was catastrophically done.
Your mom was still doing that thing where she looked between you and Steve, and you could practically see her mental notebook filling with observations.
She was your mother. She'd changed your diapers and taught you to read and held you while you cried over this exact boy four years ago. She knew.
"I should—" Steve gestured vaguely toward the exit, already taking a step back. "Let you guys celebrate. This is a family moment. Congratulations again. The show was—" He stopped, looked at you directly for the first time since your family had arrived. "You were incredible."
You smiled softly as you watched him retreat slowly, with all eyes on him.
“So,” Devon said into the silence. “That was subtle.”
“Dev, I swear to god—”
“What? I’m just saying if you wanted to keep whatever this was a secret, maybe don’t do it in front of a crowded auditorium.” She was grinning now. “Pretty sure half the PTA saw you two basically—”
"We weren't doing anything," you cut her off, face burning so hot you probably looked sunburned.
"Mmhmm. Why your lipstick is smudged?"
“Whaaa—” Your hand flew to your mouth automatically. Devon laughed.
"Got you. Your lipstick is fine. But you should see your face right now."
"I hate you."
"No you don't." She slung an arm around your shoulders, still grinning. "But we are definitely talking about this later. In detail. With wine."
"There's nothing to talk about—"
"Honey." Your mom's voice cut through your protests, gentle but firm. "Can we not do this right now? Not here?"
You looked at her and saw understanding in her eyes. There was just concern. The same concern she'd had four years ago when you'd come home from college for Thanksgiving break and she'd found you crying in your childhood bedroom at two AM.
"Okay," you said quietly. "Yeah. Okay."
She squeezed your arm. "We'll talk tomorrow. Lunch. Just you and me."
"Mom—"
"Tomorrow," she said firmly, but kindly. "Tonight, we celebrate. You did something amazing today. You should be proud."
"I am," you said, and meant it. "I really am."
Carter tugged on your sleeve. "Can we get ice cream? I feel like this deserves ice cream. That was way cooler than my baseball games."
"Hey," your dad protested mildly.
"It was! There was dancing and costumes and the person sitting next to us cried real tears! When's the last time someone cried at one of my games?"
"Last week when you got hit in the face with the ball," Devon pointed out. “I cried because I thought your nose was messed up forever.”
"That doesn't count!"
“Hi, Steve,” you said as the door opened, hands flexing and unflexing by your sides.
He looked like he’d been crying. His eyes were dry and his face was composed, but there was a redness around his eyes and a rawness to his expression that made your chest ache. He was still in the same sweater from the show. His hair was a mess, like he’d been running his hands through it over and over. There was a beer bottle in his hand, barely touched by the looks of it, condensation dripping down the glass.
He stared at you for a long moment, like you were a hallucination. “Hi,” he said finally. His voice was hoarse.
You'd left dinner early and told your family you were tired, that the adrenaline crash was hitting you hard and you needed to sleep. Devon had given you a look that said she knew exactly where you were going, but she hadn't stopped you. Your mom had hugged you and told you to call her about tomorrow. Carter had made you promise to teach him the spinning thing next week.
And then you'd driven here—to Steve's apartment—without letting yourself think about it too hard because if you thought about it, you'd talk yourself out of it.
You'd sat in your car in the parking lot for fifteen minutes, engine off, hands on the steering wheel, trying to figure out what you were doing. What you were going to say. Why you'd come here instead of going home to decompress in your own bed like a normal person.
“Can I come in?” you asked and your voice came out smaller than you’d intended.
Steve stepped back immediately, opening the door wider. “Yeah. Yeah. Of course—yeah.”
You walked past him into the apartment and it looked different than it had a few weeks ago. Or maybe you were just seeing it differently now. The picture was gone from the dresser in the bedroom, you could see through the open door that the surface was bare except for a lamp and some spare change. There was a stack of graded papers on the coffee table, red pen marks visible from here. A half-eaten sandwich on a plate. The TV was on but muted, some late-night show with a laugh track you couldn't hear.
It looked like he'd been sitting here alone, grading papers and not eating.
Steve closed the door behind you but stayed rooted in his spot, watching you.
“Sorry for just showing up,” you said, turning to face him. “I know it’s late. I should’ve called—”
"Don't apologize." He set the beer down on the side table with more force than necessary. "You can show up here whenever you want. I mean—not that you'd want to, I just—" He stopped and ran a hand through his hair which made it worse. "I'm glad you're here."
"Your family. They must be so proud. You should be celebrating with them."
"I was." You shoved your hands in your jacket pockets because you didn't know what to do with them. "We went to dinner. Got ice cream. Carter talked for forty-five minutes straight about the show. My mom cried three more times.”
“Good,” Steve said, nodding. “That’s good.”
"I kept thinking about—about you. About how you were the one who made tonight possible. How you believed in me when I didn't even believe in myself. How you've been showing up even though you didn't have to. How—"
You stopped because your voice was breaking and you weren't sure you could finish the sentence without falling apart.
Steve was staring at you with an expression that looked like hope and pain and disbelief all tangled together.
“I should’ve been there,” he said quietly. “With you guys. I should’ve—” He laughed, all bitter and self-depracating. “But I can’t be there. Because I’m not—we’re not—” He gestured helplessly between the two of you. “I fucked that up four years ago and I keep fucking it up.”
“Steve,” you said, voice trailing.
He shook his head, more to himself than you. “Your dad looked at me like he wasn’t sure if he should punch me.” Steve’s voice was getting louder now, more emotion bleeding through. “Your mom looked sad and it was—like she barely knew me.” He stopped and pressed his palms into his eyes.
You’d never seen Steve like this. Even at seventeen, when he broke up with you, he held it together. Even the night at his apartment, he hadn’t let this much show.
"I sat here after the show," Steve continued, hands dropping from his face. His eyes were red now, wet. “And I thought about everything I missed. You going to college. Your sister’s anniversaries. Every Christmas and Thanksgiving and every birthday party. All those moments where I would’ve been there if I hadn’t just—” He stopped. “And I thought about the life we were going to have that I threw away because I was a stupid kid who didn’t realize how good he had it.”
“Steve—” You took a step toward him.
“No, let—let me—” He held up a hand. “I—when you saw the picture that night, I should’ve told you that it didn’t work out between me and her. It never could. With her or anybody else.” He met your eyes, and your vision was beginning to get foggy. “Nobody I’ve met can be you,” he said quietly. “And I’ve spent so long trying to convince myself it was for the best. That you were better off without me.”
He laughed, and it almost sounded broken.
“But then you came back,” he continued. “And you were just, exactly the same and completely different all at once. And I thought maybe I could handle it all. Maybe I could be a friend. But tonight—when you hugged me—” His voice cracked as he went to lean against the wall. “I can’t be normal about you. I don’t know how to be normal about you.”
You were crying now. You couldn't help it. The tears were hot on your cheeks and you didn't bother wiping them away.
“If I could go back,” he started, neck craning to look at the ceiling as he rubbed a palm over his neck, throat bobbing. “If I could go back, I would do everything we planned. I would follow you wherever you went. I would’ve—”
His voice broke completely and he stopped, hand still on his neck like he was trying to physically hold himself together. You watched his chest rise and fall too fast, watched him try to get control of his breathing.
Steve looked at you then, really looked at you, and his eyes were devastated. "I would've packed up my car and driven to whatever college you got into. Would've gotten some shitty apartment nearby and worked whatever jobs I could find just to—just to be close to you.” He pushed off the wall and started pacing. “I think about it sometimes, about what our apartment would’ve looked like. We probably would’ve gotten that place on Maple Street, no? The one we circled on the map, remember?”
You did remember. You'd circled it together during lunch senior year, sitting in his car, planning a future that felt so real you could taste it.
"I remember," you said.
“I thought—” He swallowed hard. “I thought you were living a whole life without me. I thought you’d done everything you’d wanted and living and doing exactly what you dreamed about. And I was—” He laughed shortly. “I was so happy for you. Even though it killed me.”
He moved toward you and his fingers clasped around your wrist as he meekly gestured to the living room. You followed him in as he walked, completely in a trance from everything that was coming out of his mouth.
You sat on the couch, a short distance away from him, and watched his head lean back as he stared at the ceiling again. “I feel so stupid,” he said into the air.
“Don’t,” you said, trying to get your voice out. “Don’t feel stupid. You—well, you weren’t wrong when you said it was all too much we were planning.” He turned his neck to look at you then, brows furrowing. “I was stupid to think it all could be a fairytale like we planned. It wouldn’t have worked, probably.”
“Don’t say that,” Steve said, voice so broken like you’d just slapped him in the face. “Don’t make what we had smaller just because I fucked it up. It would’ve worked.”
“We were seventeen—”
“I don’t care,” he said, shaking his head, jaw clenching. “I don’t care that we were young and that people say high school relationships don’t last. I don’t care about the odds or anything. It would’ve worked because we would’ve made it work. Because we loved each other enough to—” He stopped abruptly, like something was caught in his throat.
Your mouth was parted, staring at him because you had no idea how to respond.
“I would’ve married you.” The words came out so raw, so desperate, and his eyes were locked on yours now like he needed you to hear the words completely. Your breath caught. “I would’ve married you and stood in front of everyone and promised to love you for the rest of my life. And I would’ve meant it. Every fucking word.”
Your chest felt like it was caving in, and you could feel seventeen-year-old you crawling through your body, shaking and letting the tears fall down your cheeks.
“I know I said—I said it like it was a bad thing when I was breaking up with you but I didn’t mean it. I swear, I didn’t mean it. I’ve spent years wishing I could take it back and said what I actually meant instead of—instead of making you feel like loving me was too much. Like wanting to be with me was something to be ashamed of.”
You were crying now, full-on crying, tears streaming down your face faster than you could wipe them away.
"You made me feel like I was crazy," you said, and your voice was shaking with anger and grief and four years of hurt. "Like I was this—this desperate girl who was trying to trap you into something you didn't want. And I—" Your voice broke. "I spent so long trying to figure out why I was so afraid of wanting things. Of planning for the future. Of—of expecting anything from anyone. Because you made me feel like expectations were a burden.”
"I know." Steve's voice was wrecked. "I know and I'm—I'm so fucking sorry. I ruined that for you.And I—" He stopped, hand coming up to cover his mouth for a second. "I hate myself for that. For making you feel like you were crazy for wanting what we both wanted. For making you doubt yourself when you were—you were right. About all of it. About us. About forever."
"Steve—"
"I would've married you," he said again, and this time his voice was steady. "Fuck, I would've married you right out of high school and I would've been terrified and I probably would've fucked up a thousand different ways but I would've—I would've shown up. Every single day. I would've chosen you. And I'm so sorry I didn't."
Something in you broke completely. Four years of holding yourself together, of telling yourself you were fine, of pretending the breakup hadn't fundamentally changed who you were, all of it shattered.
You were sobbing now, the kind of crying that made your whole body shake, the kind you'd been holding back since the moment you'd seen him at baseball practice for the first time.
Steve moved closer, hesitant, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed. "Can I—?"
You didn't let him finish. You just collapsed against him, face pressed into his chest, hands fisted in his sweater. And he held you, arms tight around you, one hand in your hair and the other splayed across your back, holding you together while you fell apart.
“I’m sorry,” he said against your hair. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”
"I would've married you," Steve said again, and you could feel his tears in your hair now. "I would've married you and I would've been so fucking proud to call you my wife. And I threw that away because I was seventeen and stupid and scared. And I've regretted it every single day since."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, and his face was wrecked. Tears streaming down his cheeks, eyes red and swollen, expression raw and open in a way you'd never seen before.
“You really hurt me,” you said, your voice coming out broken and accusatory.
"I know." He was crying harder now too. "I know. And I don't—I don't know how to fix that. I don't know how to give you back what I took. But I—" He stopped, hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs brushing away tears that just kept coming. "I want to try. If you'll let me. I want to spend however long it takes proving to you that I'm not going anywhere this time. That when I say forever, I mean it. That you can trust me again."
"I don't know if I can," you whispered.
"I know." His forehead pressed against yours. "I know. But can I—can I at least try?"
"I would've said yes," you said quietly.
Steve's breath caught. "What?"
"If you'd asked me to marry you. At graduation. Or after. Or—or anytime. I would've said yes." Your voice was shaking. "I would've married you in a heartbeat and I wouldn't have cared if we were too young or if everyone said it wouldn't work. I would've—" You stopped. "I would've chosen you. Every time."
Steve made a sound that was half-sob, half-something else, as he pressed his eyes closed. His arms tightened around you.
"I'm so sorry," he said again. "I'm so sorry I didn't give you that chance. I'm so sorry I made you feel like wanting that was wrong. I'm so sorry I—"
You kissed him.
Cut him off mid-apology because you couldn't hear him say sorry one more time, couldn't handle the weight of his regret on top of your own grief. You kissed him and he kissed you back desperately, like you were oxygen and he'd been suffocating.
It was messy and wet with tears and tasted like salt. His hands were in your hair and yours were fisted in his sweater and you were both crying and kissing and trying to get closer even though there was no space left between you.
When you finally pulled apart, you were both gasping for air.
"I don't know how to do this," you admitted. "I don't know how to trust this again."
"We'll figure it out," Steve said, and he sounded more certain than you'd heard him all night. "Together. We'll figure it out together. No more running. No more making decisions alone. We'll—"
"Actually talk to each other like adults?" you suggested, voice watery.
"Yeah." He laughed, and it sounded lighter now, almost hopeful. "That. We'll do that."
You sat there on his couch, wrapped in his arms, both of you crying, both of you acknowledging that this was going to be hard and messy and complicated.
But for the first time in four years, you felt like maybe—maybe—you could find your way back to each other.
“I love you so much,” he said, breaking the silence the two of you had build like a cocoon around you. His voice was soft, barely there.
And your shoulders shook as you realized this was the first time you’d heard him say the words in so long. Because Steve Harrington was saying everything you'd needed to hear four years ago. Everything you'd needed to hear to know you weren't crazy for wanting forever with him. That your expectations hadn't been too much. That loving him the way you had wasn't something to be ashamed of.
You cried against his chest and he held you through it, murmuring apologies and promises and I love yous into your hair until the tears finally slowed, until you could breathe again, until you felt like maybe you could start to believe him.
you’re on an end-of-year road trip with your boyfriend and a handful of close friends. high school's over and you’ve crammed yourselves into a rented minivan for a four-hour drive to the staycation you’ve been dying for all year.
you're both sat towards the back of the van. you in the window seat legs swinging happily.
you look up at megumi, hood up, earbud in one ear, the other open just enough to hear you when you talk to him. he's restless from the long drive and one of your friends' shitty playlist on the car speakers and everyone talking over each other, but he answers you every time you ask him a question or show him a funny tiktok on your phone or point out something pretty out the window. he shares the energy drink he got himself with you when you ask to try it and smiles faintly when your face scrunches up in disgust at the tartness.
"that tastes like battery acid!"
"i told you."
halfway, the group of you make a pitstop for petrol and a stretch. it's then when you realise (megumi realises) in horror that you left your phone charger in megumi's car this morning.
"there's a convenience store." he points out, and you look up. it's just across the street, "let's go."
one of your friends, mika perks up. “oh, i'll come!” she adds quickly. “i want snacks.”
he holds your hand as the three of you cross the road.
megumi’s never liked her.
he’s never said it out loud, never complained, never told you to stop being friends with her. but he notices things. always has. she acts like everything he says is the most hilarious thing she's ever heard even when he's being serious, she smacks his arm whenever she laughs, she immediately straightens her posture when he walks into a room, checks her reflection in her phone screen and fluffs up her hair.
so he acts a little extra colder with her than he does with everyone else who isn't you. in hopes she'll get the hint and just lay it off.
that's where the whining comes: "megumiiiii, you're always sooo mean to me!!!" and "gosh y/nnnn can you get your boyfriend in check??"
you're oblivious to it. how could you not be? mika's been with you longer than he has.
so the three of you walk into though automatic doors sliding open. you all look over the electronic aisle. rows of chargers hang on metal pegs, all overpriced, all labelled “fast charge” and other lukewarm promises along those lines.
you get bored quickly.
after thirty seconds of staring at cords, you sigh. “this is boring. i’m gonna go get snacks.”
megumi hums in acknowledgement, "get anything you want." he says. you light up with a grin because you know he'd buy you the entire snack aisle if you wanted it.
and then he's alone. with mika. the last place he ever wants to be.
it's quiet. awkward. he clenches his jaw, picking up one of the charger boxes and reading the label.
she breaks the silence, "you're way too good to her, megumi."
he looks up, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, "didn't you want snacks too? you can go with her."
mika blinks— caught, then laughs nervously, "no, i... wanted to buy a portable while i'm here, too." she says, before clearly pretending to scan over the selection of powerbanks.
he bites his tongue, picking up another charger box and examining it.
and then she starts talking again, "you always take care of her." she smiles, phoney.
"it's a charger and some snacks." he responds bluntly.
"well, yeah... but it's the little things, isn't it?" she muses, stepping closer, her shoulder brushing his arm. she bats her eyes, "you're so sweet. i wish i had a boyfriend like you."
his arm jerks back, "don't touch me." his voice drops an octave, and the glare in his eyes is chilling.
she laughs, half-shocked things didn't go her way and half-embarrassed, "wow. okay. i didn't even—"
"she trusts you." he cuts her off, "i think she's an idiot for it. but you're her friend, so don't disrespect her."
"i would never." mika scoffs, "i—"
"good. then you won't mind apologising. she'll find out about this the second her and i are alone tonight."
she opens her mouth to respond—then closes it when you come back around the corner, holding a basket of chips and candy.
“got it?” you ask cheerfully.
megumi nods, taking the basket from you dropping in the charger which he'd selected in the middle of their spat. “yeah. want drinks?"
you gasp and nod, something about strawberry milk as he wraps his other arm around you and leads you towards the large fridge. mika trails behind like a dog with her tail between her legs.
ɞ i. yuuji
you and yuuji at a college frat party
you’re at a party, loud music, drinks in hand, laughter spilling everywhere. you gasp excitedly when you see a friend who you haven't spoken to in a while outside the glass door in the backyard of whoever's house this was. you hand yuji your half-full cup, grinning, "baby, i'm gonna go say hi."
he looks back at you and smiles crookedly, nodding, "okay..!"
he’s leaning against a counter, half engaged in conversation, a little buzzed, a little high off something his friend slipped him earlier (he doesn’t even remember the name of whatever it was), when she shows up.
yuri. a mutual friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend. you’ve met in passing a few times. awkward 'hi-bye's. you know each others' names, and she definitely should've put two and two together by now and figured out that you and yuuji are a thing.
but apparently, she wants to test that theory.
“hey yuuji,” she purrs, sidling close.
panic lights up his eyes. his words tumble out before his brain catches up. "oh... hi, yuri." he says, "hah... our names are kinda... kinda similar... i never noticed."
"mhm, sounds like fate." she smirks, "you look cute tonight."
his friends behind him suddenly decide whatever drunken bullshit they're talking about is nowhere near as interesting as what's going on here, so they stop their conversation and watch with dropped jaws at her audacity.
“oh—uh, don’t you know y/n?? you guys have met before... u-uh… she’s like, my girlfriend.”
“she's like your girlfriend?” she teases, tilting her head, hand brushing his arm.
“n-no! that’s not what I meant!! she’s my girlfriend… for real… no cap.” he stammers, face burning, heart hammering, already regretting everything he drank. he sounds like an idiot.
she giggles, tracing a finger over his chest. “you’re adorable. i don’t see her anywhere. she just left you here?”
he freezes. does he push her away? is that rude? he… stumbles back dumbly.
"she’s… over there…" he looks over her head, but can't see you behind the door. "she's talking to her friend. you uh, shouldn’t touch me like that… she fights people… women… girls... ladies… who… do that. type shit.”
“oh?” yuri raises a brow.
he's lying out of his ass now. because you're the sweetest thing anyone's ever met, but anything to get this woman away from him, “y-yeah… she’s… really scary. and strong. a-and… she sent a girl to the hospital once for touching me. she’s super serious about me.”
his friends nearby are losing it, laughing and chiming in like it’s a comedy show:
“oh, yeah, I saw it firsthand. she ripped that girl’s hair out.”
“and her acrylics!”
“then she called the ambulance herself and pretended she just found her like that.”
“yeah, and the girl didn’t even press charges ’cause y/n scared her so bad!”
they're not helping his case. yuuji glares at them. shut up shut up shut up.
yuri raises an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “huh, so where’s this guard dog of yours?”
and just like that you appear behind him, taking back your cup from his hands, soft smile on your face, oblivious to the image he's just spread about you, “oh, hi yuri! I love your nails, they're so cute,” you chirp. glancing back at him, you add, “is there a dog around?" having heard the last bit of their conversation, "i wanna see! is it cute?”
yuuji’s lie crumbles spectacularly. he just stares at you, mouth open, heart lodged somewhere near his throat, while you beam like sunshine, and yuri… blinks, "oh." she says, before walking off.
"let's... get an uber." yuuji sighs, his head falling to your shoulder. that was enough thinking for one night.
ɞ n. kento
office worker!nanami brings you to meet his colleagues
he takes you to a work dinner his boss is hosting at a too-fancy italian restaurant. the kind with dim lighting, linen napkins, lace white tablecloths and wine bottles that cost more than your weekly groceries.
you’d arrived early, just the two of you and his boss making polite conversation.
until the boss excuses himself to the restroom.
that’s when hana appears.
“ken!” she chirps, sliding into the empty seat on the other side of him.
he barely looks at her, nodding politely. “hana.”
her gaze flicks to you, sitting beside him in your pretty dress, glass of white wine cradled carefully in your hands. her smile sharpens. “oh, hi! you must be the girlfriend.”
the girlfriend?
you clear your throat, forcing a smile. “oh, yeah. i’m y/n. it’s really nice to meet you, i’ve heard lots!”
you have. mostly about how much she irritates him with her constant nagging.
“aww, really?” she laughs. “well, i’m not sure i can say the same. ken’s super serious about his work, isn’t he?”
you hesitate. “uh...”
“i’ve spoken about her before,” ken cuts in calmly, eyebrow lifting, "many times."
hana blinks. “really? i don’t recall!” she turns back to you, like she's sizing you up, smiling thinly. “huh. he really doesn’t have a type, does he?”
you nearly choke on your wine. “p-pardon?” you ask, hoping you heard her wrong. because him not having a type between you and her would imply that—
“everyone says i’m like his work wife,” she giggles.
this time you actually choke.
ken’s hand goes to your back, patting firmly as you cough and sputter, while you're sat there praying the wine doesn't escape through your nose. he reaches for the water pitcher made of crystal glass in the middle of the table and pours you a glass, putting it in front of you. “here.”
once you've recovered and you’re breathing again, he looks at hana. “nobody says that.”
she smiles, unfazed. “you’ve never heard it, ken, 'cuz you're always so uptight in the office! everyone's scared of you,” she grins, looking at you, "except for me. i'm always the one who has to remind him to take his breaks and eat. he'd never do it without me."
you raise an eyebrow over the rim of your glass of your water, truly not sure if she's talking about your boyfriend or a child. you doubt it's true regardless, mostly because he's a grown ass man, but also because the bento you pack into his work bag in the mornings comes home empty every day.
"that's... not..." he murmurs, fixing his glasses, looking at his watch, trying to disengage. when are the rest of his colleagues going to get here already?
"don't try to deny it, ken!" then her attention snaps back to you, eyes dragging over you in a way that makes your skin prickle. “but we really aren’t alike, are we?” she tilts her head. “you seem so much younger… and is that a plushie on your bag? how cute!”
she laughs. it’s not kind. it's mocking. like she thinks she has some sort of superiority over you because she's a few years older and she's more mature (which is highly debatable at this point).
embarrassed, you instinctively cover the plushie keychain on your purse with your hand, heat creeping up your neck.
ken’s jaw tightens.
“perhaps,” he says evenly, looking to her, “the two of you simply aren't alike because i'm not interested in you.”
the table goes quiet.
hana’s smile stiffens. “oh?”
“you were wrong earlier. i do have a type. it's her."
you glance at him, surprised.
he doesn’t look at you. his eyes stay on hana. unblinking.
“you aren't my... 'work wife'. don't call yourself such foolish titles.” he continues, voice calm and precise, “it’s inappropriate. and unprofessional.”
hana opens her mouth.
he doesn’t let her speak.
“you won't speak to her like that again.”
flat. final.
their boss returns moments later, oblivious, and hana laughs and greets him awkwardly, suddenly far too interested in her menu. and the rest of his colleagues begin to arrive at the table.
while you're busy deciding between lasagna or rosé pasta, his hand goes to yours, pulling it off the plushie that you'd been concealing on your purse. he leans into your ear, quiet enough that only you can hear, "don't hide it. it's cute."
ɞ s. gojo
amusement park date with satoru
the amusement park is loud—the scent of fried food floods the air, lights flickering on everywhere as the sun sets.
you’re standing at a game booth with satoru, jaw set in determination.
you need to win him a plushie. he won you one earlier—some stupidly cute little seal—and now it’s a matter of pride. you stare at the last milk bottle in the booth, then the ping-pong ball in your hand. take aim and...
you miss.
again.
the bell doesn’t ring. the plushie stays smugly out of reach. taunting you.
you stare at the empty counter. then at your empty ticket pile. then back at satoru.
“…i used all my tickets,” you mumble, pouting.
satoru blinks. then laughs, soft and fond. “already? wow, baby, you really gave it your all, huh?”
you groan. “i wanted to win you one!"
he’s already pulling his wallet out.
“here,” he says, handing you cash, “go wild.”
your eyes light up, “really?!”
he hums, kissing the corner of your lips, “mhm. go get more tickets.”
you gasp, grab the money, and bounce on your toes before running toward the ticket booth. “thank you baby! don’t follow me, okay? i wanna surprise you!”
he raises his hands in surrender. “yes, ma’am.”
you disappear into the crowd.
satoru turns back to the stall you just emptied your tickets at, leaning casually against the counter.
that’s when the girl running the game smiles at him.
"nah, she didn't want me to play 'cuz she wanted to win me one. it's cute."
she laughs, twirling the strap of her apron. “is she… your sister?”
he stares at her.
then grins.
because the both of them know damn well that she wishes you were his sister.
“oh,” he says lightly, “no. that’s my girlfriend.”
“…oh.”
“like,” he continues, sweet as sugar, “the love of my life.”
her smile tightens. “she left you all alone.”
he shrugs. “she trusts me.”
pause.
then, casually—“your standards must be low.”
the girl falters. “i— what?”
satoru leans closer, resting his elbows on the counter. his tone is playful, eyes sharp. “flirting with a guy after watching him kiss his girlfriend is… pretty embarrassing. don't ya' think?”
her face heats up. “i wasn’t flirting with you.”
“mm,” he hums. “riiight.”
she crosses her arms. “you don’t have to be rude.”
he smiles wider. “i don’t have to be anything with you. weirdo.”
silence.
then he adds, almost thoughtfully, “also, she’s gonna come back with popcorn. you’ll be watching us share it.”
right on cue, you return—holding a band of tickets you'd just bought and a bag of cheddar flavoured popcorn, smiling like the sun.
“hi!” you chirp.
satoru's expression softens instantly. he pulls you in, arm wrapping around your shoulders.
“miss me?” he asks.
"ew." you curl your lip in mock-disgust before grinning again, enthusiastically, “i got us popcorn!”
he beams. then glances at another stall across the way.
“hey,” he says, feeding you a kernel, before popping one into his own mouth, “let’s play a different game, babe.” he emphasises that last word, loud enough for her to hear.
you follow his gaze, gasping, “yeah! that one has cuter plushies!”
“exactly.”
he squeezes you closer, steering you away without another glance back.
behind you, the girl at the stall suddenly finds her counter very, very interesting.
ɞ r. sukuna
fratboy!sukuna helping you run a bakesale
you’re running a bake sale for an assignment in your college business management class. everyone had to pitch an idea, run a stall in the college courtyard, track costs, the whole thing.
yours is baked goods. cute ones. frosted, themed after your favourite cartoon characters. you'd stayed up all night baking.
you asked sukuna to help.
he scoffed. “i’m not handing out no damn cupcakes.”
so he doesn't.
but he did help you put up the stall at five in the morning.
he sits on a fold-up chair behind the table instead, hood up, legs spread, arms crossed, watching you work like a guard dog with tattoos and a temper. you don’t mind. you know he’ll help when you need it. and it’s nice, having him there while you’re busy.
the courtyard is chaos at first. hungry college students swarm the stalls, money flying, your cupcakes and cookies and brownies disappearing. you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
eventually, the rush dies down.
you glance over your shoulder. “baby. can you watch the stall? i'm gonna go get water.”
he grunts, but stands anyway, dragging the chair back. “’kay.”
you skip off, empty water bottle in hand.
not even a minute later, a girl steps up to the table.
“hii,” she says, dragging the word out. “is this where i get cupcakes?”
sukuna looks down at the cupcakes. then at her.
“no.”
she laughs. loud. fake. “oh my god, you’re sooo funny.” she leans closer. “i’ll take the pink one. can i get a box?”
he says nothing. grabs a styrofoam box.
“did you bake all these?” she asks. “they’re really pretty."
“no,” he replies flatly. “my girlfriend did. i’m just watching the stall for her.”
her smile falters. just a little.
“aw,” she says, lips curling into a pout. “shame.”
he pauses. looks at her. “what.”
she grins. “it’s a shame. you’d look cute in an apron.”
he blinks.
slowly.
“are you flirting with me,” he grunts, “right after i told you i had a girlfriend.”
she rolls her eyes, still smiling. “c’mon. you’re a frat guy. i bet you have, like, twelve.”
his eye twitches.
he looks down at the cupcake.
then—
squish.
he crushes it in his hand. frosting oozes between his fingers. cake collapses into a sad, mangled mess.
he drops the ruined thing into the box with a miserable thwop. closes the lid. slides it across the table to her with a shit-eating grin.
“didn’t wash my hands,” he adds casually.
her face drains of colour, "what the hell!?"
“that’ll be four bucks.”
she rolls her eyes, walking away to buy something from another stall, grumbling under her breath.
right on cue, you come back, bottle refilled, humming.
“thanks for watching—” you stop. blink. he's stood there, eating the deformity, frosting all over his hand. “why does that cupcake look like it got jumped?”
sukuna looks down at you, "quality control. or somethin' like that."
you snort. “you don't even know what that means."
he smirks lazily, "these cupcakes're good, babe.”
"i saved you some in the fridge. you didn't have to destroy one just so you could eat it." you laugh, shaking your head, going back to fixing the display.
"want some?"
"gross. you didn't even wash your hands."
he grins, sitting down behind you. stall secure.
super cute dividers by @cursed-carmine! check them out here
summary! you've been fucking your fratboy-friend suguru for ages. you've always wanted your relationship to be more than casual sex, but he always shuts that down. then, like a god with a really nice cock, choso, the schools most reliable plug, tries to swoop you out of that assholes grip. you finally have a man who's willing to give you the world, but will suguru fuck that up for you? (SMUTTTT, p in v, oral: f receiving, fingering.) a lil angst, mostly sexy choso tho 🤞🏼
"f-fuck! sugu, oh god, i can't!"
your cries only fuel the cocky man to thrust harder, deeper as he grunted like an animal in your ear from behind.
"c'monnn, be a good girl and fucking take it, i know you can, baby." he teased, slapping in and out in long strokes, hitting your womb over and over with each tantalising push.
this arrangement blossomed some time after highschool.
both you and suguru always had a thing for each other, even then. you'd share headphones in class, study late at night until the sun came up, and took on projects together as an excuse to be in one another's presence. gojo and shoko always made fun of you both, calling you love struck idiots with no sense of self respect to just admit you liked eachother.
now, in collage, that wishy washy bond seemed to amplify ten fold, with nothing relationship wise being set in stone but the actions always there. right now, in the form of his relentless pounding.
you were an art major at the university of jujutsu, scraping by on your salary from your dive bar job as you navigated the occasional ragers on weekends at suguru and satorus frat, sigma chi, along with the stress of creating.
your dream is to become a free lancer, taking commissions from big names and spending the rest of your life as a dignified artist. but, like all good careers, study and your minimum wage job came first.
the job you were working only an hour ago before suguru waltzed in and whispered lowly in your ear, "been thinking bout' you all day, baby. what time d'you get off?"
now, he's got your hair in a messy bunch as he hits it from behind, moaning and groaning like a fucking porn star. his cocks pushing the nastiest whines from your throat, but his pace never settles.
"fuckkk— you're a pro at takin' this dick, keep fluttering around me sweetheart, just like that." he pounds into you extra hard that time, letting you know exactly who has you wrapped around his finger.
he hovers over your body reeling with that hot afterglow, panting. the room now smells like his strong cologne and sex. he doesn’t rush to pull off of you, suguru never does that. instead, he stays there breathing steadily, his head dipped toward your shoulder.
“you good?” he asks, looking through your eyes deep into your head in that penetrating suguru way.
“yeah,” you say too breathless. you clear your throat and try again. “yeah– yeah. i’m good.”
he smiles contently and rolls off to the side, tugging you with him until you’re half draped over his big, bare, muscular chest. the bed creaks under the movement. his hand comes up to your back, the pad of his thumb pushing slow lines into the muscles.
it's moments like these when your mind starts to wonder why you feel so attached to this guy when all he really takes from you is sex, and all you get in return is an unstable sense of stability and a few party invites.
suguru lets out a stretch and a long groan, resting his chin in the top of your head as your tucked into his chest. “do you work tomorrow?”
“mhm, a morning shift,” you answer. “then gotta finish a com.”
“mm. that's rough, honey.”
honey..
you smile a little at that, even though he can’t see it. he always says that, like it’s a given that your life is busy and hard and worth acknowledging in his eyes. it’s stupid, but it matters to you and he knows that.
he gets a call from the bedside table, but hangs up the line immediately. that small gesture makes your brain go numb.
you hesitate, then speak before you can talk yourself out of having this conversation.
“hey, suguru?"
"hm?"
"you ever think about… i dunno. doing things differently?”
“different how?” he asks carefully, his massaging hand slowing down a tad.
you gulp. this is the line you've never crossed. the one you circle and circle and never, ever step over. “like… i don’t know. not sneaking around. not pretending this is just–"
“hey,” he cuts in gently, lifting your chin so you have to look at him. his expression isn’t unkind. if anything, that makes it worse. “you know where i’m at.”
you nod, even though your chest feels constricted. “i know.”
“i’m not looking for anything serious right now,” he says. it’s not mean. it’s not supposed to be dismissive in any way, shape or form, it’s just true. “i don’t want to give you the wrong idea, love."
then stop calling me that...
“i know,” you say instead, “i’m not asking for anything. i was just... thinking about it, i guess."
he watches you for a second, eyes searching your face like he’s checking for any excess damage. then he moves in and leaves a brief kiss on your forehead.
“you’re important to me,” he says. “you know that?"
you do, and you don’t. both at the same time somehow.
eventually, he falls asleep. you stay awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling, thinking about all the things you could never ask for from a man you'd been so indulged in.
~
monday's on campus were hot, long, and so, so boring.
you had a lecture on influences on modern art this morning, eugh.
you had your lecture materials and laptop tucked into your bag as you dragged your feet to the art block. the path curves around the science block, concrete stained and cracked from years of foot traffic. you slow your pace a little as you round the corner, adjusting your grip on your bag.
that’s when your wandering eyes land on a guy you'd never seen before.
he’s leaning against the wall just out of sight from the main path. his long brown hair shoved up into a messy man bun as the tattooed line across his nose stuck out starkly against his fair skin. he's toweringly tall, with baggy dark jeans held up with a leather diesel belt, campus 00's that'd seen better days, and a white beater adorning his muscular body. on his meaty arms, various detailed tattoos snake up and down in twisted patterns, with thick chained bracelets and leather studded cuffs wrapping around his wrists.
holy shit, this guy was your ever wet dream re-imagined.
his various face piercings and thing chain around his neck caught the morning sun as lyour steps slow down without you noticing.
this mysterious man isn’t alone. a guy you vaguely recognise from around campus stands off to the side yet still close, talking quickly with his eyes darting around. you look away instinctively, staring at your shoes, pretending you’re just another student late for class.
voices drift through the air, shoes scuff, then the other guy leaves in a hurry with his head head down.
when you glance back, the tall, grungey one is counting bills. a lot of them. he folds them without any sort of panic, then tucks them into his pocket like it’s nothing.
oh.
you look away again, heart jumping, suddenly very aware of how obvious you must seem. you tell yourself to keep walking. mind your business, you didn't see anything.
but when you pass the corner, you feel it. his eyes, all over you.
you risk a small glance over, and he’s looking at you openly, those brown irises almost choking you up. when your eyes meet, he smiles softly.
that was a surprise.
it isn’t suggestive in the gross way guys usually looked at you, it isn’t cocky or smug either. it’s warm and a little boyish like he’s amused yet slightly embarrassed by being caught, still, it's like he doesn’t mind it at all. like he thinks you’re cute for staring.
you rip your eyes away from the majestic looking boy and grab your bag tight.
you don’t look back at him, because you know you don't need to.
a guy like that stays engraved in your head for at least a week.
~
a few hours later, beta theta phi.
the house is weirdly quiet, everyone’s either in class, at the gym, or passed out somewhere upstairs.
the sun still burns hot as it squeezes its way through the blinds onto the leather couch choso's lounging in.
he’s got his legs spread and his boots planted flat on the floor, a thick stack of bills resting on his thigh. he counts slowly, he likes the feel of the paper, the weight of it, the reassurance that it’s all still there.
a cigarette sits loosely between his two fingers with white smoke floating upward as he exhales through his nose.
beta theta phi isn’t flashy by any means. the house isn’t huge or pristine, and to be honest, no one’s tryna pretend it is. it’s solid, very old money mixed with modern features. heavy, trusty furniture, scuffed floors, various trophies shoved onto wooden shelves without much care. it was a spot where loyalty mattered much more than appearance.
choso slots perfectly into this frat, like it was built from the ground up just for him.
he flicks through the last of the bills, taps the stack against his leg to even it out, then slips the money into a thick envelope. it joins two others already sitting on the coffee table. today was good. but when it came to choso, today was always good.
his brain start to wander, his mind flashing images of you this morning, your face all blushy and shy. he knows he only saw you for a few seconds, but he thought you were really cute.
he's knocked out of the day dream when the front door swings open and two rowdy brothers pour inside.
toji’s big booming voice wafts through the halls first, talking shit about something dumb with sukuna, who follows close behind. they've both got a towel draped over their shoulder, hair damp from the gym. they smell like sweat and cheap soap, muscles still tight from whatever they’d just put themselves through.
