You set out to write “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days” by driving someone crazy—except he was Lando Norris, F1 superstar and chaos in human form, completely immune to your schemes. Over ten days of bets, sabotage, and ridiculous antics, neither of you expected to fall in love… but Monaco had other plans. PART TWO
pairing. Lando Norris x journalist! fem! reader.
warnings. rom-com, humor, 15,9k words; out of 29,8k, part one of two. fake dating, slow burn -ish, bet trope. chaotic & cringe hijinks, mentions of alcohol use, pet names (cutie, love, baby, darlin), pov switch, profanity. inspired by how to lose a guy in 10 days.
soundtrack. he stayed through all that??, an official playlist
THIS IS PART ONE OF HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN 10 DAYS: MONACO EDITION. FIND PART TWO HERE.
YOU’D NEVER BEEN GREAT AT SAYING THINGS OUT LOUD. Feelings, fears, awkward truths—you tended to keep those locked up tight, buried under sarcasm and a half-decent skincare routine. It was kind of your thing. Everyone had their flaws. Yours just happened to be pretending everything was fine while the ship was very much on fire.
The one thing you’d never admit—not to your friends, not to your therapist (if you had one), and definitely not to yourself—was that your journalism career was quietly, painfully, undeniably dying. You weren’t exactly winning awards or breaking stories anymore. You were mostly just refreshing your inbox and pretending that unpaid “exposure” gigs were part of some grand plan. Spoiler: they weren’t.
And okay, maybe—maybe—you’d thought about quitting. Maybe you’d had a few late-night fantasies about giving it all up and becoming a full-time gold digger. The classy kind, obviously. The kind who drank rosé on yachts and wore silk robes while pretending to care about crypto. It wasn’t the worst idea. You did live in Monaco, after all. Land of superyachts, supermodels, and super-rich men who thought “journalist” is just a cute way of saying “between jobs.” Honestly, if you were going to fail at something, at least you’d picked a scenic place to do it.
“I just need to write something life-changing. Then everything will be fine.” You leaned against the heater with all the drama of a woman on the brink, your back pressed to the window like you were starring in a very slow, very tragic film. You weren’t sure if you were trying to convince your coworkers or yourself. Probably both.
“Right,” Carol said, not even glancing up from her laptop. “And do you actually know what that is, or are we just manifesting now?”
“Well… no,” you admitted, with the kind of shrug that said please don’t ask follow-up questions. At least you were being honest. Sort of.
Across the room, Hanna looked up from her coffee. She was probably the smartest person in the office, which was both comforting and deeply annoying. She studied you for a second, her expression unreadable—somewhere between pity and amusement, with just a dash of judgment for flavor.
“I watched a movie the other night,” she said, her voice slow and deliberate, like she was trying to decide if this was worth sharing. “And it actually had a plot that might work. For an article, I mean.”
Your ears perked up the second Hanna spoke. “Wait… what is it?” you asked, straightening up like a detective who’d just caught the scent of a lead. You didn’t mean to sound so desperate, but honestly, you were one more rejection email away from pitching a story about the emotional lives of houseplants.
“How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days,” Hanna said, her voice lilting with that particular brand of smugness that only came from knowing she was about to drop something good.
Carol perked up immediately. “Oh my god, I love that movie!”
You blinked. Once. Twice. A third time for good measure. Was this a cultural reference you were supposed to know? Judging by the way both of them were looking at you—with matching expressions of mild horror and secondhand embarrassment—you had, in fact, missed something. Something big.
You tried to play it cool, nodding like you were totally on board. “Right. That one. Classic.” You had no idea what you were agreeing to.
Hanna didn’t buy it. She leaned forward, eyes glinting with something that looked suspiciously like mischief. “So, the girl has to find a guy,” she said slowly, drawing it out like she was telling a ghost story. “And then she has to do everything—everything—in her power to make him dump her. In ten days.”
You stared at her. “That’s… the plot?”
“That’s the plot,” she confirmed, clearly delighted by your confusion. “And it’s perfect.”
You weren’t sure what she meant by perfect, but your brain was already racing. Ten days. A doomed relationship. A built-in deadline. It was ridiculous. It was chaotic. It was… kind of brilliant.
And also, probably, a terrible idea.
But then again, what did you have to lose?
“So… you’re telling me I have to find some poor soul and make him dump me in ten days?” you asked, the words sounding ridiculous even as they left your mouth. It felt like the kind of thing you’d say as a joke at brunch, not something you’d actually consider doing. And yet—your brain was already buzzing, flipping through mental flashcards of eligible men and increasingly unhinged ways to drive them away.
“Exactly!” Hanna said, her eyes lighting up like she’d just invented the concept of journalism itself. “But make it Monaco. Find a billionaire, an athlete, someone with a yacht and a god complex. Go wild.”
Carol nodded solemnly, like she was blessing a sacred quest. “Yeah, like… traumatize someone rich. For journalism. Totally fair. Do you know the insane stuff these people do for money? You’d be doing the world a favor.”
You tried to keep a straight face, but a laugh slipped out anyway. The idea was unhinged. Unethical, probably. Definitely unprofessional. But also? It had legs. It had chaos. It had the kind of messy, clickbait-y energy that editors loved and readers devoured. And more than that—it sounded fun. Stupid, reckless fun. The kind you hadn’t had in ages.
You could already picture it: the awkward dates, the fake meltdowns, the slow unraveling of some poor, unsuspecting man’s patience. It was terrible. It was brilliant. It was exactly the kind of disaster you needed.
And if it just so happened to be the thing that saved your career? Even better.
“But who exactly is supposed to be my victim? Do we have any tributes?” you asked, glancing between the girls like you were about to host a very glamorous, very morally questionable Hunger Games. Honestly, in Monaco, the options were endless. The city was practically crawling with eligible men who had more money than sense and a deeply concerning relationship with their own reflections.
“Jannik Sinner!” Carol said immediately, like she’d been waiting her whole life to shout his name. “What does he play? Tennis? Whatever. He’s hot.”
You wrinkled your nose. Jannik was objectively attractive, sure, but he gave off the kind of energy that screamed protein shakes and motivational podcasts. Probably the type to say things like “rise and grind” without irony. Not your vibe.
Hanna tapped her pen against her notebook, eyes narrowed in thought. “What about the orange guy who drives fast cars? Piastri. Oscar. He’s cute.”
You tilted your head, considering it for half a second before shaking it. Also not your type. Too polite. Too clean-cut. He looked like the kind of guy who’d apologize for sneezing too loud. You needed someone cockier. Someone who could handle a little chaos. Someone who wouldn’t immediately crumble the second you fake-cried in a restaurant or brought up your imaginary Pinterest wedding board.
No, you needed someone who could take a hit. Someone who thought he was untouchable.
“I need to think it through,” you said, pausing just long enough to make it sound like a life-or-death decision. “But don’t worry—I’ll let you know the moment I choose my victim.”
You said it with a grin, but your mind was already racing. Monaco was full of possibilities—sleek suits, smug smiles, men who’d never been told no in their lives. It was practically a buffet of bad decisions. All you had to do was pick one and ruin his ten days of life. For journalism, of course.
Totally ethical. Totally fine.
Probably.
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What happened when you mixed alcohol with four Formula 1 drivers—especially Lando Norris?
Bad decisions. The kind that started with expensive cocktails and ended with someone losing a shoe, a phone, or their dignity. Sometimes all three.
They were tucked into a velvet booth in the corner of the lounge, half-hidden by low lighting and the thump of bass-heavy music. Their table was cluttered with half-empty glasses and a bottle of something that probably cost more than most people’s rent. Oscar, Max, and Charles were deep in conversation, laughing about something that involved a yacht, a seagull, and a very unfortunate misunderstanding in Ibiza.
Lando, though, wasn’t listening. He was staring across the room, eyes fixed on the dance floor like he was watching a live documentary on human chaos. A group of girls had climbed onto the tables, dancing like they were auditioning for a music video—heels off, hair wild, dresses clinging to skin that shimmered with sweat and glitter. It was a lot. Like, a lot.
He blinked slowly, lips parted in mild horror. The kind of look you’d give if you walked into your hotel room and found a raccoon going through your minibar. He wasn’t judging, exactly. More… confused. Concerned. Maybe a little afraid.
“What are you staring at, man?” Oscar asked, leaning over to follow his gaze.
Lando pointed, eyes still wide. “Those girls. Do you see them? They have no dignity.”
Max snorted so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “You’re talking about dignity? You, Lando?”
Lando turned to him, offended. “Hey! I have dignity. Do I look like I’m up there shaking my almost bare ass to the music? No. Exactly.”
Charles raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “Should I remind you what you did after your Monaco win?”
Lando opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could already feel the memory creeping in—champagne-soaked, shirtless, standing on a table with a traffic cone on his head, yelling something about being the king of the world. Okay, maybe not his finest moment.
“That was different,” he muttered, taking a long sip of his drink. “That was… celebratory.”
Max grinned. “Sure, mate. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Lando rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. He hated how well they knew him. Hated it even more that they were right.
“That’s not even the point,” Lando said, letting out a dramatic sigh as he slumped back in his seat. “My point is—it’s actually so hard to find a girlfriend who isn’t a gold digger.”
He knew how it sounded. Rich, famous, young. Boo-hoo, right? But still. It was a real problem. Everyone around him seemed to have someone. Real relationships. People to text goodnight. People to come home to. And then there was him—third-wheeling his way through life, pretending he didn’t care.
“Right, because you’re the only one who’s single here,” Max said, grinning like he’d just caught Lando in a lie. “Even Oscar has a girlfriend.”
“Sorry?” Oscar blinked, confused. “We’ve been together since high school, Max.”
Max rolled his eyes, like that somehow made it worse. “Exactly my point. You’re the last one standing. We need to find someone for you.”
He clapped Lando on the back like he was doing him a favor, but Lando just groaned and took another sip of his drink. The idea of someone “finding” him a girlfriend felt like ordering love off a menu. And yet… maybe Max wasn’t wrong. Maybe it was time to try something new.
“Let’s make it more interesting,” Charles said, leaning back in his chair with a grin that made Lando’s stomach twist. “A bet.”
Oh no. Absolutely not. This was how chaos started. This was how group chats exploded and friendships got temporarily ruined. Lando had seen this look before—Charles was about to say something reckless, and once he did, there’d be no going back.