“yo,” toji says, spotting choso. “look at this guy. always sittin’ here so pretty.”
choso glances up, a corner of his mouth lifting. “yeah? ladies like pretty boys, js' look at gojo.”
"ain't that the truth, that guys drownin' in pussy." sukuna laughs.
they drop onto the couch beside him, the cushions dipping under their massive weight. sukuna reaches out, clasping choso’s hand in a quick dap. toji copies.
sukuna leans back, stretching his arms over the back of the couch. “you look relaxed.”
“that’s because i am,” choso replies, taking another drag before tapping ash into an empty can. “money’s good today.”
toji snorts. “when's it not?”
choso’s smile deepens, “that's true.”
toji eyes the envelopes on the table. “what’d you clear?”
“enough,” choso says easily. he doesn’t give numbers unless he feels like it. most of the time, he doesn’t.
sukuna whistles low anyway. “campus still eatin’ outta your hand, huh?” that gets a quiet chuckle out of him. “pretty much.”
it isn’t bragging, of course. choso was humble like that, it’s just fact.
everyone knows him. not in that loud, showy, gojo way, but in the way that keeps his name out of problems and his product moving cleanly throughout everyone's pockets. he doesn’t advertise his stuff, and he definitely doesn’t chase clients. people come to him because they trust him, because he never cuts corners, never shorts anyone, never brings problems back to his frat, to his brothers.
most of the frats on campus run through him. beta theta phi, obviously. but sigma chi too. alpha delta, kappa nu, even a few of the smaller houses that pretend they don’t need a plug until friday hits and everyone’s scrambling for grass no one bothered to get.
he keeps it all so organised and respectful, that’s why no one fucks with him.
he’s made more money than most people their age could even imagine. stacks on stacks tucked away, accounts spread out across multiple banks, investments already working for him while he lounges on a couch counting cash. he could’ve left school ages ago, perhaps disappeared to some holiday country and never looked back,
but he didn’t.
college is just so easy. it's nice and predictable, a cover as much as it is a choice. and beta theta phi gave him brothers who don’t ask questions they don’t need the answers to. he really liked that.
sukuna shifts, rolling his shoulders. “oh, speaking of sigma chi.”
choso glances at him. “hm?”
“they’re throwin’ some function this weekend,” sukuna says. “gojo was runnin’ his mouth in the locker room earlier. said we could all get free entry if you supply some dope.”
toji laughs. “classic.”
choso exhales smoke, considering it for half a second. “yeah. that’s fine.”
sukuna raises a brow. “that easy?”
“why not,” choso shrugs. “i can afford to lose a little.”
sukuna smiles. "it's a glow party, that rave kinda thing we never do because it gets too messy. so, gojo also wanted some molly, said he'd pay for that tho."
"done."
toji grins and leans over, clapping him on the back hard enough to jostle the envelopes. “fuckin’ legend.”
“seriously,” sukuna adds, nodding. “you’re so good to us.”
choso waves it off, already flicking ash again. “what can i say? i love you guys.”
toji lets out a loud laugh, leaning back so far the couch creaks under him. “listen to this guy.” he mocks, throwing his head back.
sukuna snorts, shaking his head. “shut up, toji. y' just mad he's not as emotionally immature as you are. love you too, cho."
choso rolls his eyes.
toji stretches, arms over his head, muscles pulling tight beneath his skin. “anyways, we’re grabbing food. you wanna tag along? i'll pay.”
choso opens his mouth to answer, then pauses. somethings been nagging at him, hell, might as well pick at these meat heads brains.
“hey,” he says instead.
they both look at him.
“you guys ever hear of a girl,” he starts to explain as his eyes float towards the window, “she's an art major, i think. always got a bag full of paints or something. looks like she wandered onto campus by accident.”
toji squints. “that’s… vague.”
sukuna tilts his head, thinking. “art major, huh?”
“yeah,” choso says. “real pretty, doesn’t look like she knows how hot she is.”
there’s a hum that comes from sukuna, then he snaps his fingers. “oh. her.”
choso’s attention sharpens up. “yeah?”
“[name],” sukuna says. “she’s always around sigma chi stuff. parties, events, whatever. went to high school with gojo and his friends, i’m pretty sure.”
toji nods. “yeah, i know who you mean. really nice girl.”
choso hums quietly, absorbing it. “friends with gojo,” he repeats.
“yeah, pretty much family, from what i hear,” sukuna shrugs. “why?”
toji eyes him for a second longer, like he wants to push, then grins instead. “sure you are.”
they head for the door, laughter trailing behind them as it swings shut.
the house falls quiet again.
choso leans back into the couch, staring at the dangling light, the name turning over in his head.
“[name], huh?”
~
sigma chi looks like a cyberpunk futuristic fantasy with the amount of glowing neon paint smeared across everyone's bodies.
big blacklights are bolted into every corner of the room, splashing the walls and dancing bodies in radioactive colours.
paint splatters glow like constellations across bare arms and collarbones and the heavy hitting music penetrates every ear drum.
you’re stationed in the kitchen wearing a pretty, tight dress you almost didn't wear. it hugs you perfectly, so short gojo whistled when he saw you earlier. small lines of neon paint streak horizontally across your cheeks, you hadn’t planned on doing your makeup like this but of course, shoko insisted. her steady hand painted you up while you both giggled and tried to stay still.
right now, you’re posted up in the kitchen with her and that white haired idiot, plastic cups full of jungle juice sweating in your hands. it looks scarily neon aswell, which sorta freaks you out.
“this shit is gonna kill me,” shoko mutters, taking another sip anyway.
gojo laughs, throwing an arm over your shoulders and leaning his weight into you like he always does. “you say that every time.”
“because every time i’m right.”
you smile leaning into gojo. he trys to whisper something flirty in your ear but you shove his face away with a scoff and he fake pouts.
shoko nudges aaid with her elbow. “you got any molly?”
he grimaces. “not on me.”
you glance at him, curious. “but you said-”
“relax,” he grins. “choso’s bringing some.”
you blink. “who?”
they both look at eachother, then at you. "you don't know choso?" they say jointly.
before either of them can answer any further, scuffling near the doorway catches your eye.
your breath gets all hault up in your lungs, because its him.
the guy from earlier this week. he's tall even among the crowd of athletes, his black clothes look beautifully fitting for his vibe. neon paint traces a line across his nose, glowing exactly where that tattoo you'd seen had been. his eyebrow and nose piercings have been swapped out for neon pink rings that glow vibrantly in the backlight.
he looks so perfect it's almost nauseating.
he stalks straight up to gojo, and without a proper greeting, he throws an arm around his neck, pulling him in close like they’ve done this a bajillion times.
“took you long enough,” gojo laughs, slapping a hand against choso's chest.
the guy grins nice and wide, then shoves a bag full of weed into gojo’s arms like it’s nothing more than candy. “don’t get greedy.”
“you’re actually the best,” gojo beams.
shoko leans in close to you, whispering, “that’s choso.”
oh.
choso laughs with gojo shaking his pretty head, then reaches into his pocket again. this time, he pulls out a small baggie with five pink pills gleaming.
from beside you, shoko makes a tiny, triumphant sound. “yes!"
gojo fishes out cash and hands over four fifty dollar notes without counting. choso takes them, counts them, then stops for a sec. he plucks one back and presses it into gojo’s chest with a wink.
“hundred fifty,” he says. “consider it a favor.”
gojo looks like christmas came early. “i fucking love you.”
“yeah, yeah,” choso laughs.
they bump shoulders, laugh together for a few minutes, then step apart. gojo claps him on the arm. “enjoy the party, man.”
“always do.”
choso turns to leave, but then he stops.
because his dark, now completely blown out eyes catch on you.
you're fully exposed in your staring. for a small moment of time, he freezes still. like he didn’t expect to see you here, like the room had dropped out from under him.
then he laughs. awkward and quiet, scratching at the back of his neck.
you smile back shyly, it’s adorably small, but hell, it wacks him in the head like a brick.
he straightens a little, smile turning nervous in a way that doesn’t match his size or his nonchalant reputation. he looks like he’s about to say something. like he’s weighing his options, deciding if he should come over, if this is his moment.
you tilt your head, waiting for something to come of this, then,
“choso!” someone yells from across the room.
a guy with short dark hair and a pedo stache named shiu, a man you'd seen before hanging around toji.
choso glances back at you. then at shiu.
“c'mon, kamo!” shiu calls again, much louder this time.
choso exhales, running a hand through his hair. he gives you one last look and it's apologetic, almost regretful.
then he turns and disappears into the crowd.
you're a little confused, and sigh.
gojo sidles back up beside you, following your gaze. “damn.”
“what?” you ask.
he grins. “if i was gay, choso’s the first guy i'd crack.”
shoko rolls her eyes "if?"
~
some old zara larsson song keeps bumping over the speakers whether you’re into it or not, so you decide you might as well be in it.
you drain the rest of your cup and let shoko drag you back toward the living room where everyone's bodies are slotted together, neon paint streaking across skin every time someone brushes past. someone hands you another drink without asking and you take it, laughing when shoko raises her brows at you.
“c'mon girl, pace yourself,” she says.
“i amm,” you lie, sipping away.
you try to dance like usual, your hips moving with the beat, shoulders loose, smiling at people you barely know. a few guys spin you as some freshman's yelling over a group of girls, and someone else bumps into you and apologises with a drunken smile. it’s fun. it’s loud. it’s everything a party should be.
and still, your head just won't stop obsessive over that guy, over 'choso'.
you begrudgingly catch yourself scanning the room between songs, between laughs, between drinks.
it’s stupid! you don’t know him. you don’t know his major, his year, his anything.
you shake your head and take another drink.
then, just as you're about to flop into whatever leather couch is closest and contemplate your enter existence, big, firm hands snake around your waist.
you lean back into the man you know is behind you without second guessing yourself.
“there you are,” he murmurs near your ear.
you turn your head just enough to catch his pretty grin. “i've been here for ages, suguru.”
“yeah?” he says. “could’ve fooled me.”
his body pressed up against you flush as he grinds his hips into yours, his mouth kissing at your neck.
he wraps his forearms around your chest as you sway with the music. "you look so fucking good,” he adds, eyes dragging over you. “that dress is just... wow.” he grabs your ass briefly before laughing as you smack his hand away.
you laugh, tipping your head back against his shoulder. “you’re drunk.”
“a little,” he admits, then dips his head to your neck again.
you dance together, two bodies screaming sex appeal as others point and grin at your fluidity.
he murmurs your name into your neck, his perfectly straight teeth nipping at your skin again, and you forget about the neon paint and the blacklight, along with the mysterious man that had that soft smile.
you’re here now, with suguru.
after awhile of sex heavy music, it changes over to something geto doesn't like, so with one kiss to the bottom of your ear, he whispers, "come on, let’s go mingle a bit.” then pulls you over to your friends with an arm
“oh look, they're not upstairs yet,” gojo calls when he sees you. “thought you ditched us.”
geto just smirks, squeezing your side. “wouldn’t dream of it.”
yuki raises a brow, eyes flicking between the two of you. “you guys look cozy.”
“don’t we always?” you say lightly.
sukuna watches the two of you draw closer, and his mind drifts off to what choso had asked him the other day. he studies you for a second longer than necessary, his eyes sharp even through the fog of the party. then he straightens, arms crossing over his chest.
“so,” he says, blunt as ever. “are you two dating or what?”
oh, okay.
you feel choked up at his bluntness, caught off guard. before you can answer, you feel geto’s arm drop from around your waist.
he steps half a foot away.
“nah,” he says quickly, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “we’re just hooking up right now.”
just..
there’s a weird, awkward silence. gojo clears his throat. yuki looks away and sukuna sucks his lips in trying not to laugh, like he's noticed how bad that question was.
“right,” you say, forcing a smile. “yeah.”
geto doesn’t even spare you a glance.
yeah, this is too much. you were never good in awkward situations.
“i’m gonna go see what shoko's up to.”
you weren't going to see shoko, but you still step away, desperately needing some fresh air.
you push through the back door and onto the porch, whatever screeching drill music you'd assumed yuji put on fading behind you.
as you clicked the door shut, you swivel around and notice that you're not the only one on this porch.
the guy you'd learnt to be choso, leans against the metal railing just a few feet away, a burning blunt between his ringed fingers.
the glow from inside spills across his back, outlining him in soft purple light.
crap.
he hasn’t noticed you yet, you consider retreating, stepping back inside and pretending you didn’t see him. but, as you step back, your heel clips a large pot plant.
it rattles in its plant tray creating a ruckus.
“shit,” you hiss.
choso looks over his shoulder.
for a second, he seems surprised. then his mouth curves into a small, crooked smile.
“stalkin’ me now, hm?” he says teasingly.
gosh, how utterly pathetic could this night get.
"no- no! i was just- getting some air and i didn't know you were-"
you're cut off by his fond laugh, he's staring at your with half squinted eyes.
"don't worry, it's all good. m' only teasing."
his voice...
you hesitate, then breathe out a relived laugh with him. "i'll leave you to it then, m' sorry."
but before you can step back again, he chokes out a, "no, no. you should stay." it comes out louder than he'd planned, and you can tell by the way his next sentence comes much softer. "i don't mind company, y'know?" he rubs at his neck almost shyly.
laughing lightly at that, you slide into the spot next to him and grip the railing, your shoulder brushing against his.
he turns his body so he's facing you, then, holds out his veiny hand for you to grab. "choso, it's nice to finally meet you." he waits.
you humor him and let your smaller hand slip into his. "[name], it's nice to meet you too."
unexpectedly, he brings your hand up to his lips, looking you in the eye as he presses his lips to your delicate knuckles.
"pretty name for a pretty girl."
then he reaches up and brushes a loose strand of hair away from your cheek with the back of his fingers.
he's intoxicating. he's somehow so flirty while looking so shy. you wanna dissapear with him, something about the man was screaming at you to take him by the belt and let him take care of the rest.
but you know better. you really do.
this is choso. and sure, you'd only really become aware of him this past week, but he couldn't be good news. he was the campus plug, a guy with a reputation that trails behind him like smoke wherever he went. bad news wrapped in real good looks and his adorably shy chivalry. you shouldn’t barter into this, you really shouldn’t smile like you were as he smiled back, shouldn’t feel this pull towards him.
and yet, you let him wrap his pointer finger around yours as he stood leaning against the rail, keeping it there as he blew smoke into the sky.
"already so touchy? we just met, y'know." you quiz with a blushed out smile, wriggling the finger he has trapped on his own like a link.
"yeah," he turns to face you again, "but i already know i fuck with you. i like moving at a pace that feels right."
"and this 'feels right?'" you laugh.
"the right-est."
"huh." you reply, like it was a small yet significant revelation. you wriggle your finger again, but this time it's to hold his tighter, earning a smile from him.
"hope you don't have a boyfriend." he asks, looking down at you slyly.
"it's... complicated."
"so no, sweet."
"i-" he taps a finger to your lip.
"if you had a good man taking care of you, that answer wouldn't have any of that wishy washy bullshit. you don’t have a boyfriend, let's leave it at that."
"yes sir." you joke, and his pants tighten a lil.
somehow, you feel like you'd known this guy you only properly met ten minutes ago since freshman year, no, screw that, since grade school. he was conversing with you like how one might talk to their long term on again off again. it was captivating yet also terrifying.
he inches closer to you, "i wanna get to know you, [name], should stay out here for a while, hm?"
you nod, and that was that, you end up talking to him for hours.
“i’m kinda surprised i haven’t seen you around more. you’d think i would’ve noticed a guy like you.” you say halfway through your little moment. he lets out a soft laugh, glancing back toward the party through the glass door. “a guy like my? huh? yeah, nah. i don’t come to these much.”
“really?” you tilt your head. “but you and gojo seem close.”
“we hang out heaps,” he nods. “just not here. sigma chi gets too messy n' it's not really my scene.”
you hum in agreement. “fair.”
“what about you?” he asks. “you always here?”
“more than i should be,” you admit. “occupational hazard.”
that gets a grin out of him. “oh, so you work?”
"yeah, i work at a-" you're cut off,
"a bar?"
you blink. “how’d you know?”
he shrugs. “you’ve got the look.”
you laugh. “and what look is that?”
“like you can handle drunk guys without losing your mind.”
“barely,” you whisper under your breath. “i work at the sway bar, it's just off campus.”
“hm,” his brows lift. “might have to stop by sometime.”
you look up at him smiling. “i’d really like that.”
“what frat are you in?” you ask him next, and you grin at the way his face lights up.
"beta theta phi, with sukuna and toji, y'know them?"
“ahhh i see,” you smile. “yeah, i know them. i can totally see that.”
“see what?” he asks amused.
“you sorta just, match their vibe? i guess?”
he leans over to you, then, in a smooth motion he's bracing one arm on the railing behind you so your back would touch his chest if you leaned back. “and what vibe’s that exactly?”
you get choked up for a sec before grinning. “like, dark. kinda edgy.”
he lets go of a breathy laugh. “yeah? you into that? dark n’ edgy?”
your face blushes pink as you nod. “yeah, kinda.”
that seems to please him, because his smile is satisfied and content.
as you're talking about everything and nothing simultaneously, you slowly start to realise you haven’t thought about suguru once. not about how shitty he'd made you feel or the way he would probably be expecting you back inside and in his bed right about now.
your world has narrowed completely, honing in on the man beside you.
"i think you're really cool, [name]." he says from his spot behind you, his chest now fully hugging into your back as his arms have migrated from the pole to your waist. for some reason, where this would usually feel weird, too fast or sexual with most other men, it felt causal with him. like, instead of a rapey gesture meant to swoon you into bed, it was an action that felt so natural and grounding. you were definitely leaning into him.
"i'd hope so, you're kinda hugging me like we're a thing right now."
"would you be into that?" he speaks into your ear, his chin now pushing into the crook of your neck from behind.
"into what? us being a thing?"
"lowkey."
wow, you went from chasing a guy who would turn down being 'a thing' at every turn, to a man far more endearing suggesting it like it was an obvious want.
still, you had to be at least half cautious. "maybe."
he laughs at that, then lets his arms turn you around to face him.
"i'd love to take you out, ma. you're real funny, real sweet. my kinda girl, i can't lie to you."
this almost seems too good to be true. sure, a lotta guys ask you out, but none of them give off the same kinda vibe as choso. "y'sure you're not just saying that to sleep with me? you don’t have to go through all that hassle, you know, we can just-"
"no." he cuts you off, looking you deep in your eye. "i don't want that. i really do wanna see where this goes, okay? have ever since i saw you walking t' class on monday."
that makes you still, because he'd been thinking about you as much as you'd been thinking about him, from one little smile. if this wasn't some fated lovers arrangement then you didn't know what was.
you took in a soft breath before smiling, "sure, you can take me out."
you feel him smile against your skin, then he pulls away and you mourn the loss of body heat.
"perfect." he says, pulling out his phone, giving it to you gently. "if you really want this, put in your number. if you don’t , just spam the keypad and i'll figure it out later that you're not into me. no awkward shit."
he was perfect, god, he was perfect.
you grin and take it from him, putting your phone number in instantly under the name, [name] 💘.
~
he'd kept his promise.
around two days later, you'd had a shift at the bar from afternoon til late. you'd been working for around three hours when the door to the small, yet cozy establishment swings open, revealing a very well dressed choso.
he had a nice shirt and jeans that looked classier than the one he wore to the party, and fitting jewellery littering his every body part. he was a little overdressed for this dingy dive bar setting, but the low lighting complimented his aesthetic perfectly.
he greets the girl at the door kindly, before stalking up to the bar in which you stood behind. he smiles gently as he spots you.
"you really came, that's cute." you smile, wiping up a wet glass with a tea towel.
he takes a once over of your attire and smirks to himself before sliding into the stool, still somehow towering over you despite being sat. "i keep my promises, sweetheart. couldn't turn down seeing you looking this fine in you're little uniform."
that makes you blush a pretty pink, earning a soft chuckle from him as he scans the rack of bottles behind you. choso rarely drank heavy, but when he was in the mood, he'd always preferred the more expensive liquor.
"you guys have any jonny walker? the blue label?" he asks, trying his own hand at spotting the scotch on the rack.
"just ran out, the next one up from that would be some pappy bourbon, but you're looking at $120 a pour." you don't expect him to chose your most expensive bottle, the one only really old timers reach for, so you're preparing to grab for a bottle of beer in the fridge behind you.
"cool, i'll have that then." you almost choke.
"you uhm.. you sure?" you ask, incase this was some joke and you were gonna make a fool of yourself reaching for the top shelf for nothing.
"positive, hun." he smiles back.
you nod, then grab the step stool and reach for the golden liquor.
you pour it up and slide it over. he thanks you sweetly and takes a sip, nodding to himself like this was a good investment. as he drinks, you notice a silver ball of metal shooting through his tongue, a piercing there as well? imagine all the things he could do with that...
unaware of your less than appropriate internal thoughts, he folds a few fifties up and slips it into the chest pocket of your apron. "good recommendation, honey." these pet names were getting more and more bold, not that you minded.
"you're so welcome." you wink, earning an upwards twitch of his eyebrow in appreciation.
he's sitting in the spot many a men had before, all flirting and trying their luck with you. but with choso there, you felt engaged, you actually wanted to talk to him not just laugh and nod along like you cared for his useless conversation.
you quickly cashed in his money, he'd given you $200 so you pulled out his change, handing it out for him to take.
"no, no. that's your tip, pretty girl." he smiles, imitating your wink.
you're dumbfounded. "an $80 tip? we don’t- you don’t- tipping isn't even a thing here! please, take this back, i seriously can't take it, i-" he cuts you off with a wave of his hand.
"shh, you're such a sweet tender, you deserve a little get back."
he watches you fluster and fumble with the change like it’s the best thing he’s seen all night.
“hey,” choso says easily, leaning his forearms on the bar. “i promise i won’t miss it.”
you glance up at him, brows pinched. “that’s still a lot of money.”
“it’s not,” he replies, gentle yet firm. “and even if it was, i wanted to.”
you hesitate, then sigh, slipping the bills back into your apron like you’re conceding a battle you were never gonna win anyways. he smiles at that, pleased, like he enjoys when you finally let him do things for you.
“thank you,” you say quietly.
“anytime,” he answers. “that’s what i’m here for.”
he stays right there for the rest of the night,
he doesn’t drift off and he doesn’t get pulled into a loud conversation with anyone else.
he orders a few non alcoholic drink because he needs to drive. but the thing captivating his attention the most is you. his body stays angled toward you like it’s the most natural place for him to be.
you keep working, of course. wiping down glasses, taking orders, sliding beers down the bar. but every time you glance back at him, he’s already looking at you.
you’re aware of him the whole time. the way his eyes follow your body everywhere, the way he straightens when you come back, like he can’t help it.
he pulls out every conversational skill he'd ever learnt from collage and puts them all to work, trying his hardest to swoon you as best he can. he compliments you over and over, tells you you're such a good worker, slips tenners in your left pocket when you're distracted. he watches you exist like you were the most incredible, hard working being on earth, because to him? you were.
he talks to you when it gets quiet, he has you toppled over belly laughing at one point from across the bar as he tells you stories of his geeky high school days, or ones where his runs didn't go exactly as planned.
god, you’re hot.
that’s the thought looping in his head, over and over again until his cock feels a little too snug in his pants.
the apron. the way it sits so tightly around your waist. the way you lean forward when you laugh and the neckline of your top dips down to reveal your pretty cleavage. the way your hands move with such confidence even when the bar’s loud and messy. he’s seen a lot of girls. slept with some on occasion, none of them felt or looked like this. like you.
it’s annoying, honestly. quite distracting. he finds himself wondering what you smell like up close. would you smell differently to what you smelt like at the party? if it was just the two of you at the bar, would you speak to him soft and sultry like he'd imagined in his recent day dreams? everything about you allured him to such an agonising standard, he felt like grabbing you from behind the bar and driving you back to his off campus place, wrapping you up in his sheets and keeping you to himself, forever.
so we're weird stalkers now choso? perfect. he shook his head at the intrusive thought.
"you okay, choso?" you ask, suddenly right infront of him, pulling him from his you obsessed thoughts. "ah, yeah, y'know. just day dreaming' about my pretty little bar tender friend."
"oh, we're friends now?" you quiz, smirking at him, he laughs and rests his cheek in his palm. "oh, i wanna be much more than that, baby."
you know he said he wanted to see where this went, but fuck, you wanted him all up in you right now..
hours pass by quickly, just like that.
the flirty conversation flows so easily. you talk about different music, about how shit the school's schedule is. about dumb campus drama (mostly revolving around gojo, surprise surprise.) he tells you stories about sukuna and toji without saying too much, painting them as loud but loyal, which you can picture.
you catch yourself laughing more than usual. leaning close to him when he talks. forgetting to check the time.
once, though fleetingly, suguru crosses your mind. he’d texted earlier asking what time you finished, he’d probably expect you to come over after. you hadn't replied yet, wanting to make the decision of whether or not he deserved you later on. choso's little visit was really letting you know you made the right decision, because right now, there’s only him. his sexy, deep voice, his expression that never diped into that bored look you'd sometimes see on suguru, the way he was talking to you like anything you said was worth acutely listening to.
“you ever think about gettin’ outta here?” he asks eventually, gesturing vaguely around the bar.
“all the time,” you admit. “but it’s temporary. just until i finish my degree.”
“oh, shit yeah. you do art, right?”
“yes sir.”
his eyes light up. “that's sick, y'should show me.”
you breath out a laugh. “show you what?"
“your art,” he says. “you talk about it like it’s your whole world.”
it kind of is.
you’re about to answer when you both glance up at the clock mounted above the liquor shelf.
12:18.
you groan softly. “shit.”
he checks his phone. “damn. i’ve been here f' ages.”
“same,” you laugh. “i gotta close up soon.”
he stays and helps you clean up as best he can, then walks you out if the bar like the gentleman he is. you both begin your walk down the street where his car’s parked right by the curb, and your bus stop sits a little further down.
“you bussin’ it home?” he asks, surprised.
“yeah,” you shrug. “car’s not really in the budget.”
he nods, like he has to remind himself of that reality. not everyone lives lavishly off of drug money like he does.
you pull out your phone, opening the travel app, but choso notices how your pretty face falls.
“what's the matter?” he asks.
“all the buses are delayed,” you sigh. “road closures.”
you start to type something out, probably to see how long the delay is, when his hand grabs around your wrist.
it's not demanding or tight, no, it's like he's softly taking control.
“i’ll drive you,” he says.
“oh, wow, no! you've already done so much for me tonight, choso. you don’t have to,” you start. “i can walk, it’s not that far.”
he shakes his head. “no. get in the car.”
and you did, you let him open the door and usher you in, then say through his admittedly good playlist as the gps told him where to go. he was really pulling out all the cards, and it was making you hotter and hotter with each passing moment.
as you approached your apartment, you began getting antsy. you didn't want him to just drop you off and leave. you wanted him inside, both you and your apartment.
"here you go, sweets. safe and sound." he smiles, the door open as he stands outside his car letting you out.
“hey,” you say, looking up at him now that you're standing.
he looks at you attentively, like he too is expecting you to say something.
“do you wanna…” you trail off, letting your eyes do the rest of the sentence, falling over his chest, his arms, his hips.. “come inside for a bit?”
it's so utterly suggestive without you saying 'i wanna fuck' outright, and he seems to click on pretty fast.
he knows he told you at that party he wanted to see how things played out, preferably take you on a date before he even thought about fucking you, but shit, if you weren't looking at him with the widest, most eager eyes.
“yeah,” he says after copying you, looking at your body up and down. “i’d like that.”
he grins at the way you look away shyly.
he follows you up the steep steps, trying while heartedly not to stare straight at your ass. your apartment door clicks open, and you step aside to let him in.
the space is dark except for a lamp you flick on near the window.
choso stops dead in his tracks.
your apartments like an art critics wet dream. his eyes move rapidly over the hundreds of different works, some unfinished and some looking old. theres large canvases leaning up against every wall, pottery and clay dust on the coffee table, sketches and watercolored studies taped up wherever there was free space. the place feels so lived in, messy in a beautifully creative way, so full of you.
“holy shit,” he murmurs.
you smile, suddenly very shy at the fact you should've cleaned up abit. “it’s... uh, a lot."
“nah,” he says, stepping further in. “it’s sick."
he walks around carefully, he’s afraid to bump into something important to you. leans in close to a large canvas, squinting a little as he studies it.
“you like, actually made this?” he asks.
“sure did.”
he lets out a quiet incredulous laugh. “why the hell are you not, like, famous or some shit.”
you feel your tummy grow hotter at his praise. “i wish that was how it worked.”
“i’m serious,” he insists. “this is crazy good. like gallery typa shit.”
the way he says it, so sure, so utterly unfiltered, makes your legs feel weak and nimble, suguru rarely commented this much on your work. you hadn’t realised how much you wanted to hear that from someone until now.
he keeps going, pointing things out, asking questions, swearing under his breath when something 'really epic and cool' as he likes to put it, catches his eye.
“this one’s my favorite,” he says, gesturing to a piece tucked half behind the couch, it was a distorted portrait reminiscent of francis bacon. “it’s got an allure.”
you laugh. “you should have it.”
he whips his head over to you in the dim light, and raises his eyes like he's surprised. "really? you'd just give it away? it's so good, i mean-"
"not without compensation, of course." you tease, and you have to quickly grab his hand as he reaches into his pocket to grab for the wad of cash you know is in there.
"what are you-"
"not with money, choso..." you blink up at him feigning innocence, and the switch up from surprise to want is unfathomably quick.
you take his hand from its place in his pocket, and bring it up to cup your face, he follows suit and uses the other to pull your hips against his own.
"well, aren't you a little tease. i wanted to take you out first, y'know?"
"yeah? gonna deny me?" you poke, and the look of pure lust in his eyes tells you before he does,
"wouldn't dream of it." and he's on you, pulling you so close as his mouth works against yours feverishly, pulling surprised moans from your throat at how thorough he's being.
with a breathy sigh into the heated kiss, choso's hands pat their way down to the flesh of your ass, and knead at the fat in such an intoxicating way, it makes your skin bloom with goose bumps.
he's pushing his tongue into your mouth, the ball of metal pierced through his muscle clinking against your teeth as he explores you, your own tongue fighting back and forth for dominance.
you get the cue, the demand in his body language, the way he's growing desperate with each flick of tongue and grab of your ass.
you pull away with a click and push your forehead against his. "w-we should go to my room. now."
he smiles, his flushed cheeks turning upwards. you grab for his hand and guide him to your bedroom, pushing the door open quickly and pulling him inside.
he reconnects his lips to yours instantly, you reply by pulling at his fancy shirt, pawing at the collar until the first few buttons are loose.
he too starts tearing at your clothes, pulling the string of your apron loose, letting it fall to the floor, he makes sure the cash he'd slipped in earlier was still safe in the pockets before nudging it away to the side.
you wrangle is shirt off through messy kisses, and he's got yours unbuttoned to the hem.
"fuck, you're pretty." he sighs, pulling away to take in every inch of exposed abdomen and cleavage.
you smirk, then sit back slowly on the bed. he watches keenly, his pants becoming unbearably uncomfortable as you look at him with that lustful gaze.
you un-clip your bra letting it fall to the side to reveal your tits, and he drops to his knees at the foot of the bed in awe.
"jesus..." he almost chokes, his hands grabbing for the button of your work pants. he slips them off, eyes still fixated on the way you grab and knead at your boobs, the urge to wrestle you back onto the bed and fuck you stupid was becoming all but too much, but he had to restrain, opting to sweet talk you a bit before diving in.
"such pretty tits, baby. y'mind if i touch?" he borderline whines.
your wicked smile eggs him on, and he leans forward, taking the soft flesh into his hands.
you smile as he groans, then dip your hand down to his own belt buckle to help his cock spring free.
moaning as you do so, choso flushes a pretty red as his member slaps his lower abs, becoming shy at the fact you were staring so wide eyed at it.
did it look weird? was he not hard enough? fuck, he felt it. then again, he didn't have sex as often as anyone would assume.
his worries are stomped out when you cover your mouth with your hand, "that... that's fucking massive." you breath airily.
okay, good. that was good.
he smirks and stand up, shoving his pants the rest of the way down. in one smooth motion, he has you pushed down against the bed, your legs spread wide open, you let go of a trapped moan at the sudden manoeuvre.
he's inbetween your thighs in seconds, his face inches away from your pantie clad pussy.
"wanna taste you, baby, s' that okay?" he asks, panting heavily like this was the single most important question he'd ever ask. he takes note of how you nod so eagerly, hooking a finger into the waist band of your panties and pulling them off.
"all yours." you slur, and he wastes no time pressing that beautiful ball of pierced metal right up against your clit. all your fantasies were coming true, it seemed.
he laps at your folds, his mouth working magic on your needy hole. every moan that falls from your plush lips has him hitting that pleasure spot with a faster, more precise motion, trying his best to draw out those sexy little whimpers.
"good fucking girl, you're doing so well." he mumbles into the wetness, the vibration from his tone racking through your core.
"f-fuck! choso— i— i can't!" tears are welling up in your eyes at his unforgiving pace, his eyes clouding over with pleasure as he looks at you from down below.
"just focus, baby, come f'me, yeah? can you do that?" you reply with broken whines and choked up moans, your hands fisting into his hair as your hips grind up against his mouth.
you feel your peak building, growing and tightening so fast you clamp your thighs shut around his head.
he doesn't care that he can't breath, doesn't mind that his only purpose to you right now is to feel good, he want that, needs that.
he flicks at your clit in agonising little circles until you finally come undone all over his pretty, fucked out face.
he moans with you, kissing at your clit as you come down, slowing his pace as your breaths ease from rapid to regular.
"jesus, you uhm.. you really know how to eat a girl out." you breath shyly, hiding your face in the crook of your elbow as he moves up onto the bed, laying down next you with one arm propping up his head.
"you come so prettily, sweet thing. want me t' make you feel like that again?" he smiles, and that coil in your tummy you swear was gone had suddenly re-knotted.
"i- uh..." you're too shy to ask, but it's all you want, and he can tell.
"can i fuck you silly, pretty thing? would you like that?" he asks softly, his hands running up and down your naked, sweaty body.
he takes your arm away from your arms, then rolls over so he's pinning them down as his body hovers above yours.
"you like being told what to do, don't you? prefer being spoilt rather than taking the lead, hm?" he asks in a low tone. your eyes dart all around his face, a guilty sign that told him he was right on the money.
"perfect. just sit there and take me, honey. tell me if it's too much and i'll stop, moan loud if you want me to fuck you harder, m'kay?" he quizzes, your shyer eyes find his as you nod gently, "yes, please." you breath, and he goes right ahead.
his fingers slip into your sopping wet cunt and start to scissor you open, kissing the small gasps straight from your throat.
he rubs at your clit with his thumb, preparing you to take him in.
"y'think you can handle it, baby?" he pants, jerking at the base while his hands work you from the inside. you're bobbing your head up and down unevenly, a strangled yes juttering part your lips through noises of pleasure.
he removes his fingers with a wet pop, and lines himself up missionary with your dripping entrance, ready to slowly sink in until you're twitching with anticipation.
"relax honey, you can take it." and take it you did.
as his tip pushes past your hole with a deep groan from choso's lips, you bite down on your own at the sheer diameter. this was gonna be a stretch.
inch by tantalising inch, he's got you choking out jumbled praise and encouragement as your walls flutter deliciously around him.
"fuck, you're so tight, holy fuck–" he stammers as his tip finally presses against what he can assume is your cervix, based on how you're writhing beneath him.
"okay, baby. m' gonna —oh fuck— move."
you nod with your eyes squeezed shut and your hands gripping his biceps. "o-okay, cho."
that nickname makes him ten times harder, now he's bucking his hips deeper and deeper into your pussy with strangled groans. "keep callin' me that and i'll come right now—" he jokes through pants.
he continues abusing your puffy little hole, using you all up until you're a blabbering mess under this thumb.
"g'na— ohmygosh— i'm gonna come!" you cry, a tear slipping from your eye at the pleasure, choso leans down and kissses it away.
"c'mon honey, gimme one more, good girl, you can do it." he moans, picking up his
pumping pace.
you can't handel this any longer, he's dicking you down you so good, better than you'd ever felt before, you can't help but tighten up on his cock and spasm around it until he too is cumming straight into your cervix. bullseye.
you both go limp, your bones turning to mush after such intense sex.
yet, the second choso registers the way your body tenses, the way your breath sounds a little uneven from the discomfort of the sweat and other bodily fluid, he’s stood. he presses a little kiss to your shoulder first, then mutters something soft you barely catch before he slips out of bed.
“stay right there, baby,” he says, low and reassuring. “i got you.”
you hear drawers opening, the ensuite sink running. the quiet domestic sounds feel surreal after everything you'd just done with a guy you'd known for a week that somehow felt like years. when he comes back, he’s holding a damp cloth, warm from the tap. his expression has shifted completely, all that intensity replaced by a loving look of focus and care.
“okay,” he murmurs, sitting beside you. “gonna clean you up a bit, yeah?”
you nod, too loose to do much else.
he starts slowly with your legs, your stomach, your sides. he’s so incredibly careful, thorough without being clinical, like feeling clean and comfortable was his god given mission in this point in time. when he moves between your thighs, softly wiping through your sticky folds, you make a small whiney sound before you can stop yourself.
“hey,” he coos immediately, pausing. “s’okay. i know it’s sensitive.”
his voice is so gentle it almost hurts.
he keeps going, so much softer now while talking to you the whole time.
“you’re okay,” he murmurs. “i got you. just breathe for me.”
you whine quietly at the sensation, fingers curling into the sheets. he soothes you with words, with touch, like he knows exactly how close to the edge you still are.