“A bet?” Lando repeated slowly, already feeling his shoulders tense. “Why does that sound like you’re about to say something ridiculous?”
“Because he is,” Oscar muttered, sipping his drink like he’d already accepted the disaster as inevitable.
Max perked up instantly, eyes wide and excited, like someone had just said the magic word. “Ooooh, I love bets! What are we betting on? Lando’s dignity? Because that’s already gone.”
Lando shot him a look, deadpan. “Very funny,” he said, voice flat and dripping with sarcasm. But deep down, he knew Max wasn’t entirely wrong. His dignity had taken a few hits lately. Mostly self-inflicted.
Charles ignored them all, clearly enjoying himself. He leaned forward, hands spread like he was presenting a TED Talk. “Lando, you need a girlfriend. We all know it. So…” He paused for dramatic effect. “You have ten days to pull a girl.”
Lando blinked. “Uh… okay. And the catch?”
Charles smiled like he’d just invented the concept of suffering. “No money. No fame. No cars. No F1 clout. Just… pure personality.”
Lando choked on his drink.
Pure personality? That was basically all the stuff he didn’t use. His whole charm package was built on fast cars, expensive watches, and being Lando Norris. Strip that away and what was left? A guy who made bad jokes, forgot birthdays, and still didn’t know how to fold a fitted sheet. He wasn’t even sure he had a personality outside of racing and nonchalant Instagram captions.
He looked around the table, hoping someone would jump in and shut this down. But Max was already nodding like this was the best idea he’d ever heard. Oscar looked mildly entertained. And Charles? Charles was practically glowing with evil joy.
Lando sighed, sinking deeper into his seat. This was going to be a disaster.
But part of him—some reckless, competitive part—kind of wanted to try.
Lando narrowed his eyes, already suspicious. “Okay… but what do I get out of this?”
He didn’t trust that look on Charles’s face. It was the same look he’d had before convincing Max to race a golf cart through a hotel lobby. The same look that had ended with a very awkward call from PR. Lando wasn’t about to walk into something stupid without at least knowing what was on the table.
Charles smirked, clearly enjoying the moment. “Oh, something big. Something worth your time.”
Oscar leaned in, lowering his voice like they were planning a heist. “A brand-new car. Your choice. Top model. Think of it as… motivation.”
Lando blinked. Then blinked again. A car? A new car? His brain immediately started spinning through possibilities—sleek lines, custom interiors, that new car smell. He already had a garage full of toys, sure, but this would be different. This would be earned. Won. A trophy with wheels.
He leaned back in his seat, trying to look casual, but his eyes were already gleaming. “Okay… now you’ve got my attention.”
Charles raised a brow, clearly not done. “Don’t get too cocky. You still have to actually… do it.”
Lando grinned, the kind of grin that usually got him into trouble. “Oh, don’t worry. I will. And when I do, that car is mine.”
“And who’s supposed to be the lucky girl?” Lando asked, scanning the club with a mix of curiosity and dread.
There were plenty of options—if you counted sequins, fake tans, and women who could smell wealth from across the room. The place was packed with designer heels and glossy lips, all circling like sharks in glitter. It was loud, chaotic, and exactly the kind of scene Lando usually tried to avoid unless he was already tipsy or being dragged in by Max.
Charles pointed toward the dance floor, where a blonde was holding court in the middle of a glittery circle. She moved like she knew everyone was watching, hips swaying, hair flipping, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “The blonde over there? I think her name is Magui or something like that.”
Lando squinted, trying to place her. She looked familiar in that Monaco way—like someone who’d probably dated three footballers, a tennis player, and maybe a prince. “Mate, she looks like she’s already dated half the athletes in here… and would probably make me sign a nondisclosure agreement before the first drink.”
He shook his head, already bored. “Pass.”
He wanted someone different. Someone who didn’t treat flirting like a business transaction. Someone who didn’t already know his net worth before he said hello.
“And what about her?” Oscar asked, nodding toward the bar.
Lando turned his head, following Oscar’s gaze—and then he saw you.
You were perched on a barstool, one leg crossed over the other, deep in conversation with a friend. There was something about the way you sat—relaxed, like you belonged there but didn’t need anyone to notice. You weren’t dressed like the usual Monaco crowd. No glittering diamonds, no designer logos screaming for attention. Just a simple outfit, effortless and cool, like you’d thrown it on without a second thought. And your expression? Calm. Unbothered. Like the chaos of the club didn’t touch you. Like you were in your own little world and perfectly happy to stay there.
Lando tilted his head, studying you. You didn’t look like someone who cared about fast cars or famous faces. You weren’t glancing around the room, hoping to be seen. You weren’t trying too hard. You weren’t trying at all.
And that? That was rare.
His lips curled into a slow, intrigued smile. Something about you felt like a challenge. Not the kind he could win with a wink and a flashy watch. The kind that might actually take effort. Honesty. Personality. Whatever that meant.
“Perfect,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.
And just like that, the game was on.
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With a few hours to kill before work, you figured you might as well be productive. Or at least pretend to be. So you parked yourself in a quiet café, ordered something overpriced and frothy, and settled in by the window with your laptop open and your eyes doing anything but working. You told yourself you were brainstorming. Researching. Casually scouting for your potential victim. You had ten days, after all. No time to waste.
Unfortunately, the selection was… bleak.
Too old. Too young. Too married. Too into themselves. One guy looked promising until he took a phone call and started yelling at someone named “Mum” about crypto. Another had a man bun and a tattoo of a lion on his neck, which felt like a red flag wrapped in a cliché. And then—Charles Leclerc. Sitting two tables away, laughing with someone you assumed was his girlfriend. Taken. Obviously. And thank God, honestly. The last thing you needed was a swarm of Ferrari fans in your DMs accusing you of ruining his focus.
You were just about ready to give up. Your coffee had gone cold, your cursor blinked mockingly on a blank document, and your brain was spiraling into that familiar pit of “what am I even doing with my life?” You stirred your drink like it might reveal the answers at the bottom, already preparing to pack up and call it a failed mission.
And then—someone stepped into your peripheral vision.
You didn’t look up right away. You were too busy wallowing. But then a voice cut through the low hum of conversation, casual and familiar in a way that made your stomach flip.
“Hey.”
You looked up.
And nearly died on the spot.
Lando Norris.
Standing right there, like the universe had just dropped him into your lap with a wink and a challenge. He looked annoyingly good—messy curls, easy smile, hands shoved into the pockets of a hoodie that probably cost more than your rent. He didn’t look like a celebrity right now. He looked like a guy who’d wandered in off the street, maybe to grab a coffee or flirt with the barista. But you knew better.
Your heart did something weird in your chest. Not because you were starstruck—please, you were a professional. Mostly. But because this was it. The moment. The setup.
Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.
The universe had officially outdone itself.
Because standing in front of you was a man who was, quite frankly, perfect for the job. He checked every single box on your very short, very specific list:
1. Famous.
2. Attractive.
3. Almost definitely dumb enough to fall for whatever psychological warfare your article required.
Your brain lit up like fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Oh. Oh. This was it. This was him. Your ten-day victim had just walked straight into your life, no effort required. You didn’t even have to chase him down—he came to you. Like a lamb to the slaughter. Or, more accurately, like a golden retriever to a squeaky toy.
“Hi,” you said sweetly, already spinning the first few lines of your article in your head. The headline was practically writing itself.
Of course, you had to play it cool. You had to pretend you had absolutely no idea who he was. Not the guy you’d written five separate articles about. Not the guy with a garage full of sixteen cars you could list from memory. Not the guy whose face had been on your Twitter feed more times than your own.
No. You were going full amnesia. Blank slate. Just a girl, sitting in a café, definitely not plotting emotional sabotage.
“I saw you yesterday in the club. What a coincidence,” he said, voice a little too high, a little too nervous for someone who regularly drove a rocket ship at 300 kilometers an hour.
You raised a single eyebrow. He saw you?
Interesting.
He seemed to realize how that sounded because he immediately panicked. “I mean—uh—may I sit with you?”
And just like that, your suspicions were confirmed.
Oh yeah. He was the one.
So it had begun.
Your challenge: make Lando Norris dump you in ten days.
You watched him settle into the chair across from you, all casual charm and nervous energy. It was almost too easy. He looked relaxed, but you could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—the way he scanned your face like he was trying to figure out if you were safe, or secretly filming him for TikTok.
“What’s your name, cutie?” you asked, voice syrupy sweet. The word cutie tasted weird coming out of your mouth, but you leaned into it anyway. You cringed internally—asking for his name when you knew every single gossip headline about him felt borderline criminal. You’d written about his dating history. His car collection. His skincare routine. You could probably recite his net worth in three currencies.
Still… you were curious. Would he lie? Would he play it cool, pretend to be someone else? Or would he go full Lando Norris, Monaco’s golden playboy, the city’s most sought-after souvenir?
“Lando,” he said.
Wow.
So he was actually telling the truth. No fake name. No mysterious alter ego. Just Lando. Bold move. And maybe also a little dumb. Perfect.
“That’s nice, Larry.”
He blinked. “It’s… Lando.”
You smiled innocently. “That’s what I said.”
He paused, eyebrows pulling together just slightly. Confused. Not alarmed, not offended—just trying to figure out if you were messing with him or genuinely bad with names. A regular Monaco man would’ve already made an excuse and bolted. But he stayed. That was promising.
“And what’s your name?” he asked, still trying to play it cool.
“I’m Y/n,” you said, offering him a soft smile that you hoped read as warm and just a little curious. At the same time, your eyes flicked toward the rest of the café, scanning the space like you were expecting someone to jump out from behind the espresso machine with a hidden camera. Was this a setup? Was he scouting the place? Spying? The whole thing felt too easy, too convenient. You’d barely started your mission and already the universe had dropped Monaco’s most eligible bachelor into your lap.
“So… you saw me at the club, huh?” you asked, keeping your tone light, like it was just a passing comment. Of course you knew he had. You’d been there with Hanna, sipping overpriced cocktails and pretending not to notice the swarm of athletes and influencers orbiting the VIP section. You’d clocked him immediately—messy curls, easy smile, the kind of presence that made people turn their heads without even knowing why. But you’d played it cool. You always did.
“Um… yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. His voice was softer now, a little unsure. “I was with my friends, and you… caught my attention. But you were with a friend, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”
You tilted your head slightly, pretending to think. Caught his attention? That was… unexpected. You tried to guess which friend he’d been with—Oscar? Max? Carlos? Probably one of the three.
But what really surprised you was how polite he was. No cheesy pickup line. No smug grin. Just a little awkward, a little nervous, and honestly? Kind of sweet. You’d heard the rumors—Lando Norris, playboy of the paddock, heartbreaker with a grin. But this version? This slightly fidgety, maybe-too-honest guy sitting across from you?
You could work with this.
You could definitely work with this.
As much as you wanted to keep the conversation going—keep watching him fidget with his sleeves and stumble over his words like a boy who wasn’t used to being nervous—time was not on your side. Hanna and Carol would absolutely murder you if you were late to work again. And honestly, you were already pushing it.
“Anyway, I should get going. Y’know… work,” you said, slipping your laptop into your bag and trying to sound like a normal person with a normal job and not someone actively plotting emotional sabotage for a living.
But then—
“Wanna go out for dinner or lunch sometime?” Lando asked, voice hopeful, like he wasn’t sure if he was reading the moment right.
You froze.
Oh.
This was suspiciously easy. Like, too easy. You hadn’t even done anything yet. No fake tears, no chaotic energy, no weird stories about your ex-boyfriend’s ghost haunting your apartment. And here he was, asking you out like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“I’d love that,” you said, keeping your tone light, breezy. Inside, your brain was doing backflips. You could already hear Hanna and Carol screaming when you told them.
“Perfect,” he said, smiling now, more confident. “So… tomorrow, 6 p.m.? Here?”
You blinked. Here? Same café? That was bold. And kind of adorable. He was either really into you or really bad at dating. Maybe both.
“Deal,” you said, trying to sound casual, like this wasn’t the exact outcome you’d been hoping for. Like you weren’t already planning your outfit and your first sabotage move.
You slung your bag over your shoulder, gave him one last smile, and walked out the door with your heart racing and your mission officially in motion.
You burst into the office like a storm, practically tripping over your own feet as you threw your bag onto your chair without even bothering to sit. Your heart was still racing, your thoughts spinning, and you couldn’t hold it in for one more second.
“You are not going to believe what just happened to me!” you shouted, loud enough that someone in the hallway probably heard.
Hanna and Carol looked up from their desks, already exchanging that familiar look—the one that said here we go again. Hanna raised an eyebrow, and Carol tilted her head, both waiting for whatever chaos you were about to unload.
“Hm?” Hanna asked, calm but curious.
You started pacing, arms flailing a little as you tried to find the words. “Okay, so I was sitting in the café, right? Just doing my usual thing—pretending to work, sipping coffee, maybe scouting for the guy—and then boom. Out of nowhere. The universe just drops Lando. Fucking. Norris. right into my lap.”
Hanna gasped like she’d just been slapped. “You’re kidding!”
Carol’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She blinked, stunned, like her brain was still buffering.
You nodded, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “I swear. He walked right up to me. Sat down. Started talking. And the best part?” You paused for dramatic effect, letting the tension build. “I literally did nothing. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t even try. I was just sitting there, spiraling about my life, and he came to me.”
Carol finally found her voice. “Wait—what does that even mean?”
You dropped into your chair, still buzzing. “It means he invited me to dinner. Tomorrow. Six p.m. Same café.”
Hanna let out a shriek that echoed off the walls. Carol covered her mouth like she’d just witnessed a miracle. You leaned back, heart pounding, mind already racing through outfits and sabotage strategies.
This was it. The mission had officially begun.
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DAY ONE
Dinner was at six.
You arrived at 6:07—just late enough to be annoying, but not late enough to be unforgivable. It was a calculated move. A soft push. You wanted him just a little off balance, just enough to wonder if you were the kind of person who always ran late or if you were testing him. Either way, it worked.
Lando was already there, sitting at the table with his fingers wrapped around a glass he hadn’t touched. He was spinning it slowly, staring at the condensation like it held answers. He looked nervous. Not panicked, but definitely unsure. Like a kid trying to act normal in front of the cool teacher. You loved that. You loved a man already on edge.
“Sorry I’m late,” you said brightly, sliding into your seat like you hadn’t just made a dramatic entrance. “My cat threw up on my shoes.”
You didn’t have a cat. You didn’t even like cats. But if tonight was about sabotage, you were going to start strong. Lies, confusion, chaos—your holy trinity.
Lando blinked, clearly trying to process. “Oh—uh, I hope they’re okay?”
You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Shoes or cat?”
“…Both?” he guessed, voice soft.
Cute. He was trying. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way he kept glancing at you like he was checking to see if you were real. He wasn’t smooth, not yet. But he was polite. Sweet, even. And that made it better. You didn’t want a player. You wanted someone who’d fall hard and fast and then wonder what the hell happened.
The waiter came, and you ordered something expensive—something with ingredients you couldn’t pronounce and a price tag that made Lando’s eyebrows twitch. You watched him carefully, waiting for the reaction. He didn’t say anything, just nodded and ordered something simple. Interesting. He wasn’t going to challenge you. Not yet.
And then came your moment.
The first crack. The first twist.
You leaned forward, smile soft, voice sweet. Time to plant the seed.
Then came the inevitable question. The one that always showed up early, no matter how much small talk you tried to stretch out.
“So… what do you do? For work?”
You watched him closely as he answered. His eyes flickered, just for a second, like he was searching for the right words—or maybe the safest lie.
“I’m a… mechanic,” he said.
You blinked. Mechanic? Really?
You raised an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm. “A… mechanic? Here in Monaco?”
He nodded, stiffly. “Yeah… cars. Fixing cars.”
He looked like you’d just asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon. His shoulders were tense, his voice too careful. Like he was trying to sell a story he hadn’t rehearsed enough.
You leaned back in your chair, pretending to think it over. Mechanic. In Monaco. Sure. Because that made perfect sense. You knew what kind of cars he drove—cars that cost more than your entire apartment building. And now he wanted you to believe he spent his days elbow-deep in engine grease?
Something didn’t add up.
But you didn’t call him out. Not yet. You just smiled, nodded slowly, and filed the lie away for later.
Because if he was going to play pretend… well, two could play that game.
“Enough talking about me,” Lando said, waving his hand like he’d just cracked some kind of code. “I want to talk about you.”
Uh-oh.
You smiled, but inside, you groaned. Of course he wasn’t that interesting. You’d already figured that out. He was charming, sure, and a little nervous, which was cute—but the moment he called himself a mechanic, you knew you were dealing with someone who wasn’t exactly built for deep conversation. Still, you had to play nice. You were supposed to be sweet. Mysterious. Just weird enough to keep him guessing.
So you rolled your eyes—internally, of course, because externally you had to look polite and engaged—and braced yourself for whatever awkward questions were coming next. This was the part where he’d ask something basic, like where you were from or what you did for work, and you’d have to lie through your teeth without blinking.
“So… what do you do?” Lando asked, leaning forward a little, his elbows resting on the table, eyes wide with what looked like actual curiosity.
You blinked, caught off guard. He sounded so sincere. Like he really wanted to know. Like he wasn’t just asking to be polite or to fill the silence. You hadn’t expected that. You thought he’d be more self-absorbed, more interested in talking about himself, or at least flexing a little. But no—he was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.
You gave a small shrug, pretending to think hard. “Uh… I, um… I specialize in… finding lost socks.”
His eyebrows lifted, just a little. “Lost… socks?”
You nodded, keeping your face serious. “Yeah. People’s socks. It’s very niche. Very demanding. You’d be surprised how emotional people get about it. Some socks never come back. It’s tragic, really.”
You watched him closely, waiting for the confusion to settle in. Waiting for the polite smile to crack, for the awkward silence to stretch too long. This was supposed to be weird. Off-putting. You were trying to throw him off, to make him question your sanity just enough to regret asking.
But instead, Lando’s lips twitched. Then curled into a smile. “That’s… actually kind of cute.”
You blinked.
Cute?
You were trying to annoy him, for crying out loud. You were trying to be strange and mildly concerning. And somehow, he’d taken your fake sock-finding career and turned it into something adorable. Like you were a quirky rom-com lead instead of a woman actively plotting her own romantic downfall.
This was going to be harder than you thought.
“So… do you have any hobbies? Or… weird talents?” you asked, leaning forward just a little, pretending to be genuinely curious. You tilted your head, smiled softly, and gave him space to answer. It was a test, really. You wanted to see what kind of lie he’d come up with next.
Lando hesitated. You could see the gears turning in his head, trying to land on something believable but still interesting. Finally, he shrugged. “Uh… I’m really into, um… pottery.”
You blinked.
Pottery.
Sure. That made total sense for someone whose actual life involved screaming engines, million-dollar cars, and a fanbase that could probably crash your Wi-Fi. You stared at him for a second, trying to picture it—Lando Norris in an apron, gently shaping clay with his hands, surrounded by half-finished mugs and lopsided bowls. It was… oddly charming. And also completely ridiculous.
“Pottery, huh?” you said, smiling like you weren’t internally laughing. “You know… you kind of remind me of someone.”
He tilted his head, clearly bracing for whatever you were about to say. His shoulders tensed just slightly, like he was preparing for impact. “Oh? Who?”
You grinned, letting the moment stretch. “I don’t know… someone fast, maybe… drives cars professionally? Something like that?”
His eyebrows shot up, panic flickering across his face. “Fast… drives cars? No, no, I… I just ride bicycles sometimes. Very competitive bicyclist.”
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was trying so hard. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way his voice got higher, like he was clinging to the lie with both hands. It was almost sweet. Almost.
But mostly? It was hilarious.
You were just about to go in for the kill. Just one little question. One tiny, innocent syllable that would’ve cracked the whole thing wide open.
“Are you, by any chance, L—”
But before you could finish, he jumped in, fast and a little too loud.
“Are you into F1, perhaps?”
You blinked.
Excuse you?
Where had that come from?
Your brain scrambled to catch up. Why would he ask that? Was this some kind of reverse psychology? Was he trying to throw you off? Or maybe he was testing you—trying to see if you’d slip up, if you already knew who he was. Did he think you were stupid? Or worse, a fan pretending not to be?