“that’s it,” he says. “you’re doin’ so good. i know, i know. almost done.”
when he finishes up, he sets the cloth aside and immediately pulls you into him. you hadn’t actually realised how cold you felt until you’re pressed against his big chest, his massive arms wrapping around you without hesitation.
you tuck yourself into him snugly, like your body already knows where it belongs.
here, with him.
he rubs your back in slow passes, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. your cheek rests against his dipping collarbone, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
“there you go,” he murmurs. “isn't that better.”
you let out a long breath.
he keeps talking, his calming post-sex voice like a lullaby.
“you were incredible tonight,” he says. “so fuckin’ good. y'hear me?”
you hum softly, too warm and pliant to argue.
“nah,” he continues, brushing your hair back with his fingers. “i mean it. you made me feel real good. i'm real lucky.”
your heart squishes together fondly. you think, distantly, about how no one’s ever done this before. not like this. not with this much loving intention.
you'd thought that was the perfect word to describe this situation; loving.
hell, you weren't really used to living. geto never stayed like this. he never once touched you like you were something to be taken care of after sex. moreso like his friend who happened to be in his bed (which was what it was.)
the thought flickers, brings with it a small pinch of guilt that you don't notice choso clocking. you and geto had agreed to only sleep with eachother, that it would be good to only sleep with a single person... you push away the thought.
after all, right now, choso’s here. his warmth, his voice, his hands. you don't see how he scans over your guilty expression like a lost kid.
“hey,” he murmurs when you look up at him. “you okay?”
“yeah,” you whisper. “just… really comfy.”
he smiles against your hair. “good. that’s the goal.”
he's brushing his long fingers through your hair, tapping his knuckles to a beat against your back, anything to try and keep you fully here with him. he didn't like that look of guilt in your face from before.
“i hope this didn’t mess anything up,” he adds quietly. “with that date i was talkin’ about.”
you move your head just enough to look up at him. his eyes are searching your face for any sign of regret.
“it didn’t,” you say. “not even a little.”
relief flickers across his beautiful features. “good,” he says. “’cause i really wanna take you out. do it right.”
you smile, nose brushing his chest. “i’d like that.”
he exhales, long and content, then pulls you closer.
“get some sleep,” he smiles. “i’ll be right here.”
your eyelids grow heavy faster than you expect. the steady motions of his hand through your hair, the sound of his breathing, the way he holds you like this is exactly where you’re meant to be.
just before you drift off, you feel his lips press softly to the top of your head.
you fall asleep like that, wrapped up in all of him, all of choso.
~
a few days later, beta theta phi.
choso's sitting in the kitchen, picking at a plate of food with a small smile on his usually calm, bare face.
you were a constant in his brain ever since he'd gone home from your apartment with that painting he 'earned' after the best sex of his life. (said painting is now strung up on his wall.) he'd never stopped thinking about you since that night.
your adorable little moans, the way you melted into him as he fucked you so deep, the way your pretty fucked out body moulded against his afterwards.
you were like crack and he was a hardcore crack head, feining for more of your attention.
as he thinks about stalking your instagram for the fourth time that day to see what you're up to, footsteps stomp down the hallway, heavy ones.
toji accends the stairs shirtless with his hair still damp like he’s just come out of the shower. sukuna follows behind like always, a towel draped over his shoulder, rummaging through a bag of chips before he even hits the kitchen proper. showering at the same time? gay ass guys, choso thought to himself.
“what the fuck,” toji says, stopping just short of the island. "why you look like that.”
choso looks up, brow lifting. “like what?”
“happy,” sukuna answers around a mouthful of chips. “it's weird."
toji snorts. “yeah, that’s new.”
choso rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t fight the smile this time. he grabs his plate, forks a big bite then shrugs it off like it’s nothing. “can’t a guy enjoy his food?”
“nah,” toji says, pulling out a chair and sitting backwards on it. “not you.”
sukuna leans against the counter opposite him with his arms crossed. “what’d you do. make bank today?”
choso shakes his head, chewing. “nah.”
“big sale?”
“nope.”
toji squints. “you finally get your dick wet again or something?”
that does it, choso coughs, nearly choking, then glares at him. “the fuck is wrong with you.”
sukuna laughs. “so that’s a yes.”
“shut up,” choso says quickly, pointing his fork at toji. “and don’t start.”
toji grins wider. “that's gotta be it. you’ve been walking around like you won the lottery all day.”
choso sighs. "yes, i'm seeing a girl.”
toji stops and sukuna freezes in the middle of a reach for another chip.
“…wait, actually,” sukuna says flatly.
choso smiles at the two boys and continues. “met her at that blacklight party. she’s really cute. we talked for hours, i visited her work, and i drover her home. you don't get the rest, but i’m taking her out this weekend.”
toji stares at him like he’s grown another head. “you?”
“yes,” choso says. “me.”
“you don’t talk to women,” sukuna says slowly.
choso scowls. “i talk to women.”
“no you don’t,” toji cuts in. “business doesn’t count.”
choso opens his mouth, then closes it. fine. maybe that’s fair.
toji leans back, eyes narrowing in thought. then something clicks. his expression shifts. “wait.”
choso looks at him.
“is this,” toji says, pointing vaguely, “the art girl you were askin’ about the other week?”
sukuna tilts his head, casual. “she’s hookin’ up with geto right now.”
...wait... what?
choso goes dead still.
geto.
like, his friend geto?
the one who's always hanging around with him and gojo on tursdays? that geto?
the one he always calls when he needs help at the gym, that geto?
the guy who's one of his most regular buyers, that geto?
his mind latches onto the man instantly, and starts unraveling his entire being piece by agonising piece. he's tall, jacked as fuck, his hair's always smoothed and shiny to perfection, always tied back just right with no knots or bumps, he's got that sexy confident smile and endearing laugh that reels women in.
he's the kind of man who attracts literally anybody, hell, he'd heard even gojo had a thing for him in high school, gojo!
shit.
he thinks back to the porch. to the way you hesitated when he asked about a boyfriend. the way you said it was 'complicated' and how he’d brushed it off, convinced himself it was nothing serious. how he saw that flash of guilt spread across your face after you two had finished. how you’d smiled when he touched you, how easily you’d leaned into him like there wasn’t anyone else in your head at all.
geto.
holy fuck.
choso doesn’t say anything although the muscles in his neck were contracting with each clench of his teeth, eyes dropping to his plate like the answer’s written there. his appetite’s gone.
a week.
he’s been thinking about you for a week straight.
asking gojo questions about you when they hung out in class, 'm' just curious, man, she's a pretty girl.' leaving out the part where he was eight inches deep inside you just the other night. stalking every single one of your socials to the point he had your first few posts and username memorised.
and now this?
maybe that’s why gojo had looked at him funny. why he’d laughed a little too hard when choso asked if you were seeing anyone. maybe it wasn’t shock, god, maybe it was disbelief.
choso gulps.
toji watches him closely now. “that true?”
sukuna shrugs. “mhm, he told me at that same party you were talkin' bout'.”
...
“you good?” sukuna asks looking a little worried at the man's switch uo.
choso lifts his head up and that bare look finds its way back onto his face and sticks like a face hugger. “mhm.”
toji frowns. “you sure.”
“i’m sure,” choso says, setting his fork down. “it’s whatever.”
it isn’t. but he’s not about to unpack the, 'just found out the girl i'm lowkey falling head over heels in love with is also hooking up with my good friend,' pill right now.
he grabs his keys off the counter and reaches for his leather jacket. “got a few deliveries to run, see y'later."
sukuna opens his mouth because he really wants to say something else, then thinks better of it. toji just watches him go with sympathy laced through the coloured bands of his irises.
choso slips pre roll out of his pocket and lights it up, trying to rationalise all of this. he'd only met you around a week ago, it's not like you guys were a thing. sure, he'd fucked you better than he'd ever fucked anyone in his life, but he shouldn't be weird and insecure about this, he knows that. it's just, he's never really gone for this before. usually it was girls asking him out, of which he'd reject kindly because he was too busy doing anything else.
but with you, that random night out on the porch, it felt like there was a pull he couldn't just toss aside, he wanted you... and he thought he had you, especially after that intimate night.
geto’s on a come-when-you-can basis, might as well take care of that now and try ease up his racing thoughts. nothing like a good interrogation.
he flops down into his M2, engine turning over as his thoughts narrow to one thing, one task, he leaves suguru a voice message.
"yo, suguru, m' coming over."
~
choso kills the engine and sits there for a minute, his fingers resting on the steering wheel like grounding himself before stepping into situation he already knows he won’t enjoy.
he sighs, then steps outta the car, he’s halfway across the driveway when a happy, familiar voice cuts through the noise of the active fraternity, “yo.”
gojo’s jogging down the steps two at a time with his gym bag slung over one shoulder and his hair pushed back. he grins when he sees choso, big arms opening on instinct.
before choso can dodge it, gojo’s got him in a quick, bone-crushing hug.
gojo squints at him, like he’s clocking something off but hasn’t put his finger on it yet. “you headin’ to suguru’s?”
choso doesn’t slow down. “yeah.”
“uh,” gojo starts, glancing back at the stairs like he’s weighing whether to say something. “hey, maybe not the best time, think he's in the shower.”
but choso doesn't listen,
“cho,” gojo calls after him, louder now. “seriously, man, let's hang out first!"
choso doesn’t turn around. he takes the stairs with his heart climbing up into his throat with each step. by the time gojo gives up, he’s already at the top landing, moving down the hallway.
he stops in front of suguru’s door and knocks.
theres movement inside, the sound of water shutting off, then a drawer opening.
the door swings open.
suguru stands there in nothing but a towel hanging around his hips, his hair damp and loose around his shoulders, his skin still flushed from the heat of a shower. water beads along his collarbone and trails down the center of his chest. choso hated how good he looked.
his eyes fall all over sugurus body before he could stop it.
it’s dumb, after all, he’s seen suguru shirtless a hundred times. in locker rooms, during pool parties, it never mattered before, but now it does, because you’ve seen him like this. because you’ve touched this, because you've liked his annoyingly perfect body.
suguru notices choso's ogling and smirks, leaning one arm against the doorframe. “what,” he says lightly. “y’want a workout routine or somethin’?” choso forces a short laugh, “shut up.”
“mm,” suguru hums confused. he steps aside anyway, letting choso in.
suguru’s place is always so precise and neat. his beds always made, desk cleared, shoes lined up like they belong in a sneaker catalogue. it’s never bothered choso one way or another.
but today, he isn’t looking at any of that. his eyes move fast scanning without meaning to. the desk. the floor. the chair by the window. the bathroom door still cracked open, steam drifting out.
then the bedpost.
he spots a pop of pink fabric slung around the wood.. a pair of panties hangs loose around the corner of the frame, looking forgotten. they're pretty, they look your size, and they're unmistakably not suguru’s.
fuck.
suguru follows his line of sight, then sighs softly. “ah, ignore that. keep forgetting to deal with those.”
he reaches out and turns choso by the shoulder, forcing him to face him. suguru’s expression shifts, teasing gone, replaced with something more intent.
“what’s up with you,” he asks. “you’ve been actin’ weird as fuck, cho.”
choso gulps. for a second, he considers lying. saying nothin then walking out.
but he can't, so instead, he digs into his jacket and pulls out a small bag. he presses it into sugurus chest.
“four grams,” he says flatly.
suguru nods slowly, then looks down. “hm,” he mutters. “okay.”
he crosses the room, opens his dresser, and pulls out a few bills. counts them once, then twice, before handing them over.
“seventy-five,” he says. “we’re good?” choso takes it, nodding. “yeah.”
suguru studies him now, really studies him. “you didn’t come all the way over here just for that, normally we meet in the middle."
choso exhales through his nose. “i know.”
“so,” suguru prompts. “talk.” choso hesitates, he's not sure if he sounds insane or not, or if this is totally overstepping some unspoken boundaries, but he can't keep it in.
“are you sleepin’ with [name]?”
suguru coughs out in surprise, “…uh.” he leans back against his dresser, arms folding loosely. “yeah,” he says after a sec. “i am.”
choso nods once, like he'd expected it, “m'kay, are you dating her?"
suguru frowns. “what? no.”
“planning to?"
“no,” suguru repeats. “it’s just sex.” he tilts his head, curiosity creeping in. “why?" choso doesn’t answer right away. suguru narrows his eyes at him. “what, you into her or somethin’?”
“no,” choso says too quickly.
suguru huffs a laugh. “c’mon, man.”
choso’s voice edges colder. “i said no.”
“okay,” suguru says, hands lifting. “just askin’. ‘cause if you are, you should probably drop it.”
choso’s eyes snap up.
suguru keeps going, unaware of the turmoil writhing his friend. “just lookin' out for you, man. she’s really into me. like, a lot. wouldn’t be fair to either of you.”
the strong inside choso's heart break at the sound of that.
he scoffs. “you think so, huh?"
suguru blinks. “what’s that supposed to mean?"
“nothing,” choso mutters, already turning away. “was just curious.”
“cho—”
choso waves him off without looking back. “don’t worry about it.”
he opens the door, pauses just long enough to throw something over his shoulder, his voice very uncharacteristically cruel. “try not to confuse sex with somethin’ you don’t actually want.”
then he’s gone.
the door shuts with a dull thud.
suguru stands there, staring at the wood long after choso’s footsteps fade down the long hall.
his whole body feel shaky, like he'd just been stepped on. suguru did not like to be crossed like that.
he glances back at the bedpost. at the pink panties hanging there, the ones he teared off before fucking you dumb into his mattress... at the faint imprint you left on his space.
he frowns.
why does that bother him? he’s never cared before. he's told himself he couldn't commit to a relationship right now, that you being there for him was always just a mutual sex agreements. a good friends with benefits sitch. so why does the idea of someone else wanting you feel so incredibly wrong?
why does it feel like a rugs being pulled out from under him?
he exhales, runs a hand through his damp hair, then grabs his phone. you name pops up on his caller app and he hesitates only a second before calling.
“hey,” you answer, your voice isn't as excited to hear from him as it usually is... weird.
suguru smiles automatically. “hey, pretty.”
you don't giggle at that, or tease him back, you just hum through the receiver.
he frowns slightly. “what’re you up to?"
“just… home,” you say. “what’s up?"
“i was thinkin’,” he starts, leaning back on the bed. “maybe you come over tonight.” there’s a moment of silence and uncertainty that almost never came when it came to you.
“i dunno,” you say. “i’m kinda tired.”
that’s new.
suguru chuckles then lowers his voice. “c’mon, hun. i really need you.”
you sigh. “need me how?"
“badly,” he says, letting warmth creep in. “been thinkin’ about you all day.”
you dint reply instantly and he rushes in before you can pull away and reject him further. “i miss you,” he adds. “miss the way you feel. the way you look at me.”
“sugu—”
“baby,” he cuts in gently, “come over. yeah?”
he strings the pet names together, calls you sweet. calls you pretty. tells you he’s lonely. tells you he’s been wanting you.
he hears the shift in your breath before you speak again.
“…okay,” you say quietly.
his smile returns, very, very satisfied. “good girl.”
he hangs up, feeling way too good about the skill he has to persuade you. he thinks back on choso, how he'd learn a thing or two about threatening his arrangements.
~
you’re on your back in the long haired man's room before you can really register how you got there...
you feel so, so guilty. you didn't want to be here, but you felt awful for suguru, for fucking someone else when the agreement was to only fuck eachother, and talk about it if you were to screw someone else.
maybe that's why you caved into his pleas, you wanted to make it up to yourself, trying fix what felt like a horrible betrayal in your eyes.
sheets cold against your hot skin, suguru hovering over you, naked and sweaty like he belongs there, him, not choso.
"sugu, i— i wanna talk... there's something i should tell you," but you're cut off by his lips, his demanding, intoxicating lips... the ones working magic on helping you forget about your new friend.
you told yourself you weren't going to melt so easily into him when you got here, that you'd at least try your best to tell him about choso, how you're seriously reconsidering your little arrangement. but it seems he's got other plans, because his lounge is already halfway down your throat ripping lewd moans from your mouth.
he kisses you like he’s reminding himself that you're his. his girl to fuck, to claim without an actual title, not choso's.
his hands frame your face, pads of his thumbs brushing along your jawline as if he’s taking you back, he settles his weight between your legs, torso grinding up against your clothed pussy.
his lips kiss and suck against yours in a careful rhythm, coaxing rather than just taking. it isn’t frantic like he's panicked, no, it’s got a beautiful sense of reverence that drives you crazy and lulls away any former thought of taking accountability from your pretty little head. it's clear, even through your cloudy suguru filled haze, that he’s trying to prove a point to himself with every pass of his mouth on yours.
“fuck,” he murmurs softly into your mouth then your name.
his fingers dip down to your soaked panties, he presses his thumb harsh against your clit, pulling that one moan he knew meant he hit the perfect spot.
he shifts them to the side, then slams them deep into your gaping hole.
with every curl he's pulling such pretty groans from your throat, he doesn't care if his tendons begin to ache from how relentlessly he's bullying his thick fingers into your soft cunt, no, he's running you like this over and over if it meant hearing these addictive whimpers, ones he was causing, not choso.
he pumps them against your fluttering, gummy walls so tantalisingly slowly but so precise, it makes your eyes roll into the back of your head with pleasure. he wasn't as sweet as choso had been, he was rough and chasing that high with expert precision.
"such a pretty fucking girl. you're all mine, okay? you're all mine —shit—." his circles are relentless and binding, but that little monolog seemed to suddenly snap you out of whatever this was.
"suguru— fuck— please, stop it. we need to talk." he breaks away from latching onto your neck, then his thumb retracts as he sits up to look at you. this was what he didn't wanna do. talk about it.
he wanted you to get fucked, realise how good you had it with him, and forget about choso...
"what is it? hm?" he try's his best to stay calm but his distain slowly creeps up on him. "s' this about choso?" he quips.
what the fuck? how did he know?
suguru’s sitting up now, and you're pulling your skirt down over your lower half.
this wasn’t how you wanted him finding out but, “i don’t think i can keep doing this,” you say quietly.
his brows knit. “doing what.”
“this,” you gesture vaguely between you. “us. like this.”
...
he exhales through his nose. “you're serious?”
“yeah.”
his mouth tightens. “let me guess what.” he spits, and you tell him before he can further his sarcastic venture, “because i think wanna see choso.” suguru scoffs bitterly, he knew that was coming but he decides to pry further, “oh yeah? see him how?”
“like.. properly,” you say. “he asked me out. on like… a date. an actual one.”
his face contorts and stirs into disgust, then irritation. “you’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
he scoffs, pushing off the bed and pacing, still half naked. “you barely know him, [name]!”
“i know,” you retort. “but he’s been so good to me, sugu, really good.”
“he’s bad news,” suguru seers. “you don’t need a no good loser like him. he has no prospects, no plan for the future, he's bad!"
your stomach sinks at the quips. “don't say that.”
“say what?" he bites, and you grow redder with anger, “talk about him like i'm so naive kid who doesn't know what i’m doing!"
he turns back to you, frustration spilling over now. “he’s a dealer. he sells drugs for a fucking living, that’s it! no goals, no future, he's sketchy as fuck.”
you shake your head. “that’s not fair.”
“it’s true.”
“you'd have no clue! you don't know anything about him.” you spit back, and he laughs meanly. “oh please. know him? he’s got the personality of a brick wall. what, he buy you drinks and suddenly he’s prince charming?"
your chest tightens. “he listens to me.”
that shuts him up for half a second.
you keep going, voice steadier now that you’ve started. “he shows up. he actually cares about what i have to say. he doesn’t treat me like something he picks up when he’s bored.”
his eyes flash. “that’s not what this is.”
“then what is it?" you ask. “because you’re the one who said it was just sex. over and over again.”
he runs a hand through his hair, agitation spilling from every pore on his smug face. inside his brain, it's a mix of conflicting feelings. suguru likes you, for real, he has ever since high school. not once had he ever thought he'd be with any other girl, just you. but college was for fun, for hookups and parties and no real commitments, so why would he pour more effort into you than he needed? why couldn't you just be his with no strings attached? he wanted you, he loved you, some might say. suguru was not ready to give you up this easily, you were his first.
the thought of you choosing someone else makes his lungs constrict and his brain fizzle and crack until his heart breaks apart at the valves.
“you don’t need choso,” he says again, trying to regain any sort of resemblance of control. “you’ve got me.”
you let out a bitter laugh. “no. i don’t.”
his gaze snaps to you. “what’s that supposed to mean?"
“you don’t get to say that,” you reply. “not when you won’t even call this what it is, you're a pathetic excuse for a man. if you're gonna tie me up like a dog and use me for sex, at least have the balls to let me know that's all i am to you."
he looks away as the veins in his neck pulsate and grow, part of him knows you’re right, but to be honest? part of him really just doesn’t care. he knows deep down he wants you more than that, why couldn't you understand?
“you’re just being weird because for once someone’s actually into me and you can scare them off.” you add, the words tumbling out now.
he wants to spill his guts, tell you all he really wants is you, that he's been enthralled with you ever since high school he's always just been far too immature to really commit, but instead, his eyes narrow. “that’s bullshit.”
“is it?" you challenge.
he opens his mouth, then closes it.
you sit straighter with your heart hammering. “i really like him, suguru. he treats me well. he’s a good person.”
something ugly flickers across his face. that hurt. you were supposed to be his, now you were telling him you really like another guy? you're his girl! you're his girl.
he laughs, low and cruel. “so that’s all it takes, huh? a promise of a date and suddenly you’re spreadin’ your legs like a whore?"
what the fuck? that's not what he wanted to say! he cringes at himself but it's too far gone, he can't put a lid on the rage that's bubbling over the edges of the pot that is his heart.
your breath leaves you in a hurried rush. “what— what did you just say.”
he doesn’t take it back immediately or rephrase, that's the worst part. “you heard me.”
your eyes sting but you try your best not to cry. “how do you even know about choso?” you bite.
his face goes all rigid. “i could tell.”
“tell what?"
“by the way you weren't keen." he says, then adds, "and he came by earlier.”
your stomach drops. “he came here?.”
“yeah,” suguru says. “asking about you.”
the petty realisation floods over you in a wave of rage. “so that’s why you called me." you laugh, gutted. “you didn’t want me. you wanted to get your get back, right?”
his temper flares. “don’t fucking twist this.” geto was usually level headed, even in the most heated of arguments, so you knew his anger was real here.
“you invited me over because your ego got bruised,” you say, voice rising. “not because you care about me or what i want."
“that’s not true.”
“then why did you just say that to me?"
he looks at you with eyes full of distain, “because i shouldn’t have ever let this get this far. you’re just someone i fuck sometimes. that’s it.”
oh.
you don’t cry at that nor do you yell. you just nod softly, like your body's finally understanding what your heart’s been screaming at you for so long.
“m'kay,” you say softly.
you stand, smoothing your skirt down and reaching for your shirt with hands that feel so far away. he watches intently, fuming, not realising the gravity of the bum ass, idiotic move he'd just pulled.
you grab your things without sparing him a single glance.
“wait,” he says, finally hearing the finality in your movement.
you pause at the door, then you step out and shut the it behind you with a soft click.
inside, suguru stands there for around a minute in silence. then, his legs give out and he drops onto the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
“fuck,” he whispers.
he stares at the floor, replaying every word he knew he should of never said. every look he flashed you when all he wanted to do was tell you how he actually felt, that he was wrong and he knew that, but he needed you all to himself. the way the pretty voice he'd always adored sounded when it broke.
he realises, too late, that he really does love you.
he was just too immature to keep you.
~
you needed to call choso.
sugurus number was blocked the second you got home to your apartment, an act you clearly should've done ages ago.
though, your minds not caught up on him anymore, no. it's running miles around choso.
two things were clear right now,
1. he knew about you and suguru.
2. he probably wasn't too happy about that.
and now suguru was out of the picture, you had to tell him the whole entire truth. that you'd gotten rid of him, that you were willing to put every ounce of yourself back into choso, if he'd let you.
you bite at your lip, contemplating if he'd even pick up if you were to dial. you had no way of knowing if he was turned off by all of this or if he'd still wanna give this whole thing a try.
one way to find out, you thought.
you scroll through your contacts until you find his name and hit call before you can overthink it. it rings far longer than you expect, and when he answers, his voice sounds tired, much quieter than usual. “hey.”
“hey,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “um. i know it’s late.”
“you’re fine,” he says. there’s a pause. “what’s up." it's not much of a question rather a statement he has to say to be polite.
you gulp nervously. “there’s something i really need to talk to you about. like, in person.”
another moment of silence that stretches abit longer this time round.
“okay,” he says softly. “i’m in the middle of a run right now.” your heart dips, then lifts when he continues. “i can come by after. if that’s alright.”
relief spreads through you, “yeah. that’s perfect. thank you.”
“i’ll be there as soon as i’m done,” he adds.
“drive safe,” you say.
.
on his end, choso leans back against the seat of his car, his phone still in hand. he sighs to himself, he already knows how this goes.
he’s had around a day to imagine it. an entire day of replaying everything in his mind, of telling himself not to get too attached to this amazing girl he'd sworn on.
in his head, you’re going to sit him down and say you had fun while it lasted, but you’re choosing to fuck with suguru. you’re going to say you’re sorry. you’re going to say it was complicated and now it’s clearer.
he grips the steering wheel and exhales slowly. he finishes the delivery on autopilot, exchanges empty words he barely hears, his mind is clearly somewhere else.
by the time he pulls up outside your building, his chest feels so incredibly heavy.
he sits there for a while, staring at the entrance, telling himself to keep it together, telling himself he’ll be fine no matter what you say.
he steps out of the car and walks up to your door, he lifts his hand to knock, and the door opens before his knuckles touch the wood.
you’re standing there with damp hair from a shower and a serious look on your otherwise adorable face.
you just look at each other, and no one talks.
he doesn't expect you to, but you step forward softly, then gently wrap your arms around his torso.
it’s sort of on instinct, it’s need, and it’s a big relief. he too wraps his arms around your back, pulling you closer to try ease the tension in his soul.
“hey,” he murmurs.
“hi,” you say back into his shoulder.
you pull away and move aside, he walks in, glancing around with widened eyes, your apartment still pulls at his attention even now. it all feels so clearly you. he forces himself to focus when you gesture to the couch.
he sits, hands resting on his knees. shoulders squared. ready for this horrible rejection..
you sit beside him, not too close, not far either, you take a moment before you speak.
“i’m really sorry,” you say softly. “about suguru. about him getting involved with us at all.”
his eyes are darting around nervously but he's still honed in on what you have to say.
“i didn’t mean for him to make you feel weird or uncomfortable,” you continue. “and i didn’t mean to keep things from you.”
you look forlornly down at your hands. “i blocked him today.”
he shoots his head up in surprise, cute.
“i should’ve been honest from the start,” you say. “we had this on and off thing. nothing serious. but meeting you changed that for me.”
you look up at hum, “i like you. a lot. and if you’re still into me, i’d really like to start clean with you. no stupid secrets.”
he looks at you back tenderly, watching over your every feature.
“you’re the coolest guy i’ve ever met,” you add with a small laugh. “and i don’t wanna mess this up.”
for a second he just stares at you. then he smiles, it's big and goofy, and so so bright.
“yeah,” he says, sort of laughing. “yeah. i’m really happy you picked me.”
your heart jumps.
before you can reply, his metal clad hand comes up to your cheek pulling you in closer to his lips, he then kisses you softly.
it’s beautifully gentle and ever so slightly desperate. he's leaving small open pecks like each one's it's own form of praise and forgiveness.
your hands curl into his shirt, grounding yourself in the feeling of him here. choosing you, and staying.
when you pull back, your forehead rests against his. you smile wide, you’re glad you closed one door to open this one.
"so, about that date."
~
the two weeks you'd spent dating choso kamo was seriously the best time of you life.
you wake up in choso’s apartment much more than your own now. his place is fancy, it sits high up in one of those off campus complexes that cost more than they look like they should.
he's got the nice polished concrete floors, floor to ceiling windows with automatic blinds, furniture that fits his dark yet aesthetic so well.
right now you’re tucked into his side on the couch with your legs all tangled together, your heads resting against his chest while the city glows outside the window and he sifts his fingers through your hair. you'd both just come down from a night full of intense loving, choso eating you out for a good hour before completely ruining you just as he had the previous night. now, there was food on the way as he massaged your lowkey back lovingly.
"you okay, honey?"
"more than okay. cho,"
"god, keep calling me that and i'll take you for round three."
this is how it’s been, consistently.he takes you in the most lovely dates, expensive dinners where he never lets you see the bill. not once. you did try at first, bless your soul, fumbling for your wallet, making jokes about splitting it, insisting you could handle yourself. and every time, he shut it down with the same calm tone.
"i got it, sweetheart."
no argument or anything, no crazy big ego. just a nice fact that he could take care of you without blinking.
he takes you to places you’d never, ever pick on your own. spots where the menus only have triple digest beside each item. he watches your face when the food comes out, in awe watching your beautiful eyes light up. he always asks if you like it with a big smile, and he always remembers what you order. when you say you like a certain dessert, what do you know? it shows up again on your door step a few nights later after you tell him you had a rough shift at work.
he never makes you feel small about your money, or lack there of. that’s the part that gets you the most. when you joke about being broke, he doesn’t laugh at you. he just nods like it’s another bit of information about you, not a flaw. when you mention rent stress or art supplies you still need for class, (never with the intention of milking him for money) he listens very intently. a few days later, those things stop being problems. there's an envelope left on your kitchen counter, a new set of brushes delivered to your door. him shrugging it off when you ask.
"you don’t have to worry about that, honey. that’s my job now."
"but i— it's to much money, cho, i shouldn't—" he always shuts you up with a deep kiss.
he comes to the sway bar a lot now, too. he slides onto a stool and waits for you to notice him with a small smile. he's always dressed well and never sloppy. he orders one drink, sometimes only non alcoholic, and stays for hours on end. at the end he tips you like a rich man, which is what he was.
he laughed when you'd try and shove it back at him. he'd lean down and tell you to stop being stubborn.
"i like taking care of you."
it’s not just a suave line, you can tell. he looks so pleased every time you finally accept it.
he drives you straight home after shifts even when it’s late, he says the bus is no place for a girl as cute as you to be that late at night, hell, he even contemplates buying you your own car just to put his mind at ease, then decides it might be just a bit too early in the relationship for that..
every night you don’t have work, he's either taken you out or you're crashing at his place, tonight's no different. you're dressed in one of his oversized paris texas shirts after a few hours of sex, and he's got you sat up in his lap caressing your hips.
dating him feels nice and calm. there's no guessing, absolutely no waiting for texts that never come. he checks in with you without hovering and always tells you where he is. he plans things, actual plans. a museum date because you mentioned a new exhibit in passing, a drive out of the city just to watch the sun drop behind the hills and star gaze without the suffocating light pollution. late night food runs where he lets you talk about nothing and everything while he listens to your every word.
he treats you like you’re worth effort, every single day.
on the couch, he moves around then reaches for the fluffy throw blanket draped over the armrest, pulling it over both of you. he smiles down at you fondly.
"you're so fucking pretty, y'know that?"
"mhm, you only tell me that every day." you smile back, and he laughs, tickling your ribs for the attitude.
you giggle into his chest as you smack the muscle, begging him to stop.
after he's teased you enough, he pressed a kiss to your forehead and smiles into your skin.
"baby." he pulls away and looks you in the eye waiting for you to reply.
"yesss?"
"sukuna's having a birthday party at our frat. i think sigma chi's invited aswell. can you come?" he asks kindly, stroking your head lightly. you nod as soon as he says it, happy to tag along to any function he was going to.
"good. i wanna show you off a little." he announces, slapping your ass half heartedly.
you roll your eyes, but your face is flushed a pretty pink. he laughs, squeezes you once more, then leans back into the couch.
choso has never felt more content than he did right now. he never thought he'd be one for sappy relationships, but for you? god, he'd do this in every lifetime, you were utterly perfect for him.
only thing left is to show everyone else that, too.
~
sukuna’s birthday is exactly what you expect and still somehow more? there's like, literally five beer pong tables lined up in the back yard alone like this was some sorta tournament rather than a birthday bash.
"yeah, he's really into beer pong. it's fitting, i guess." choso laughs
the house infront of you is loud before you can even step inside. sukuna's favourite music flows out the open door, cups are raised and swaying or abandoned on any flat surface. there are, inexplicably, five more beer pong tables set up in different corners of the main living room.
choso’s hand stays firm at your lower back as he guides you inside, the pretty little dress he'd bought you fit exactly how he said it would. it's nice and snug around your ass, and it's short enough to make his eyes widen when you walked out of the bedroom earlier. the expensive designer shoes he'd gotten you still feel new under your feet. you’d protested, of course, told him he didn’t have to do all this, but he told you he wanted to. just like with any other thing he'd gotten you in the past three weeks.
you clock the way a few heads turn as you pass by, and smile to yourself at how good it feels to be on his arm. little did you know, this was his plan all along, to have you looking all sexy and all his as a final fuck you to the guy he knew would be here tonight. choso didn't fight with losers like him, but he could definitely put his money where his mouth was (literally) and show off a little.
“there they are,” gojo’s voice cuts through choso's slightly possessive thoughts.
he’s smiling so wide as he steps up to you two, his freakishly long arms opening wide preparing for your poor boyfriend. choso barely has time to brace before gojo crashes into him, hugging him hard enough to rock them both back a step.
“happy birthday to sukuna, i guess,” gojo says, then pulls back, eyes sliding straight to you.
he looks you over once, it's quick but not rude, then he smiles softly. proud, almost.
“you look really good,” he says, leaning down like he’s about to tell you a secret. his voice gets slightly bashful. “and i’m really glad you finally ended up with someone who treats you right. even if it meant dropping my best friend.”
there’s no judgment in it or awkwardness, just pure honesty.
you laugh quietly and hug him, arms wrapping around his middle. gojo squeezes you back solidly, you're content with his nothing about this changed how much he cares about you.
toji is right behind him with his meaty arms crossed and his eyes observing. he looks choso up and down first, then his sues land on you.
“damn,” he says flatly. “she's a looker.”
choso exhales through his nose a little irritated.
toji smirks, clearly pleased with himself.
“that’s my girlfriend,” choso says calmly. he's good at keeping his emotions in check. plus, it was toji, this idiot wouldn't know any better.
toji pauses, then nods once. “shit, i forget [name]'s the chick you were getting all giddy over. good job." he says, and claps choso on the shoulder before offering his hand. they dap each other up and choso smirks triumphantly.
“c’mon,” choso says, fingers curling around your wrist. “gotta see the birthday boy.”
he guides you through the littered bodies as gojo and toji trail behind you, the beer pong table nearest the back is surrounded by people yelling over a close game. sukuna is there, his pink spiky hair all wet and damp with sweat, roaring with laughter as he cooks shiu and sinks the final cup. (no one thought he was gonna loose, but they all cheer regardless)
you spot suguru at the same time he spots you.
he’s standing just off to the side with nanami and shiu, he spots your arm wrapped around choso's and you swear to god you see his eye physically twitch in distain.
you giggle softly at the sight, and choso pulls you into him tighter, staring the man dead in the eye as he squeezes your waist. what a sexy asshole.
sukuna turns when he hears choso’s coming over, his already large grin spreading wider. “there he i!" he bellows. he always got overly cheery when he was inebriated.
sukuna swallows choso in a big hug and the dark haired boy claps him twice on the back. "god, haven't seen you in ages man! where y'been?" sukuna questions, choso just rubs his neck bashfully and cocks his thumb to point at you. "keeping the missus looked after, y'know how it is."
sukuna's eyes fall onto you and he's surprised. he thinks back to when choso was asking about you that first time and then to when he'd stormed off when he'd told him you were sleeping with suguru. a small proud smile falls over his lips. he always disliked geto anyway, the righteous asshole.
“happy birthday,” choso says. “you're old as hell now.”
“shut up,” sukuna laughs. then drags his attention back to you as you step in for a side hug, very quick and polite. “happy birthday, ryomen." you smile, and he scruffels up your hair fondly.
he glances back at choso, then leans in and mutters, "good pull,” he says quietly. “glad you could wrangle her away.”
choso chuckles, pleased.
you can feel suguru’s stare as shiu and nanami fall back into another game of beer pong without even looking back at the guy. although, it doesn't matter. choso's still making a show of pulling you into him every chance he gets, which you can tell is really ticking suguru off.
sukuna wipes his hands on his jeans as he pulls his attention away from shiu and nanami and back to choso. “you better not of gotten me anything, cho.”
choso just smiles and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small credit card shaped gift wrapped in neat paper. he hands it over casually.
sukuna sighs with half a smile. “you didn’t have get me shit, man.”
“js' open it.”
toji and gojo lean in from their spots either side of you and choso. sukuna peels it open, eyes scanning the card once, then his mouth drops open.
“no fucking way.”
he looks up, stunned. “this is real?”
“mhm. two years,” choso says. “a membership for that fancy gym yer' always whining about.”
sukuna lets out a sound that’s between a laugh and disbelief. “what the actual fuck.”
he pulls choso into another, much tighter hug. “thank you, brother, seriously.”
choso pats his back. “no problem, i love you, remember?” he says, the inside joke making both sukuna and toji chuckle.
then, like it’s nothing, choso reaches back into his pocket and pulls out another card. hands it to toji.
toji freezes. “what’s this.”
“part of his gift,” choso says. “don’t want him training alone.”
toji stares at the card. then at sukuna. then back at choso.
“you’re fucking insane,” gojo says, laughing.
toji exhales a sharp laugh and grips choso’s shoulder. “i appreciate it, man, seriously. holy shit.”
sukuna looks between them, clearly overwhelmed, then clears his throat and tries to play it off. “alright, alright. enough with the heartfelt shit.”
but his grin doesn’t drop one bit.
you watch it all from choso’s side, chest warm in a way that has nothing to do with the noise or the crowd. this is him, he's so generous without making it a big show. loyal without asking for any kind of back credit. he's a solid man in a way that makes everyone around him relax and naturally lean into him.
choso glances down at you and catches you looking.
“you good, honey?" he asks quietly.
you nod, smiling up at him. “yeah. i’m really good.”
his lips curve into the kindest of smiles as he kisses your tenderly on your head, careful to not mess up your makeup.
off to the side, suguru looks away in disgust having witnessed that little interaction.
'read it and weep.' choso thinks to himself.
but he was far from done, one more little display and he'd be satisfied.
so, later on when everyone was a little drinker on the punch shoko had 'accidentally' poured four bottles of vodka in, he has you pressed up against a wall away from the main hustle and bustle, yet up close to where he knew suguru was lounging around.
"cho, people are gonna see!" you squeal, but his hands don’t stop grabbing at the curve of your ass and pushing you harder against the wall.
"good, want them to see." he coos, latching onto your throat and sucking at it softly.
despite your pleas, you were very into this. your boyfriend wasn't always this needy so this show was really doing it for you. you let him claim your throat in bright, blooming hickeys and groaned as he hooked his lips onto yours, shoving his tongue down your throat.
the exchange is heated and passionate, any on looker could tell this was a moment shared between two people who loved eachother deeply, exactly what he was going for.
from behind him, sukuna and toji catch wind of you two and let go of broken cheers, making choso smile into your lips. they both joke about 'not knowing choso has this in him,' which made a few of his other friends add onto the mantra of playful encouragement.
he's living for the way your cheeks heat, the way the attentions making you all hot and bothered. but most of all, he's high off the fact that when he peeks behind him through an open eye, he sees suguru angrily stand from his spot on the couch, and storm outta the house.
mission accomplished.
A/N this is not proofread at all 💔 going back to my roots and writing choso look at me go 🙂↕️ i hope you guys enjoy the lil smau yayy
Summary: A man, not a god—however, Ryomen Sukuna has an ego that loves to roleplay. He loves to be worshipped, revered, bowed to. He has a temper that rivals zeus, fists that put the god of war to shame, a mouth so godly mean, it makes your middle school bullies look like nothing short of saints. After ending last college semester with a bang—a new one starts, and with a new semester, comes new women. What will Sukuna think when he finds out his latest fascination is unreachable?
Warnings: Angst/comfort (hardly), smut with a HUGE plot, fratkuna x nerd!fem!reader, mentions of plug!choso, violence (sukuna can’t control his hands, okay?), sukuna is lowkey a yearner, degradation, praise, oral sex, gagging, slight face slapping, penetration, dry humping, naaaastyyy dirty talk, drug use, alcohol consumption, sukuna is mean sometimes, mating press, choking, VERRRRYYY BRIEF toji x reader & suguru x reader.
w.c: i don’t even know? i hope there’s very minimal mistakes, semi-proofread
———————————————————————————
Sukuna was a god at this school—you didn’t know what you were expecting, but telling your friends that you were transferring, came warnings.
“Do not fuck Sukuna Ryomen.”
“Run as far as you can if he looks at you.”
You assumed they were just being dramatic, one man couldn’t have been that important. How terribly wrong you were—aside from importance, he was an insistent bug, picking you as his target. What for? Beyond you—you minded your own business and stayed light years away from the fraternity circle, choosing studies over college fame.
Upon looking at Sukuna Ryomen—further analyzing him—you had ultimately decided he absolutely was going to be homeless after college. His degree would be utterly useless if he kept choosing temporary fame over his actual school work. It was almost pathetic, really. Being that dissatisfied with yourself to the extent at which you require praise from over a thousand people.
Those were the type of people you despised, naturally, of course. But the inevitable came, and you had nearly every class with him. A funny trick by fate itself, though you could be content with admitting he wasn’t totally stupid. He had a brain despite what seemed like his lack of in his cruel words and actions—or the insults that made zero sense.
A small greeting turned into daily rituals, he’d stare at you all class and never talk to you. Tell his friends you were a nerd, and then come back the next day just to ask you for a pencil. It was foolish, his ability to be two-faced. Or his ability to simply not care.
Despite his presence becoming a nuisance to your regular routine, you did make a few friends. It was totally by accident, but you seemed to befriend the campus drug dealer. You should’ve told on him, but you held back because he was a kind man. In this economy, you’d sell your feet for money.
At the end of the day, you knew that you were stuck in a cycle you didn’t read up on—and it was only a matter of time before you started drowning in the endless waves of something that you couldn’t name.
“Needa pencil, nerd girl,” Sukuna leaned down, a chair behind you, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. He tapped his rough finger on your shoulder when you didn’t answer the first time, not all that mindful of how roughly he was tapping you.
“You should come to class prepared,” You sighed, grabbing the pencil from your desk and holding it over your shoulder for him. He snatched it from your hand, tapping the eraser to the crown of your head.
All he managed within the first second of your comment was a huff of something—laughter, irritation, you didn’t know, nor did you care.
“I come to class prepared enough,” He hummed, the sound of his body scooting off of his chair louder than it should’ve been. “Jus’ glad to take your stuff.”
You turned your head, only for his nose to brush yours. His lips parted and then he smiled—on the other hand, you jolted back, grimacing at him for the lack of personal space.
“Can you back up? My personal space is very valuable.” It was quieter, careful to not yell directly into his face, but you were contemplating your choice when he didn’t move.
“Mm, yeah? It’s valuable?” He snorted, flicking your chin with his index finger. “I want to find out just how valuable it is—“
He was cut off by the screeching of a chair, Shoko plopping next to you. “Leave her alone, Sukuna. She doesn’t want your dick.”
Sukuna took mild offense to that, scoffing with muttered insults left in the air behind yours and Shoko’s newfound conversation.
Shoko was one of your best friends, you had gotten closer due to the seating arrangements in this class—she tried to be your saving grace sometimes, but more often than not, she added fuel to the fire. Meaning, she fueled Sukuna on sometimes, you couldn’t be sure why, but you trusted her enough to know it wasn’t for any ill reason.
“Good morning, Shoko.” You nodded at her, offering a small wave and slight smile. She reciprocated, her eyes droopy and exhausted. Her fingers were quick to scroll through her phone mindlessly while the lecture went on and on, the professor talking at what seemed to be 120 MPH. Hence why this was your least favorite class, it was hard to keep up.
Only until the declaration of projects was introduced to the class, you weren’t paying the attention that was due. Your eyes lifted up to the board, which illuminated brightly across the room upon being turned on. Your eyes roved over the contents, only to find different names and pairs.
He was choosing your partner, how disappointing.
Satoru and Shoko got paired together, you almost felt sorry for your friend if not for her long-lasting friendship with the guy. You knew a thing or two about Satoru, mainly Sukuna’s subtle complaints about him, but he was also a womanizer, just slightly more respectful.
The dread settled in when Sukuna exhaled behind you, resting his foot on your armrest.
“So, partner,” He started with that cocky tone, “should we talk more about this at my place?”
Your eyes were trained on the two names on the board.
Yours next to Sukuna’s.
You glanced down at your computer, opening it slowly and further opening google.
‘What is the most efficient way to kill yourself?’
You looked at the results as if you were seriously considering it—in which, you honestly were. This was the worst fate you could face. Not a failing grade, not getting fired, no, Sukuna was the worst fate of all.
He chuckled, as if you were joking, using the heel of his boot to close your computer.
“You’re a funny girl, I like that,”
“We can work at the library. There is no reason to work in anyone’s personal space, and it is simply not efficient.” You muttered, sliding your laptop away from him. Once it was far enough away, you glanced at him over your shoulder.
“And I won’t be having sex with you, Sukuna.”
“We’ll see about that,” Is all he said before sliding you a paper with digits. His number.
“Okay.”
You didn’t watch his back as he left, but you blinked at the whiff of what smelled like dust and jasmine. What a peculiar combination, you thought.
——————-
As soon as you got back to your apartment, you found Choso sprawled out on your couch, a habit he took on early in the friendship. He was still in a dorm—whereas you were able to ditch out of a mandatory one considering you already did your mandatory dorm at your other university. Your eyebrow quirked up at the man, his eyes peeking over his phone.
“Hey,” He mumbled lazily, one of his legs hanging from the cushions. All you could do was sigh at his intrusion. He definitely made himself at home.
“Hello, Choso.” You murmured, sliding your shoes off. You organized them neatly with all the others that weren’t so different from each other.
You learned to never ask him why he was here, and instead accept the inevitable fact that he is.
Your backpack was set by the door after you had taken your laptop out, picking up Choso’s legs and shimmying in whatever available space was next to him.
“I am partners with Sukuna, what are your opinions on that?” Choso’s eyes found yours when the words finally settled in the silence, his eyebrows quirked up.
“I’d kill myself, but that’s just me—I’m sure you can handle it.”
“He wants to have sex with me.”
“Please don’t.”
You nodded at his words with a soft chuckle, your phone buzzing just as insistently as Sukuna buzzed around you—like a fly, except you’re sure he’d survive a nuclear bomb if it meant bothering you.
Sukuna: “Fill me in on the project.”
Well, he’s very demanding, isn’t he?
You sighed softly, opening your computer to take pictures of whatever notes you may have taken throughout the day. The project was about Quantum Entanglement, quite philosophical, but also a tricky part to grasp onto.
Sukuna stayed in the chat, you could nearly hear the impatient taps of his foot the longer you took.
As soon as you sent the pictures to him, you closed out of the chat—ignoring the constant buzzing. Choso glanced over, then down to your phone.
“He has no chill, does he?” He murmured, sitting up straight to read the texts for himself. When he did, he snorted a little, tossing the device onto the coffee table.
“Y’know, I think it’s funny,” He started, nudging your shoulder. “You have him wrapped around your finger, but you don’t realize how fuckin’ crazy that is.”
You finally spared Choso a glance, furrowing your eyebrows.
“He’s a man, not a god.” It was but a small breath of words, yet it held significance if anyone truly saw Sukuna. He liked to pretend he was superior, like he was this god of gods, king to all. But he simply just wasn’t. He was a man, he was a baby once—born of two people who were in love.
He was never an exception, it was just the false labeling and the ego that made Sukuna live under false pretenses. You thought that maybe, just maybe it was a deceptive sheet to conceal him from the world. To keep his feelings buried deep because somehow he was above the normal.
You knew that one day, Sukuna would fly too close to the sun, and it would kill him. In all honesty, it’d surely be his fault—You’d assume he’d ignore the warning signs even if it was a warning from a god. That’s just how far Sukuna went. He had no respect for himself nor other people.
He was truly a loser.
“He is just as normal as you and me, Choso. He’s not some king, nor some god—he shares flesh and blood with everyone else on Earth.” Frustration laced itself in your tone, waltzing through the crowd of emotions to something stronger. You couldn’t name it, but when people treated Sukuna like a god, it irritated you.
He hides under false pretenses and everyone falls for it because he promises greatness when there is no greatness to be found in his domain.
It’s all some big lie.
You hated lies.
“So stop acting like he’s something great,” You grumbled, your lead snapping as you wrote—you hadn’t realized how tightly you were gripping your pencil. “He’s not.”
Choso just stared, blinking a few times before a large exhale made its way out of his nose.
“What a mindfuck.”
You grumbled at his words, grabbing a new pencil from the far corner of the coffee table.
“Sorry,” He snorted.
————————————
It took days of Sukuna and you texting to finally get just a little used to him. He wasn’t all that bad when he wasn’t being an ass—which meant he was bad 98% of the time.
“Nerd girl—“
“I told you a million times, that’s not my name.” You muttered, glued to the text book splayed on the library table, flipping the pages every other minute.
“Yeah, yeah—Don’t care, actually. Come to my party.” Sukuna grinned down at you, leaning his hip against the table with his arms crossed. He looked a little like a school teacher like that.
“I don’t do par—“
“You’ve never even been to one, girl. You’re all virgin mystery and studying til’ your brain goes dumb.” He tilted his head as if he already won, but he didn’t.
“I’m not a virgin.” Is all you had to say, dismissing him when you returned your focus to the beautiful, godsend of a textbook in front of you. It was all about philosophy and physics.
He blanked out for a moment, trying to process if he really heard that right.
“Wow, someone actually fucked you?”
That was so fucking rude you wanted to snap his legs off, but no matter—
“Yes.”
“Who?”
You finally glanced up at him with a sigh—but he really did look curious.
“My personal affairs are not your business, Sukuna. Who I have sex with doesn’t interfere with your personal life—“
“It does.” Sukuna murmured slyly, his fingers reaching to tilt your chin up. Unless you suddenly had a fever, his touch made your blood run cold and hot at the same time. He was warm, yet all the more rough. You didn’t like it—but were you living under false pretenses too?
No. You were honest with people, and more so yourself.
“It does not. It wouldn’t make sense if it did, idiot.” You furrowed your eyebrows, the curve of your eyes crinkling slightly in a hardened gaze.
“Makes perfect sense, baby. I wanna know who you’ve fucked.”
His language was starting to make you feel warm disgust you. Must he be so blunt? What about shame? Oh the horror of Sukuna Ryomen having shame for the first time in his life.
That’d be the equivalent to fucking an alien. You couldn’t exactly do that because it was fucking impossible.
“Why?” The question slipped out before you had time to rein it in, of course, naturally you were curious as to why he was curious about your sex life. It made no sense, and quite honestly, he had no gain to claim from your answer or lack of.
He pretended to think for a moment, your hand only swatting his away when his thumb dared to venture onto your lips, tugging the bottom one with a smile. He really didn’t understand the concept of boundaries.
“A man should know who his competitors are, yeah?”
Is he serious?
“You are disgusting, good bye.” You sighed, slamming the textbook closed with excessive force. Before you could leave, he grabbed your wrist.
“Come to the party, just try it. Might like it—might end up in my bed?”
You scoffed, giving him a once over before shaking your head. That did some damage to his ego—enough damage that you might be fulfilled for a month.
“I won’t end up in your bed, I’ll end up in mine.” You mumbled, glaring up at him before yanking your wrist away. The touch of a thousand fires lingered around your flesh, dancing up until it touched every ignition point in your body.
“There are just some things you will not achieve in life, Sukuna. It’s childish to think you can get whatever you want. Please grow up.” With your words lingering in the air, you walked out before Sukuna decided to blow the entire place up with everyone in it. You felt guilty for an unknown reason.
You could hear a faint laugh—but it mattered not when the doors shut behind you, leaving nothing but genuine advice taken as an insult.
———————————————
You are underpaid.
Underfucked.
Underwater.
What the hell ever, you’re under and that’s all that matters in this moment.
“Shoko—No, I am not going.” You whined slightly, but she didn’t care when she nearly tied you to the chair to smear lipstick on your lips. This was utterly ridiculous.
“You are. You need to live life a little more than you do now, love. It’s almost embarrassing.” She muttered, staring at the lipstick with a scrutinizing gaze. Before she nodded, she snapped a picture.
There was hardly a point in arguing with her—you didn’t want to go to the party, but there were two people basically forcing you to anyways. Can’t you sue for this?
Emotional damage, ah yes—the art.
You squirmed around in the chair, the dress Shoko chose for you were slightly itchy, unless you weren’t used to this type of fabric. Which would be correct—according to your friends, you wore “nerd clothes.”
Whatever that means.
Essentially, you chose not to have shorts half way up your ass crack, nor your nipples out to the world.
Which is probably why you were so uncomfortable in the dress Shoko tugged you in. It wasn’t ugly, no—quite the opposite. It was gorgeous, that was the problem.
It was a deep red—it reminded you of Sukuna’s eyes wine, you gave Shoko credit for not forcing you into something that showed too much skin, but she said this was as covered as it was going to get tonight.
You observed yourself in the mirror, turning around over and over again to make sure no unnecessary skin was showing. This wasn’t half bad. Yeah—this shouldn’t be too bad.
Maybe it’ll even be fun.
You doubted it, but the possibility was floating in the air like a small balloon.
As soon as you got to the party, a few people did double takes. Not because you were some gorgeous thing, but because it was basically impossible to see you here. You clung to Shoko’s arm, pushing past drunk people with her help.
Then came Utahime—another one of your saviors. A relieved sigh left you when she beckoned the both of you over to the bar, handing you a shot, then two.
It turned into three.
“One more for your 3rd cousin! Come on, show that cousin your respect!”
You deadpanned. Is she serious?
You did it despite yourself—this felt a lot like peer pressure, but you wouldn’t deny that it felt good to have so many weights lifted from your shoulders.
You glanced over your shoulder, offering Miwa a slight smile. She was a sweetheart, you loved being around her because of her energy. She made everything look so effortless, too.
“Hello, Miwa.”
She looked like she was going to cry, pulling you into a tight hug. “I didn’t expect to see you here,”
“By the grace of Shoko, thank her.” You muttered nervously, tapping your thumbs together as you looked over the crowd of people.
The alcohol started to kick in sooner than you thought, your eyes blinking slowly. The music was louder—the smell of weed was consuming.
You swear you could hear people snorting coke in the next room. This is just vile, honestly.
But Shoko was your way home, so leaving was impossible unless you managed to convince her.
Also impossible.
So in all reality, you were stuck here.
Your palm pressed against the cold marble counter, you stayed as still as possible until that all too haunting heat formed a tight coil in your stomach.
You should’ve told them this was your first time drinking.
“Excuse me,” You coughed, speed walking away from them. It took five minutes to find a bathroom, in the process, you nearly threw up on someone, their shoulder bumping harshly into yours. You didn’t apologize, you just rushed straight into what you assumed was a bathroom.
As soon as you saw the toilet, you dropped to your knees, the door wide open—someone knocked out in the bathtub. You only noticed because their leg was hanging over the thick porcelain.
The coil in your stomach snapped—as if on cue to your violent chokes, someone laughed beside you, cursed by someone else who at least had the decency to comfort you through the process.
“First drink? Should’ve thought so.”
Tears pricked in the corner of your eyes, spilling down your cheeks at the lack of oxygen offering itself to you.
“Hey, hey it’s okay.” The woman mumbled, patting your back slowly. “First drinks are always rough, but it gets better later on.”
You wanted to know who this woman was so you could start believing in angels—on the other hand, you knew who the man was, because you wished he would shut up.
As soon as you were done throwing up, a cold cloth was pressed to your mouth, wiping the saliva away slowly. Your fingers came to wipe your tears, slightly smudging the mascara.
This was embarrassing.
Extremely so, when Sukuna snapped a picture of you.
You and the woman glared at him. She was more firm with it, motherly—almost.
“What? It’s fuckin’ funny.” He snorted, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “Didn’t expect you to actually come, I was partially jokin’, baby.”
You grimaced. “Please be quiet, you are giving me a headache, Sukuna.”
You wanted to bristle at the pet name, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t explain why it made you hesitate.
The woman rose to her feat, her blonde hair drifting prettily over her shoulders. God, she was so beautiful. Why didn’t Sukuna bother her? You totally would.
You stood to wobbly feet, the colors burning brighter than they do when you’re sober. You couldn’t begin to understand how this was enjoyable.
“I’m okay.” You hummed, tugging your dress down when you caught Sukuna staring like a feral animal. The hell was his problem?
You pushed past Sukuna, only desperate to get away from him before he had another picture to threaten you with. That was his thing.
After a bottle of water or two, you were on a fucking roll. Somehow you ended up making a new friend—the friend in question being Suguru Geto, one of Sukuna’s friends. He was kind, too kind. He prompted you to talk about your interests despite them being boring in this kind of setting—which was unusual, but in a drunken state, you drowned in the attention.
“You’re one of the—hic—only kind people here, Suguru.” You slurred slightly, staring down at your feet—or more so, your toes in the heels Shoko forced on you.
You hated having your feet out for everyone to see. For free? You could be charging people to see them, yet they were out for free.
Utterly ridiculous.
“Am I? There’s a lot of nice people here, sweetheart. Satoru is kind, but he might flirt with you—so I understand.” He chuckled mindlessly, snaking his hand around your lower back when you wobbled.
He smiled down at you, and you made a feeble attempt to reciprocate.
“You have pretty teeth, has anyone ever told you that?”
You blinked once.
No, and I pray I never hear that shit again. Is what you wanted to say, but you couldn’t bring those words out, he was too kind.
Smelled so good. Like dust and jasmine vanilla.
Knock it off.
Does he taste that good?
You didn’t realize you said that last part out loud, not until his hand was cradling your jaw so sweetly.
Not when he licked his lips with the faintest smile—oh, fuck.
You realized when his lips were a hairs width away from yours. For a split second, your body heated up when Suguru’s red eyes gazed down into yours.
“If you care to find out?” He whispered with a chuckle.
Jesus, you were about to until—
“The fuck are you doing, bro?” Sukuna yanked Suguru up by the collar, pushing your body back in the process, your water had spilled all over you, and the only thing you could do was try to process this scene.
They bickered for a bit, Suguru was the only one trying to reason with Sukuna’s anger. To no avail, though.
“She’s fuckin’ drunk,” Sukuna hissed, his jaw clenching when he looked down at you, hardly able to stand up without the nearest wall. His gaze wasn’t kind, you couldn’t help but assume he was angry at you, for some moronic reason.
“Watch who the fuck you put your lips on, Suguru.” Sukuna let him go with one last glare, he didn’t spare you one before Choso came walking over with a blunt between his lips.
“Yeah, you’re done, girl.” He huffed, slinging his arm over you. He guided you straight to the couch—no one bothering to hand you a rag or anything for the water dripping from your face. Not until Choso handed you a paper towel.
“Don’t wanna get the couch all wet.”
You wiped your face slowly, staying as quiet as could be. Your eyes trained themselves on the ground, trying to process the mirage of colors and noises. You felt as if they depicted intoxication well in the movies—the world really did blur around you. Yet, nothing was funnier, nothing was fun.
It was kind of scary, what if you died from alcohol poisoning or something? That’d be tragic.
Nothing shook you out of your daze until someone took up half of the fucking couch, which left you with no choice but to be squished awkwardly into Choso.
“Can you close your—hic—legs?” You glanced at the perpetrators knees, trying to nudge them with your own, but your state weakened you significantly. God, this was horrific.
“My couch, my rules. Stop bitching,” The man mumbled, lighting up something thick between his lips, you couldn’t tell who it was, the smoke leaving from his mouth making your vision blur. It stunk really bad, but you couldn’t move much.
When you tried to—Choso was quick to move.
“No. You’re wasted, gonna stay right here ‘til Shoko comes to get ya’. Don’t need you messin’ with anything.”
You glared at him, but it didn’t faze him. Then a drunken idea dawned on you.
“Go get me water, Cho’.” You grumbled, and when he got up? Ah, you might’ve saw heaven.
You tried to shimmy away, huffing victoriously to yourself. You were positive the other man next to you wouldn’t snitch.
When you finally got up—Choso spotted you with an exasperated sigh, ready to run after you.
You took your heels off as fast as you could, pushing through the crowd of people with hurried steps. You’d need to scrub your feet after stepping on the floor, but getting out of here was more important. You were positive you’d be able to find your way home alone.
Choso ran after you through the crowd, but it was no use—you had slipped twenty dollars to someone if they held Choso off for a bit.
Before you made it out of the door, someone dragged you into a hallway. You squealed, under the assumption you were getting kidnapped before they huffed out a laugh.
“Let me go—Shokooo, help me…” You weakly whined, trying to pry their hands off your waist. When they finally let go, you toppled to the floor.
“That’s what you get.”
Your gaze lifted up, only hardening when you saw Sukuna. Yet, your eyes weren’t as biting as you wanted them to be.
Again. For the third time. Was he following you around?
“Leave me alone, Sukuna. Your parties suck.” The heels that were in your hand were now lying on the floor, your feet attempting to bring you up straight. Which was only possible with the assistance of the wall. Sukuna observed you carefully, cursing under his breath.
His fingers came to tug your dress down in the front, his knuckles ghosting over your thigh.
“Why do you look like a whore?”
That was blunt.
“Shoko dressed me. Don’t be mean, Shoko is good at fashion.”
He tilted his head, his finger running over the fabric of your dress.
“Thought so,” It was only a whisper, but in your ears, it neared a scream. You squirmed slightly under his gaze, looking for any escape route. He was blocking every single one with his stupidly big arms—what the hell was wrong with you?
You swore to never get drunk again.
“Let me go home, Sukuna.” It was softer than usually, like you were tired of being here—which was more than the truth. He just shook his head.
“Nah,”
“Why?” Your eyebrows furrowed in frustration. “I don’t want to be here.”
He ran a hand over his face—you could tell you were frustrating him.
“You know what’ll happen if you go out there dressed like this? Drunk? Fuckin’ helpless?” He cocked his head to the side. You could understand, but still—
You were being stubborn. A little stupid, but more stubborn.
“Answer me.” He challenged.
“Yes.” You murmured begrudgingly, he hummed as if he knew that’s exactly what you were going to say.
“Where’s Shoko? Tell her to take your drunk ass home—“
“She’s drunk.” He cursed at your words, running a rough hand through his hair.
“You’re all fuckin’ stupid? Which one of them did ya’ get it from?”
You didn’t answer, just kept your eyes locked onto the ground. “Jesus Christ, angel.”
You finally looked up, but not until he swung your body over his shoulder like a bag of fucking rice.
This was public humiliation, right?
Some people glanced, but it didn’t last long with Sukuna’s irritated pout. You landed into the passengers seat of a car you didn’t recognize, parked right next to Shoko’s.
You squirmed around, fumbling with the seatbelt and door—But when you got it, Sukuna started the car.
“Where do you live?”
“Apartment.” Before he could start on how stupid you were—you continued. “Building B, room 1221.”
He didn’t say anything else, just sped through traffic like laws didn’t exist. You weren’t even surprised, so you hardly fought it.
He glanced over at you after a while, flicking your forehead to stop you from dozing off.
“You’re trouble.”
“I’m a good person, I don’t get into trouble.”
He scoffed, his finger tapping against the wheel impatiently. You knew this wasn’t out of kindness, only out of the fact he didn’t want to be the one facing consequences if something bad happened to you.
That didn’t bother you.
Maybe slightly.
Okay, yeah, it did bother you. But you were drunk, you didn’t know what the hell you were doing.
“Yeah, angel. You’re a good girl, but you’re fuckin’ trouble for some people.” He shook his head, the back of it laying lazily on the headrest.
You thought for a moment. You didn’t know what he was talking about, but curiosity was ripping every thought to shreds. “Like who?”
“Mm, I don’t know, angel.”
The pet name was going to grow on you irritate you eventually, but you didn’t fight it for now. Sukuna was going to be Sukuna. Unapologetic, cruel—he didn’t give a fuck if it made you uncomfortable, that’s what he wanted.
“People like me.”
Those words made you furrow your eyebrows in confusion.
“Why?”
He bristled at the second question—the gears in his head seemed to creak.
“Just shut up, you’re annoyin’ me.”
“Okay.”
You stayed quiet, the fight leaving your body for the rest of the ride. By the time you got to your building, you were quick to open the car door, wobbling out slightly. He didn’t even look at you—just let you turn away.
Some crueler, evil—desperate part of you wished that maybe he could say something.
You don’t know why his personality was getting to you so much. You told yourself it was because you weren’t thinking straight, but it felt as if it ran deeper than that.
As if the sober thoughts made themselves known.
You clenched your heels in your hands, accepting the sudden wave of sadness when the building closed behind you. After the rev, and the slightly screech of tires—you paused.
Sukuna was an asshole.
He’d always be one.
————————
You were not prepared for the hangover. Not in the slightest.
You groaned, and then whined when it persisted. Holy fuck, how did people drink.
You glanced down at your phone, only to see a plethora of texts.
Shoko: Sorry, was wayyyyy too drunk last night. Glad Mr. God Complex got you home. You good now?
Miwa: I will kill him
Shoko: Also, wtf did you do, lmao
Shoko: Sukuna threw a huge fit, I think he punched Geto in the face?
Shoko: He dragged five people out by the neck last night tho, you should’ve been there it was hilarious. Think he threw someone in the pool? 😭
Utahime: How are you doing?
You were going to wait to reply, until you saw a text from Sukuna—you were sure you were asleep by three A.M, but he texted you around that time.
So, you opened it, squinted—and then the horror crawled into every inch of your body.
You shot up, despite the pounding headache, your lips slightly parted before reading the entire conversation you weren’t aware you had.
How could you have possibly—Oh.
Your eyes found themselves fixated on a bottle of wine that Shoko had left at your apartment a few months ago, now open on your coffee table instead of in the cabinet it stayed in.
What the fuck.
Your eyes flicked down to the text thread, cringing at every message.
You: How many people tell you you’re an asshole?
Sukuna: Lost count.
You: You should keep count, might fix your ego, asshole.
Sukuna: You’re feisty, what did I do this time?
You: I don’t know
Sukuna: You don’t know?
Sukuna: Are you trying to hurt my feelings?
You: Yes.
You: Is it working?
Sukuna: Cute, but no. Sorry, baby.
You: Stop calling me that.
Sukuna: Why? Does it bother you?
You: Yes.
Sukuna: Rhetorical question, don’t actually care if it bothers you.
You: It hurts my feelings. Stop.
He read the message last night, but never responded. God, you were an idiot.
You were quick to type letters on your keyboard, deleting, then retyping.
“It hurts my feelings.”
It doesn’t—No, it really doesn’t.
Why did it feel like it fucking did, though? You were a mess, your head pounding, the light from your phone doing absolutely nothing to help.
You chewed on the inside of your cheek, typing a message and then setting your phone down when you sent it.
You: I didn’t mean any of that.
You didn’t know why his lack of response was making you so impatient, but it was. Fuck, it really bothered you. Something new was happening, and you felt like it was tearing you apart.
Sukuna was a man, not a god.
But he was flooding the Earth before you learned how to swim.
Sukuna: Ok? Lol
You scoffed.
You: Nevermind, you’re still an asshole.
You could almost feel his smile through the air—a rough sigh left your mouth. A blanket wrapped around you, dragging like a cape when you got up to get water.
You don’t think you’ve ever chugged something like you did the water—as if you had been lost in a desert for too long.
The water bottle crinkled, falling into the trash unceremoniously soon after. The light from outside poured through the curtains of your living room—the so-called light blocking curtains doing nothing to help the headache scratching behind your eyes.
Getting ready for classes was a fucking nightmare—despite the effort put into looking presentable, you refused to take the sunglasses off in the presence of light.
You stumbled into the lecture hall, Sukuna snorting at the miserable state you were in when you slid into your chair. Shoko, the absolute angel, slid you two painkillers and some tea she brought in case you’d show up. You chugged it, muttering a small apology.
Sukuna wasn’t going to relent today, propping his foot up on your armrest, slightly nudging you with it. He’d done this so many times you forgot to care.
In the middle of the lecture, he texted you. For whatever reason, he could’ve easily spoke with his lips—but you were mildly grateful he didn’t.
Sukuna: [Attachment: 1 image.]
Heat crept up your neck when the picture loaded—it was that same one he took of you on the bathroom floor, your eyes glossy and slightly red. One strap of your dress hung from your shoulder—
He snickered, tugging on the hood of your hoodie.
“Stop it,” You hoarsely whispered, swatting his hand away. It only worked for a few minutes, because next thing you know, your hair was tangled in his fingers.
Sukuna was someone who got bored easily. You could tell him to stop bothering you, but he would take that as an initiative to continue. Which is what he was doing right now.
His fingers were surprisingly gentle, despite the rough tugs his fingers took to brush out the knots.
“You’re a fuckin’ mess,” He murmured. “Can’t believe someone would fuck this—“
You were half expecting that. You knew he’d bring it up eventually, and apparently now was what he called a perfect time.
You scoffed, your forehead hitting the wooden coolness of your desk. Sukuna didn’t stop, going as far to lean forward to reach your hair better.
Despite yourself, you found yourself dozing off—your eyes heavy with sleep behind the sunglasses.
And then everything dimmed, and for a moment—you really did wish Sukuna was always this quiet.
—“Wake the fuck up, lady.” He grumbled, kicking your desk roughly. You jolted up, wiping the drool from your mouth swiftly. You glared up at him from behind your sunglasses, sleep still haunting you despite your consciousness.
“There she is, fuckin’ finally. Thought you were dead—“
“You wouldn’t care, anyway.” You shot back. You didn’t know why you said that.
But you did.
“Someone’s angry.” His eyes widened slightly, backing up when you gathered all of the things you didn’t even use during the lecture.
“Not angry.”
“Looks like it.”
“Can you shut up? You’re always talking. I have a headache, and you’re making it worse.”
Your hands paused at your own words, his shoulders stiffened.
“Sorry.” You pushed past him before you could face the backlash. But there was none—there was no grabbing your wrist. There was only Sukuna staring down at where you were three seconds ago.
Before you left, you heard him ask Shoko something, but of course, you didn’t stay long enough to be curious.
You were irritated today—whether it be the light, the headache, or last nights activities.
Something was haunting you, and it kind of hurt. Not kind of, it did hurt.
You just needed to find what exactly it was—what exactly was wrong with you today. But that was a problem for the near future, because you needed somewhere to nap.
Call it lazy, but you didn’t want to walk all the way home.
As soon as you entered the library, the dim light and slight chill allowed you to relax the most you have today. You plopped down into a chair in the corner, placing your head on your forearm.
The time passed too quickly—only awake because some kind student shook you lightly in passing. Upon looking up at the world around you, the library was mostly emptying, your eyes slowly roving over to the digital clock above the library doors.
It was eight P.M.
Shit.
“Long ass nap.” Someone mumbled from the corner of the table, his pink hair making you grimace slightly. There was no harsh comment—his hood covering half of his face, his long legs spread across two chairs.
You didn’t say anything, still basking in slight guilt from earlier. You had no real reason to feel guilty, that was the problem. You didn’t know why you were so angry, it made no sense to be guilty either. But you were—because you knew it had too much to do with the man you swore not to get involved with.
“Library is about to close.”
The lack of pet names didn’t miss your ears.
“Okay.”
“Why are you so angry at me?”
He didn’t care—No, Sukuna didn’t care when people were pissed off at him, but it made him curious. If he couldn’t keep up with how many times he was disrespectful, he needed someone to do it for him.
“I don’t know. I’m not—I don’t..” You struggled with your words, having just woke up from something that was hardly a cat nap.
He finally chuckled, humorless, dry—deafening despite its low tone.
“That’s what angry people say, ‘I’m not angry.’” He mocked, and that should’ve made you mad if it wasn’t for him standing up, shoving his hands in his pockets.
He gestured for you to follow him, and you did—begrudgingly.
You fell into step with him, not paying much mind to where he was leading you until you ended up outside.
“Wanna know why you’re mad at me,” He lit a cigarette between words. “I don’t like liars, either. So don’t fuckin’ try that.”
“I don’t know why I’m angry, Sukuna.” You blurted, your steps stopping slowly when the cringe settled in. He turned around, blowing the smoke away from your face.
He knew you hated the smell.
“You know, just don’t wanna admit it.” He scoffed, crushing the cigarette beneath his boot, that confused you slightly—he just lit it, so why did he—
“Ain’t all that subtle with your curiosity.” He tilted his head. “I don’t wanna hear you bitching about the smell or cancer.”
He stepped closer—and that scared you. When he backed you up into the dark shadows of an alley, your heart rate picked up at an absurd speed.
“So humor me,” He whispered. “What’s your secret?”
“I don’t have one,”
He grunted, clicking his tongue. “Wrong. You do, come on—admit it.”
He paused when your back hit a wall, standing a few inches away as if that helped the sudden fear flooding your body.
You didn’t fear that he would hurt you—No, what scared you is the fact you did have a secret.
He saw it. Clear as day—and what his reaction would be, you preferred not to know.
“I’m serious—“
“You think I’m not?” He interrupted, testing the waters when his fingers ghosted over your hips.
You hated the fact you didn’t push him away. When he picked up on that, his palms joined his fingers.
“Sukuna,” You warned.
“Yes, baby?”
Oh, god.
“Stop it.”
“Tell me to stop if you really mean that,”
You stayed quiet—so quiet, that you were scared he would hear your heartbeat.
“Don’t touch me if all you want is sex.”
The quiet from two seconds ago was incomprehensible to the quiet now. You weren’t sure he was breathing.
“So that’s your secret.”
You didn’t respond, you were hardly even breathing. But what hurt more than the slight loss of oxygen, is when he let go, his hands dropping at his sides.
You thought so.
You swallowed a scoff. You should be grateful that he isn’t suffocating you anymore, but what’s a girl to do?
Doesn’t it always hurt a little bit when guys do something like that?
“Right.” You whispered, stepping away from the wall. His jaw was clenched, he might’ve broke a tooth if you didn’t hold back any biting words.
“Have a good day,”
You stepped away from him—that was harder than it ever should’ve been.
They warned you. You just didn’t listen.
Sukuna didn’t make any attempt to take it back—mistake after mistake. You were stupid to think that he came to the library to apologize for what happened in the classroom—
No. You can’t even blame him.
You don’t know why either.
————————————————
Sukuna hadn’t said a word to you. Not a glance, not a laugh—no. Nothing.
“Stop moping around, it’s ruining my mood.” Choso mumbled from the couch, glancing at you. You were curled up on the other end of the couch, mindlessly scrolling through your phone. This wasn’t exactly unusual, but it was definitely a variation of odd.
Paired with the lack of banter between Sukuna and you.
“Told you to stay away from—“
“Don’t.” You mumbled, the irritation evident in your tone.
“You need to talk about it eventually. Let me be real with you—“ Choso sighed, resting his elbows on his knees. You spared him one glance before looking back at your phone.
Actually. You know what.
Oh, yeah.
You shot up, cutting Choso off completely.
“I am going out.”
“What—“
“I’m gonna be a whore.” You shrugged, scrambling around your apartment to grab a towel. Choso was at a loss for words.
“That’s not a good idea—“
“Don’t care.”
He pressed a hand to his face, mumbling a small prayer. He was being dramatic as usual.
As soon as you got out of the shower, you forced Choso to help you pick clothes.
This wasn’t like you. Not in the slightest. Shoko would be proud, but Choso is more concerned about your wellbeing. Of course, this wasn’t a good idea. But neither was anything else you’ve done since you transferred.
Befriending a drug dealer—Choso—for example.
Horrible idea, but you both were closer than ever.
After an hour, Choso begrudgingly chose a good outfit. You reviewed it, nodding slowly.
“Okay.”
This wasn’t a revenge plot, this wasn’t making Sukuna jealous—it wasn’t like that. You were underfucked, but more so, if you were going to go find sex, you’d find it in places where you couldn’t attach any strings.