Your lips curled into a slow, suspicious smile. Two could play this game.
“F1?” you repeated, like you were trying to remember what that even stood for. “Ooh, fancy sport,” you said, waving your hand in the air like you were shooing away a mosquito. “Those guys go like—” you leaned in and made the most ridiculous zooming noise you could muster, “vroooom.”
He snorted. Actually snorted. The sound was half laugh, half surprise, and it made your stomach do something it absolutely should not have done.
“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Something like that.”
You shrugged, keeping your expression casual. “I don’t really follow it,” you lied, smooth as silk. “Not my thing. Too many rules, too much noise, too many men who think they’re hot shit just because they can turn left at high speed.”
He laughed again, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. And maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was wondering if you were serious or just messing with him. You hoped it was both. You wanted him confused. Off balance. Unsure of where he stood.
Because if he was going to lie, then so were you.
And you were better at it.
“Should I be interested in it?” you asked, tilting your head just slightly, letting your voice go soft and curious. You were playing innocent now, like you hadn’t just spent the last five minutes trashing the very thing that made him famous. You’d called it loud, ridiculous, full of egos—and somehow, he was still sitting across from you. Still smiling. Still trying.
Miracle.
Lando Norris was famously allergic to commitment. That much you knew. Commitment, honesty, basic emotional presence—pick one. He wasn’t known for sticking around. And yet… here he was. Not bolting. Not making excuses. Just sitting there, sipping his drink, looking at you like you were the most fascinating person in the room.
“Pff, no,” he said, waving his hand like F1 was a mosquito buzzing near his ear. “It’s a shit sport. Is it even a sport? I mean—everyone can drive a car.”
You stared at him.
He said that with his whole chest. No hesitation. No irony. Just pure, unfiltered disgust. And he was supposed to be one of the faces of the sport. You had to fight the urge to laugh. It was too good. Too ridiculous. You couldn’t have scripted it better.
“So you hate F1?” you asked, keeping your expression soft and sweet, like you were genuinely concerned. Inside, you were cackling.
“Hate,” he repeated, voice flat, eyes serious.
You let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “Good. Because I’ve never watched a single race.”
Lie. Massive lie. You’d watched every race. You’d written about half of them. You could probably quote his post-race interviews word for word. But tonight? You were just a girl who thought F1 was a bunch of guys turning left really fast.
And somehow… he was still into it.
You leaned back in your chair, squinting at him like you were trying to solve a puzzle. There was something about him—something in the way he smiled, all relaxed and smug, elbows resting on the table like he had nothing to hide. He looked far too confident for someone who should probably be sweating under the weight of his own lies.
“But still…” you said slowly, letting the words stretch, “you’re so familiar to me.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “From your dreams, probably.”
Smooth. Annoyingly smooth.
You smirked back, refusing to let him win the moment. You were supposed to be the one in control here. The one pulling strings. But he was playing along a little too well.
“No—joke,” he said, leaning in slightly. “I mean, a lot of people mistake me for some Landon who cheated on Wizard Liz.”
You blinked.
Wait. What?
No way. No way he actually knew about that bizarre internet mess. That was deep TikTok drama. The kind of thing you only knew if you spent way too much time online, scrolling through chaotic storytimes and conspiracy threads at 2 a.m. And yet… he said it so casually. Like it was common knowledge. Like he’d been following the whole thing, too.
“Yeah… I think that’s it,” you said, nodding thoughtfully, pretending it all made perfect sense. “You’ve got that same energy. Real Landon vibes.”
He laughed, and you took another sip of your drink, hiding your grin behind the glass. You weren’t sure if he was messing with you or just weirdly well-informed. Either way, it was working. You were supposed to be throwing him off—but somehow, he kept surprising you.
And you kind of loved it.
You let out a dramatic sigh, swirling your glass just a little too hard, watching the liquid slosh dangerously close to the rim. And then—oops. In the most “accidental” way possible, you tipped it forward, sending a neat splash of red wine straight onto Lando’s crisp white shirt. It was a perfect hit. Right across the chest. A slow, blooming stain that spread like a watercolor painting. You gasped, loud and theatrical, already grabbing your napkin and flinging it at him like it might somehow undo the damage.
“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” you cried, pushing back your chair with a screech and jumping to your feet. You clutched your hands to your face, eyes wide, voice cracking like you were on the verge of tears. “I ruined your shirt! I can’t believe me!”
You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and bolted toward the door, fake sniffles bubbling up in your throat, your heart pounding—not from guilt, but from the thrill of it. This was it. The first real move. The first real test. You imagined the chaos of the next ten days unfolding like a movie montage—awkward moments, weird lies, emotional sabotage. You were already halfway to the exit, ready to disappear in a cloud of fake shame, when—
You felt a hand close gently around your arm.
“Hey, hey—stop,” Lando said, his voice low and calm, not even a little annoyed. He pulled you back, not hard, just enough to make you pause. “It’s okay. Really. Don’t cry.”
You turned, blinking up at him, caught off guard. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t flustered. He wasn’t even looking at the wine stain. He was looking at you, like he actually cared. Like he believed you were upset and wanted to make it better.
Your heart did something stupid in your chest.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to get annoyed. Embarrassed. Maybe even storm out. But instead, he was being… kind. Gentle. The exact opposite of what you’d planned for.
Just as you were about to protest—maybe tease him a little more, maybe push the conversation into slightly weirder territory—he tilted his head, eyes sparkling with something that looked dangerously close to hope.
“Hey… so, random and funny thing,” Lando said, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to play it cool. “I, uh… accidentally bought two tickets to the Monaco vs PSG match. Would you… maybe want to come with me?”
You blinked.
Accidentally bought two? Sure. Totally believable. Because people just accidentally buy extra tickets to one of the biggest football matches in the country. You stared at him for a second, trying to decide if he was bluffing or just bad at lying. Either way, it didn’t matter. The offer was real. The moment was real. And it was falling into your lap like the universe had skipped ahead in your ten-day plan and decided to speed-run the romance part.
Part of you wanted to scream. This was too easy. You hadn’t even pulled out the weird stories or the fake emotional breakdowns yet. And already he was inviting you to a second date. A public one. With crowds and noise and cameras. You could practically hear Hanna and Carol losing their minds.
But the other part of you—the part that knew how to play this game—kept your face calm, your voice breezy.
“Uh… sure,” you said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I guess I could… watch a football match. Why not?”
He lit up. Like you’d just handed him the moon. His grin was wide and boyish and way too sincere for someone who was supposed to be emotionally unavailable.
“Perfect! Tomorrow, then,” he said. “You’ll love it. It’s… actually really fun.”
You nodded, sipping your drink slowly, pretending to think about it like you hadn’t already started planning your outfit and your next sabotage move.
────────────
DAY TWO
The truth was… Lando had actually bought five tickets. Not two. Five. One for you, one for himself, and three for the chaos committee—Max, Oscar, and Charles. The plan was simple: they’d sit a few rows back, close enough to watch the match, but mostly there to keep an eye on things. On you. On him. On whatever this was turning into.
Now the four of them were outside the Stade Louis II, leaning against a low wall, the sun dipping low behind the stands. The air buzzed with the usual pre-match energy—fans shouting, vendors yelling, the smell of beer and hot dogs drifting through the air. But Lando barely noticed any of it. His head was still spinning from the night before.
“So…” Charles started, his voice full of mischief, “how was the date?”
Lando groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Somewhere between horrible and amazing.”
It was the only way he could describe it. The whole thing had been a mess—an actual mess. The lies he’d thrown out? Completely unplanned. He’d panicked. Said the first thing that came to mind. Mechanic. Pottery. Bicycles. He wasn’t even sure what story he’d told by the end of it. It was all a blur of fake jobs and weird jokes and you looking at him like you knew exactly what he was doing and were choosing not to say anything.
“Why’s that?” Max asked, grinning like he already knew the answer.
Lando shook his head, still half in disbelief. “She has no idea who I am,” he said. “Told her I’m… a mechanic.”
Oscar choked on his drink. Charles burst out laughing. Max just stared at him, eyebrows raised, clearly impressed.
Lando sighed, staring out at the stadium. “I don’t even know why I said it. She asked what I did and I just… panicked. It came out before I could stop it.”
And the worst part? You’d believed him. Or at least, you’d pretended to. You’d nodded like it made perfect sense, like you hadn’t already guessed something was off. And then you’d gone and made up your own job—something about finding lost socks—and he still wasn’t sure if you were joking or just completely unhinged.
But you’d said yes to football. You were coming tonight. And that meant something, didn’t it?
Lando leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, a small shake of his head giving away just how much he was still processing. “And also… she told me she’s never watched an F1 race,” he said, almost like he still couldn’t believe it. “So she probably doesn’t know any of you. Honestly, it’s safer than I thought.”
Max let out a loud laugh, tossing a peanut into his mouth like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week. “Oh, please. Everyone knows my name.”
“Yeah,” Charles cut in, raising an eyebrow. “Because of how fucking arrogant you are.”
Max didn’t miss a beat. “And you’re known by everyone thanks to your seven-year-long Ferrari depression,” he shot back, grinning.
Charles scoffed, but didn’t deny it.
Oscar groaned, rubbing his temples like he was the only adult in the room. “Can you two please be quiet? You sound like an old married couple.” He turned to Lando, eyes narrowing with interest. “I want to hear more about her.”
Lando hesitated for a second, then let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Her name’s Y/n,” he said, voice softer now. “She’s… a bit weird. Like, really weird. But mostly cute.”
He didn’t mean it as an insult. If anything, it was the opposite. There was something about the way you said things—so confidently, so casually—that threw him off in the best way. You didn’t try to impress him. You didn’t ask for anything. You just sat there, sipping your drink, making up stories about lost socks. And somehow, that had been the most fun he’d had in ages.
Max raised an eyebrow. “Weird how?”
Lando just shook his head, still smiling. “You kind of have to see it to get it.”
“You look like you’ve been daydreaming about her,” Max said, nudging Lando with his elbow and grinning like he already knew the answer. “Does Lando Norris have a crush?”
Lando scoffed, too fast, too loud. “Gosh, no,” he said, waving a hand like he was brushing the whole idea away. “It’s not like that.”