Different from Dickuna Sukuna.
The *minute* you set foot in the party, you spotted your victim. Of course, there were not many options here, but you were finally deciding to live a little—albeit out of anger.
Shoko had sent you the invite, she didn’t want to go, so she passed her legacy to you for the night.
You told her you would cherish it—and that was exactly what you were going to do.
You approached the man you spotted—he wasn’t talking to anyone, but he really did look like he wanted to kill everyone here.
He looked like he could.
You tapped his shoulder, met with a curious gaze. “What’s your name?”
He hummed, turning his body toward you. “Toji.”
“Nice to meet you, Toji. Call me whatever—are you busy.”
“Depends what you want.”
When he cocked his head to the side, all you could see was that infuriating arrogance you recognized from someone else.
It was a better look on Sukuna, and you loathed that.
You stood on your tip-toes, cupping your hands around his ear.
“Sex, that’s all.” You whispered—you’d never seen a man act as quick as Toji, his hands coming to your hips to flip you over his shoulder.
“Alllrrright then, ‘preciate the honesty, baby.”
That only sounded good coming out of Sukuna—Jesus, shut the fuck up, will you?
People glanced, some stared at the sight. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care in the slightest.
As soon as the door shut and locked behind Toji, he chuckled, tossing you onto the bed.
You bounced slightly, propping yourself up on your elbows. You glanced around, attempting to decipher the fact he was about to fuck you in someone else’s—
“I ain’t that bad,” He mumbled, grabbing your ankle and yanking you to the edge of the bed, his calloused fingers running over the sparkly strap. “My room,”
He gestured vaguely to the walls around you both.
You could only nod.
“You ever done this before?”
“Yes. Why does everyone think I’m a virgin?”
“Mm, askin’ the wrong man.” He chuckled, undoing your heels slowly. You weren’t that impatient, but he was testing that.
A heavy exhale left your lips, and only then did he catch on, nearly ripping your dress in half.
“You can only trust me with one thing,” He started, flipping you over. His hands ran over your back until he caught the zipper.
“Ain’t ever gonna feel like this again—“ He hummed. “‘m one in a million, baby.”
You nearly scoffed.
After ten minutes of absolutely fucking nothing, you finally got what you came here for—dick. Shit, he might’ve not been bluffing.
You gasped, your hands clutching the sheets like they’d save you from the punishing thrusts. You didn’t even know this man and he was fucking you like he hated you.
But then the inevitable happened.
“Fu—Fuck, ‘kuna—Sukun—“ You caught yourself mid sentence, but it was too late, Toji stilled mid thrust.
“You serious?”
You hissed, the embarrassment settling over you. That was a turn off.
Yeah. That’s bad.
“Sorry.” You mumbled.
To your surprise, or a lesser version of it, Toji took that personally.
“Ain’t even mad, jus’ gonna—“ Thrust. “—Fix that.”
And so he did. (Not really)
By time he was done, you struggled somewhat with your clothes.
“Boyfriend?” He whispered, his fingers fumbling with a box of cigarettes.
“No. He’s not my anything—“ You sighed tiredly, tears and mascara dried on your cheeks.
“Right—“
BANG!
“Where the fuck is she?” A voice yelled from outside—a voice too familiar for your comfort. Your hair stood up on the back of your neck.
“Shit—Shitshitshit.” You looked around, eyeing a window. Toji roughly sighed.
“Forgot how crazy that motherfucker was—“
You froze, slapping a hand over your mouth.
“You know him.” It wasn’t a question, more like a realization. You knew in that moment you were fucked every which way. Literally, but more figuratively in this given situation.
“Yes, ma’am.” Toji clicked his tongue—only when you were planning an escape route did the door fall onto the floor.
Right. It was locked.
So, Sukuna decided to kick it down.
His eyes widened slightly when he saw Toji, both of them glaring at each other. You had a feeling they didn’t just know each other.
“You fuckin’ serious?” Sukuna scoffed.
You felt guilty. Really fucking guilty.
But why? He didn’t feel guilty when—
The world doesn’t revolve around you, though.
So when your eyes started watering, there was no explanation you could form. Sukuna’s eyes drifted to your disheveled form, now more disheveled with the tears threatening to fall down your cheeks.
“Yo, bro. If it makes ya’ feel better, she said ya’ name a few times.” Toji drawled, you could jump out of the window at his words.
“But, y’know me—“ He whistled. “Had to fix that.”
You don’t think you’ve ever seen something so raw before—violent, just cruel.
Sukuna didn’t give Toji any room for words when his fist connected to his face. They were both strong, but Sukuna was a beast.
“Told all of you—“ Punch. “She’s off—“ Punch. “Fuckin’—“ Punch. “Limits—“ Crack!
You gasped, frozen at the sight that you didn’t even process Sukuna’s words—not before someone forced their way in and dragged you out.
Satoru guided you down the hall with a few polite ‘excuse me’.
“Why you cryin’?” He whispered, lightly pushing you down onto a couch in a secluded room you didn’t recognize. “Not to be rude, but you did fuck Toji.”
“I was angry.” Your breath was shaky, refusing to meet Satoru’s eyes out of pure guilt. “At Sukuna.”
Admitting it out loud stung a bit more than you thought.
“Yeah, I get it. You didn’t know, I bet. Toji’s, like, notorious for fucking Sukuna’s girls.”
“I don’t want to be Sukuna’s girl, don’t say that. He doesn’t get to fuck me and then pretend—“ You were about to pop that little bubble you retreated into, but Satoru snorted, nearly falling to the ground.
“Oh—Oh, you really don’t know—“ He gasped. “Fuck, that’s hilarious.”
“There is nothing funny about my vulnerability. That is making me feel worse.” You grumbled, hugging your arms to your chest.
He just sighed, brushing his hair out of his face.
“No—No, that’s not it. It’s just—mm, Sukuna might kill me if I say too much. You’re just… a bit different. He’s intrigued by you.”
You raised an eyebrow. How is that any different than his usually fuck buddies?
“You’re kinda dense—Sukuna is sort of an idiot. He doesn’t know how to handle new things. So he doesn’t know how to handle you,” He drawled. “Which means, when you think he’s being an asshole, in all reality, that’s probably the nicest he’s been all month, get it?”
You nodded slowly—skeptical at Satoru’s words.
Wasn’t he known for being a pathological liar?
You winced slightly when you heard a strangled grunt from down the hallway, followed by Sukuna’s yelling.
“Fuck you—“ A hiss. “Told you not to fuckin’ touch her.”
You sighed.
“You know what that sounds like,” Satoru whispered, tilting his head. “Sounds a lot like someone fighting for you even when you did something wrong.”
That’s where your breath hitched.
You didn’t want to believe it, because Sukuna had already proved more than enough to you—but did you have a choice right now?
Not really, no. The proof was in front of you.
But you’d deny it until you heard it from Sukuna himself.
“Some people just don’t know…” He struggled to find his words. “Express that they care. They get scared, push ya away.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
No, that was a lie. Sukuna should’ve thought about that.
In a world of balance, your actions have consequences.
Those were the rules.
You weren’t the type to fold under pressure, you wouldn’t start now.
Not when angry grunts filled the hallway—not when curses fell from lips too pretty for profanity.
Not when the door slammed open.
Not when Sukuna stood there, blood dripping down his knuckles and nose.
Maybe when he groaned, stomping toward you.
When he peered down at you, you nearly folded.
“Why would you do that?” He grumbled.
“You made your answer clear—“
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did.” You argued back, anger flooding the deepest crevices of your body. You didn’t want to be right, but you knew deep down that you were.
“The world doesn’t fuckin’ revolve around you.” He breathed out with a humorless chuckle.
That one sentence let a tear slip from the corner of your eye.
“It doesn’t revolve around you, either.” You started. “You are a man, not a god, Sukuna. Men have to be honest with themselves. If you weren’t honest with yourself, then that is your fault.”
Your fingers curled into fists at your side.
“Punch me,” He suddenly declared.
You were dumbfounded for a fleeting moment, but then it settled in.
Maybe he was expecting you to refuse.
Your fist connected to his face with a rough grunt.
You hadn’t ever punched anyone before—so the pain was foreign when it shot up your forearm. You hissed, shaking your hand.
“Ouch.” You grumbled, squinting up at him.
“Again.”
“No, that hurts.”
“Don’t be a pussy.”
Your palm connected to his cheek—he grunted slightly. That ugly guilt reached further to pull at your heart, but you ignored it for now.
“Aga—“
“Why are you punishing yourself?” You interrupted, narrowing your eyes.
You didn’t catch on the first time—but when he asked you to do it again, you understood. He was punishing himself for something.
“I’m tryin’ to fuckin’ hate you, hit me again.”
“No—What? Sukuna,” You breathed out, you were dumbfounded—but equal parts angry. “Why are you—“
“Don’t do this to me, fuck.” He groaned, Satoru shut the door behind him with a small click, leaving both you and Sukuna in the room alone. “You don’t get to do that.”
“Do what?!” You yelled, finding your voice after all the time you spent trying to keep quiet enough to go unnoticed. “Be honest with yourself—I’m giving you the chance.”
He grumbled, smudging the blood on his face when he ran a hand down his face.
“I don’t know how—Jesus, fuck, just—“ He finally looked down at you again. Not with that hot anger, nor that mocking glint. No. He looked almost…
Desperate.
“Just what?” Your voice was small in the presence of something unfamiliar, worried that if you spoke too loudly, he’d retreat. “Please just tell me what you want.”
“You. You, it’s always been fuckin’ you, and it kills me.”
The world stopped spinning for just a moment. Instead of seeing a king, or a god—for the first time, you think you saw a man. It was unfamiliar, an intricate crack in that impenetrable mask. Something smaller than small under the surface he built his empire on.
For the first time, Sukuna wasn’t the king—but he was a man who wanted something not even he could’ve had.
“Sukuna—I—“
“Fuckin’ untouchable, that’s what everyone said. She’s untouchable, don’t let no one close—“ He huffed out. “It was sex—It was a challenge. I jus’ wanted to see if—“
You were patient, letting him find his words because if there was one thing you wanted—it was honesty. Even if it hurt the same way it did before.
“If I could get my hands on you, it irritated me when I couldn’t—“ His frustration kept building, his words strong and biting, but you couldn’t bear to back away again. “It irritated me so much and I ain’t realize why until I finally touched you, felt like fuckin’ heaven.”
Your breath lodged itself in your throat, swallowing it down was futile.
Satoru wasn’t lying.
Sukuna wasn’t who he said he was. Not in the slightest.
“All these other girls—fuck, baby.”
The hairs on the back of your neck stood up when his voice cracked slightly.
“You always look at me like I’m fuckin’ pathetic. Gives me this thrill, thought the chase was fun—It was, but then—God, then—“ You placed your hand on his forearm, attempting to ground him, but it was foolish to think you could reign in all of this pent-up anger.
He needed to be honest, you told yourself that over and over again. He needed to be honest—and it was starting to hurt.
This was for him, not you.
His hands grabbed your wrist when you went to wipe the tears that were streaming down your face at his words.
He wanted to see them. Wanted to see the things he wasn’t used to.
Wanted to see someone care.
One truth stuck with you. Sukuna just wanted someone to care.
“Can’t stop thinkin’.” He whispered like it physically hurt to say. “Always your fuckin’ face. In my dreams, in the shower, God.”
His thumb brushed against your pulse point.
His gaze hardened, but only because he was searching your face, sobs breaking through your lips.
“I ain’t an honest man, you know that. That ain’t a secret—but I can be. I can be honest.”
You nodded slowly at first, then firmly. A silent confirmation.
“You’re all I want and it’s killin’ me. When Choso told me you were goin’ out to fuck someone—fuck, that pissed me off.” You’d have to kill Choso at a later date for being a snitch, but right now that wasn’t your biggest problem. “Then it was Toji.”
The words settled, soothing the part of your heart that had been aching for so long now.
You admitted something you didn’t dare to acknowledge.
“I need you, Sukuna.” You whispered, your forehead falling to his chest. “I don’t know why—you irritate me, you bother me—you—you’re mean to me.”
You didn’t lie—no, you were honest in what you were saying. Because he deserved your honesty, even if he didn’t return it until now. It only dawned on you how many things you overlooked.
Sukuna didn’t wake people up—he’d prefer to watch them get embarrassed.
Sukuna didn’t ask people for pencils, because he never needed one with the absurd amount he stole from the library.
Sukuna didn’t ask people to come to his parties, he didn’t care who was there or not.
Sukuna didn’t bother people because he got bored too easily.
The common factor was you.
You caused this madness, and the desperation in his eyes was begging you to fix it.
Sukuna Ryomen was a man, not a god. But only this once, would you give him a glimpse of the heaven he’d dream of obtaining.
You did that for him. Your lips were the gates he had imagined, the ones that ignited a fire within him. Your eyes were the warmth he craved in the crevices he never touched.
You were what fueled his drive. You were the one who fueled him on, because you were heaven for a man that wasn’t quite a god.
He didn’t say anything, but his shoulders dropped enough to make the message clear. The tension released from his body—and it scared him, but there was nothing real to fear.
Not when all that was real was standing in front of him.
“I know I ain’t nice. That ain’t gonna change any time soon, angel.” He groaned, and for the first time, Sukuna didn’t take what he wanted. He didn’t touch to take—no, when his hand touched your cheek, it was hesitant.
Hesitant, like he didn’t know if he was allowed to.
“Come here.”
Your hands guided Sukuna to the bed, sitting him down before dabbing his nose with a paper towel. This was a moment completely foreign to you—Sukuna was vulnerable, he was quiet. He looked less like a fighting dog and more like a.. chihuahua, perhaps.
You couldn’t deny the spike in temperature, nor the rapid pace of your heart. Regret settled deep in his bones when he mulled over the fact he just told you everything he promised he wouldn’t.
The water was chin level—and it dawned on the both of you that Sukuna flooded the Earth before you learned how to swim, but he didn’t know how to either.
In other words, emotions weren’t something the man was open with. He was cruel, irrational, constantly angry—but yet, you soothed him. You showed him peace when he didn’t know how to live without a mess.
“Why?” He whispered, clearly troubled by something neither of you wanted to name, but acknowledged with pained faces. “Why me?”
It almost hurt you, his question. That why me seemed deeper than he let on. You never associated Sukuna with insecurity, make no mistake, he didn’t have a single one of those things. That wasn’t it, he was too prideful, greedy, driven by the stakes of power and how far he could go with nothing.
That was the problem. That was his question.
Why would you want that?
“I don’t know,” You mumbled lowly—something that came out of your mouth when you should’ve known. You knew everything else, you were smart—but knowing yourself wasn’t something that came easy. “I think that I hated you enough. I picked you apart in my head, finding everything that made me upset.”
Your hands stilled for a second.
“I was angry when I found something pretty in you. I didn’t think that—that it belonged in such an ugly person.”
“I’m ugly?” He scoffed.
“No. Your heart was. Your soul—to me, it was ugly.” You sighed, lightly scrubbing dried blood from the crevice of his nose.
“That doesn’t answer my question.” He grumbled, grunting when you swiped the blood from his busted lip.
You chewed on your bottom lip, debating whether or not you wanted to be open to him any longer, or if the silence should finally settle.
“I can’t answer that because I ask myself the same thing from time to time.” You whispered, your eyebrows furrowed with confusion. You confused yourself, yes. You didn’t know why it was Sukuna. Why it had been him.
All you knew was that it was, and it never seemed to stop.
“Is it just about sex anymore?” You found yourself asking, ready to hit him with some sort of trophy on the dresser. You tried your hardest not to get any blood on this persons bed. Sukuna hardly cared much about that.
He looked like he wanted to say yes as a final attempt to push you away and retreat, but he didn’t do that.
“No.” He mumbled bluntly, hands clenching at his sides. You let out a relieved breath, lips closer to his than you’d anticipated.
When he tried to lean closer, you grimaced slightly.
Your finger flicked his forehead, keeping him a safe distance away.
He just groaned, defeated—equal parts pained with the adrenaline wearing off. Your legs stood in between his, his eyes searching your face for more. When he only found raw honesty, he cursed under his breath, his fingers featherlight against the back of your thighs. He touched you like it was worship, like just a touch was enough to fan his flame.
And it was, to him.
You barely finished cleaning the blood off before his forehead fell against your chest—his knuckles still bloody and bruised.
“Don’t care about bein’ clean.” He grumbled, inhaling deeply. It wasn’t until he pressed a small kiss to your sternum, that you sighed.
“Don’t get any blood on me.” As if he was a fucking child, he slowly wiped his hands on your dress. You gasped, furrowing your eyebrows at him. Your hands attempted to push him off, but he didn’t budge an inch.
“Are you serious?” You sighed, what did you expect? “This was brand new—“
“Toji took it off of you. Should fuckin’ burn it.”
His words stung—but you could hardly be mad. You were partially at fault.
“Was he lyin’? About you sayin’ my name.”
The embarrassment from the moment made you cringe.
“…No.”
He snorted.
“It is not funny, Sukuna.” You grumbled, fingers absentmindedly threading through his hair.
“It kind of is.” His hands pressed into the back of your thighs, tugging you closer to him. “Mm, hilarious, even.”
Your face heated up an unusual red, your eyes rolling. It was astounding how easily he went from likable to unlikable in five seconds.
He finally pulled away, gazing up at you.
His fingers left a fire when they trailed up to outline the curve of your waist, then your ribs.
The heat only rose when his thumb brushed against your bottom lip. You didn’t pull away, this time. Instead, you let him.
You let him take, because you knew he was going to give it back ten times better.
“Don’t wanna do this here,” He groaned more to himself than you. Well that was a relief, you didn’t want to either—not in someone else’s fucking room.
“Then where—“ You blurted out, closing your lips as quickly as they opened, he quirked an eyebrow.
You didn’t think he’d ever let that go.
“You want to fuck me.”
“I prefer the term sex.”
“You want to have sex with me.”
“Not what I said.” Your cheeks burned hot, but he just laughed at you.
“Then where?” He mocked, attempting poorly to mimic your voice. You shoved his chest, crossing your arms and turning your back to him.
“Doesn’t mean I want to have sex with you.”
“We’ll see about that,” He hummed, standing up with a small crack of his neck. His hands found their way to your waist, guiding you from the room and through the crowd of people.
You grimaced slightly when you saw Toji’s body unconscious—still breathing, thank god—on the floor.
Yikes.
————
As soon as you reached the door to your apartment, Sukuna couldn’t keep his hands off of you—barely letting you type in the code before he started nipping at your shoulder.
He was impatient. He acted like he needed this more than air—and deep down you felt like that was the truth.
The second the door was opened, he pushed you inside—letting you stumble slightly before hoisting you up. Your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, your breathing just as heavy as his.
He plopped down on your couch, adjusting his hips before placing you on top of him. “Looks like you were fuckin’ made to be here.”
His fingers wrapped loosely around your throat, dragging your lips to his. To your surprise, it wasn’t rushed nor suffocating—despite the clear strain from Sukuna trying to hold himself back—it was passionate, like he was pouring everything into you.
You both pushed and pulled, his hands roaming every inch of skin he could. Your hands didn’t relent either, groaning into his mouth quietly with every new area you discovered.
His teeth rolled your bottom lip into his mouth, biting down harshly before soothing it with a swipe of his tongue. He laughed against your lips when you cursed, but he smiled even harder when you pulled him closer.
His hips rolled up into yours, that’s when a whine spilled from your lips—fuck, he drank it up, making it his mission to hear that song one more time.
He pulled away from your lips, staring up at you. His fingers found your hips, slowly guiding every slow grind onto his clothed cock—orchestrating every move until the whines became more insistent from your lips.
“Sukuna,” You tilted your head back slightly, your hips twitching in tandem with every slow roll of his hips. You couldn’t tell if he was teasing you, or if this was him trying to take it slow—but it didn’t matter when it felt like torture. “Too slow.”
Your palms planted themselves on his shoulders, your eyes frozen into his—no matter the amount of will you had left, you didn’t want to look away. Not when he was watching every single twitch.
“Too slow?” He hummed, tilting his head back against the couch. He rolled his bottom lip into his mouth, fighting back a smirk when he suddenly jerked his hips up.
You yelped, which halfway turned into a moan—your hands flew down to his chest to steady yourself. “Oh my—“
Before you could finish your sentence, he jerked his hips up again, a groan leaving his lips in unison with the moan that left yours. His boner caught directly on your clit through your panties, over and fucking over again.
“Sukuna—Oh my god, ‘kuna.” You whined, lips parting as you tried to meet him halfway with the cruel roll of his hips. But it only seemed like he was in his own little world.
“Fuck, angel. Just like that,” He groaned, guiding your hips with rough drags. If it felt this good already, you couldn’t imagine how it would feel to have him fill you up. “Good fuckin’ girl. Such a good listener,”
You drank up the praise like you’d never hear it again—a serious doubt of yours. His hips never relented, his fingers busying themselves with the zipper of your dress.
In which, he broke it when it wouldn’t come down fast enough, tearing the fabric from your body with a sharp grunt. He practically salivated at your tits, you were tempted to cover yourself out of embarrassment—but it didn’t take long for him to latch his mouth on a nipple. Rolling the bud between his teeth.
“Fuck—“ Your breath gradually got heavier, but it didn’t last long when it was knocked out of you. Sukuna flipped you onto your back, rutting into you like a fucking animal.
He groaned around your nipple, staring up at you as he sucked on it. You truly did not know it could feel this fucking good—Sukuna’s reputation precedes him, his mouth really was godly.
He pulled back only an inch, spit dribbling from his mouth just to make a mess in his wake. “Mm,” He hummed, his lips parting as he watched the spit slide down the globe of your breast.
“Y’know what would look better than my spit,” He whispered, nipping your collarbone.
It was only slightly embarrassing how good his dry ruts felt, how you could cum solely from dryhumping.
“My cum,” He pinched a nipple between his fingers, rolling it slightly. “Right on your pretty tits.”
You whined at his foul mouth, your eyes blinking harshly with every blissful thrust. He took note of that, laughing cruelly as he lifted one of your thighs, holding it up with a strong hand just to take on an agonizing pace again.
“Gonna cum from this?” He strained, slamming his hips into yours with excessive force. “Poor baby, ain’t had good dick in so, so long.”
His words lit a fire in your stomach, allowing the walls of your pussy to clench around nothing—he smirked down at you.
“‘Kuna—Oh my fucking god, don’t stop—pleasepleaseplease,” You cracked out, your words a strain of slurred letters. Your back arched slightly, the denim of his jeans catching just right on your clit.
“Pussy’s just beggin’ to be fucked good,” A hand pressed down into your stomach, sliding down, down, doooowwwnn until his thumb was circling your clit. He moaned at the slick coating his jeans, allowing his thrusts to get messier.
“Look at this,” He breathed out, his hips twitching slightly at the sheer sight of your slick turning your panties transparent. “Jus’ drooling for my cock, ain’t she?”
His words should’ve embarrassed you, but they only made you wetter—more desperate than you started out with. They sounded so good spilling from his lips.
“Yes—Yesyesyes!” Your toes were started to curl, your hips rutting up into Sukuna’s the tighter that coil in your stomach got. His cock was the best you’ve ever had, which said a lot, considering it was still tucked in his pants.
“Fu—Fuck, baby. Y’feel so fucking good,” His head was thrown back, his hands kneading your boobs like his life fucking depended on it. “Gonna pound that tight little pussy,” He gritted through his teeth.
All you could do was nod, your high right around the corner, his thumb tugged your clit fast—almost in sync with his breaths.
But fuck—when he slapped your pussy, flashes of white blurred your vision, his thrusts not yet stopping as loud, choked out moans spilled from your lips, along with his name.
“Takin’ it like a good girl, like a little fuckin’ slut—“ The words didn’t mean to slip from his lips so easily, but when you whined, he laughed at you.
“Oh?” He scoffed. “That’s pathetic,”
He slowed down the roll of his hips, giving you minimal room to breathe before latching himself to your neck, his lips leaving a trail of kisses down your chest, then your stomach.
“Shit, baby. Made such a mess.” His mouth watered at the sight of your pussy, slick coating the inside of your thighs. He slapped your pussy once, watching you jerk, then twice because he wanted to.
“So wet, all f’me. Didn’t even do shit,” His eyes found yours from between your thighs, studying every twitch, every whine like it was scripture. “Already goin’ stupid, didn’t even need my cock.”
He chuckled, kissing your clit through your panties. He moaned at the taste, licking a stripe straight up to gather your slick.
“So good—God, you taste so fuckin’ good, angel.” He groaned, burying his face in the pond of your pussy, licking lazy stripes through your panties. You shivered, a borderline pornographic moan spilling from your lips.
He slid your panties off, almost ripping them in the process. Before he tossed them into the unknown with your dress, he looked back at you—an evil smile curling at his lips.
“Mmm,” He balled the fabric up, leaning closer. “Open that pretty mouth for me.”
You obliged quickly—only for him to shove your panties in your mouth. “Much better.”
You could only whine, the fabric muffling the sounds trying to break through.
He laughed, taking his place back in between your thighs. He pushed your thighs up, hoisting them over his shoulder. He wasted absolutely no time, his patience had already been thinning.
His tongue circled your clit diligently, his spit mixing with the absurd squelching of your wetness. The moan that left you was ripped out of your chest, your panties barely muffling it. He took it seriously, fingers keeping your thighs spread enough while his tongue fucked inside of you, the tip of it pressing against the roof of your walls.
“Fuck—Fuck—ngh—Sukuna, oh my fucking god!” Your toes curled and you think your eyes rolled to the back of your head, but with the stars in your vision, you weren’t too sure. Your hips attempting to buck up, but he held you down with an arm over your stomach.
“Yeah—That’s my girl,” He groaned into your pussy, a filthy squelch filling the room every time he pulled his tongue out just to drive it straight back into you. Your thighs quivered slightly, his nose nudging your clit.
It was bliss—pure fucking bliss. You’ve never came twice without being fucked stupid, but Sukuna was making that entirely possible right now.
You felt the heat creep back into your stomach, your release forming a fucking storm.
“Don’t—Don’t stop—“ Your fingers threaded through his hair, pushing his head down as much as it would go. He didn’t struggle in the slightest, just grinned.
He let you fuck yourself on his tongue, landing sharp smacks to your thighs, offering euphoric groans.
“Just like that—mmph—yeah, fuck yourself like a little slut,” You weren’t entirely sure if it was his hips rutting into the cushions, or if it was the sheer force of you fucking yourself on his tongue, but the couch started creaking—synchronizing with your moans.
Your teeth clamped down around your panties, your back arching off of the couch as your legs shook. “I’m—I’m—“ You squealed, your juices coating his chin. He didn’t stop when you started twitching, no—he only stopped when he was done sucking up all of your juices. He gathered your cum on his fingers, replacing the panties with them.
“Suck,” He hummed, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you swirled your tongue around his fingers, your cheeks hollow as you sucked your cum straight off. It was filthy—disgusting, but based on the way you obeyed and he groaned, neither of you thought much about it.
“Fuck,” He sighed, pulling his fingers out. He slapped your cheek lightly, smearing the drool dribbling from the corner of your mouth. “C’mere.”
He leaned back on the couch, spreading his thighs enough for you to shimmy in between. He chuckled at your fucked out eyes looking up at him, slowly undoing his belt. Your impatience was evident, which only fueled him to go slower.
Once his pants were finally off, he slid them down to his ankles, palming his erection. You were practically drooling at the damp spot on his boxers, squirming slightly.
When you tried to reach out to touch, he swatted your hand away. “Aht aht. Gonna be a good girl and watch,”
His cock sprung free, boxers dropping to his ankles where his pants were. Your eyes widened slightly.
Jesus, that was really… fucking big?
It concerned you a bit. How the hell were you meant to take all of that?
He groaned as he tugged at the base, lacing his fingers through your hair to bring you closer. You subconsciously opened your mouth, moaning when he slapped his heavy cock on your tongue.
He poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue.
God, that nearly did it for him. His eyebrows knitted together, his hand stroking up and down with small grunts and groans.
“Fuck, angel. This is all you—mmph—your fuckin’ work.” He rutted his hips up into his hands, pre dribbling from the tip, sliding down to pool onto his fingers. He yanked your head up again, holding his cock out for you.
“Spit,” He commanded, and so you did, batting your eyes up at him in hopes he’d cave—much to your dismay, he did not.
“Atta girl, there’s my girl. Doin’ so good, listening to me.” He chuckled breathlessly, basking in the way your eyes nearly welled up with desperately pathetic tears. “Should get a fuckin’ reward for that, yeah?”
He didn’t give you much time to process before his cock was sliding in your mouth, choked moans pulled from his lips to hang in the air. You gasped, gagging around him.
“Shit—yeah, choke on it.” He let out a half-laugh, half-moan when you sucked him in your mouth, spit already sliding down your chin. You bobbed your head slowly, determined to fit every inch despite the burn of the stretch.
His hand brushed your hair out of your face, grabbing it all by the root and slowly guiding your head. Your nails dug into his thighs, strangled moans vibrating around his cock.
“C’mon, you can take it all,” His eyes silently asked permission, and when you moaned, he slammed your head down, fucking his cock deep into your throat. It burned so good you swore you could cum from sucking his dick alone.
“Ohh, fuck baby. Fuckfuckfuck—“ He groaned, bullying the back of your throat with every harsh thrust. “Don’t fuckin’ stop—Taking this dick so good,”
You never took your eyes off of him, tears spilling rapidly down your cheeks from the lack of oxygen, spit creating a small pool on your lap. He kept his eyes trained on you, his hand clutched tight in your hair.
“Gonna—fuck—gonna cum,”
You didn’t take Sukuna for someone who moaned, but good God, it was fucking beautiful. You’d do this every hour only to hear him.
He held your head down to his skin, spurting hot ropes down your throat—despite choking a little, you swallowed most of it, inhaling as much oxygen as you could through your nose.
His chest heaved, his eyes screwed shut as he twitched in your mouth. You pulled off with a lewd pop! licking whatever you could from your lips. Some of his cum landed on your chest, dipping between the valley of your breasts.
A small chuckle left him.
“Who knew your mouth was that fuckin’ good? Holy shit,”
He stared down at you, cupping your cheek with one hand. “Still ain’t done with ya’,”
That provoked goosebumps to form on your arms—but there was minimal time to react.
“‘Kuna—“ You whined, letting him help you up, he scooted over a few feet, sitting directly in front of the mirror you had propped up in the living room when you moved in. “What are you doing?” You muttered.
He dragged you to straddle his lap, your back facing him. You whined when his hand came crashing down on your ass, jerking away out of instinct.
“Gonna fuck you reaaaalll good, baby.” He whispered, peppering kisses along your shoulders. “Better than Toji did, better than anyone fuckin’ else did.”
Of course, he had to bring that up.
“Gonna go stupid on my cock—“
He breathed in sharply, lifting your hips until you were lined up. You took a deep breath—moaning at the intrusion of his tip. God, could you even do this?
You couldn’t be too sure, but he eased in slowly. “So fuckin’ tight, holy shit.”
He ran a hand up and down your back soothingly, despite himself. “Takin’ every inch like a good girl. That’s my baby, come on.”
You squirmed slightly, lowering yourself until your ass hit his pelvis. You breathed in sharply, hardly even exhaling at the sudden fullness.
“Oh my god—Oh my—“ You struggled, Sukuna’s large hands guiding your hips in small, slow strokes.
“Fuu—Fuck—She’s so tight f’me.” His hips snapped up suddenly, ripping a loud moan from your chest. “God—Did he fuck you this deep? Huh?” Sukuna’s hand kneaded your ass, bouncing you up and down slowly.
“No—No!” You cried out—He tugged your head back, forcing you to look into the mirror.
“Look at you, all pretty on my cock.” He groaned, the slow pace turning into a brutal one. You felt the wind get knocked out of you, the harsh sound of skin against skin intertwining with your moans.
“G’na take everything—“ Thrust. “I fuckin’—“ Thrust. “Give you.”
You nodded frantically.
“I will, I will—Oh my god, Sukuna—“ Your walls squeezed his cock tightly, meeting him half way with desperate bounces. “‘s so good! So good, ‘kuna!”
He chuckled, trailing off into a gasp. “Fuck, yeah. Every last inch, like a good lil’ slut.”
His thrusts were as mean as his words—each one pounding against your cervix. Your nails dug into his knees, scratching over his thighs. You hadn’t ever felt anything like this before. Not really, no.
“Whose pussy is this, angel?”
“Yours—Oh, god, it’s yours!” Tears formed in your eyes, trained on the lewd imagine displayed in the mirror.
“Yeah, she’s suckin’ me right in—Fuck, just like that, baby. Just fuckin’ like that.” His head flew back, loud grunts leaving his mouth. “No one can fuck this pussy like I can, yeah?”
“No—No one, only you, ‘kuna—“ You choked out. Before you knew it, he slid out, flipping you over with more force than necessary. He cursed under his breath when he got a good view of you.
“Yeah? Only me,” He chuckled, pressing your knees to your chest before pounding back in. The sheer size of him had you grasping for reality, but his punishing thrusts made you fumble.
His thumb found your clit, drawing rough circles—or so you thought.
“What’s the first letter? Hm?” He strained, his lips parting. His thumb traced something—being overcome by pleasure, it was hard to tell.
“S?—Fuck!” You whined, your toes curling. Sukuna was a cruel man.
“Good girl,” He pounded into you again. “Can you guess this one?”
“U—Right there!” Your head tilted back, fingers gripping the cushion like your life depended on it.
Thrust.
“What about this one?”
“K—“
Thrust.
He chuckled, pressing a hot kiss to your lips.
“Mm, this one?”
“U—“ You could try and put two and two together, but you were being fucked stupid right now, so it was beyond hard.
You weren’t even sure if you’d even be able to finish Sukuna’s poorly timed spelling bee.
He tugged another letter over your clit—but you really couldn’t guess when your eyes rolled back and when your mind busied itself with staying conscious.
“Sukuna! Fuck—Pleaseplease—Oh, God, please!” Your thighs shook, only met by a mean, mean thrust.
“Uhh, no, that was an N.” He snickered.
When he tugged the last letter, you felt the coil tighten.
“A—It’s—Its A!” You gasped, your vision spotted by white dots.
“Mm, correct. What does that spell?” Another cruel thrust. “Or are you too dumb on my cock to tell me?”
You choked for air, body twitching violently under his hold. “Sukuna—“
You managed to choke out, before your high crashed violently over you. You sobbed out, panting his name like it was some sort of sick prayer.
“That’s my girl,” He grunted, pulling out just to spill his seed all over your stomach. He chuckled, sweat beading on his eyebrow.
“My pussy,” He hummed, jamming two fingers inside of your sensitive walls.
“Too—Too sensitive,” You whined, gasping when he curled them. It hurt so fucking good. His other hand wrapped around your throat, pulling you up roughly. His lips pressed against yours. It was soft, not greedy.
He groaned against your mouth, sliding his tongue inside. His fingers pumped inside of you slowly, punctuating each thrust.
“Sukuna,” You weakly whined, your thighs threatening to close. He held them open with his arms, his fingers pressing so sweetly into that perfect spot.
You sobbed out his name, clutching onto his wrist.
“One more time,” He mumbled lazily, pressing kisses to your jaw. He licked a stripe up your neck, sucking a bruise right in the front.
“I’m about to—“ You gasped, your hips grinding against his fingers.
He chuckled, listening to the obscene squelching sound. It was like music to his ears.
He sighed when your high came back for the nth time. Pulling his fingers out and sucking all of your slick from them.
In a weird way—you felt cared about. Despite his mean words, even meaner actions, you don’t entirely think he’s ever fucked anyone like that. It was hard to believe.
“Do you do… this with anyone else?” You mumbled weakly, your head lolling to the side. He just hummed, getting up to put his pants and boxers back on.
“Nah, jus’ you. Lucky duck.” He snickered but you wondered if he was getting ready to leave.
“Don’t leave—“ You tried to catch yourself before embarrassment caught you, but when he looked at you like you grew two heads, embarrassment caught up real quick.
He scoffed, his pants not even buckled up yet. His head swung around as if anyone else heard those words fall from your lips.
“The fuck?” He sat back down, a dry chuckle filling the air. “Why the fuck would I leave? You think I’m that much of a dick? maybe I should leave since you think that lowly of me.”
You couldn’t believe his words, nor the childish threat.
“You’re notorious for leaving after having sex with people,” You deadpanned, but he just sighed and rolled his eyes as if you were wrong. (Maybe just this once you were.)
“Yeah, people, you’re not fuckin’ people, just a moron, apparently.” He mumbled sharply, you had to fight off the smile curling at your lips, letting him grab a rag and wipe you down. He was careful—unlike everything else you’ve seen about him.
Sukuna fucked like a god, but he wasn’t as cruel as one sometimes.
You watched his fingers move, his lips kissing every inch of you like he was on a mission. You grimaced when he tried to kiss your toes.
“Stay still, woman. Picky eaters are pussies.”
You scoffed, letting him go at it with your toes.
Disgusting.
After ten minutes of his lips worshipping you, you were fighting a lengthy battle with sleep. Yawning first, then every blink after that was slow and kept your eyes closed longer than they should’ve.
“Mm, go t’sleep.” He whispered, sliding your legs onto his lap. The moment you fell asleep, his shoulders relaxed.
He slid his phone out, his fingers slamming against the keys with more aggression than necessary.
Sukuna: Don’t let another woman breathe around me again.
Satoru: Well that’s kind of impossible, can’t do that unless they’re dead, Sukuna lol 😭
Sukuna: Um? Then kill them? I don’t care.
Satoru: What’s the occasion?
Sukuna stilled for a moment, watching your now-steady breaths. He sighed, taking his hoodie off.
He tried not to wake you, lifting your upper half up to tug his hoodie over your head. Once it was on, he shifted you around, placing your head on his lap.
It was a mystery as to how you didn’t wake up—but you didn’t. He thinks he overfucked you.
Oops.
He snickered, snapping a picture of you to send to Satoru.
Sukuna: I have been enlightened. Leave me alone.
Satoru: The pussy of enlightenment ?? LMFAO
Sukuna: I will find you.
He tossed his phone on the coffee table, staring up at the ceiling.
He didn’t know what he was doing, but he knew he didn’t want to stop.
———————————————————
!ONE MONTH LATER!
You had went to the bathroom for five fucking minutes. But yet again, five minutes it all it took.
Sukuna’s brother, Jin, wanted Sukuna to watch Itadori—it took you too long to realize Sukuna was an uncle, but when you did, it was so cute.
You and itadori got along, he was such a cute kid and he absolutely adored you. Sukuna, however was a terrible influence.
“Do a backflip,” He mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest—Itadori had never done a backflip before, for context.
Choso snickered next to Sukuna, as well as Satoru.
When Itadori attempted, the kid nearly broke his neck, and that was peak entertainment for Sukuna.
As soon as you heard the cries, you rushed out of the bathroom, buttoning your pants in the hallway. You sighed at the scene in front of you, little Itadori ran over to you, Sukuna looked like a deer in headlights, sinking into the couch and pouting.
“Sukuna,” You warned, picking Yuuji up. “What did you do?”
You quirked an eyebrow, hoisting the child on your hip. Your hands came to run soothing circles on his back until he stopped crying.
The other two boys next to Sukuna were hiding in their own clothes, maybe you should just hit all of them.
“I didn’t expect him to actually do a backflip,” He snorted at the memory, immediately straightening his face under your glare.
You scoffed, shaking your head and walking to the kitchen. You comforted Itadori as much as you could—but he nearly burst out into tears when Sukuna appeared behind you.
Under the child’s request, you sent him back to the living room with Satoru and Choso so you could properly berate Sukuna while your hands were busy chopping carrots. You’ve never heard of a child loving carrots, but Yuuji was a little odd.
Sukuna stood behind you, wrapping his hands around your hips. It took everything in you to not fold, even when he shamelessly bent you over and … started humping you? You don’t fucking know, but he was snickering, kneading your ass like he was a cat.
“Sukuna, stop it,” You grumbled, you didn’t entirely mean it, but before he could even stop, you spun around, pointing the knife at him.
“You need to be kinder to Yuuji.” You furrowed your eyebrows, and he rolled his eyes. “He’s just a baby.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Let me kiss you,” He leaned forward but you dodged it with a small huff, if you weren’t mistaken, you could hear the slightest whine in Sukuna’s throat, turned into a groan halfway out.
“Baby, don’t be like that. He’ll be fine,”
“Nope.”
“Baby,”
“No, Sukuna.”
“Please, angel?” The knife was still pointed at his face—so he hardly hesitated when he dragged it closer and licked the carrot juice off.
You didn’t know if you should be scared or turned on.
“Mm, you’re all sexy when you act like a mom,” He mumbled, his fingers wrapping around your throat to pull you closer. “Sexier when you point a knife at me, sue me if it bothers you.”
You folded, letting him drag your lips into a slow kiss. He groaned against your mouth, but you pulled back just in time for little Yuuji to wander in.
You tried to push Sukuna away, but he didn’t budge. Only allowing your eye to twitch.
“Your carrots are almost done, your uncle just wanted to help me.”
“She’s lying Yuuji, we were actually—“
You coughed loud enough to drown out whatever bullshit was going to come out of Sukuna’s mouth. Only leaving a pout on his lips.
Yuuji nodded, running out when Satoru called his name.
Sukuna sighed, propping his chin up on your shoulder when you turned around. He watched you chop the carrots, rubbing small circles on your hips.
“Baby,” He mumbled.
“Yes, ‘kuna?”
“I’m g’na make you a mom one day,” Your breath hitched at his words, glancing over at him. “After I make you my wife.”
——————————————————
He did just that 6 years later.
Yes, he almost cried when you walked down the aisle—he actually did cry when you gave birth, though.
Sukuna Ryomen was a man, not a god.
But for the first time in his life, he was okay with being nothing more.
He had heaven in his bed every night—heaven on his lips, heaven in his fingers. It neutralized the insatiable hunger for more.
Sukuna was a king, a god to everyone, he was detached—cold, but that was until you ripped him from his throne and made him feel.
Made him feel not the insatiable hunger for more, but the insatiable urge to love.
You made Sukuna feel more of a man than the god he swore he was.
———————————————————————————
i hope you guys enjoyed i’m literally so sleep deprived i spent fucking ions writing this lol let me know what i should do next i’ve entered the ultimate flow state
unfortunately, your pride did not survive the breakup. only your desperation and one very specific piece of knowledge did.
satoru gojo is weak to exactly one thing—your tits.
he loved them. worshipped them. he treated them like sacred artifacts.
you’ve seen this man stare down curses without blinking, only to lose all cognitive function the second you leaned forward.
so when he agrees to meet for “closure,” you dress accordingly.
your top is criminally low. borderline unethical. you check yourself in the mirror and nod once. this will either fix my relationship or embarrass myself in public.
the cafe you agreed to meet in is too bright, crowded, painfully normal. satoru is already there, slouched in his seat with sunglasses on indoors like a menace to society.
he looks up. then immediately looks down.
like he’s in some kind of trance. you smile victoriously to yourself.
“…wow,” he says. “you came prepared.”
you sit across from him and lean forward just a little. “prepared for what?”
he clears his throat as he tries to avert his blue eyes. he fails though, clearing his throat again. “for emotional manipulation,” he mutters. “specifically the illegal kind.”
you smile sweetly. “you said you wanted closure.”
“I meant conversation,” he says, peeling his eyes away with visible effort. “yes but whatever psychological warfare this is, it is not what I’m here for.”
you rest your chin in your hand. “and yet, you’re still here.”
he squints at you over the rim of his glasses. “you’re evil.”
“what, I thought you loved that about me.”
he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “god, I hate how predictable I am.”
you brighten. “so this is working?” you ask, cupping your breasts, making them bounce. he was entranced, of course.
he groans, slumping back in his seat. “I’m trying to have a mature breakup discussion and my brain is buffering.”
you grin. “so you missed me?” you asked devilishly.
“…no,” he says quietly. “absolutely not.” then he swallows hard. “you’re doing this on purpose.”
you smile, ignoring how his adam’s apple is bobbing up and down his throat as he tries not to look down at your chest. “so… how’ve you been?”
he stares for a long moment, jaw tight, sunglasses slowly sliding down his nose as he exhales in defeat.
“…fine, I’ll take you back,” he says flatly.
you blink as a smile creeps its way to your lips. “great! I was hoping you’d say that. I was starting to get scared that you’d at least let me beg you before you take me back.” you say cockily.
he stands abruptly, grabs his coat. “I am a simple man.”
as you walk past him, you catch him still staring.
you arch a brow. “eyes up here, toru.”
he scoffs, unapologetic. “hey. they looked at me first.”
you laugh, slipping your hand into his and kissing his cheek.
and just like that he takes you back after a very petty breakup.
he also takes you back to his apartment, “well I could never live without you and my emotional support squishy.” he says as he buries himself between your chest.
masterlist | taglist | tootsuro all rights reserved
summary ♡ You survive Sukuna’s frat party by sticking close to his side. Until his friends talk too much and he decides he’s had enough. The countdown to midnight happens upstairs instead, with his hands on you and his mouth claiming you long before the new year starts
tags ♡ modern au, new years eve, frat party, party to bedroom, kinda situationship, reader is loved, mentions of gojo and geto
disclaimers ♡ explicit intimacy, smut, fingering, oral (f recieving), p in v, mating press, slight praise, dirty talk, mutual desire, slight themes of possessiveness, small themes of social anxiety, mentions of drugs, alcohol consumption
You're pretty sure the music can be heard from the next town over. The bass shakes and vibrates the wooden floor and it makes your chest feel fuzzy and weird in that nauseating way.
Sukuna's frat, Sigma Psi, was packed considering it was a New Years Eve party. Bodies everywhere, heat and the smell of weed thick in the air, music swallowing every coherent thought. You're already questioning why you agreed to this.
You've been seeing Sukuna for a while, though you haven't really been to his frat all that much, let alone to any of his parties. In fact you can't even remember the last time you went to a party.
It's always too loud. Too much talking and yelling and people. It makes your skin crawl and you always really rather go home and rewatch your favourite shows instead or hide under the covers with your kindle in your hands.
Sukuna's hands find the small of your back before panic could start trickling up your spine.
“Breathe,” his voice brushes the shell or your ear, low, rough and somehow grounding in the way the music isn't.
You swallow hard. “I am.”
He scoffs, nudging you playfully in the shoulder. “No, you're doing that thing where you're contemplating running and jumping into oncoming traffic.”
He wasn't wrong. There's way too many people, too many eyes. You can practically feel yourself already shrinking and you've only been here for less than five minutes. You also made the mistake of coming way too late when the party was loud and filled to the brim with people.
Sukuna didn't do shrinking. Not at all. You're pretty sure it's impossible for him, given his tall stature and blasé attitude.
He slides in front of you, turning your body slightly so your back hits the wall, shielding you from the loud crowd with his own. He shoves his hands in his pocket and looks around, daring anyone to walk up to him within ten feet.
You tug lightly at his shirt. “You don't have to stand guard, you know. You can talk to your friends.”
“I do,” he says, sliding his gaze to yours, the faint smell of booze clinging to his breath. “Every time I look away, some drunk idiot decides they want to talk to you.”
You blink. “... They were just asking if we were going to sit down on the sofa.”
“They were also staring at your tits.”
“They were staring at the pizza behind me.”
There wasn't even any pizza near you and Sukuna clearly knows that with a lift of his eyebrow. He grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “don't care”, then hooked a finger underneath your chin so you'd meet his eyes.
“I told you I'd stay with you tonight, didn't I?” There was a softness in his tone that he would murder any of his friends if they ever heard him right now. “That's what we agreed on for you coming tonight. Let me be with you.”
Your chest tightens, in that warm, embarrassing, fluttery way.
He stares at you for half a beat. “Still overwhelmed?”
“A little.”
“Then,” he dips his head slightly, lips brushing against your cheekbones, barely there, barely real, but it sends the butterflies in your stomach in a frenzy. “Stay with me. I'll handle everything tonight.”
You exhale, the previous tension slipping off your shoulders and being replaced with the new shy feeling you usually get around him.
“You're acting all sweet.”
He rolls his eyes, but his thumb strokes a small pattern on the top of your right hand where no one can see. “Don't get used to it.”
“Oh, I'm already used to it,” You say playfully. “You've been nothing but sweet to me since we started talking.”
He huffs, but you didn't miss the faint curve of his lips tilting upwards.
“Come,” he says, lacing his fingers with yours and tugging you gently. “Let's meet Gojo. He's loud and fucking weird, but you'd like him.”
His palm is warm and solid, and the moment his palm swallows yours, a little bit of panic unclenches in your chest. He leads you through the throne of bodies and sounds, pulling you closer to him and guiding you like he's cutting a path through all the drunken chaos that's so alien to you.
The living room spills into the kitchen, where the music dips just enough that people don't need to scream to be heard.
The first thing you notice is a white haired guy with sunglasses on despite him being indoors and being night time. Not because he's making a scene—he's really not. He's leaning against the counter, long legs crossed at his ankles, a drink in his hand and the other waving animatedly to the guy you notice in front of him.
Long dark hair pulled back loosely, relaxed posture, amused smile that looks like it never melts away. He listens with an easy patience, not minding the other guys rambling, occasionally humming and nodding, like he's indulging a familiar habit rather than enduring it.
They seem quite… normal? Not at all how Sukuna was trying to make them out to be.
And then you hear a snippet of their conversation.
“-and I'm, like, just saying,” the white haired man exclaims, dramatically flailing his hand in the air, “if you're going to commit to serving punch that tastes like lighter fluid and paint thinner, you might as well label it as a public health hazard.”
The dark haired guy snorts. “Yet, you've drunk three cups of it.”
“And I don't know why! It tastes like ass and dread!” He pours the liquid down in the sink next to him. “Suguru, go get me another drink.”
“Excuse you, I'm not a dog that answers to your beck and call.” He replies, though, he does reach over to grab a can of Sprite for him.
That earns a soft laugh from you before you could stop it.
Both of them glance up from the sound.
The white haired man's eyes brighten from behind his round sunglasses. “Oh, hey! Didn't think you were real."
What?
Sukuna groans. “Don't.”
“Pay up, Satoru.” The dark haired man, you infer is Suguru, puts his hand out and makes some sort of gesture that makes the other guys fish out some cash from his back pocket.
Sukuna drags a hand down his face like he's already regretting this entire introduction. “For the love of God, tell me you two didn't-”
Satoru beams up at him despite losing money. “I absolutely did. Odds were terrible by the way. No one believed you were actually consistently seeing the same girl.”
Suguru holds his hand out further, “pay up.”
Satoru slaps a couple of bills into his palm. “For the record,” he looks at you, “I did say you were definitely real—I mean, he wouldn't stop talking about you. I just didn't think Sukuna here knew how to keep someone around for so long.”
You blink slowly, ignoring his contradiction to his previous statement, then glance up at Sukuna. “Am I… a special cryptid?”
“More like an urban legend,” Suguru says, finally meeting your eyes with a polite smile. “Satoru thought Sukuna was exaggerating.”
The white haired man shrugs. “He lies about everything. His GPA, his height, his emotional availability. This felt on-brand.”
“You're such a dickhead.” Sukuna says flatly and Satoru quickly quips him with a “language” and “wow, you have no tact to please the ladies”
...Whatever that means.
“So,” he leans in, curiosity glinting behind his tinted sunglasses. “What made you stick around for so long?”
“Careful.” Sukuna warns flatly.
“He's good to me.” You say pleasantly with a smile. “Oh! He also buys me my favourite cakes from the patisserie downtown.”
“Ah, that explains it.” Suguru raises a brow.
“Yeah, that would make me stay too.”
“Don't make it weird.” Sukuna mutters, but his hand settles more securely at your waist.
Suguru reaches behind him and pours some Sprite and something clear into a red cup. “Vodka sprite. Light pour. Consider it a peace offering.”
You hesitate, then take it. One sip, then another. It’s sharp but manageable.
“That’ll make the music less… offensive.”
“It still sounds like construction noise,” you say.
“Exactly,” Satoru points. “You get it.”
He leans closer to you again. “So, just so we're clear, you are aware you're dating the human equivalent of a warning label.”
You take a careful sip of the vodka sprite, the alcohol warming your chest almost immediately. “I read the fine print.”
Sukuna huffs, glaring pointedly at his friends. “Why are you like this?”
Because,” he says cheerfully, “it's very funny to see you whipped for someone.”
“I am not-”
“I mean, it's not like you weren't sneaking her in at night and walking her out early in the morning because you didn't want anyone to see her.”
Satoru slaps his arm in agreement. “Yeah! You're not slick, idiot. We can hear you both.”
Sukuna freezes.
Slowly—very slowly, he turns head to face the two of them. “You two are on very thin ice.”
Suguru only hums, unfazed. “Walls are thin. It is an old house.”
“And you,” Satoru adds, pointing at you accusingly and grinning wide, “are very loud.”
You choke on your drink, face heating up in embarrassment. “Oh my God.”
Sukuna groans like he's physically in pain, his large hand leaving your waist to pat your back to let all your choked coughs out. “I hate it here.”
“That's not what you said last week Thursday at two-forty seven am.” Satoru teases helpfully.
“Stop talking or I'll drag you out by your stupid sunglasses.”
“Ooo,” he grins, playfully fanning himself. “Protective too? This keeps getting better.”
You laugh despite yourself, and Sukuna slides his hand back to your waist and tightens.
Not painful or aggressive at all.
“Alright,” he says, voice low and fed up by his friends. “That's enough.”
“Aw,” Satoru grins like he's won the lottery or something, “are we being dismissed?”
He doesn't dignify him with a response, just waits for you to finish your drink.
“Wait! We were just bonding!”
“Goonight.” Sukuna says flatly, turning your sharply so your back is to his chest, and large arm hooking around your middle like a fucking steel bar. You gasp, more startled than uncomfortable as he guides you away from the kitchen.
“You good?”
You nod, cheeks still warm. “Yeah.”
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because if they say one more word, I’m throwing them off the balcony.”
Behind you, Satoru’s voice carries. “Have fun upstairs!”
Sukuna flips him off without looking.
Sukuna steers you through the kitchen and toward the stairs, his grip never loosening. Every step, he adjusts. Hand firm at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind you he’s there, guiding you, grounding you.
Your heart’s doing something stupid in your chest.
“You're-” You glance back, halfway up the stairs. “Are you manhandling me?”
“Yeah,” he replies easily, tugging you closer as if you aren't already flush against him. “You’re walking too slow.”
Your breath stutters. “You don't usually complain.”
“That was before they started running their mouths.”
The corridor upstairs is quieter, the bass from downstairs reduced to a distant thrum that vibrates through the floorboards. Sukuna's hand stays firm around yours as he leads you past several closed doors, each one marked with different name plates and decorations before stopping at the door at the end of the corridor for his room.
He unlocks the door and guides you inside, flicking on a warm lamp he bought after you made a comment about the cool light fixtures he has in his room gives you a migraine. Because of course he uses cool light and instead of warm like a psychopath.
It's surprisingly clean for a frat house bedroom. A large bed with dark sheets, a desk actually organized, weights in the corner, some band posters on the walls. It smells good too, the intoxicating mix of cologne and something uniquely him.
The door clicks shut behind you, the sound small, almost insignificant, but it feels final in an odd way. Like the rest of the house just got muted.
Sukuna doesn't give you time to turn around.
His hand slides from your waist to your hip and pulls, firm and sudden, until your back hits the door behind you with a soft thud. Not hard. Just enough to steal the breath from your lungs.
“Hey-” you start, half a laugh, half a gasp.
He crowds into your space without hesitation, one arm planting itself beside your head while the other stays firm on your hip, thumb pressing in like a quiet reminder that you’re exactly where he wants you.
“You okay?” he asks low, eyes scanning your face for any discomfort.
You nod, a little breathless and jittery. “Yeah- just surprised.”
“Good.” His thumb presses into your hip, grounding and borderline possessive. “Because I’ve been holding back all night.”
Your stomach flips.
“Those idiots,” he mutters, forehead dropping to yours, voice rough with restraint. “Running their mouths. Watching you. Talking about you like you’re not standing right there.”
“They weren't being rude.”
His hand tightens once, just once, before easing. Controlled. Deliberate.
“And then you,” he adds quietly, “standing there smiling like that.”
You swallow. “Is that… bad?”
His lips twitch, but his eyes are dark. Focused.
“No,” he says. “That’s why we’re upstairs.”
He gives you a small smile and he looks so absolutely beautiful it hurts. “Are you nervous?”
“A little,” you admit, because lying to Sukuna is always futile.
He reaches out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ears, his fingers resting against the delicate line of your jaw. “Of me? Or of what you want me to do to you?”
Your breath catches. "Both."
His laugh is low, dark, appreciative. "At least you're honest." His thumb traces your bottom lip, and your mouth parts instinctively. "I've been thinking about this all night. Watching you in that little outfit, seeing other guys look at you, wanting to drag you up here and undo your dress."
"Sukuna..." His name comes out breathy, needy.
He doesn't say much for a little bit, still revelling in the sight of you pressed between him and his door. “God… I've been holding back since you walked in.”
The kiss hits you before you can process that sentence.
It’s not gentle exactly, but it’s not rough either. All confidence and heat, like he knows exactly where to place his mouth to make your knees threaten to go weak beneath your weight. His lips move against yours. Slow at first, testing, then deeper when you tilt into him without thinking. He hums low in his chest, the sound vibrating straight through you.
His other hand slides up from your waist to your jaw,cradling you as he angles your head just right. You gasp softly into the kiss, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like you need something solid to hang onto.
“Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, barely pulling back. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
He kisses you again, shorter this time, breathier, like he’s trying not to lose control completely. His forehead rests against yours for a second, both of you breathing hard.
Then he grips your hand.
“Come here.”
He doesn’t give you time to argue. Just tugs you away from the door, guiding you backward until your calves hit the edge of the bed. You stumble, laughing softly, and he follows you down without hesitation, hands bracketing your hips as you land against the mattress.
The bed dips under his weight as he leans over you, eyes searching your face one more time.
"You tell me if anything's too much," he murmurs against your lips, his hand sliding under the hem of your dress. "You say stop, we stop. Understand?"
You nod, but he pulls back, his expression serious.
"Words, baby. I need words."
"I understand," you breathe. "I'll tell you. I promise.”
"That's my girl." He rewards you with another searing kiss, his hands surprisingly gentle as he undresses you, like he's unwrapping something precious. When you're finally bare beneath him, he sits back just to look at you with an intensity that makes you a bit nervous.
“Don't,” he catches your wrist before they could fly up to cover your burning face. “Don't hide for me. You're fucking gorgeous.”
Heat floods your cheeks, but the way he's looking at you, like you're the only thing in the world that matters, makes you relax into the sheets.
He leans down, pressing kisses along your collarbone, down between your breasts, across your stomach. Each touch of his lips sends sparks skittering across your skin. "Gonna take my time with you," he murmurs against your hip. "Gonna make you feel so good. Is that okay?"
"Yes," you breathe, your fingers threading through the pink hues of his hair.
His mouth finds your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he takes it between his lips, sucking gently. The sensation makes you arch into him with a gasp, and you feel him smile against your skin.
"Sensitive here?" he asks, his hand coming up to palm your other breast, thumb brushing over the peak. "Good to know."
He pours attention on your chest until you're squirming beneath him, soft whimpers escaping your throat. Then he's kissing his way down your stomach, his hands spreading your thighs apart.
"Sukuna-" Your voice comes out shaky, nervous.
He pauses, looking up at you from between your legs, his expression softening. “Say the word,” he says, voice low. “I'll stop.”
"No, I just-" You bite down your bottom lip. "I'm nervous."
"I know." He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, the sharp points of canines grazes your skin as his hands stroke soothingly along your legs. “That’s why I’m right here.” He leans in, mouth brushing your thigh, not rushed, not hesitant either. When he speaks again, it’s closer, rougher, but sure. “Let me make you feel good."
When his mouth finally finds you, the first touch of his tongue makes you cry out, your hips twitching involuntarily. He holds you steady, one arm banded across your hips as he works you with his mouth. Licking, sucking, his tongue doing things that make your vision blur and your heart hammering against your ribs.
"Oh god," you whimper, your hands fisting in his hair. "Sukuna, that's-"
"That's it," he encourages, pulling back just enough to speak. “Don’t hold back. Let me hear it. I need to know what gets that reaction out of you.”
He seals his lips around your clit and sucks, and the sensation is so intense you nearly come apart right there. But he pulls back, keeping you on that edge, building the pleasure slowly.
"Doing so good for me," he praises, sliding a thick finger inside you, and the stretch makes you choke out a broken gasp. "So wet, so perfect. Think you can take another?"
"Yes," you manage, and he adds a second finger, curling them just right as his mouth returns to your clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter.
"That's my girl," he murmurs, his fingers pumping steadily, stretching you, preparing you. "So fucking beautiful like this. Love watching you fall apart for me."
You love this version of Sukuna. The one that only ever shows up in the quiet and just with you.
Around company, he’s all sharp edges and indifference, posture loose like nothing ever really touches him. He doesn’t soften for anyone. Doesn’t bend. Doesn’t bother explaining himself. And you’ve always liked and kind of envied that about him. The way he exists so solidly in himself, unbothered by expectations or noise.
But here, with you bare and beneath him and his body close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him, that edge turns into something else.
He’s still rough around the edges. Hands firm, grip sure, presence overwhelming in the best way, but there’s a quiet attentiveness threaded through it. The way he watches your face instead of your body. The way his hand presses at your hip like he’s grounding himself as much as you. The way his voice drops when he speaks to you, like the world doesn’t get to hear it.
You feel it most in the pauses too. The moments where he doesn’t rush, doesn’t take, doesn’t assume. Where he leans in just enough to make your breath hitch and then waits, eyes dark, like he wants to see if you’ll close the distance yourself.
He adds a third finger, and the stretch is more intense, but he works you patiently, his mouth never stopping its attention on your clit until you're trembling, right on the edge.
"Sukuna, please-" You're not even sure what you're begging for anymore.
"Come for me," he commands, his voice rough. "Come on my fingers, baby. Show me how good I make you feel."
His fingers curl against that sweet spot inside you, his tongue flicking smoothly, and you shatter with a cry, your body clenching around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through you. He works you through it, gentling his touch as you come down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs.
"So perfect," he murmurs, slowly withdrawing his fingers. “Always like this for me.” His hand stays firm, possessive. “Stay with me. I’m not done yet.”
You nod, still breathless, watching as he finally strips off his shirt and his jeans and his boxers. He's big—bigger than you expected when you first had sex with him—and the flutter of nervousness returns every time you see it.
He catches your expression and leans down to kiss you softly. "Easy,” he murmurs. “I’m not rushing this.” His hand stays firm, steady. “You’re ready, but I’m taking my time with you.”
"Okay," you whisper.
He reaches for a condom from his nightstand, rolling it on, and then he's positioning himself between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. "Look at me," he says softly. "I want your eyes on me.”
He pushes in slowly, and even with all the prep, the stretch is intense. Your fingers dig crescent moons into his shoulder blades as he fills you inch by inch, his jaw clenched with restraint.
"Breathe," he reminds you, pausing halfway. "You're doing so good. Taking me so well. Just breathe for me."
You do, and he slides in deeper, until he's fully seated inside you. The fullness is overwhelming, but not painful. Just intense, perfect.
"Fuck," he groans, his forehead dropping to yours. "You feel incredible. So tight, so perfect. You're okay?"
"Yes," you manage to whimper out. "You can move."
He starts with slow, deep rolls of his hips, letting you adjust to the feeling of him. "That's it," he praises. "Just like that, baby. You're taking my cock so well."
But slow isn't enough. You need more. "Harder," you beg. "Please, I can take it."
Something shifts in his expression, that careful control cracking. He pulls out almost completely, then drives back in with a thrust that makes you cry out and feel all dizzy and dazed. "Like that?"
He hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half, and the new angle makes him seep so much deeper. The position leaves you pinned beneath him, bodies locked together as his thrusts grow harder, deeper, impossible to not thoroughly feel.
"Is this what you need?" he asks, voice low and rough, and his pace relentless now. "Need me to fuck you properly? Need me to fill you up?"
"Yes-" the word tears from your throat as he drives into you, the bed frame creaking with each harsh thrust. "Oh God, yes-"
"That's it, take it," he praises, one hand gripping your thigh while the other braces beside your head. "Taking my cock so well, such a good fucking girl for me. You feel incredible, so perfect-"
His words make everything more intense, and you're already embarrassingly close again, your body wound tight. "Sukuna, I'm- I can't-"
"Yes you can," he encourages, his thumb finding your oversensitive clit and circling with just the right pressure. "Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart for me again."
The combination of his words, his touch, the relentless drive of his hips, it's too much. You shatter with a cry of his name, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crash through you, even more intense than the first time.
"Fuck, that's it, just like that," he groans, his rhythm faltering as your orgasm triggers his own. "So good, you're so fucking good-" He buries himself deep with a guttural moan, his body shuddering as he comes.
For a long moment, neither of you moves, both breathing hard, sweat-slicked and trembling. Then carefully, he lowers your legs and pulls out, disposing of the condom before collapsing beside you and immediately pulling you into his arms.
"You okay?" he murmurs, his mouth brushes your cheek with each word. "Did I push too far?”
You shift closer instinctively, still catching your breath. “No,” you say, steady despite how spent you feel. “It was good. Exactly right. Like usual.”
A quiet huff leaves him, not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief. His arm tightens around you, firm and anchoring. “Good,” he mutters. “That’s what I thought.”
His hand stays at your hip, thumb pressing in like a reminder, not gentle but not rough either. Possessive in that unmistakably Sukuna way, like he’s claiming space, not asking for it.
“Don’t get it twisted,” he adds after a beat, voice rough against your ear. “I don’t do this for just anyone.”
“I know,” You smile faintly against his chest. “I figured after talking to your friends downstairs.”
He flicks a finger against your forehead, barely hurting you. “Don't bring up other men just after I made you come twice, silly girl.”
There was no heat in his words, just the familiar bluntness you grew accustomed to like.
You huff a quiet laugh, face warm and glowing post-orgasm. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know,” His fingers, still wet with your slick, presses once at your hip again, grounding. “Just reminding you.”
You tilt your head back to look at him. He’s watching you through half-lidded eyes, expression lazy, satisfied, but alert in that way he always is, like he’s clocking every little movement you make.
You suddenly feel shy under the weight of it. “You’re staring.”
“Yeah,” he says simply. “You gonna live?”
You roll your eyes playfully, tucking your face into his chest. “Barely.”
A low huff rumbles out of him. Amused. “Dramatic.”
Downstairs, the noise swells, reminding you that you're at a New Years Eve party. Cheering, yelling, someone very off-key starting to count early and getting booed into silence.
You freeze. “Wait.”
His brow lifts. “What.”
You lift your head again, listening. “That’s the countdown. I think they’re about to start.”
“And?” His arm tightens slightly, like he already knows where this is going and isn’t impressed.
“You're…” You hesitate, then mumble, “You’re supposed to kiss at the start of the year.”
You shift, just a little, bracing a hand on his chest like you might sit up.
He doesn’t let you.
Sukuna’s arm bands around you and pulls you right back down, firm and unyielding, pressed flush to his chest. “Don’t move,” he mutters, voice low and certain.
“But-”
“Shh.”
The muffled counting reaches ten.
Nine.
Eight.
His hand slides up your side, not roaming, just holding you there, like he’s anchoring you exactly where he wants you.
Three.
Two.
One-
The cheer downstairs explodes.
At the same moment, he tilts your chin up and kisses you. Slow, sure, unhurried. No rush. No spectacle. Just his mouth on yours. Claiming the moment like it was always his to take, slightly tasting yourself from his tongue.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests briefly against yours.
“Happy New Year,” he says.
Your heart feels stupidly full and fluttery.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Happy New Year.”
I think im getting better at writing smut (funny tho as my libido is nowhere to be found siiighhhhh)
happy new year! may 2026 bring love and happiness to you<3
synopsis: Campus golden boy. Physics prodigy. Gojo Satoru. Your constant Tuesday night walk partner. You know all his smiles, his laugh, and the way his knee brushes yours under the library table. You also know you're in love with him. Senior year shatters the routine as Satoru's world expands into a future that doesn't seem to have a place for you.
tags: college/university AU, physics major!gojo, fratjo, friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, pining, jealousy, soft gojo satoru
word count: 10.4k
creds: dividers from cafekitsune, gojo art from pinterest i can't find the op (T_T)
You can’t decide if you should thank fate or curse it for the friends you ended up with in university.
It was early in freshman year, and you had seen the post on the university’s blog page where prospective freshmen can advertise their personalities to find friends. The post was simple, charming, and sheepish.
Gojo Satoru: hi im Satoru! incoming physics major because i like questions that dont have easy answers＼(≧▽≦)／im also planning to join some clubs maybe even a frat? i am open to ideas or warnings lol
i make pretty decent pancakes, eat an alarming amount of sugar, and have been told my laugh is too loud for quiet places. message me if u also have no idea what you’re doing but kinda excited to not know it together. or if u know where the library is lol ʕ •̀ ω •́ ʔ
You’d read it, a strange flutter in your stomach, an audible giggle leaving your lips. You already know who he was, well, not personally, but by campus osmosis. Satoru was the guy from welcome week orientation who seemed to know everyone already. The one with the boyish smile, already rumored to have secured a bid for a top fraternity. He was exactly the kind of boy who your high school self had carefully avoided, the kind who existed in a bright, noisy world that felt miles away from your quiet library corner.
You closed the tab. You hadn’t posted your own ‘looking for friends’ ad, the thought of even drafting a post made your palms sweat. You resolved to find your people the old-fashioned way, the way you wanted: through proximity. Your person, it turned out, was your randomly assigned roommate, Shoko, also a pre-med biology major. The day after you read his post, Shoko bounded into your shared dorm room, her lab coat still on and her eyes sparkling. Although you have only known her for a week or two, you knew that sparkle came with a scheme.
“Get up. Now. We’re getting dinner off-campus.” You looked up from your biology textbook, completing the reading you both had to due before tomorrow’s lecture.
“Since when do we have money for off-campus dinners?” You raised your brows.
“Since I made a new friend in my History class who’s terrible at knowing monumental dates but has a car and a generous wallet.” She was already rifling through your closet, tossing a sweater at you.” “He’s bringing his roommate. It’ll be fun. A double date, but like, a friend one. No pressure.”
You groaned, but a part of you was relieved. You didn’t have it in you to finish the remaining pages of the reading, and you already felt behind with making friends, feeling as if everyone had already settled into their respective friend groups. An hour later, you were squished into the backseat of a slightly beat-up sedan, Shoko in the passenger seat, chatting animatedly with the driver, Suguru.
“This is my roommate,” Shoko introduced you, gesturing over her shoulder to you as you stared out the window, trying to calm your social jitters.
“Nice to meet you!” Suguru said, catching your eye in the rearview mirror with a kind smile while a strand of long, dark black hair fell from his half-up bun.
“And his roommate,” Shoko continued, motioning her head to the right, you followed the direction, finally glancing at the boy beside you. You froze. Leaning against the window, scrolling on his phone with a faint, familiar smile on his face, was him. The boy from the blog post. Satoru.
You can’t decide if you should thank fate for its precision or curse it for its cruel sense of humor. One day, you’re anonymously admiring a witty blog post from a boy in a bright, distant orbit. The next day, that same boy is sitting across from you in a sticky diner booth, stealing your fries and dissecting the campus shuttle schedule with a focus usually reserved for quantum physics.
Fate hadn’t just introduced you. It had embedded him, neatly and irrevocably, into the very center of your university life. It felt less like a meeting and more like an ambush, a charming, grinning ambush that left you equal parts thrilled and completely disarmed.
But your feelings about fate didn’t matter. Not when the four of you have been tied to the hip since that night during Freshman year. Now you four have meals at the diner every other week and ritual Tuesday night library study sessions. You always arrived first and claimed the same square table tucked in the back corner of the fourth floor, the one with the view of the old oak tree. Satoru would arrive exactly seven minutes later, every time, smelling like the crisp night air and faintly of his frat’s communal fabric softener. He’d slide into the chair across you with a soft, weary sigh. He pulls out his quantum problem sets, and without a word, his hand would dart out and pluck the blue highlighter–the one with Cinnammoroll printed on it– from your pencil case. For the next two hours, the world narrowed to the pool of lamplight on your shared table. Shoko and Suguru would walk in together, having a debate about something obscure. It was warm, constant, and familiar. Home.
You never expected you’d fall into this routine, or even know Satoru as much as you do now in your senior year. Not as the fraternity social chair, but the quieter, more real version of him. To you, he wasn’t the guy everyone on campus seemed to know. He was just Satoru. Satoru, who chewed on the end of his pen when he was stuck on a thermodynamics problem, who muttered equations under his breath, and whose knee would inevitably brush against yours under the table.
You avoided thinking about these feelings you had for him. But you felt them, and you couldn’t avoid it. The chaos and comfort you felt in the way he’d slide his computer to you without a word, a silent request for your approval on an essay. Or when he brings you your boba order, just the way you like it, without you having to ask. The feeling was very much present in the lingering moments after Shoko and Suguru finally caved and left for the night, when the silence deepened, and the space between you two felt charged.
After an hour more of studying, you both finally step out of the stuffy atmosphere of the library and into the night. The campus is quieter, the path lit by old street lamps that cast long shadows.
He’s less animated now, his shoulders looser. You fall into casual conversation, he tells you about his professor who believes in him a little too much, and you tell him about your lab partner who can’t do a titration to save her life.
“Sometimes I think I picked physics because the rules make sense,” he says, hands in his pockets. “Forget the chaos, just give me an equation, you know?”
“Do the equations de-chaosify?” you ask. He glances at you, a soft, tired smile on his face, the warm yellow streetlight shining on his white hair, turning it golden. “Not even a little.”
He always walks to your door, telling you that since you and Shoko live in different apartments now, he doesn’t trust you walking alone, even though his frat house is quite literally on the opposite side of campus. You linger on the steps, the silence between you feeling heavier, sweeter than it did in the library.
You tried not to overthink what these walks meant. For your heart’s sake.
However, one particular night, after a hard organic chemistry exam, you’re shivering slightly in your thin sweater. “You’re cold,” he says, and without thinking, he shrugs off his zip-up and hands it to you. It smells like him– fabric softener, his cologne, and something uniquely Satoru–and is several sizes too big.
“Thanks,” you murmur, slipping it on, trying to ignore the fact that your heart is beating so hard that it might bruise your ribs. So much for not overthinking. The hoodie drowns you, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips.
He looks at you, his eyes soft in the dim streetlights. “Cute,” he whispers so quietly you almost missed it. Then he clears his throat.
As you approach your apartment porch, he smiles, “Get some sleep, yeah?” while softly rubbing the top of your head. You tuck the memory of this particular Tuesday night, the memory of Satoru- the version of Satoru meant only for you- into the back of your mind, a bittersweet souvenir and reminder for the day this all inevitably ends and he’s no longer yours to accompany you in your walks home. And you let yourself overthink–just this once–that these walks meant as much to him as they do to you.
You and Satoru, to everyone else, including Shoko and Suguru, are just two parts of a four person friend group that started in a diner. But in the quiet heart of Tuesday nights during your walk home, you were a universe of two, orbiting a shared, unspoken center of gravity. It was the most comfortable friendship you’d ever had, and the most terrifying, because you knew, deep in your bones, that you were standing on a fragile line. And you had no idea if you wanted the ground to stay still, or to finally, catastrophically, give way.
You just hadn’t realized that the first tremor-the first subtle, seismic shift-would feel so mundane.
It was another Tuesday. You were in your usual seat, the Cinnamoroll highlighter placed deliberately on your side of the table. It was nearing 7 minutes after 7pm, but this time no Satoru in sight.
At 7:22pm, your phone lit up on the wooden surface, a notification in your 4 person groupchat.
toru (≧ x ≦) : shit guys sorry. got roped into a senior welcome thing at the house with some of the sorority chairs. can’t escape. (｡•́︿•̀｡) rain check?