It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It was just the car. The thrill of knowing he could still pull someone without the name, the fame, the noise. Just him. Just a guy with a fake job and a half-baked lie and somehow, she’d still said yes. That was all it was. A little ego boost. A reminder that he didn’t need the spotlight to be interesting. That he could still be wanted without the helmet and the cameras.
“I just want the car,” he added, more firmly this time. Like saying it again would make it true.
Max raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying a word of it. “Uh-huh. Sure, mate. Totally just the car.”
“Lando,” Oscar said slowly, narrowing his eyes like he was piecing together a mystery on a whiteboard, “you like her.”
Lando’s head snapped up. “I don’t,” he said, way too fast. Too sharp. The kind of answer that only made it more obvious.
Oscar raised his eyebrows, clearly not buying it. Charles didn’t even look up from his drink. He just took a slow sip and added, “You do. You get that face.”
Lando frowned. “What face?”
“That face you make when Max starts talking about his sim results,” Oscar said, deadpan.
Max gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been personally attacked. “My sim results are important.”
Charles didn’t even blink. “No one’s arguing that, Max,” he said, still focused on Lando. “The concept of Lando Norris liking girl who doesn’t know who he is…insane.”
Lando opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because what was he supposed to say? That he didn’t care? That it was all part of some weird game? That he was just having fun?
Except… he wasn’t sure anymore.
You’d gotten under his skin faster than he expected. And now, with the boys looking at him like they’d already figured it out, he felt like the only one still pretending.
Lando opened his mouth, ready to deny it again—ready to insist, for the hundredth time, that he didn’t like you, that this was just a game, just a bit of fun—but then Oscar’s eyes went wide, like he’d just seen a ghost.
“Uh, guys? Incoming.”
Lando turned.
And there you were.
Walking toward the stadium entrance, eyes scanning the crowd, your steps steady but your expression just a little uncertain. And then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—you spotted them. Him. And you started walking straight toward them.
“Shit.”
Lando shot to his feet so fast Max actually blinked. His heart was suddenly racing, his palms weirdly sweaty, and he had no idea why he felt like he was about to be caught doing something illegal.
“Okay—be normal,” he muttered under his breath, eyes darting between his friends. “Stop smiling like that, you look stupid. Oscar, stop waving at her. Max—Max, stop breathing loudly. And for the love of God, don’t mention anything F1.”
“I’m literally just EXISTING,” Max hissed, offended.
Too late. You were already there.
You were walking straight toward them, and your heart was pounding. Not just fluttering—leaping. Like it had launched itself into your throat and was now trying to escape through your mouth. Because there they were. Not just Lando, but Oscar Piastri. Charles Leclerc. And Max motherfucking Verstappen.
Holy. Shit.
He brought them with him?
You tried to keep your face calm, but your brain was screaming. Max was hotter in real life. Stupidly hot. It was actually rude. And Charles? Even prettier than the internet made him out to be. Oscar looked like he’d just stepped out of a Netflix teen drama. And they were all just… there. Standing around like this was normal. Like this wasn’t the most surreal moment of your life.
And Lando—poor, clueless Lando—was standing in the middle of it all, looking like he was trying not to panic. He had no idea. No idea that Carol and Hanna were just a few steps behind you, phones already out, documenting every single detail. Every glance. Every awkward smile. Every second of this ridiculous, perfect disaster.
This was it.
The article was writing itself.
You turned on the sparkle like it was a performance, digging deep into your emotional catalog for the most over-the-top, painfully sweet smile you could manage. It was the kind of smile that belonged in a cheesy soap opera or a reality show reunion—big, bright, and completely fake. You practically skipped the last few steps toward him, arms already outstretched like you were running into the arms of a long-lost lover.
“Babyyy!!” you shrieked, throwing yourself at Lando like you hadn’t seen him in a decade. Like you’d survived a war, a shipwreck, and a dramatic love triangle just to be here now, in his arms.
For a second, his soul visibly left his body. You saw it in his eyes—the pure panic, the moment of hesitation, the silent scream. Max’s eyebrows shot into another dimension. Oscar made a choking sound even though he hadn’t been eating or drinking anything. Charles just stared, wide-eyed, like he was watching a car crash in slow motion and couldn’t look away.
And then—somehow—Lando played along.
He caught you, steadied you, and wrapped an arm around your back like this was something he did every day. Like you hadn’t just given him the biggest ick known to mankind. Like this wasn’t the most unhinged greeting he’d ever received in public. He held you like it was normal. Like it was fine.
“Hey, love,” he said, his voice cracking just a little at the edges, like it was trying to hold itself together with duct tape and hope. “Good to see you.”
You almost broke character. Almost. Because the fact that he was committing to this? That he was actually going along with it? It was ridiculous. It was stupid. It was kind of… adorable.
You pulled back just enough to cup his cheeks in both hands, tilting his face toward yours like you were about to burst into tears from joy. “Lan-Lan,” you said, dragging out the nickname with as much drama as you could, “I missed you sooo much.”
You didn’t even have to look to know Max was cringing. You could feel it radiating off him like heat. Oscar had turned away, probably to keep from laughing. Charles looked like he was one sarcastic comment away from collapsing to the ground.
And Lando—sweet, poor, flustered Lando—somehow kept smiling. Barely. His eyes were wide, his jaw tight, but he didn’t let go.
“Yeah,” he wheezed, patting your arm like he wasn’t sure if you were going to kiss him or stage a public proposal. “Missed you too.”
You beamed at him, heart pounding with the thrill of it all.
You turned your attention to the trio standing just behind Lando, letting your gaze sweep over them slowly, like you were sizing up a suspicious group of teenagers loitering outside a convenience store. Their expressions were… well, interesting, to say the least. Somewhere between startled and deeply uncomfortable. Like they’d just been caught doing something illegal and weren’t sure if they should run or smile.
“You brought your little friends with you?” you asked sweetly, voice dripping with mock horror. You clutched your chest like you were genuinely scandalized. “Lando, I thought this was our special day.”
All three of them froze.
Their eyes went wide, like you’d just accused them of a federal crime. Max looked like he was calculating how fast he could disappear. Charles blinked once—slow, suspicious, like he was trying to figure out if you were dangerous or just deeply unwell. Oscar looked like he wanted to melt into the pavement.
“Um… yeah,” Lando said, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly regretting every decision that had led to this moment. “But they won’t bother us much. They’ll sit somewhere else.”
You raised an eyebrow, giving the trio a long, slow once-over. These were the famous F1 drivers? The legends? The icons? Honestly, they looked less like elite athletes and more like a trio of overgrown Powerpuff Girls—one brooding, one smug, one already emotionally exhausted.
“Well, yeah,” Lando added awkwardly, gesturing toward them like he was introducing a school project group he didn’t pick. “This is Oscar, Charles, and Max.”
The boys did not look thrilled. Not even a little.
Max crossed his arms, jaw tight, clearly plotting revenge in real time. Charles gave you the slowest blink you’d ever seen, like he was trying to process your entire existence in one go. Oscar just shook his head, muttering under his breath, “This is going to be a disaster.”
“Let’s go, Lando,” you said, grabbing his arm like you’d done it a hundred times before and tugging him toward the stadium entrance. No hesitation, no looking back. Just full steam ahead into the next phase of chaos.
Behind you, Max’s voice rang out, loud and delighted. “Have fun, lovebirds!” he called, waving like a maniac, clearly enjoying every second of this trainwreck.
You leaned in close to Lando as you walked, lowering your voice just enough to make it feel like a secret. “Ugh… Oscar,” you whispered, wrinkling your nose. “Seriously. He looks like he hasn’t felt a single emotion in his life. Creepy, right?”
You expected him to flinch. To pull away. To get weird about it. You were talking trash about his best mate, after all. This was supposed to be the moment he started to question you. To feel the ick. To wonder what he was doing here.
But instead—he laughed.
A real laugh. Not forced. Not polite. Just a soft, surprised huff of amusement that made his shoulders shake a little.
“Yeah… he’s a little scary, isn’t he?” Lando said, grinning as he shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from emotionless men in black.”
You blinked at him, thrown off for a second. That wasn’t the reaction you were expecting. Not even close. You’d meant it as a jab. A little test. Something to make him uncomfortable. But he’d just… rolled with it. Turned it into a joke. Matched your energy without missing a beat.
And now you were stuck somewhere between mild annoyance and reluctant admiration. Because damn it, he was quick. And charming. And apparently not as easy to rattle as you’d hoped.
You and Lando found your seats—surprisingly good ones. Padded cushions, perfect view, close enough to see the players’ expressions but far enough to avoid beer spills. It made sense, really. Lando was absolutely terrible at pretending not to be rich. He could say “I’m just a mechanic” all he wanted, but the man booked seats like he had a black card and a personal assistant.
You settled in, smoothing your jacket, crossing your legs just so. You took a slow sip of your drink, letting the moment settle. The sun was warm, the crowd buzzing, and Lando was next to you, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. For a second, everything felt weirdly… calm.
Then you glanced over your shoulder.
And froze.
A few rows behind you—just far enough to pretend it was a coincidence, just close enough to ruin your life—sat Carol and Hanna. Your best friends. Your co-conspirators. Your chaos committee. Phones already out, eyes locked on you like hawks. You could practically feel the group chat exploding in real time.
And right next to them?
The Powerpuff Girls.
Max, Oscar, and Charles. All three of them. Sitting there like they were just regular guys, not international celebrities with faces you’d seen on billboards and magazine covers. Max looked like he was already bored. Oscar had his arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd like a security guard. Charles was sipping something fizzy, legs crossed, sunglasses on, giving off the energy of a man who had seen things and was not impressed.
Of course.
Because coincidence wasn’t just real—it was a vindictive little bitch with a flair for drama.
You turned back around slowly, heart pounding, brain already racing through backup plans. This was supposed to be a controlled environment. A simple, low-stakes outing. But now the stakes were sky-high, and the audience was stacked with people who knew exactly what you were doing.
You turned back to Lando slowly, narrowing your eyes like you were about to interrogate him under a spotlight. He was trying to look relaxed, legs stretched out, hands in his lap—but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched slightly against his thigh.
“So tell me,” you said, leaning in just enough to make him nervous, “where exactly did a mechanic get the money for seats like these?”