You stared at the message. Rain check? For Tuesday? Tuesday wasn’t something you checked for. Tuesday was a law of nature. It was natural. Thankfully, though other variables followed the equation like usual, Shoko and Suguru arrived together a few minutes later, dropping their bags with their usual synchronized chaos. Shoko reads the message over as you flip your phone towards her.
“Ugh. Figures,” she said, pulling out her genetics textbook. “Those senior mixers are a drag, but he's social chair.”
“More quiet for us,” Suguru grinned, already booting up his laptop.
But it wasn’t quieter. It was just empty. The table felt unbalanced as you stared at the Satoru-less view in front of you, expecting to see the familiar slope of his broad shoulders, the way he’d run a hand through his white hair, the shine in his blue eyes. Your stomach fluttered with an uncomfortable feeling, cursing yourself for always finding comfort in the routine, or in him.
However, the feeling flew away when at 7:07pm the next Tuesday, Satoru arrives, smelling of his frat’s communal fabric softener and an apology. “I owe you boba,” he said softly, sliding into his chair. For a split second, everything snapped back into place, Shoko and Suguru walking in a few minutes later.
But at 7:27pm, 20 minutes later, his phone buzzed 4 times. He glanced at it, and a small, unfamiliar smile touched his lips, polite and warm. You knew all his smiles. This one wasn’t for you, or for Shoko and Suguru’s dumb jokes.
“Who’s that?” Suguru asked without looking up, typing rapidly on his keyboard.
“Hmm? Oh, just someone from the pre-law society. She’s sending me a link to an alumni panel.” He tapped out a quick reply. ‘thanks suzy!’, the text bubble read as he showed everyone at the table.
Suzy. The name landed in the quiet space between you all. “Since when are you pre-law?” Shoko asked, intrigued.
“I’m not. But the guy she’s connecting me with works at an aerospace thing. It’s for my grad school apps.” He said it so casually, as if ‘grad school apps’ and ‘Suzy’ were established stars in your group’s solar system.
The following Tuesday, he was physically present, but his focus was splintered. He was reviewing a shared document with his Physics400 partner, Kimie, her comments glowing in a neat, precise blue on his screen. He had shown you them to make sure his tone was perfect. He’d frown, type a response, a silent conversation happening in a world you couldn't access.
“Can you pass the highlighter?” you asked, breaking a long silence, gesturing to the Cinnamoroll highlighter beside his laptop. You had other highlighters with other Sanrio characters on them that you could use, but you didn’t let that stop you from asking him for the blue highlighter back.
He didn’t hear you, eyes glued to a complex feedback loop from Kimie. “Earth to Satoru,” Suguru said, snapping his fingers.
He blinked, looking up. “Sorry. What?”
“The highlighter,” you repeated, your voice softer than you intended.
“Right, sorry.” He handed it to you, his gaze already drifting back to the screen. “Just need to settle this one thing with Kimie about the simulation parameters.”
Shoko and Suguru exchanged a look, then went back to their work, accepting this new version of the night. But you couldn’t. The shared, focused silence you and Satoru built was now perforated by the silent presence of Kimie, Suzy, and the ghost of a Miya, the sorority philantrophist chair he’d mentioned in passing from the senior welcome social.
He was still your best friend, sure. But he was also becoming a person with a foot in another world, a world of future plans, professional networks, and partnerships that were practical instead of comfortable and goofy Tuesday study sessions. And you were left behind in the old world, holding a Cinnamoroll highlighter and wondering if you were now just a part of his past, while all these new names were building his future.
You shake the thought away. It’s senior year, of course, he would be busy planning post grad plans. You had no reason to be sad or angry. Your daily walk home still happened after tonight’s study session, but it felt as if you were losing the pull you had on him, and that idea made you sad.
It’s a Thursday, not a Tuesday. But you’re still at your corner in the library, drowning in lab reports, stressed, and sweet treat-deprived.
Your phone buzzes.
toru (≧ x ≦): basement of the library. now. emergency!!!!
Your heart lurches. You scramble to collect all your pens, feeling the side eye of other burnt-out college students as your supplies clatter. You finally collect all your belongings, scrambling to walk down the stairs of the library and into the basement.
To your surprise, you find him leaning against a wall next to the library cafe, holding two boba teas. He grins, holding one out to you. “Emergency treat?”
“You scared me,” you say, furrowing your brows, but you can’t stop your hand from taking the drink. It’s your usual order, your favorite flavor, and toppings. He remembers.
“I was in a seminar in the building and saw the place was still open,” he says, nodding toward the cafe’s kiosk. “Thought you could use it,” he shrugs, like it was just an afterthought.
“How did you know I was in here?”
He taps his temple, “I’m psychic.” Then he laughs at your expression. “Shoko may have mentioned it. Also, it’s Thursday, you’re always at the library on Thursdays.” The fact that he knows your schedule this semester, that he sought you out on a non-Tuesday just to bring you a drink, makes something warm and dangerous bloom in your chest. It makes you feel important.
“Want to sit?” he asks, gesturing to a small table. “I can pretend to understand your biology notes for a few minutes.” You sit. Your shoulders touch. He doesn’t move away. Maybe your pull didn’t loosen at all.
Shoko had insisted on the full transformation. “We are going to look so good it’ll be a public service,” she declared, wielding a straightener like a weapon. By the time you, Shoko, and Suguru piled into an Uber, you barely recognized yourself in the window’s reflection.
Satoru’s frat was a throbbing beast of bass and colored lights. It was a post-midterm celebration, but also to build traction for their upcoming fundraiser. Luckily, with Satoru’s reputation and the number of times the last few years he had begged you three to attend every party, you were allowed to enter the frat pretty quickly. Although this wasn’t your first time at one of his frat’s parties, you still stuck close to Shoko and Suguru, not feeling fully comfortable in this type of setting.
You were barely halfway into the drink Shoko had mixed up for you before you saw him. Satoru was across the room, near the makeshift DJ setup. He looked devastatingly at home, laughing with a group of frat brothers. He was in his element, the flashing LED lights colored his hair, and an easy smile on his lips.
Then his eyes found yours.
The trajectory of his gaze was a physical thing; it cut through the crowd, the noise, the bright lights. His smile, which had been general and bright, shifted– it softened, deepened, became specific– for you. He excused himself from his group and started making his way over. Every step he took made your heart stutter into a frantic rhythm.
“Hey,” he said, arriving in your orbit. His eyes swept over you, giving you the same look he does right when he drops you off on your porch. “You look- You look good.”
“O-Oh. Thanks, Shoko insisted on the full beat,” you managed to let out a giggle, ignoring the lump in your throat. He stayed by your side, well, beside all three of you. He introduced you three to a stream of people, the ones working with him for Greek life activities that you still didn’t understand. He brought you water when he saw you eyeing the too-sweet punch– that he obviously had a say in. During a fast song, he grabbed your hand and Shoko’s, pulling you both into the dancing crowd, his laugh loud and free. For a perfect, suspended hour, you weren’t on the sidelines. You were at the center, with him. The universe of two had expanded to fill the entire, pounding room.
Then, a guy from your biochemistry class, Koji, appeared at your elbow. “Hey! Fancy seeing you here,” he yelled over the music. He was nice, smart, and easy to talk to. You fell into a conversation about the past midterm, a safe, familiar topic. You shifted your eyes around, wondering where Satoru went, but you shrugged the thought away- it was his frat party, and he was social chair, of course, he would be busy.
You were laughing at one of Koji’s jokes when you saw Satoru across the room. You looked over. His gaze on Miya, the sorority philanthropy chair, her hand on his forearm, pulling him down to hear her over the loud music. He leaned in, his lips pulling into a smile he had never before saved for you. The warmth of the moment turned to ash in your mouth. Koji was still talking, but you couldn’t hear him. You just watched as Satoru and Miya walked toward the quiet hall leading to a different room, her still talking, him nodding. They looked Capable. Connected. Perfect.
Shoko materialized, looping her arm through yours. “You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“I’m fine,” you said, forcing a smile. “Just… loud.” You fell into light conversations with her, Suguru, and Koji. You spent the rest of the party anchored to them, the glittering sense of belonging completely gone. You’d gotten a taste of the spotlight at Satoru’s side, only to watch him walk out of it with someone else, for a reason that mattered more than dancing. You hated yourself for being greedy, for wanting more of his attention, for wanting more of him in general.
When you, Shoko, and Suguru finally left, you felt the cold night air hit your skin, you didn’t look back at the house, and you walked away without saying goodbye to Satoru. He was far too busy talking and dancing with Miya in a way that made your stomach twist so bad that you couldn’t blame it on the alcohol. The memory of his smile, the feeling of his hand in yours on the dance floor, you filed it away carefully, right next to his zip-up and the quiet walks home. Another bittersweet souvenir for the museum of things that could have been, if only your gravity had been a little stronger to hold him.
After the party, a strange, numb quiet settled over your friendship with Satoru. It wasn’t a fight. It was the opposite. The Tuesday sessions continued, but they felt like a relic you were both dutifully preserving just cause it had been a routine. He was there, but he wasn’t your Satoru. He stopped grabbing the Cinnamoroll highlighter, he didn’t slide his laptop over for your opinion, and when his knee brushed yours under the table, he moved it away.
You hated it. It felt like a black hole had opened up in the space between your usual chairs, swallowing all the easy words and quiet laughter.
Shoko noticed. “What’s going on with you and Satoru?” she asked one day, sliding a matcha latte across the café table to you. Her voice was softer than usual, stripped of its usual teasing edge. “Did you finally have a fight about which element is the best?”
You stirred your drink, watching the green swirl. “We’re fine.” You shrugged, the movement feeling stiff and unconvincing.
“Bullshit.” Shoko didn’t blink. “When I brought up the party, you changed the subject. And last Tuesday, the silence between you was making Suguru, and I want to rip our heads out.” She leaned forward, her eyes missing nothing. “You’re my best friend. And he’s one of my best friends. So talk.”
The directness was a relief and a terror. You swallowed hard, your gaze fixed on the table’s wood grain. “It’s nothing he’s doing wrong. It’s just… he’s moving. And I’m standing still. And I don’t know how to be in his life if I’m not moving with him.” Shoko was quiet for a long moment. “You know,” she said finally, her voice gentle, “Suguru mentioned that Satoru turned down a winter break trip with some of the brothers and the sororities. Said he already had plans.”
Your head snapped up. “He didn’t tell me that.”
“I know,” Shoko gave you a sad, knowing smile. “Because his ‘plans’ were probably just… being around. In case you were around and not going home again this break. He’s terrible at this, you know. The big feelings stuff. He’d rather solve a thousand quantum problems than admit one vulnerable thing.”
A lump formed in your throat. “He doesn’t need to admit anything. He’s building a whole future. I see it. It’s got other people in it. People who make sense there.”
“People like who? The sorority girls?” Shoko guessed, her eyebrow arched.
You nodded, the admission pulling another truth up with it, one you’d never said out loud. The words tumbled out, raw and quiet. “And I just don’t make sense there. In his future. I’m not a networking contact who knows aerospace people or a smart physics partner. I’m just… me. And I like him, Shoko. Like, like him. I have for a while. Since before that diner trip! And I’ve never said it because it was easier to just be his friend than to risk being nothing. But now I feel like I’m becoming nothing anyway, and I’m just confused. And sad. And really, really tired of pretending I’m not.”
There. It was out. Hanging in the café air between you, fragile and terrifying. Shoko didn’t look shocked. She didn’t gasp or lean in. She just looked at you, her expression a soft mix of affection and exasperation. She took a long, slow sip of her matcha.
“Oh, thank god,” she sighed, placing her cup down with a definitive click. “I was starting to think I’d have to hit you over the head with my textbook before you’d admit it.”
You blinked. “What?”
“You’re stupid,” she stated plainly, a grin finally breaking through. “Funny, brilliant, and my best friend. But so, so stupid. And so is he. You two have been doing this weird, painful mating dance for years. The rest of us were just waiting for the music to stop.”
“It’s not a dance,” you protested weakly, your face heating. “It’s just complicated.”
“It’s not complicated. He looks at you like you hung the moon in a sky he’s trying to map out. You look at him like he is the moon. You borrow his clothes, you have a shared custody agreement over a highlighter, and you have a standing weekly date you call ‘walking home together.’ The only thing complicated about it is how hard you’re both working to ignore it.”
Her words, so blunt and sure, carved through the confusion like a scalpel.
“But… the other girls. The future stuff.”
“Are you listening?” Shoko leaned forward. “He’s terrified of the future. So he’s doing what he knows: planning, connecting, solving. He’s putting up guardrails. But none of that means anything if the person he wants waiting for him on the other side doesn’t know she’s supposed to be there.”
You stared into your matcha, the whirlpool of green mirroring the chaos in your chest. “What if I get to the other side and he’s not there?”
Shoko’s smile turned gentle. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re not looking. The future he’s scared of is a future without you in it. My professional diagnosis, as your friend and an observer of human nonsense, is that you two need to talk. Actually talk. Not in library whispers. Not over boba. Just talk.”
You did talk to him. Just not productively. Or in a way that helped your situation. At all.
The next Tuesday, you walked into the library and felt Satoru’s gaze lock onto you the second you rounded the corner. You were always first to the study sessions, but the constant changes between you two didn’t shock you anymore.
“Hey,” you said, sliding into your chair. Your voice sounded normal. Good.
“Hey.” His was tighter. He watched as you pulled out your notebook, a plain white one, not the one he’d doodled a terrible cartoon atom on last semester. “You, uh, you weren’t at your spot on Thursday.”
The observation was casual, but the edge in his voice wasn't. You looked up, meeting his eyes. They were searching yours, a faint line of tension between his brows.
“Oh. Yeah, Koji from my biochem section had a study group. We went to that new place by the engineering quad.” The name, Koji, landed between you like a physical object. Satoru’s jaw ticked. He leaned back in his chair, the casual posture at odds with the intensity in his eyes. “Koji. Right. He’s always at parties cycling through all the girls.”
“So? He’s just a guy in my class.” Your brows furrowed at the dig at Koji. You knew of Koji’s reputation, and you weren’t planning to build a deeper relationship with him anyway. However, you were confused as to why Satoru would have a problem with that in the first place.
“You’ve been hanging out with him a lot.” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation, flat and cold. A spark of defensive anger flared in your chest. You gestured vaguely at his laptop, still glowing with what you assumed was a chat log with Kimie’s. “And you’ve been ‘hanging out’ with Kimie or Miya a lot. What’s the difference?”
“The difference,” he said, his voice low, “is that they’re for a purpose. It’s for my resume. For my applications. It’s work.”
The hypocrisy was so blatant that it stole your breath for a second. You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, right. Your work. Your very important, future-building work with all your new, very important friends. So what? Am I just supposed to sit here while you’re off ‘working’? You can build a new life, but I’m not allowed to make a new friend?”
“It’s not the same,” he insisted, his hands curling into loose fists on the table. “You’re… you’re…”
“I’m what, ‘Toru?” Your voice shook. “I’m just your friend. And friends make other friends. Isn’t that what you’ve been doing all semester?” He stared at you, a storm of frustration and something else, something that looked an awful lot like hurt, swirling in his blue eyes. He looked at you like you were a problem he couldn’t solve, an equation that kept breaking.
He opened his mouth to speak just as Shoko and Suguru arrived, their usual noisy entrance shattering the charged silence. “Are we interrupting?” Suguru asked dryly, glancing between your heated faces.
“No,” you both said in unison, the old habit feeling like a mockery.
Satoru slammed his laptop shut, the sound sharp in the library. “Actually, I have to go. Kimie needs to sync before her seminar.” He didn’t look at you as he shoved his things into his bag.
“Of course,” you said quietly, staring down at your blank notebook page. “Wouldn’t want to keep her waiting.” He paused for a fraction of a second, his shoulders rigid, he then walked away without another word.
Shoko slid into his still-warm seat, her eyes wide. “What the hell was that?” You just shook your head, the anger cooling into a sick, heavy dread. You’d wanted a reaction. You’d wanted him to see you, to feel the same sharp sting you’d been feeling for weeks. You’d gotten it. But the raw, jealous anger in his eyes hadn’t felt like a victory. It felt like watching the last intact piece of your friendship shatter on the floor. He could build his future with a dozen Kimie’s and Miya’s, but the second you tried to build something of your own, even just a simple friendship, he acted like you’d broken a rule he’d never written down.
The next day at the cafe, Shoko found you staring blankly at your biology textbook, the same page open for twenty minutes. “So. The nuclear explosion at the library. You're gonna tell me what that was, or am I supposed to keep watching this tragic silent movie?”
You closed the book with a soft thump. The fight with Satoru replayed in your head on a loop,his cold accusation, your defensive anger, the way he’d looked at you like you’d betrayed him.
“He got mad,” you said, your voice hollow. “Really mad. Because of Koji.” Shoko’s eyebrows shot up. “He got jealous?”
“No. Not jealous. Angry.” You wrapped your arms around yourself. “He said it wasn’t the same. That his stuff with Miya and Kimie was ‘for a purpose.’ That it was work. And I was just making a new friend for fun. Like I was breaking some unspoken rule.”
“The unspoken rule being that you wait for him forever while he gets his life in order?” Shoko said, her tone flat. “Something like that.” You let out a shaky breath. “And I wanted to scream. I wanted to say, ‘You don’t get to be the only one who moves on. You don’t get to build a future with other people and then get mad. But I didn’t.”
“Why not?” Shoko asked gently. “That sounds like the exact talk I told you to have.” A wave of pure, cold fear washed over you just thinking about it. “Because if I say that- if I really say it, then we’re talking about us. About what we are, and what we’re not, and what we feel. And once we start that conversation, we can’t go back. We can’t pretend we don’t know.”
You looked at her, desperate for her to understand. “Right now, we’re broken, but we’re broken in a way that could still be fixed if we’re both careful. If we just let time pass or something. But if I dare look him in the eye and say, ‘You hurt me, and I’m jealous, and I love you,’ there’s no fix for that, Shoko. I’m scared that he’ll look at me, realize what a mess I’ve been hiding, and just walk away for good. Because it’s easier than dealing with it, because he doesn’t like chaos.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I’d rather live in this miserable, confusing middle where he’s still technically my best friend, than have a real, honest talk that ends with him not being in my life at all. At least it meant I still mattered enough to make him feel something yesterday.”
On Thursday, you were sitting at your usual spot at the square table. It had been a few weeks without the Tuesday ritual study sessions, but you accepted it as a stalemate. You knew you or Satoru would come around at some point, and balancing friendship problems with lab reports was not a good combination for your mental health.
You liked the alone time while studying, and you got your work done. You weren’t distracted by Satoru’s eyes or the whispered bickering between Shoko and Suguru. A shadow fell across your notebook. The one with the cartoon atom that Satoru drew. You looked up to see him, holding two boba teas. He looked like he hadn’t slept a wink; his usual effortless posture was gone, replaced by a hesitant stiffness. He set one of the bubble teas down in front of you. Your order.
“Can I sit?” he asked, his voice quiet. The gesture was awkward; it was his designated seat, and he knew he didn’t have to ask.
You nodded, though, too surprised to speak. He slid into the chair, placing his own bubble tea down but not drinking it. He stared at the condensation that pooled around the plastic cup, gathering himself.
“I owe you an apology,” he began, his blue eyes still fixed on the cup. After a beat, he finally looks up, meeting your gaze. “What I said about Koji was out of line. I was being hypocritical and cruel. I had no right to police your friendship when I’ve been…” He gestured vaguely with his hands, a frustrated motion, “doing the same thing. Just labeling it as ‘work’.”
He took a breath, his shoulders tense. “The truth is, I was angry because I was scared. Seeing you move on, even just a little, with someone else, not me, not Shoko or Suguru. It made the future feel real in a way I didn’t like. A future where you’re fine without me. And I panicked. I tried to make it your fault instead of mine.” He shook his head, a bitter twist to his mouth, his eyes full of regret. I’m sorry.”
The raw honesty of his spiel stole the air from your lungs. This wasn’t a mumbled, casual ‘sorry’ or an apology sent over text. This was a dissection. He’d laid his own insecurities bare, naming the fear you’d both been circling.
“Thank you,” you said softly, your own voice thick. “For saying that.” He nodded, the movement sharp with relief. He picked up his boba just to have something to do with his hands. “I’ve missed you,” he admitted, the words quiet but clear. “Tuesdays are really quiet without everyone.”
A faint, sad smile touched your lips. “Yeah. They are.”
The silence that followed was different. Lighter. Cleared of the poisonous tension. He took a sip of his drink, then seemed to remember something. “Oh. Um.” He set the cup down again, shuffling to grab something from his backpack. A black envelope.
“There’s the gala next Friday, for the frat fundraiser. It’s the big finale I’ve been planning for.” He looked at you, his expression open, “I know things are weird right now, but it would mean a lot to me if you were there.”
“Shoko and Suguru are going, obviously. You wouldn’t be stuck with me or anything. I just… I’d like you to be there.” He added. It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t a guilt trip. It was a request. An invitation was extended on the newly leveled ground of his apology.
You looked at him, your best friend, your Satoru, who had just shown up with boba and courage and named the ugly truth, and felt the first real thaw in weeks.
“Okay,” you said, and this time, you meant it. “I’ll be there.” A genuine, weary smile broke through on his face, transforming it. It was the first real Satoru-smile you’d seen in what felt like forever.
“Okay,” he echoed. “Good.”
Later that night, in the quiet of your room, you pulled the black envelope from your bag. It was heavy, expensive cardstock. You slid out the formal invitation, printed in crisp silver ink. And tucked behind it, on a simple scrap of graph paper—the kind he used for physics problem sets—was a note in his familiar, slanted handwriting.
Look, I know the chicken will be bad, and the speeches will be long. But there’s a chocolate fountain. And I’ll save you the seat next to mine. Because I want you there. - S
You stared at the note, at the little chocolate fountain doodled in the corner, at the vulnerable, hopeful simplicity of because I want you there. It wasn't a grand romantic gesture. It was a quiet, specific promise: a saved seat, a chocolate fountain, a request for you. And in its utter lack of pretense, it felt more honest than any bouquet of flowers ever could. He wasn't asking for a date. He was asking for you. And for the first time in a long time, you believed him.
The apology didn't fix everything. It couldn't erase the weeks of distance or the memory of his jealous anger. But it did something more important: it laid down a new foundation. You were no longer shouting across a trench; you were standing on the same side, quietly surveying the damage.
The group chat sprang back to life, filled with logistics about the Gala: rides, times, the strict "no jeans" dress code Suguru kept ignoring. Satoru texted you directly, just to confirm the car service he'd booked for the four of you. He said his frat provided it, but you think it was his own little idea.
toru (≧ x ≦): black car, 7pm. don't let suguru convince you to pre-game too hard
You: no promises. shoko’s already planning "efficiency cocktails"
toru (≧ x ≦): i'll bring backup water (҂ `з´ )
It was easy. Familiar. But laced with a new awareness.
Tuesday came and went without a study session, but it didn't ache like before. Instead, there was a shared, unspoken understanding that Friday was the new focal point. You saw him once across the quad, heading into the physics building with Kimie. He saw you. He didn't look away. He raised his hand in a small, casual wave; an acknowledgment, not a retreat. You waved back.
The night before the Gala, Shoko commandeered your apartment for a "fashion emergency."
"Okay, serious question," she said, holding up two dresses. "Are we aiming for 'I am a chic, independent woman who is completely unaffected by a certain six-foot-tall physics major frat boy,' or 'I am a vision who will subtly ruin his night because he can't stop looking at me'?"
You groaned, falling back onto your bed. "Is there a 'I just want to get through this without crying in the bathroom' option?"
Shoko tossed a pillow at you. "Not an option. You made up. He apologized. You're going to a fancy party. This is a rom-com, not a tragedy. Now pick." You chose a dress. It was simple, elegant. It made you feel like a version of yourself who belonged in a ballroom, not hiding in a library corner.
As you got ready on Friday, a strange calm settled over you. The dread was gone, replaced by quiet, steady nerves. This wasn't about confronting him anymore. It was about showing up. For your friend. For yourself.
When the black car pulled up, Satoru got out to hold the door. He was in a perfectly tailored black suit, a crisp white shirt complete with a black tie, his white hair stark against the dark fabric. He looked… older. Like the man he was becoming. His eyes found you, and for a second, he just looked. The same soft, stunned look from the night of the party, but softer now. Less surprised, more appreciative. His blue eyes, always so bright, were darker, more intense in the low light. They traveled over you, from the careful sweep of your hair, down the lines of the dress you’d chosen, and back up to meet your own wide-eyed stare. It wasn't a quick glance. It was a study. The stunned, arrested look melted into something deeper, warmer. It was pure, undiluted appreciation, mixed with a quiet awe that made your cheeks heat.
A slow, soft smile touched his lips, not his usual brilliant grin, but something private and sure. "Hey," he said, his voice warm.
"Hey yourself," you replied, sliding into the car where Shoko and Suguru were already bickering about music.
He got in beside you, his knee brushing against yours in the close quarters. This time, neither of you moved away. The car pulled into traffic, carrying you toward the glittering unknown of the Gala, the speeches, the crowded room. But for the first time, you weren't afraid of the quiet between you.
The Grand Hall was beautiful and stifling. The air hummed with low conversations and the clink of fine china. You moved through it beside Satoru, a silent satellite in his orbit. His hand was a constant, warm weight on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd, a steadying point of contact whenever an alumnus pulled him aside.
He was perfect. Charming, attentive, making every person he spoke to feel like the only one in the room. He introduced you, Shoko, and Satoru to other members of Greek life, incorporating their embarrassing moments at parties that he has collected over the last few years. But you could feel the tension thrumming through him, a silent vibration beneath the flawless surface.
Miya found him once, and they spoke in low, efficient tones for two minutes about the silent fundraiser totals before he smoothly extricated himself. You four sat through a painfully dry speech from the university’s chancellor, and you three clapped when Satoru gave his thank-you speech as social chair. And you all made a face after taking the first bite of the chicken on your plates.
When the clock neared midnight, Shoko yawned dramatically, leaning into Suguru. “I’m fading. You guys ready?”
Suguru nodded, checking his phone for an Uber. Satoru’s response was instant. “You two go ahead. We’ll catch another one.” Shoko and Suguru share a knowing look, their gazes flicking between you and Satoru.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Shoko kissed your cheek, Suguru clapped Satoru’s shoulder, and they melted into the crowd, leaving the ballroom.
The noise seemed to drop by several decibels. Satoru watched them go, then turned to you. The polite, social chair smile was gone. In its place was a deep, weary restlessness. “I don’t want to go home,” he said, his voice low.
“Okay,” you said.
He pulls out his phone to order an Uber as you both walk outside. The cold was a shock after the hall’s warmth. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders without a word. When you both entered the Uber, the silence wasn’t empty. It was thick with the ghost of your freshman year selves, two nervous kids in a beat-up sedan, heading to the diner for the first time. You were walking the same path, but everything was different. The city was quieter. You were older. The space between your shoulders, which had once been measured in feet of awkward uncertainty, was now a mere inch of charged, exhausted awareness.
The Uber pulls into the familiar parking lot, a landmark in the timeline of your friendship, the diner where everything started. A lump rose in your throat.
He pushed the door open. The same bell jingled. The same greasy, comforting smell of fried food and coffee hit you. It was like stepping through a portal. The place was nearly empty. The same worn booths, the same flickering fluorescent light over the pie case.
You slid in on one side of the booth, the vinyl cold through the fabric of your dress. He slid in across from you. For a moment, you just stared at each other under the harsh, unflattering light. It stripped away the gala’s glitter, the fraternity’s polish, the personas you’d both been wearing all night, all semester. Here, in this booth, you were just two people at the end of a very long night, at the end of a very long semester.
But even in this light, he looked more like himself than he had all night. The harsh fluorescence carved out the tired shadows under his eyes, the faint crease of worry between his brows that had become permanent this semester. The way his white hair fell messily across his forehead was without the remnants of his usual product. This wasn't the polished social chair or the charming guy from the blog. This was just Satoru. Exhausted. A little lost. And utterly, completely real. Seeing him like this, stripped bare of every defense, didn't make him look lesser. It made him look like the only thing that had ever truly mattered.
The waitress ambled over, coffee pot in hand. “The usual?” she asked, her voice a gravelly monotone. She didn’t wait for an answer, already filling two thick, white mugs. He nodded, his voice gone. He just looked at you, his eyes wide and a little lost, like he’d been running a marathon and had only just now been allowed to stop.
When she left, he wrapped his hands around the mug, the heat seeming to anchor him. He stared into the black liquid as if it held answers. “I keep thinking about that first night,” he said, his voice raspy. “You were so quiet. I talked enough for both of us because I was so terrified you’d think I was an idiot.” He looked up, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “You probably did.”
“A little,” you admitted, a small smile breaking through your own exhaustion. You looked at him, at the ghost of that impossibly confident boy from the blog post, now sitting across from you, looking utterly dismantled. “I wasn’t just quiet,” you said softly, “I was quiet because of the blog post.”
His brows drew together in confusion.
“I read it. Before I ever met you. The one you wrote freshman year.” You chanced a glance up at him. “The one looking for people who had no idea what they were doing but were kinda excited to not know it together.”
Recognition dawned, followed by a slow, dawning horror. “You-you saw that?”
“I saw it.” You let out a shaky breath. “And I thought you were… magnetic. And totally out of my league. You seemed like you already had your whole life figured out. I closed the tab and thought, ‘That’s the kind of person who belongs in a different universe than me.’” You gave a small, self-deprecating shrug. “And then Shoko shoved me into a car with you the next day. And you stole my fries. And you were just… a person. My person.”
He was staring at you, completely still. “You never said anything.”
“It felt stupid. And then it just became… background noise. The origin story.” You met his eyes, the truth feeling both terrifying and freeing. “But that’s why I was so quiet that first night. I wasn’t judging you. I was intimidated.”
He let out a breath that was half laugh, half sob, running a hand over his face. “God. That’s- that’s the most messed up part of all this.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a raw whisper. “That person in the blog post? He was a total fraud. I was so scared I was going to eat alone for four years. The ‘easy smile’ was pure panic. I wrote that post because I was terrified of being the lostest guy on campus.” He shook his head, a look of profound irony on his face. “And you… You are the one who actually knew what they were doing. I mean, you didn’t need to join a frat to pay for friends,” He chuckles.
The symmetry of it, his fear masquerading as confidence, your quietness mistaken for judgment, hung in the air between you, beautiful and heartbreaking. The confession hung in the air, rearranging everything you thought you knew. You had spent years building him up in your head; the golden boy, the one who navigated the bright, noisy world with effortless grace, the one who belonged everywhere. You’d wrapped your own insecurities around the idea of him, using his perceived perfection as proof of your own lack.
And here he was, under the diner’s unforgiving light, telling you it was all a lie. That the boy you’d been intimidated by, the one you’d compared yourself to, was just as scared and lonely as you’d been. That the person everyone on campus seemed to know and love was, in his own head. The realization hit you with a dizzying, tender clarity. You weren't the only one who had been living in a story. He’d been trapped in one, too. And for the first time, you saw him, not as the protagonist of your campus daydreams, not as your ‘Toru, but as a boy. A brilliant, charming, deeply insecure boy who had just wanted to find his way, and had accidentally found you instead.
“All this time,” he said, wonder in his voice. “I’ve been trying to live up to that blog post, or the people that I talked to at orientation. Trying to be the guy who knew who he was, for everyone. And the whole time- the person you read about was a fraud.”
“Not the fraud,” you corrected gently. “The real one. The one who showed up. The one who’s here.”
He looked at you for a long, long moment. Then, slowly, he reached his hand across the table, palm up. An invitation. Not a grab, not a demand. Just an open question. You looked at his hand, then back at his face. You placed your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours, warm and sure. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. The silence that settled between you wasn't the tense, perforated silence of the last few months. It was the old silence. The good one. The quiet of two people who finally, finally, see each other clearly.
The silence between you was no longer a chasm to be crossed, but a comfortable, shared space. His blazer was still around your shoulders, and this time, his hand found yours, fingers lacing together as naturally as breathing. When you reached your apartment steps, you both stopped. The yellow porch light buzzed softly overhead, painting everything in a familiar, warm glow.
He turned to face you, not letting go of your hand. The confident, weary, real version of him stood under the light, his white hair almost gold in its glow.
“I have to tell you something,” he said, his voice low and serious. “And I need to say it here. Before I lose my nerve.” You nodded, your heart beginning a slow, heavy beat in your chest.
This was the part where the walks always ended. But tonight, it felt like a beginning.
He took a deep breath, his eyes searching yours. “When I was writing that stupid blog post, I was trying to project someone who could handle the future even though he didn’t know what future he wanted. Someone who wasn’t afraid.” He gave a small, self-conscious shake of his head. “And this whole semester, I’ve been trying to become that guy, to search for what I want. For me, for the fraternity, for Shoko and Suguru, for you.”
His thumb stroked the back of your hand. “But the truth is, the only time I’ve ever felt like I was actually working towards what I want is when I’m with you. Not when I’m connecting with alums, not when I’m working on physics projects or even social events. I know what I want when I’m on the walk home. In the library. Even sitting in silence at that sticky diner booth… all with you.”
He stepped closer, closing the small distance between you. His free hand came up, cupping your cheek. His touch was tender, reverent.
“I’m not scared of the future anymore,” he whispered, his blue eyes holding yours with an intensity that stole your breath. “Not when you’re in it. I’m scared of a future that doesn’t have you in it. Not as my study buddy. Not as my plus-one.” He swallowed, his voice dropping to a raw, vulnerable rasp. “As mine. In every way. I am so deeply, stupidly, completely in love with you. I think I have been since I explained the campus shuttle schedule to you and you didn’t laugh at how lost I was.”
Tears pricked your eyes. This wasn’t a grand, polished confession. It was a quiet, desperate truth, offered up on your doorstep under a buzzing light. “All those other people, they were just me trying to build a life impressive enough that maybe, someday, I’d feel worthy of a future. With you.” He shook his head. “But I don’t want a life that impresses you. I just want a life with you. Even if we both really don’t know what we’re doing. But we’re not knowing- together.”
He leaned his forehead against yours, his breath warm on your skin. “You’re my future,” he murmured, the words a soft vow in the quiet night. “And I don’t ever want to have anything different.” You brought your hand up to cover where his rested against your cheek. You could feel the faint tremor in his fingers.
“You don’t have to,” you whispered, your own voice thick with emotion. “You’re my future too.” He let out a shaky breath, half a sob, half a laugh of pure relief. Then he leaned in, and finally, after years of almosts and misunderstandings and quiet walks, he kissed you.
It wasn’t dramatic or desperate. It was soft, and sure, and tasted like the coffee at the diner, and hope and uniquely ‘Toru. It was the answer to a question you’d both been too afraid to ask. When he pulled back, he didn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours again, both of you breathing each other’s air.
“Okay,” he whispered, a real, bright smile finally breaking through. You smiled back, your heart so full you thought it might burst. “Okay.”
He kissed you once more, sweet and quick. “Get some sleep,” he said, his voice warm. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he ruffles your hair like it’s a calm routine on a Tuesday night after the library.
He turned to leave, but you caught his hand. “’Toru?” He looked back.
“You don’t need an equation for this, for us,” you whispered, the truth of it settling deep in your bones. “The answer was always just- yes.” The smile he gave you was the most beautiful, unguarded thing you’d ever seen, full of a joy so pure it stole your breath. You stood on your porch long after he’d disappeared from view, wrapped in the warmth of his jacket and the quiet, certain hum of a universe finally, perfectly, aligned.
The rest of the semester didn’t feel like a dramatic new chapter. It felt like slipping into a favorite, well-worn sweater you’d forgotten you owned. The change was in the small, quiet details. The small square table in the library had resumed hosting Tuesday nights, but now, when Satoru’s knee brushed yours under the table, he’d let it stay, a warm line of contact. When he reached for the Cinnamoroll highlighter, he’d press a quick kiss to your temple first. Shoko would roll her eyes and kick Suguru under the table, a silent told you so.
Finals week was a blur of stress, but it was shared stress. You camped out in his frat’s common space, surrounded by empty bubble tea cups and your color-coded notes. He’d slump over his physics textbook, groaning about thermodynamics, and you’d wordlessly slide a bag of his favorite gummies across the table. There was no fanfare. It was just the seamless, practical language of care you both always spoke, now underscored with a new, tender ease.
The banter with the four of you shifted, becoming warmer, full of knowing smiles. Shoko, over pizza: “So, Satoru, need Kimie to double-check those problem sets?”
Satoru, without looking up from where he was stealing a pepperoni from your slice: “Nah, I’ve got all the approval I need right here.” He’d nod at you.
Suguru would grin. “Disgusting. I love it.”
He became unapologetically casual about you. If someone from his class or frat asked him to grab a meal to study, he’d say, “Can’t, already promised my girlfriend I’d quiz her on cellular respiration.” He’d mention your name in meetings, not as a strategic partner, but as his person. “My girlfriend mentioned this neighborhood has good transit,” or “I’ll have to ask my girlfriend, she’s better at spotting errors in the data.” The other girls faded into the background, not with drama, but with simple, quiet obsolescence.
Winter break arrived, emptying the campus. Shoko and Suguru left to visit family, leaving a quiet, snowy world behind. Your break was just Satoru. It was lazy mornings in your apartment, making pancakes that were only slightly better than “pretty decent.” It was marathon movie sessions on his frat house couch, the common room deserted and silent around you both. It was wandering through the snowy, empty quad at midnight, sharing a single pair of gloves, your linked hands tucked into his coat pocket.
One afternoon, tangled together on your couch under a blanket, a physics textbook abandoned on the floor, he traced idle patterns on your arm. “You know,” he said, his voice sleepy and content, “I think I finally solved it.”
“Solved what?” you mumbled into his shoulder.
“The problem of de-chaosifying.” He shifted to look at you, his blue eyes soft. “It’s just you! You’re the constant. The one that balances the whole thing out.”
You smiled. “That’s terrible science. You can’t just make a person a constant.”
He grinned, that old, boyish, effortless grin that was now yours alone to see every day. “Watch me.” He kissed you then, slow and sweet, in the quiet afternoon light. And in that moment, the future didn’t feel like an unknown or a mess of events to find connections. It just felt like this: the warmth of his lips, the smell of his fabric softener, the sound of his laugh, the quiet certainty that no matter what came next, you’d face it the same way: together, a little chaotic, and completely, irrevocably home.
The blog post was right, in the end. Not just about the part that mattered, but about the details, too. The pancakes are, in fact, excellent, fluffy, golden, and his share is always served with a truly staggering amount of maple syrup. The sugar tolerance remains clinically concerning. And the library? He still gets lost if he has to go anywhere besides your fourth-floor corner. But the rest of it, the hopeful, sheepish heart of it, turned out to be the truest thing he had ever written and you had ever read.
I like questions that don’t have easy answers. It was there in the terrifying, wonderful chaos of senior year, in the silent fractures and the clumsy, honest repairs. It was there in the unspoken question that hung between you on every walk home, in every shared glance over a study date. Message me if you also have no idea what you’re doing but kinda excited to not know it together.
Even though you never did message him. Fate, in its messy, perfect way, shoved him into the backseat of Suguru’s car instead. And you figured it out. Not all of it, not the post-grad addresses, or the long-term career paths, or how to survive his idea of a “balanced” breakfast (which is just pancakes with extra sprinkles). But you figured out the answer to the only question that ever truly needed one.
You look at him now, asleep on your couch, his physics textbook abandoned on the floor. The future is still a vast, unmapped equation, a chaotic problem with no easy, single solution. But he knows the constant. He’s always known. You reach over and gently slide strands of his hair away from his eyes. He stirs, blinking sleepily at you. “Hey you,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep and sugar crash.
“Hey,” you whisper back, thumb brushing away the chocolate.
A slow, syrupy-sweet smile spreads across his face, the one that’s just for you, the one that holds all the not-knowing, and all the sheer, giddy excitement for it. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, as if reading your mind. It’s not a promise of solutions. It’s a promise of the company. Of shared bubble tea and stolen fries and Tuesday nights that never really end.
You smile, your heart full and quiet. “Together.”
He nods, his eyes already closing again, his hand finding yours, his fingers sticky from the gummies he’d been eating before he dozed off. “Yeah. Together.” And just like that, the question with no easy answer becomes the only answer you’ll ever need, a shared life that promises to be perfectly, chaotically, overwhelmingly sweet.
author's note: i haven't written in soooo long so bear with me (o_O)! i also wrote this sleep deprived and a nap in between but i hope u enjoy it regardless <3 let me know what u think!
— summary: steve is jealous of jonathan and head over heels for you. you're jealous of nancy, but you'll never accept that you might like steve. fortunately, there's alcohol and a big pool to sort it all out!
— pairing: steve harrington x female!henderson!reader
—word count: 6.5 k (wow)
— content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), p in v sex, oral (female receiving), some porn with some plot, unprotected sex, creampie, body worship, friends to lovers, mutual pining, bratty!reader, a bit of angst, reader is jealous of nancy, steve is jealous of jonathan, steve is down BAD, kind of baddie!reader, drunk love confessions, praise kink, size kink, steve being pathetic for the reader as he should.
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
You met Steve Harrington back at that awful Halloween bash at Tina's where Jonathan practically dragged you along with him. Well, you had first seen him at school, however, you had never spoken, for obvious reasons.
He was a full-blown jerk, clueless, insensitive, and absurdly dull. The type of guy who was the least like your type of guy.
And him? He was hopelessly, devastatingly in love with you. Ever since he had met you that night at Tina's place, you had entered his life as if he was already yours, offering him comfort and a shoulder to cry on through one of the roughest patches of his life.
And to top it all off, you were his best friend's older sister. A feisty full-blown Henderson, a bad-tempered smartass, someone capable of pushing his buttons and turning his world upside down. Sometimes he thought you were even more annoying than Dustin, and that was an understatement.
But he loved you, to the core. You were so fearless, the best sister and friend, always humble, kind-hearted, and selfless.
He told himself it was stupid. He was stupid.
You barely tolerated him.
The first few days of your unlikely and emerging friendship you hardly glanced at him, only greeting him out of politeness.
Then, the first few months had been quite rough, more for him than for you. Because there were days, moments when he would try his heart out to catch your attention, to make you laugh, to at least have you smile at him, just for him.
Because Steve Harrington had always been the kind of boy who was used to being liked. Effortlessly. Girls smiled at him in the hallways, teachers forgave him things they never should have, and life had a funny way of opening doors for him without him even knocking. All his life, everything had been laid out for him on a silver platter; he didn't even have to put in much effort in order to get what he wanted.
But you?
You were a locked door.
You didn't like Steve Harrington.
And yet, you always felt that icy, crushing sense of jealousy creep over you whenever you saw Steve draw closer to Nancy, choose her above others, and compete with Jonathan for her attention and appreciation.
“You know Nancy has a boyfriend, right?” you asked him once, your expression too grim to match the humor in your voice. He had spent most of the afternoon competing with Jonathan over who had killed more monsters from the Upside Down—something completely ridiculous. “And that's Jon?”
Steve huffs at the way you pronounce that nickname, closing the passenger door of your Jeep and settling into the seat. “I was just saying facts. I did kill more shit down there last year. Jonathan wasn't even there.”
“He was in California. What the hell did you want him to do from California, Steve?” you retort in an overly defensive tone, determined to defend the honor of your childhood best friend.
Because of course you would leap to Jonathan's defense. That aggravated Steve even more.
He raises his eyebrows, smirking with triumphant mockery, “Exactly.”
“Can you two stop arguing like an old married couple?” Dustin chimes in, popping up between the two front seats from the back and glaring at you both with a sour look on his face. “And maybe drive? I'm going to be late.”
Steve leans back in his seat, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Jonathan Byers.
It was always Jonathan Byers.
Steve had never said it out loud—because admitting it would make him sound small, petty, exactly the kind of guy he was trying not to be anymore—but the jealousy had been there from the very beginning. From the way Jonathan knew you before he ever did. From the way you laughed more freely around him, softer, unguarded, safe. From the way you touched Jonathan's arm when you talked, a casual familiarity Steve would have killed for.
He hated that Jonathan didn't even have to try.
That he got your trust without earning it.
“So,” Steve mutters, staring out the window, “you and Byers hang out a lot now.”
You had already dropped Dustin off at Mike's house, so the two of you were all alone now, which was a rare occurrence lately.
You glance at him for a fraction of a second, catching the stiffness in his shoulders and jaw, and the way he averts eye contact entirely. He looks like a grumpy little boy, it's kind of funny and cute. “We've been friends since we were kids. We've always hung out.”
“Yeah. I know,” he says quickly, as if the words were venom on his tongue. “Just saying.”
There it is. He's such a passive-aggressive jerk when it comes to Jonathan.
“You're always just saying things about him,” you shoot back. "What's your problem, Harrington?”
That finally makes him look at you.
“Problem? My problem?” he laughs, sharp and humorless. He looks awkward now, a little self-conscious. “Nothing. Why would I have a problem?”
Probably because Jonathan is your best friend.
Because when you're scared, you reach for him first.
Because he knows things about you Steve doesn't—and maybe never will.
You sigh, exhausted, shaking your head disapprovingly. “You act like he's done some evil thing to you.”
Steve swallows. “He hasn't.”
That's the worst part.
Because Jonathan Byers had never been really cruel to him. Sure, he disliked him as much as Steve disliked him, and he kind of stole Nancy from him when they were still together, but he had never been intentionally rude.
Jonathan was just... there. Steady. Familiar. Important. Close.
Everything Steve wanted to be.
He also knew that you weren't exactly his type.
Because the truth was, you never had been.
You were better.
You were someone who saw meaning in shadows, who believed stories could save people, who challenged him without trying to change him. You saw him as he really was. You see him.
Jonathan was your person. Your best friend.
But, no matter what, Steve had always been special enough.
It made no sense, and you hated that the feeling existed at all.
Because you didn't want Steve Harrington.
You didn't like his stupid hair, or the way he pretended not to care when things hurt him, or how he filled silence with silly jokes. You definitely didn't like how easily people forgave him, how quickly Nancy Wheeler smiled at him, how natural it seemed for her to fit at his side.
So why did your stomach twist every time you caught him looking at her?
You told yourself it was protectiveness. That you were just being a good sister. A good friend. Dustin adored Steve, and maybe—maybe—you were just afraid he'd get hurt again.
But that lie got harder to swallow the longer it went on.
Because Steve had a bad habit of showing up when things fell apart. When your mom was working late and you kept having nightmares, Steve was right there, answering your three-in-the-morning phone call without hesitation. When the world went to hell—literally—Steve never ran. He stayed. Bloody, shaking, terrified, but still standing between danger and the people he loved.
Between danger and you.
And you hated how safe he made you feel.
There were nights when you sat across from him on the floor of your room, knees almost touching, sharing a blanket and a silence that felt too heavy to be accidental, a long-forgotten movie was playing on your television screen. You might not have paid attention to it, nor did you appreciate its corny jokes, but his laughter was all it took to make your day and night. His laughter was softer around you, more careful.
Falling for Steve Harrington felt like stepping off a cliff without knowing if there was ground below.
It had started innocently enough, in one of those impromptu gatherings that somehow always ended up at Steve's big house because his parents were never home and because, for some reason, he never said no when someone needed a place.
You remember that night very clearly.
Robin had shown up first, already halfway through a stolen bottle of something that tasted like regret and cough syrup. And Nancy and Jon showed up together a few minutes later, swearing they wouldn't get all lovey-dovey with booze in their system.
And then there was you.
Sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, back against the couch, laughing harder than you meant to as Robin—dramatically as ever— was telling you about the times at Scoops Ahoy, and how Steve kept blowing his flirting attempts with pretty girls.
At some point, with the sun already setting on the horizon of an uncharacteristically quiet Hawkins, the alcohol softened the edges of the room.
So, someone suggested the pool like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Robin was the first one in, cannonballing without warning and shrieking at the cold water. Nancy followed shortly after, already in their swimsuits, laughter bright and careless, Jonathan close behind her.
You stayed seated on the edge, feet dangling just above the water, denim already warm from the sunset, watching them with an amused smile.
“Come on, Henderson,” Robin calls, eyes glinting with trouble. “Live a little.”
“I didn't bring a swimsuit,” you protest, pointing down at yourself. “Unlike you degenerates.”
“And? That's never stopped anyone before,” she chirps too cheerfully, creeping dangerously close to you.
You don't even have time to register her next movement.
One second Robin is grinning at you, the next her hands are on you, and then—
You scream.
Cold water swallows you whole, clothes and all, the shock ripping the air from your lungs. When you resurface, sputtering and furious, the sound of laughter echoes around the backyard of Steve's big mansion.
“Buckley!” you whine out, hair plastered to your face, shirt clinging uncomfortably to your skin. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I regret nothing!” she shouts back, already retreating as Nancy splashed her in retaliation, laughing heartily.
Steve hadn't laughed.
He was already at the edge of the pool, crouched down, concern etched into his face as he reached out instinctively, his absurdly overpriced beer bottle abandoned on the ground, and his sunglasses — totally unnecessary since it was late afternoon — propped up in his hair.
“Hey—hey, you okay?”
You nod, still catching your breath, suddenly very aware of how soaked you were. How cold. How exposed.
“Yeah,” you respond, sulking. “I'm gonna fucking kill her in her sleep.”
Steve snorts softly, relief washing over him. “Yeah, That's the bare minimum we expect from you.”
He hesitates just for half a second before standing up and helps you out of the pool, hands tightly holding yours, one of them sliding down to your waist, with an awkward, hesitant touch.
His chocolate-brown eyes are glowing every time they shift from your chest to your face and back again, taking in how see-through the damp fabric of your shirt is now. “Uh... you can borrow something of mine— I mean, if you want. So you don't freeze.”
You blink at him, hugging yourself and feeling a little self-conscious. “You sure?”
It's strange to say the least. You'd had a few tough weeks, you had grown a little distant from each other since that thing on your car. Out of some silly jealousy, that's why.
And still, Steve is treating you with the same decency and care as in your glory days as friends. Just like always.
He shrugs, pretending it was no big deal. “Yeah. I've got like... a million hoodies.”
That is an understatement.
You follow him back inside his house, dripping quietly through the empty halls, covering yourself with a towel that he had handed you, the noise from outside muffling behind you. Steve leads you upstairs, steps careful, like he is afraid to scare you off.
“My room's—uh—here,” he says, pushing the door open.
Even though you had been to his house several times, for whatever reason, you had never been in his room before. So this was a new experience for you. One that, even though you didn't want to admit it, you found particularly intriguing.
And it is... nothing like you expected.
Not messy. Not careless. But warm. Thoughtful.
Your eyes wander before you could stop them.
A stack of vinyl records sat neatly by his turntable—records you recognize immediately. Your favorites. The ones you'd mentioned once, offhandedly, during a late-night conversation you hadn't thought he remembered.
There are movies too. VHS tapes lined carefully along a shelf—old horror, indie films, that one foreign movie you loved and had insisted was misunderstood. A couple of well-worn books lay stacked on his nightstand, spines cracked, margins dog-eared.
You pick one up slowly.
“This is... mine,” you say softly. “I mean—this is my favorite.”
Steve is frozen in place, turning to face you from within his open closet doors, previously very involved in a search for a pair of shorts that are preferably smaller than the ones he usually wears and a hoodie, for you.
“Oh. Yeah. You said you liked it,” he replies, too casually, spectacularly downplaying the significance of the situation.
You turn to him, eyes landing on the broad expanse of his back as he went back into digging through his clothes. “Steve... you don't— you don't even read.”
He laughs nervously, still not looking at you. “I do, sugar. N-now.”
The nickname slips out casually, he says it so sweetly. It's the first time you've heard him call you that in days. And it brings a cute little smile to your face.
There are photos pinned crookedly to a corkboard near his desk. Not trophies. Not popularity. Not reminders of who he used to be. Just moments.
Dustin missing a teeth. Robin mid-laugh. One of you, sitting on the floor back at your house, unaware, smiling at something just out of frame. Probably Steve.
You stare at that picture longer than you mean to.
It's candid. Soft. You're younger there, unguarded in a way you rarely allow yourself to be. It makes something tight coil low in your chest.
“Why do you have that?” you ask quietly.
Steve doesn't answer right away, he flicks a glance at you and then his eyes move down to the photo you're holding in your hands.
And when he does, his voice is low, stripped of bravado. “Because you look happy.”
And cute. And pretty. Like, the most gorgeous sight he's ever seen.
He digs a little more through his closet and finally, hands you a pair of Nike shorts and a hoodie—one of his favorites, judging by how worn the cuffs are.
The hoodie swallows you whole, warm and smelling like him. Soap. Shampoo. His perfume that is so masculine and yet, soft. So Steve.
You don't miss the way his eyes linger on you as he enters back into is room, once you let him know that you had already changed.
“Okay,” you start, crossing your arms, suddenly very aware of the way your heart is misbehaving. “So. You collect my favorite records. You read my books. You keep pictures of me like some sort of—”
“Please don't say serial killer,” he interrupts weakly and extremely embarrassed.
You snort, sitting down on the edge of his bed, slightly dizzy from the alcohol. “—like some sort of sentimental idiot.”
That gets a smile out of him. Real. Soft. A little sad. Like, drunk sad.
“Look,” he says, gesturing dramatically with his hands and walking towards you wearing an embarrassed little smile, “you don't have to make it weird—”
You're smart and quick enough to cut him off, of course. “You already did that, Harrington.”
“Fair.” He exhales, blushing so much both out of embarrassment and out of the quantity of beer consumed in the evening, “I just... I like knowing what matters to you. I'm trying to keep up,” his voice keep lowering gently as he continues, “I just— I just like you a lot—,” suddenly he is just a babbling mess of rushed words, “I like being with you, like, your company,” he shrugs, making an effort to appear casual, “so, you know, I-I care.”
I like you.
Not loved. Not needed. Just—there. Honest. Low. Patient.
You smile softly, shaking your head as you look up at him with eyes gleaming with longing and drunkenness. “You're drunk, Harrington.”
“Yeah,” he agrees easily, smiling too, “and so are you, sugar.”
“Yeah but, I get you, I like you too, Stevie.”
The way you pronounce his nickname rings like sweet music to Steve's ears. You almost never say it. And he absolutely hates that nickname, but coming from you, it's different. He loves it. He'd listen to you say it all day if he could.
You smile back at him. God, you smile at him so easily when you let yourself. Or like now, when you're not sober.
You're smiling a lot.
Steve takes a seat on his bed next to you very cautiously, making sure he is holding your gaze. He sits so close that your shoulders brush against each other. But you don't pull away. And neither does he.
“And—” he says suddenly holds back for a moment, unsure whether to continue speaking or not, but then decides to go ahead anyway, “Jonathan.”
“Jonathan...” you repeat, slurring out the name.
Steve swallows. “Is it—” he stops, shakes his head once. “Is there something I'm not seeing?”
You frown slightly, not quite understanding exactly what he's getting at. “Meaning...?”
He forces himself to look at you now, brown eyes searching your face, not accusatory—just honest, curious and vulnerable all over.
Sober, you're the smartest person Steve knows. However, as soon as a drop of alcohol hits your system, your brain seems to go into stand-by mode, as if it were on vacation. Or maybe you're just playing dumb.
“Are you in love with him?”
The question lands softly.
That's what makes it hurt.
You blink, caught off guard by how gentle he sounds, regardless of the heavy topic he is bringing up. And in spite of that, he doesn't look or sound as defensive as he always is when it comes to Jonathan Byers.
“I—” You hesitate, then sigh, leaning back on your hands, sighing heavily and frowning, blinking really slow. “Jonathan's my best friend. He always has been.”
“I know,” Steve says quickly, looking down at you. “I'm not— I'm not saying it like it's a bad thing.”
“Well, you sound like it,” you smile a little, a kind of silly, carefree smile that you hardly ever show.
Steve opens and closes his mouth, stammering words out, “So... you've never—?”
“No,” you answer, shaking your head and wincing in disgust, “Ew, dude. That's sick to even think about. He's like a brother to me.”
Relief flickers across his face before he can stop it.
You notice.
“Good, that's good,” he breathes out the air he had been holding in his lungs, casting his gaze away from you toward the floor, blushing.
You tilt your head, studying him with narrowed eyes. “You care an awful lot for someone who claims he doesn't have a problem with Byers.”
Steve huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, suddenly on the defensive again. His lips twist into a grimace before he speaks. “Well, you've been spending a lot of time with him lately. It does seem a little suspicious.” He shrugs his shoulders dismissively. “Nancy and I thought for a moment that you two were onto something.”
“There it is,” you whisper, rolling your eyes. “This is what you do. You get weird and defensive and then act like I'm the problem.”
“I'm not saying you are,” he snaps back, sharper than before. The alcohol makes his edges rougher, his honesty more reckless. “I just don't get why you're always going out with him lately, always choosing him.”
That makes you sit up straighter, now you're a tiny bit more on the defensive. “I don't choose him.”
“You do,” Steve insists, finally looking at you again, eyes dark and earnest. “Every time. When something's wrong. When you need someone. When you—” he cuts off his own words as he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “You don't even notice you do it.”
You swallow, anger softening into something more complicated. “You don't get to be jealous, Steve. You don't get to act like this when you're still—” you hesitate, the bitterness of jealousy stinging your tongue. “When you're still half in love with Nancy”
He stands abruptly, raising his hands in offense. He looks very offended. “I am not—"
“You so are!” you fire back, standing too. “Everyone can see it. You look at her like she hung the damn stars, and then you turn around and accuse me of being in love with my best friend?”
Your eyes are brimming with tears of anger, frustration, and disappointment, but your words speak a completely different story. They are full of resentment: “And then you get angry out of nowhere and drift away from me and accuse me of something I haven’t even done, and suddenly I feel like I’m the problem!” Steve keeps quiet, gazing at you with the same anguish reflected in your eyes. “Why are you keep doing this? Why are you pushing me away?”
“Because I love you!”
The room goes quiet, awfully quiet.
The ringing in your ears from the rage suddenly vanishes, replaced by that deafening, heavy silence.
Steve is breathing hard, his chest heaving as if he's just run a marathon, his hands still raised in that defensive gesture that now looks more like he's trying to catch the words he just threw into the air.
“W-what?” you manage, the word barely catching on your vocal cords.
Steve looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole, but he doesn't look away. Not this time.
“You heard me,” he says, his voice losing its edge, turning raw and shaky. “I'm not in love with Nancy, okay? I haven't been for a long time. It's always been about trying to find... I don't know— maybe, a way to make you look at me the way you look at Jonathan. To be that important to you.”
He takes a step closer, pressing into this kind of invisible void that always kept you two apart, a protective barrier you had built around yourself, now trembling on the verge of collapse.
“It's you. It's always been you.” Steve continues, very much at odds with the dismissive expression on your face, lost for words. “Since that night at Tina's. You were so mean to me, and all I could think was, 'God, I hope she never stops talking to me.'”
He laughs, a low, self-deprecating sound that makes your heart ache in your chest.
“I read those stupid books because I wanted to understand why you liked them. I bought those records because I wanted my house to sound like a place you'd actually want to stay,” he brushes his fingers through his hair, voicing every thought that crosses his mind, his eyes filling with tearful emotion that overwhelms his heart, capitalizing on your uncharacteristic quietness. “I'm an idiot— I know. I'm a sentimental, clueless idiot because you— you are all I see. I see you when I try to imagine my future. With me. In a big house, with a dog and a cat and a couple of little kids who look just like you, with your beautiful smile and your big eyes and your brilliance. You are my future, my dream.”
You shake your head, blinking away a few tears. “I should go.”
You barely take two steps before his hand closes around your wrist.
It's careful—like he's giving you time to pull away.
You don't.
Your lips find his, warm and hesitant at first, then deeper, fuller, as everything you've both been holding back spills into that single moment. His hand loosens around your wrist, sliding up to cup your cheek instead, thumb brushing softly through your skin.
His other hand swings up and closes the door behind you, leaning against it, pressing you between the wooden surface and his body.
You break away from him just enough to catch your breath before kissing him again, more passionately, more feverishly.
Steve's kiss is everything you hadn't allowed yourself to imagine: desperate, yet incredibly tender, as if he were trying to memorize the texture of your lips.
His hands, usually so confident, tremble slightly as they move from your face to your waist, bunching the fabric of his own oversized hoodie that you are wearing.
“So smart, yet such a brat sometimes,” he mumbles hot against your mouth, his voice a jagged wreck of its usual charm. “Always got something to snarl back. Always slipping away from me.”
“Just shut the fuck up, Harrington,” you breathe out, your hands winding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. “You knew what you were getting into.”
Steve groans, a low vibration you feel in your own throat, and shifts his weight. He pressed his hips firmly against yours, pinning you to the door. The friction sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core, turning your knees into jelly.
He begins to trail kisses down the column of your neck, his warm tongue grazing your sensitive skin. You tilt your head back, a shaky gasp escaping you as his teeth caught on the spot where your shoulder met your neck.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, his breath hot against your collarbone, “how many times I've sat in this room, listening to those records, just wishing you were here. Having you just like this...”
He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze dark and heavy with a possessiveness that made your heart hammer against your ribs. He reaches down, his fingers hooking under the hem of the hoodie, slowly sliding the soft fabric upward.
“Is this okay?” he asks softly, in contrast to the wild, dark desire that burned in his eyes.
You don't answer with words. Instead, you reach for the hem of his own shirt, tugging it upward in a silent invitation.
Steve don't need to be told twice. He pulls his shirt over his head and toss it blindly into the shadows of his room. When he presses back against you, the contact is electric.
He lifts you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you the few short steps toward the bed, the party downstairs sounding like it belongs to a completely different world now.
The springs of the mattress squeaks under the weight of both of you as Steve lowers you down, his body a heavy, welcome heat following you closely. He doesn't break the connection for a second, his mouth finding yours again with a frantic hunger that tastes like expensive beer and desperate longing.
The soft fabric of his own hoodie is bunched around your ribs, and Steve's large hands are everywhere—mapping the skin he'd only ever dream of touching like this.
When his palms slid up your sides, grazing the undersides of your breasts, you let out a sharp, needy sound that was lost in his mouth.
“Steve,” you gasp, your back arching off the bed as he finds a particularly sensitive spot behind your ear.
Your hands are busy, too, wandering over the firm muscles of his broad back, feeling the way he tenses and shudders under your touch.
“You're so fucking pretty,” he coos, breaking away to trail a line of biting kisses down to your jaw. “You drive me crazy”
He seats up slightly, straddling your hips, his chest heaving as he gazes in awe down at you. The moonlight from the window catch the sweat glistening on his skin and the sheer, unadulterated devotion in his eyes. Without a word, he reaches down and pulls the hoodie over your head finally, tossing it to the floor to join his shirt.
You feel a momentary flash of shyness, but it vanishes the second Steve's eyes darkens, his breath hitching.
“God, you're beautiful,” he whispers, his voice thick with desire and adoration. “It's not even close to what I had imagined.”
“Did you imagine it?” you manage to ask, sheepishly battling your lashes at him, biting your lower lip.
Steve lets out a huff, running his hand along the curve of your waist and leaning back down toward you, his eyes sparking with nothing but pure adoration, teasing your lips for a kiss, “Every goddamn day.”
As he speaks, you reach up to unhook your bra, and Steve licks his lips as he takes in the sight of your pretty tits laid bare for him.
His hands comes down your body, cupping a breast with a reverence that made your blood boil. He leans down, his tongue swirling around one nipple before taking the tit into his mouth, his suction firm and demanding.
You moan out, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your hips instinctively bucking against his.
Steve groans against your skin, his hand sliding down, past the waistband of his own shorts on you, his fingers seeking the heat he knew was waiting so patiently for him. When he finds it, already slick and aching for him, your eyes roll back in your head.
“You want this?” he asks, his voice a low growl of a challenge, his thumb rhythmically grazing your wet folds. “You want me? I need words, baby”
“I want you, Steve,” you whine, your voice breaking with emotion. “Please—”
That is the breaking point. The patience he'd spent months cultivating snaps. He moves with a new, feral urgency, shedding the rest of your clothes until there is nothing left to obstruct his way onto you.
And then, he eats your pussy like it is his very last meal, lapping and drinking in everything you have to offer, every bit of wetness from you.
His tongue feels so familiar against you, as if it had known you all its life, as if its sole purpose is to consume you. It traces its way between your folds, all the way up to your clit and back down again, sliding in just deep enough to knock the air out of your lungs.
Steve, Steve, Steve...
You moan out his name like a prayer.
“You taste so good,” he marvels in awe, “so sweet, sweetheart”
Steve pulls back for just a second, his face flush and his hair a wild, beautiful mess, but he doesn't go far. He looks up at you from between your thighs, his eyes dark with a mix of hunger and a raw, vulnerable worship that makes your heart ache even more than your body.
He watches your face as his thumb continues the job to swirl against your clit, circling with a agonizingly perfect pressure that has you gripping the sheets until your knuckles turns white.
“I've spent every night for months wondering what you'd sound like,” he coaxes, his voice vibrating against your inner thigh. “Thinking about you cumming for me...”
He doesn't give you a chance to retort with some smartass comment.
He dives back into your cunt, his tongue moving with a relentles, purposefully pace that push you right to the edge.
You are crying out his name now, your head tossing back against the pillow as the first waves of a massive climax begin to roll through you.
Steve doesn't slow down; he drinks you, his hands holding your thighs firmly so you can't escape the pleasure, grounding you as the world shatters into a thousand bright sparks.
“Cum for me, baby.” he coos, already too pussy drunk to even form a rational thought more than to please you, “Cum on my tongue, yeah, just like that”
“Holy shit, Stevie—” you hiccup, feeling tears blur your vision, a wave of pleasure unleashing from deep in your belly. “I'm cumming—hmph!”
Steve gulps down all you give him like it is some kind of holy water.
You open your eyes, blurred with tears and lust, and see him. His chin and mouth are dripping with your essence, his dark, piercing eyes in awe of how your pussy is clenching around his fingers.
He doesn't pull away. He hovers there, hands trembling as they gripped your thighs, watching the way your chest heaved and your eyes struggle to focus on him.
“You okay?” he whispers, his voice cracking. He reaches up, using the back of his hand to gently wipe a stray tear from your cheek, his touch surprisingly light for someone so clearly on the edge. “I didn't... I wasn't too rough? You're good?”
You can't even find an answer. Your body is still humming, the aftershocks of the orgasm making your muscles twitch.
So you just nod, “I'm perfect, Steve. P-please keep going, I need more.”
He moves right up, crawling over your pretty body, ready for him, his skin feels hot and slick against yours.
He moves closer to you and kiss your mouth, making you savor your own taste through him, his hands appreciatively caressing your thighs, palming the fat of your ass.
“Tell me if it's too much, yeah?" Steve breathes out, his forehead dropping low to rest against yours. “I've wanted this for so long, I don't want to mess it up. I don't want to hurt you, sugar.”
“Just fuck me already, Harrington,” you hiss right back, looking up at him with eyes half-closed in ecstasy, squeezing his forearm eagerly.
Steve sucks in a breath, leaning in close to kiss you once more, “Such a little brat.”
Then, he stands up, swiftly stripping off his pants and boxers under your attentive gaze. He is a handsome boy, always has been. His physique is strong, his shoulders are broad, his biceps are muscular, his six-pack is slightly marked, and beads of sweat roll down his tanned skin. You are drooling at the mouth from the urge of wanting to sweep your tongue along it, scooping up the salty sweat.
And he's so big that it has you in a chokehold. You really can't resist letting your eyes drift down. His cock is so hard that it looks painful, with a plump head dripping with pre-cum, twitching for you.
He kicks his clothes aside without a glance and moves back over you, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settles in between your spread thighs.
He doesn't just dive in. Instead, he takes a second to look at you—really look at you—lying there, flushed and open, so ready and eager for him, your hair forming a wild halo against his pillows.
He knows he can cum right there just by seeing you like that.
Steve reaches blindly toward the nightstand, his fingers fumbling with the drawer until he pulls out a small, square foil packet.
His breathing is ragged, his eyes never leaving yours even as he starts to tear the edge with his teeth. He looks so fucking hot.
As he starts to pull the condom out, you reach up towards him, your palm flat against his heaving chest, feeling the frantic gallop of his heart.
“Steve,” you whisper, your voice thick with demanding.
“I know, baby, I know, just—one second,” he mumbles absentmindedly, his fingers shaking slightly as he tries to roll it on.
“No,” you tell him, firmer this time. You hook your fingers into his, pulling the half-open condom away. “Don't. I want to feel you. All of you. Please”
Steve freezes. He looks down at you, his pupils so blown they've nearly swallowed the chocolate-brown of his irises. “Honey... I don't— are you sure? I don't want to—”
“I'm sure,” you interrupt, your legs winding around his waist, pulling his hips flush against yours. You can feel exactly how much he wants this, how hard his cock is, rubbing against your inner thigh. “Go raw, Stevie. Please, baby.”
The condom is abandoned, fluttering to the carpeted floor, forgotten.
“Holy shit, you're going to be the death of me,” Steve breathes out tremulously, his voice dropping into a register so low it sends a fresh wave of heat through you.
He lets out a low, guttural sound—half-sob, half-growl—and finally guide himself to your entrance. He pushes his bulbous head in between your wet folds very slowly, a steady, relentless inching that makes your eyes roll back.
Steve is so big and hot, filling every empty space you don't even know you have, even when his cock is just halfway inside your pussy. You felt your breath hitch as your body stretching to your fucking limit to accommodate around his size, the sensation so intense it was almost overwhelming.
“Oh, baby, there you go. You're doing so good, mhm. Breath for me, sugar, yeah?”
One inch, a trembling hot praise whispered against your ear, another inch, another soft praise...
And he goes like that until he is buried all the way to the hilt inside your fluttering pussy, his forehead resting against yours, both of you frozen in that perfect, overwhelming moment of connection. You are breathing the same air, your nails clawing up his back, his are gripping the bedsheets on either side of your shoulders.
Steve groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body shuddering at the sheer sensation of finally being home.
“Jesus Christ, you're so tight,” he whimpers, beginning to move. “You feel perfect, you're perfect”
Each thrust is slow, deliberate, and deep—a physical manifestation of every word he'd been too scared to say.
You lock your legs around his slim waist, pulling him even deeper, meeting every one of his thrusts with a desperate hunger of your own. The rhythmic "slap, slap, slap!" of skin against skin and the sound of your shared, ragged breathing fill the room, drowning out the distant music still sounding from the pool little party.
“Steve... please,” you whimper his name again and again, the knot growing tighter in the lower part of your belly, more intense than before.
“I got you, baby. I'm right here, hm?” he responds to your cries, leaning down to kiss each of your flushed cheeks, gently licking away a couple of stray tears that keep slipping from your pretty eyes. “I'm right here...”
He shows you. One of his hands lands on your lower belly, where the outline of his cock is clearly visible every time he fucks in and out of your messy pussy and then, Steve presses down just a little to get both of you to sigh, both feeling the pressure of his hand's weight.
And when Steve pulls out of you, he doesn't just shove back in again; he is agonizingly slow now, savoring the way your body stretched out and yielded to him, inch by excruciating inch.
Steve quickens the pace, his jaw tight, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your chest. He is relentless, pushing you higher and higher until you find that sensation of that familiar coil tightening in your gut once more.
He leans down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss just as you break, your body pulsing around him. He could feel you were close, he could feel it every time he slid back inside you, bullying your cervix like he’s determined to mold your pussy to the shape of his cock. Your warm, plush walls contracting all around him, taking in his entire length right down to his base.
He's buried balls deep now, his hips slamming against yours with a raw, primal rhythm. And then, Steve suddenly slow down just a fraction, his muscles trembling with a fucking Herculean effort of holding back and not bust a nut right there.
“Steve, I'm—”
He pulls back a few inches, his face flushed a deep, beautiful red, sweat dripping from his chin onto your chest as he rests weakly on your tits.
“I know, I know,” he knows, his lips grazing one of your nipples as he speaks, drooling all over your skin. “Right there with you, baby. I'm—I'm so close. I can't... I can't hold it much longer. Where do you want it?”
“Inside,” you manage to choke out, your fingers digging into his hips to pull him back down and back inside you. “Fill me up, Steve. Don't you dare pull out.”
A low, feral growl rips from his throat at your words, a sound you had never heard come from him.
Steve is a good boy and he obeys you, as always, so, he surges forward, burying himself to the absolute hilt, and gives three more devastatingly deep, fast thrusts that have you seeing stars on the ceiling of his room.
“I love you,” he cries into your neck, his voice muffled by your skin as he finally lets go, pumping hot spurts of his cum right into your welcoming womb.
Soon, you have him reduced to nothing more than a wobbly, crying mess all over you, laying there on your chest all worn out.
You too are a fucking mess, cumming, earth-shatteringly, for the second time under the weight of his body, the suffocating sensation of his love and worship lavishing all over you and in you.
You can swear you see the entire universe flashing right over the expanse of his shoulders, and you can feel the heat radiating from its flames burning through your fingertips. Stars twinkling on his skin, lighting up each of his freckles and moles spread across his body like a constellation.
For a long moment, neither of you move.
The world slowly crawls back around you—the distant music downstairs, the hum of the house settling, the soft night light slipping in through the window.
Steve is still inside you, breathing hard, his forehead pressing against your shoulder like he needs the contact to stay grounded.
He presses a gentle kiss on your shoulder before leaning back just enough to look at you.
“I'm— I'm sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, panic threading his voice as he pulls back a little more. “Not sorry like I regret it, just— are you okay?”
“I'm fine,” you reply, flashing a sheepish, lazy smile.
After double-checking that you are indeed okay, with his teeth nibbling on his lower lip, he pulls out of you, carefully, delicately.
He then spends a good ten minutes cleaning you up, running a clean cloth between your legs, thighs, belly, with such care that it sometimes tickles you due to the overstimulation.
And after that, Steve collapses beside you on the bed, careful to tug a blanket over both of you, pulling you against his side. His arm wraps around you instinctively, protective, familiar—like he'd been doing this with you in another life.
You rest your head on his chest, listening to his heart slowly calm down beneath your ear.
“I meant it. What I said earlier,” he says after a little while, voice quiet now, stripped bare, gruff from all the moans and whimpers you got out of him. “I love you.”
You don't answer right away.
Not because you don't feel it—but because saying it out loud suddenly feels huge.
Steve's fingers still for half a second on your waist.
“You don't have to say it back,” he adds quickly. “I just needed you to know.”
You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes in the dim light and you lean in and kiss him—slow this time, soft, nothing desperate about it.
Steve's lips are warm, familiar already, like something you don't realize you'd been missing until it is finally there, all for you. When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, noses brushing, both of you breathing each other in.
“I love you too”
You carefully lie down on top of him now, on your stomach, pressing against his chest. One of his hands lingers on your lower back, affectionately caressing the curve of your ass, and the other is gently stroking strands of your hair behind your ear.
He exhales shakily, a sound that's half a laugh, half disbelief. “Okay,” he gasps. “Okay. Wow.”
You huff out a soft laugh against his chest. “Is that all you've got, Harrington?”
“Hey,” he protests weakly, palming your ass now, more playfully. “I just confessed my undying love and then had my entire soul rearranged. I need a minute.”
You sigh and nestle closer to him, your legs tangling with his under the blanket. “You're gonna be so annoying about this.”
“Oh, unbearably so,” he chirps. “I'm thinking lots of 'remember when you hated me' jokes.”
“You know,” you say casually, like you're commenting on the weather, your fingers toy lightly with the hairs on his chest, “it's actually really pathetic.”
Steve squints at you, but he is so happy he could fly. “Why do I feel like I'm about to be bullied?”
“You listened to all my favorite records,” you explain, pressing into his skin every time you name something else. “The sad ones. The pretentious ones. You watched my movies. You read my books.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. “...okay?”
You tilt your head, holding back a teasing smile. “Like, that's loser behavior.”
Steve shrugs, completely unbothered. “I listened to your records. I read your books. I watched your sad little movies.” He pauses, then tilts his head, grin widening. He is triumphant. “But you still fucked me. So, technically? I won.”
You groan. “I take it back. I don't love you.”
He is laughing, hugging you so tight you can't ever pull away from him.
The World’s Simp 🥴 @rinarecommends - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