He froze for half a second. Blinked. And then, like a switch had flipped, he pasted on the most painfully casual smile you’d ever seen. It was the kind of smile that screamed I’m lying and I know it but I’m hoping you’re too polite to call me out.
“Uh—well—they were on sale,” he said, voice cracking just a little at the end. “And, you know… anything to charm a girl like you.”
You stared at him.
Right. And you were the Queen of England.
He cleared his throat, clearly scrambling now, and gestured around with a little flourish that looked like it had escaped before he could stop it. “And besides,” he added, trying to sound breezy, “you’re in Monaco, love. Every seat here is nice.”
You raised an eyebrow, sipping your drink slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him sweat. Sure. Keep lying, little mechanic boy. Keep digging that hole.
Because the more he tried to sell the story, the more obvious it became that he had no idea how to lie properly. And honestly? It was kind of endearing. In a deeply chaotic, wildly suspicious, how-is-this-your-plan kind of way.
You straightened in your seat, trying to look like you were deeply analyzing the game—like you were one of those people who said things like “high press” and actually meant it. You nodded slowly, seriously, as if you were watching a chess match instead of a bunch of men chasing a ball.
“Ah… yes, yes,” you said, voice low and thoughtful. “So… if he passes here, then—oh! And look! The defense… they’re, um… not very… aggressive?”
Lando turned to look at you, blinking once. You could see the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he was clearly trying to hold it back. Failing, but trying.
You leaned in a little closer, lowering your voice like you were sharing a secret. “I think if they just… like… kick it more… maybe… he’ll score? Or something. Totally strategic.”
That did it. He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re… adorable when you pretend to know football.”
You froze.
Adorable?
Seriously?
You were trying to be chaotic. Weird. Mildly annoying. You were trying to make him question every decision that had led him to this moment. And instead, he was looking at you like you’d just handed him a puppy and a warm blanket.
“Uh… thanks,” you muttered, suddenly flustered. “I totally know what I’m talking about. Obviously.”
He winked, all smug and sweet at once. “Obviously.”
You turned back to the field, cheeks warm, heart doing something it absolutely shouldn’t be doing. This was not the plan. You were supposed to be giving him the ick. Making him regret this whole thing.
Instead, he was smiling like he actually liked you.
Perfect.
Your plan? Failing. Spectacularly.
────────────
DAY THREE
“This shit is not working!” you shouted, storming across the living room like a CEO about to fire her entire board. Your arms flailed, your voice echoed, and your pacing was so aggressive it was a miracle the floor didn’t file a complaint.
On the couch, Hanna and Carol lounged like they were watching a nature documentary. Hanna was even eating chips, legs tucked under her like this was just another Tuesday. Monsters. Absolute monsters.
“Yesterday was a disaster,” you groaned, pressing a dramatic hand to your forehead like a Victorian woman about to faint. “The football match? Horrible. It started horrible. First of all—he brought the idiots with him.”
“Powerpuff Girls,” Carol corrected, completely serious, not even looking up from her phone.
“Yes. Them.” You pointed like you were naming suspects in a murder trial. “And then I turn around and see you two talking to the idiots.”
Hanna raised a hand, calm as ever. “Correction: we were not talking to them. They were talking to us. Big difference.”
Carol nodded, still scrolling. “Yeah. Max said he liked my earrings.”
You stared at them like they’d just committed treason. “Jesus Christ.”
But you didn’t stop pacing. You couldn’t. Your brain was on fire, your plan was in shambles, and your friends were acting like this was a casual brunch recap.
“Doesn’t matter,” you muttered, throwing your hands in the air. “None of it matters. Then I try to give him the ick—again—and he just smiles. Smiles! Like I’m adorable or some shit.”
Hanna snorted, reaching for another chip. “Maybe he thinks you’re adorable.”
You froze mid-step, eyes narrowing.
That was not the point.
That was exactly the opposite of the point.
“No! Don’t even mention this,” you groaned, flopping onto the couch like your soul had left your body. You threw an arm over your eyes for dramatic effect, already spiraling. “I literally tried everything.”
Hanna raised an eyebrow, calm as ever. “Everything?”
“Yes!” you cried, sitting up just to gesture wildly. “I fake cried. Twice. I told him I don’t watch F1. Shit-talked Oscar—his teammate—in front of him! Nothing! He just smiled. Is he… is he immune to stupidity?”
Carol snorted from the other end of the couch. “He is stupidity.”
You blinked at her, thrown. “What?”
Carol shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The more you act stupid, the more he plays along. He likes it.”
You let out a groan so loud it could’ve cracked glass. You flopped back again, arms splayed like you were auditioning for a tragic stage play. “No. No. No. That is not supposed to happen. That’s cheating. He’s cheating the system.”
Hanna popped a chip in her mouth, completely unbothered. “Maybe the system’s broken.”
You opened your mouth, ready to launch into the next chapter of your meltdown—something about how the universe was clearly conspiring against you—when—
“Y/n.”
You froze mid-breath.
Hanna froze, chip halfway to her mouth.
Carol froze with a mouthful of pretzels, eyes wide.
The three of you turned to each other in perfect sync, sharing one identical look of pure, unfiltered horror.
“…Please tell me that was the TV,” you whispered, voice barely audible.
“We’re not watching TV,” Hanna whispered back, eyes locked on yours.
Then it came again—louder this time, unmistakable:
“Y/N! COME DOWN!”
Your body snapped toward the window like someone had yanked an invisible string. You crept over, heart pounding, and slowly peeled back the curtain.
And there he was.
Lando Norris.
Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands shoved in his pockets. Helmet dangling casually from one wrist. And next to him? A tiny electric scooter that looked like it belonged to a twelve-year-old. It was bright red, slightly scuffed, and absolutely not the kind of vehicle a humble mechanic would be zipping around Monaco on.
You stared.
He looked up and spotted you instantly, grinning like this was a romcom and you were about to run down the stairs into his arms.
You, meanwhile, were dying. Actively. Internally combusting.
“WHAT DOES HE WANT?! HOW DOES HE EVEN KNOW WHERE I LIVE?!” you whisper-shouted, pacing the living room like a cat that had just had three shots of espresso. Your hands were flying, your heart was racing, and your brain was doing somersaults. This was not part of the plan. This was not supposed to happen.
“AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!” Hanna shouted back from the couch, just as dramatic, throwing her arms in the air like she was in a soap opera.
Carol, of course, was completely calm. She shrugged, still chewing on a pretzel. “He probably followed you home.”
You spun around to glare at her. “CAROL.”
She blinked. “What? It’s Monaco. Everything’s five minutes apart.”
You groaned, threw your hands up, and marched over to the window. With a deep breath, you leaned halfway out, trying to look casual even though your soul was screaming.
“Lanny, babyy!” you called, voice high and sweet and fake. “What are you doing here?!”
And then you froze.
Lanny? What the hell had just come out of your mouth? You didn’t even know where that nickname came from. Maybe—hopefully—it would finally give him the ick. Maybe he’d turn around and scooter away forever.
But no. Of course not.
Because there he was. Lando Norris. Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands in his pockets, helmet dangling from one wrist, next to a tiny red scooter. It was 11 PM. He was smiling like this was a perfectly reasonable time to show up uninvited.
“I was going by,” he said, grinning up at you, “and I thought I could take you for a ride… and ice cream?”
You squinted at him, trying to figure out if he was serious. “At 11 PM?”
He shrugged, lifting the helmet slightly. “Yeah. Midnight gelato. Best time of day.”
You stared at him.
Well, of course you agreed.
This man was going to ruin your life. And somehow, you were starting to think you might let him.
The scooter ride had been… a lot. Wind in your face, your hair whipping around like it had a personal vendetta, and Lando narrating the entire journey like he was hosting a motorsport documentary. “This corner’s perfect for leaning,” he’d said at least three times, like that meant anything to a normal person. Meanwhile, you were just trying not to scream or fall off the back of his ridiculous little scooter.
Eventually, you pulled up outside a tiny gelato shop tucked between two quiet buildings, its windows glowing soft and golden like something out of a fairy tale. Or a fever dream. Honestly, it could go either way.
You hopped off, brushing your hair out of your face, hands on your hips. Your brain was already spinning with possibilities. You needed a new tactic. Something bold. Something unhinged. Something that would finally make him back away slowly and question all his life choices.
Marriage.
Yes. That was it. Commitment. The ultimate ick. Lando Norris hated that stuff, right? Weddings, forever, matching bathrobes—probably his worst nightmare. Right up there with McLaren strategy meetings and running out of hair product.
You turned to him, gelato in hand, and went for it.
“Lanny! Guess what!” you said, voice high and bright and full of fake joy. “I already planned our wedding!”
You even held your gelato up like it was a bouquet. Cringe level: maximum. You were proud of it.
He blinked at you. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to think, Yes. This is it. He’s going to run.
But then—he grinned.
“No way, love,” he said, eyes sparkling. “That’s perfect!”
You froze mid-bite, spoon halfway to your mouth.
Perfect?
This was your third date. Third. And he was already playing along like you’d just told him you booked the venue and he was picking the cake. No hesitation. No weird look. Just… full commitment to the bit.
You stared at him, completely thrown.
This man was not playing fair.
You inhaled sharply, steeling yourself. Fine. If marriage didn’t scare him, you’d just have to take it up a notch. Go bigger. Weirder. Push the chaos to its limits.
“So!” you chirped, looping your arm through his as you strolled toward a little table outside the gelato shop. “The wedding theme is… Disney princesses.”
Lando stumbled a little, catching himself with a quick step. “Princesses?”
“Mm-hm,” you said, taking an exaggerated lick of your gelato like it was a royal decree. “I’ll arrive in a giant pumpkin carriage pulled by actual white horses. Real ones. With little flower crowns. And you—” you paused for dramatic effect, “—you’ll be in a sparkly blue tux. Like Cinderella. But, you know, the man-version.”
Lando blinked at you, clearly trying to picture it. “A blue tux? With sparkles?”
You nodded, dead serious. “And glass slippers. Obviously.”
He stared at you for a beat too long. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The slow backing away. But instead—
He snorted.
The man snorted.
Then he smiled, wide and warm, like you’d just told him the most charming thing he’d ever heard. “If it makes you happy,” he said, eyes dancing, “I’ll wear two pairs.”
You froze, spoon halfway to your mouth.
Two pairs?
Oh my god.
Was he… enjoying this?
This was supposed to be the moment he cracked. The moment he realized you were too much, too weird, too extra. But instead, he was grinning like he was already halfway to the altar, glass slippers and all.
You stared at him, heart thudding, brain short-circuiting.
You stared at him, completely baffled. This was it. Time for the nuclear option. If this didn’t send him running, nothing would.
“And our honeymoon?” you said sweetly, like you hadn’t just declared emotional war.
He raised an eyebrow, playful. “Oh? Where are we going, Mrs. Norris?”
Mrs. Norris.
You nearly dropped your gelato. The spoon wobbled in your hand. Your brain short-circuited for a full second. That name should’ve made you gag. Instead, it made your stomach do something deeply inconvenient.
“Hawaii,” you said, recovering fast. “But not the pretty honeymoon part. The volcano part. I want us to take couple photos in front of lava. Like, actual lava. Bubbling. Dangerous. Symbolic.”
Lando paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The what is wrong with you look.
But no.
He nodded, completely serious. “Lava’s romantic. Warm lighting.”
You choked. “Warm lighting?!”
He just smiled, soft and easy, and scooped another spoonful of gelato—then held it out to you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he wasn’t supposed to be running for his life right now.
You stared at him, stunned. Melting faster than the gelato in your hand.
This was supposed to be sabotage. A slow, strategic unraveling. But instead, it was turning into something else entirely.
────────────
DAY FOUR
Somehow, Lando had found out you really liked art. Not just “likes pretty pictures” liked it, but the kind of like where you could spend hours in a gallery, quietly walking from one painting to the next, letting the colors and brushstrokes sink into your chest. You never told him that. Not directly. And yet, here you were—walking into a gallery with soft lighting and quiet music, your hand tucked into his like it belonged there.
It was thoughtful. Suspiciously thoughtful. Because Lando didn’t exactly scream “art guy.” His idea of creative expression started and ended with the design of his race helmets. And yet, he’d brought you here. To this place. With its white walls and whispered conversations and paintings that made your heart ache in the best way. You had no idea how he knew. It almost felt like he’d read a listicle about you. “Top 25 Things Y/n Loves.” If anyone else had done that, it would’ve been creepy. But when it was Lando? It was… weirdly flattering. Dangerous, even.
You walked through the gallery hand in hand, and it was soft in a way that made your chest feel tight. The kind of soft that made strangers smile at you. The kind of soft that felt like a photo someone would take and keep forever. But Lando? He stuck out like a sore thumb dipped in neon paint. He looked completely out of place—like a man trying to read a menu in a language he didn’t speak, hoping the pictures would help. His eyes darted from painting to painting, his head tilted like he was trying to understand what made them special. It was obvious he didn’t get it. But he was trying. For you.
And that? That was dangerously hot.
You stopped in front of a massive Monet. The colors were soft and glowing, like a dream you didn’t want to wake up from. Blues and greens and gentle reflections, water lilies floating like they were made of light. It made something shift in your chest. Something quiet and warm and a little overwhelming.
Lando squinted at the corner of the painting, leaning in slightly. “Wow… Monet, huh?”
You glanced at him, lips twitching. At least he could read.
But when you looked closer, you saw it—the way he was watching you, not the painting. Like he was trying to figure out what you saw in it. Like he wanted to understand, even if he didn’t.
You nodded, relieved to be on familiar ground. “Yes! One of the greats. Impressionism. Emotion. Atmosphere. He basically reinvented how people saw the world—how they painted light, movement, feeling—”
“I could totally do that myself,” Lando said.
You gasped so loudly it echoed off the gallery walls. An elderly couple turned around, startled. A security guard glanced over. Somewhere, you were sure Monet rolled in his grave.
“I’m serious,” Lando said, completely unfazed, hands on his hips like he was inspecting a construction site. “Give me five minutes, a sponge, and some paint, and—boom—same thing.”
Your hands flew to your chest like you’d just been personally attacked. “Are you comparing yourself to MONET?!”
He shrugged. Shrugged. Like he hadn’t just committed art blasphemy in public. “What? It’s just… blurry flowers.”
You stared at him, mouth open, heart pounding, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or drag him out by the collar. But then he looked at you with that stupid grin, like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he’d said it just to get a rise out of you. And damn it, it was working.
“BLURRY—” you gasped, clutching your chest like you’d just been stabbed. “Blurrrrry FLOWERS?! Lando, that’s Water Lilies. That’s history. That’s emotion. That’s art.”
He didn’t even flinch. Just raised one eyebrow, calm and smug, like he was about to win a debate he hadn’t studied for. “Looks like flowers having an identity crisis to me.”
You stared at him, stunned. You could actually feel your soul leaving your body. Packing its bags. Booking a one-way flight. Waving goodbye.
“You can’t even draw a straight line, baby,” you snapped, turning to glare at him like he’d just insulted your entire bloodline.
He shrugged. Shrugged. With the kind of confidence only a man who had never been humbled by a blank canvas could pull off. “If I actually put effort into it, it’d be way better.”
Oh.
Oh, perfect.
A beautiful opportunity had just fallen into your lap. A chance for public humiliation. A dramatic scene. The kind of moment that would live in his memory forever, filed under reasons to never date Y/n again.
The ultimate ick delivery system.
Your plan?
Back on track.
And this time, you were going to make sure he regretted ever doubting Monet.
“Better?” you repeated, voice low and dangerous, eyes narrowing like you were about to put him on trial. “You think you could do better than Monet?”
Lando lifted one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, hands tucked into his pockets like this was a casual chat about breakfast options. “I mean… yeah? If I tried hard enough.”
You let out a laugh so loud it echoed through the gallery. Two old ladies turned around, scandalized. One of them clutched her pearls. The other narrowed her eyes like she was ready to defend Monet’s honor with her handbag.
Amazing. Perfect. A crowd.
Exactly what you needed.
“OH! OH REALLY?!” you cried, stepping back and throwing your arms wide like you were about to deliver a Shakespearean monologue. “YOU think you could paint something better than WATER LILIES?!”
Lando blinked at the sudden attention, clearly clocking the small audience now watching your meltdown like it was performance art. But instead of backing down, he just smiled, cool as ever. “Well, yeah. Not saying I will, just saying I could.”
You slapped your forehead with a dramatic groan, staggering back like his words had physically wounded you.
The old ladies gasped in unison.
A child nearby giggled, delighted.
And Lando?
Still standing there, smug and unbothered, like he hadn’t just committed artistic blasphemy in public.
“HE THINKS HE CAN OUT-PAINT MONET!” you shouted, voice echoing through the gallery as you pointed at Lando like he was a medieval criminal awaiting judgment. Heads turned. A security guard looked mildly alarmed. Somewhere in the distance, a docent paused mid-tour.
Lando just smiled, hands lifted in mock surrender, like he was being arrested for stealing hearts. “Okay, okay. Calm down, darlin’.”
Darlin’.
Oh. New nickname unlocked. But no. He wasn’t getting off that easy.
“No!” you snapped, arms crossing with dramatic flair. “No calming down. Do you even understand how insulting this is to me? I bring you to Monet—MONET—and you say… ‘blurry flowers’?!”
“I stand by it,” he said, completely calm, like he wasn’t actively committing art treason in front of witnesses.
You gasped, loud and theatrical, like you’d just been told your favorite childhood pet was a lie. “You know what?” you said, stepping closer, voice dropping into something serious and dangerous. “This is serious.”
Lando tilted his head, eyes soft and steady. “Serious?”
“SERIOUS,” you said, stepping closer like you were about to deliver life-changing news. You lowered your voice, slow and dramatic, like a doctor in a movie. “I think… we need couples therapy.”
There was a sharp gasp from the couple standing nearby. Someone behind you whispered, “No way…” like they were watching a soap opera unfold in real time.
But Lando?
He didn’t even blink.
He just nodded, calm as ever. “Alright,” he said, like you’d just suggested grabbing coffee. “If that’s what you want, yeah. We can totally do it.”
You stared at him, completely thrown. “I—what?”
“We can do couples therapy,” he repeated, voice gentle, like this was the most normal thing in the world. “If it’ll help you feel better.”
You blinked. Once. Twice. Your brain made that weird crashing sound, like an old computer freezing mid-task. You could almost hear the error message pop up in your head. System overload. Please restart.
“What—Lando, we’re not— I mean, it’s been—” You stopped yourself just in time. You were about to blow the whole thing. The fake relationship. The sabotage plan. The carefully crafted chaos.
But then he reached out, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. Soft. Steady. Like he meant it.
“Whatever you need, love,” he said, eyes warm. “I’m in.”
Your mouth fell open. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even think. Because what the actual fuck was happening? How was he not running? How was he not even confused?
Was he immune to everything? Or—worse—was he playing you at your own game?
Because if this was reverse psychology, it was working. And if it wasn’t… you were in serious trouble.
Your heart was doing something it absolutely should not be doing.
And your plan?
Yeah. It was falling apart in the most terrifying, wonderful way.
────────────
DAY FIVE
The therapist—poor, unsuspecting woman—looked between you and Lando with the exact expression of someone who had just realized they’d walked into a live minefield wearing flip-flops. Her smile was polite, but her eyes were already scanning for exits. She folded her hands gently in her lap, trying to keep things calm. “So,” she said, voice soft and careful, “what brings you two here today?”
You took a deep, dramatic breath, like you were about to deliver a monologue. Lando, meanwhile, sat beside you like he’d been preparing for this moment his entire life. One leg crossed over the other, completely relaxed, like this was just another casual stop on his calendar. He looked like the kind of man who thought therapy was a fun little bonding activity. You, on the other hand, were ready to burn the room down.
“Where do I begin?” you said, throwing your hands up like the weight of your fake relationship was too much to bear. “There’s a lot wrong.”
Lando nodded, serious as ever. “We’re very complex.”
You turned to glare at him. He just smiled back, soft and golden and infuriating, like a golden retriever who’d just chewed up your favorite shoes but still expected a cuddle. It was impossible to stay mad at him, which only made you more mad.
The therapist blinked, clearly trying to keep up. “Alright… maybe start with something specific?”
You didn’t hesitate. “Monet.”
Lando let out a quiet groan beside you, already sensing where this was going. “Oh, come on—”
“No,” you said, cutting him off, leaning forward like you were about to present evidence in a courtroom. “Because I need you to understand this. He pointed at Water Lilies—WATER. LILIES.—and called it ‘blurry flowers.’”
You could feel your heart rate rising just thinking about it again. The betrayal. The audacity. The complete lack of respect for one of the greatest artists in history. And Lando? He just sat there, looking mildly amused, like this was all part of some inside joke you hadn’t been let in on.
You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that he’d said it, or the fact that he still didn’t seem sorry.
And the therapist?
She looked like she was starting to regret her career choices.
Lando shrugged, completely unbothered. “It’s objectively true. They were blurry.”
You slapped your hand over your face, dragging it down slowly like you were trying to physically hold in your soul before it escaped your body.
“And!” you said, voice rising again as you pointed at him like you were building a case in front of a jury. “He genuinely believes he could paint better than Monet if he—” you made air quotes with your fingers, “—‘put effort into it.’”
The therapist turned to Lando slowly, like she was bracing herself for whatever nonsense might come next. “Do you truly believe that?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought for a second. Then, with the confidence of a man who had never once been told no in his life, said, “…Yes?”
You gasped so hard it felt like your lungs had collapsed. “SEE?! He’s delusional!”
Lando reached over and patted your knee like you were the one who needed comforting. “It’s okay to be intimidated by my artistic potential.”
You stared at him, stunned. The therapist cleared her throat, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “Right… okay… let’s maybe explore other areas of concern?”
“Oh, fantastic,” you said, sitting up straighter, ready for round two. “His friends.”
Lando perked up, suddenly alert. “What about my friends?”
“Everything,” you said, waving your hand like you were listing off crimes. “Max is terrifying. Charles is too beautiful—it’s offensive, honestly. And Oscar? Oscar looks like a man who hasn’t felt a single emotion since 2017.”
Lando choked on air, coughing as he tried to speak. “That’s so rude—”
“I’m not done,” you said, holding up a finger like a warning sign. “The real issue is that you’re basically in love with them. All of them. But mostly Oscar.”
The therapist blinked, then turned to Lando again, her voice cautious. “Are you… romantically involved with Oscar?”
Lando sputtered, eyes wide. “WHAT? No! He’s just my—he’s not even emotional enough for romance—”
“Ah!” you said, pointing at him like you’d just cracked the case wide open. “Defensiveness. Classic sign.”
The therapist, bless her, didn’t even flinch. She just nodded and scribbled something down in her notebook, probably under a heading like delusional couple, possibly unhinged.
Lando turned to you with a soft glare, the kind that said he was trying very hard not to laugh. “I am not in love with Oscar.”
The therapist turned to you next, her voice calm and curious. “And why do you feel he acts… ‘too in love’?”
You crossed your arms, settling into your seat like you were about to deliver a TED Talk. “Because,” you said, slow and serious, “he looks at me with the same face he looks at Oscar with. And that is not comforting.”
Lando groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “That is just my face.”
“Exactly,” you said, like you’d just won the argument.
The therapist nodded again, thoughtful. “And how does that make you feel?”
You opened your mouth, ready to launch into a dramatic answer about emotional neglect and facial ambiguity—
But Lando beat you to it.
“Very loved,” he said softly, “I hope.”
You froze.
Just for a second.
Because the way he said it—quiet, honest, like he meant it—hit you somewhere you weren’t expecting. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug. It was just… real.
And suddenly, all your fake complaints and dramatic gestures felt a little too close to something true.
You didn’t know what to say.
The therapist smiled like she was watching her favorite slow-burn romance unfold in real time. Like she was already planning to tell her coworkers about this session over lunch. Fantastic. Completely useless.
Your heart did a stupid little flip at the look on Lando’s face—soft, steady, like he meant every word he hadn’t even said yet. You crushed the feeling immediately. Sat on it. Smothered it. Set it on fire. This was not the time.
“ANYWAY,” you said, louder than necessary, trying to drag the conversation back to safer, more chaotic ground. “He also acts like he’s already in love with me. Which is weird. And suspicious. And wrong.”
Lando just shrugged, like you’d pointed out the weather. “Can’t help it.”
You nearly slipped off the damn chair.
The therapist turned to him with that warm, encouraging gaze that made you want to throw a pillow at her. “And Lando, how do you feel about what she’s saying?”
He didn’t pause. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t even blink.
“I love her,” he said, voice low and sure. “And I want her to believe it. There’s no one else. Especially not Oscar.”
You stared at him.
Because there was no smirk. No teasing glint in his eye. No wink to let you know he was still playing the game. Just… honesty. Like he’d peeled something open and handed it to you without asking if you wanted it.
The therapist, still clearly recovering from the “no one else except Oscar” revelation, folded her hands with the kind of calm that only made things feel more chaotic. She tilted her head, voice gentle, like she was asking something simple. Harmless.
“And… how long have you two been dating?”
You opened your mouth.
Lando opened his at the exact same time.
“Five days—” you said.
“Three months—” he said.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Even the potted plant in the corner seemed to lean away from the tension.
You turned to him so fast your neck cracked. “THREE MONTHS?!”
Lando blinked at you, wide-eyed and innocent, like he hadn’t just detonated a lie in the middle of a therapy session. “It feels like three months,” he said softly, with a little shrug. “Time moves differently when you’re in love.”
You stared at him, completely thrown. Your brain was trying to reboot, but the loading wheel was spinning uselessly. This man was lying. Boldly. Casually. With a straight face and a soft voice and a look that said I’d do it again.
The therapist, meanwhile, looked like she was watching the final scene of her favorite romance movie. She clasped her hands tighter, eyes practically glowing. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”
Beautiful?
Beautiful?!
What the actual fuck was this man’s plan?
Because if this was still fake, he was terrifyingly good at it.
babs radio ! I’d love to dedicate this one to @zariacore in the honor of lando winning the 2025 championship 🩵. What a weekend. If you told me in 2022 he will fight for wdc instead of points, I’d laugh in your face… times change! Anyway, this is only part 1 of 2. I did not in fact start writing the other half🫣 but please be patient, two weeks before Christmas in school are pure hell lol.
taglist. @haniette @plantlover28 @lgl2003 @gripitlikelando @jenxjar @gossenabitur @chuusussss @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @basicchelsea @keepyoureyesonmeboy @filmleclerc @llama-07 @piastri-pages @l4ndo-norizz @chala-mala-bing-bong @majdoline @procrastination-queenie @clovermoters @alliesreblogs xx (if u wanna be added or removed, comment or let me know into my inbox)
Synopsis. Long ago, the four nations lived together in harmony. Then everything changed when the Fire Nation attacked.
You knew of Geto Suguru before he was the Fire Lord responsible for tearing apart the nations, you knew of Geto Suguru before his name was soaked in rage and dragged through battle: the banished prince with a sad smile. You knew of Geto Suguru because…you were his first love. And his only.
And now you’re arranged to marry him. But it’s not a ceremony of love; you want revenge—and Geto carnally needs you.
Pairing. Geto Suguru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!Waterbender!reader, Firebender!Geto, Avatar: The Last Airbender AU, Fire Nation prince!Geto, past, best friends once, school shenanigans, fortune tellers, PLOT letters, hurt and comfort, poIitical schemes, Naoya gets what he deserves, Fire Lord!Geto, water generaI!reader, sIight enemies-to-Iovers, best friends-to-Iovers, getting together, arranged marriages, poIitical marriages, peace, wedding nights, oraI (fem rec.), pússydrúnk Geto, spítting, p sIapping, fíngering, Geto’s LONG tongue, lNNAPROPRlATE USE OF BENDING POWERS, impact pIay, sIight knifepIay(?), just sorta holding it to his throat, dilemmas, tension, he’s DESPERATE, matíng presses, manhandIing, confessions, REALLY gone Geto, p talking, cIit pinching, teasing, sIight praise and degrad, powers going out of control, creampíes, cúmpIay, sIight cúmfIation, HAPPY ENDING, vioIence and bIood, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 16.0k
A/N. AAAAAAAAAND look where those Zuko scenes get us smh- based on my Fire Lord!Geto headcanon here <3
“There is someone in your heart.”
For the first time since entering Lady Tsukumo’s quarters; you’re alert. The room is oblong and alluring—it wore its candles around the perimeter like jewellery, and swathed itself in a scarf of smoke. The saturated smell of jasmine clung to the air, and you have to shake your head just to focus on the woman before you.
Here, on Mount Inferno, there isn’t much to look forward to.
The Fortune Teller’s hut drew you in like a mistress, and told you things just as rousing.
Orange candles leak. Prayer beads rattle. Dissolute shadows dance to an inaudible tune, then creep closer towards you in search of touch. She closes her eyes and whispers to her spirits—around you, the thick smoke screen writhes like a snake. It coils like an ouroboros.
Almost wrapping around your ankles- keeping you in one place.
As a smile spreads across her handsome face. “You love him, do you not?”
You feel splashed with cold water.
“I…”
“Or perhaps that’s too soon…” She trails off and looks deeply into your palm once more, humming to herself. “Yes, far too soon…”
“I don’t understand.” And you’re sure the hint of crossness seeps its way into your tone- if not, then your expression. This was your third and final year at Mount Inferno, and your friends had finally convinced you to pay a visit to the famous fortune teller—you’d put it off long enough, tomorrow you’d be graduating.
Tomorrow, you’d be leaving this mountain - and everyone you met atop it.
A long-extinct volcano, though life still bubbled at its peak.
Columns of paper. Red headbands. The sound and trundle of mastery in pursuit. The best of the best; from all nations far and wide, every tribe, every village, students are summoned to the Fire Nation to study at the ancient Mount Inferno. For three years until adulthood. The school was scattered across the Inferno volcano range, deep amongst curdling springs and prickly growth, the pride of the Fire Nation, with its courtyard situated on the very highest peak. It was a truce between nations- and more than that, an intermingling of the future’s most famed. Some students have gained reputations for their powers before even starting here, and it had been somewhat jarring to see all these big, big names come to real life before you.
There was the Waterbending child prodigy that turned water into ambrosia - Ieri Shoko. There was the heir to the Earthbending Zenin family, nobles recently handpicked as ambassadors for the Fire Nation royals, pompous yet powerful (you and Shoko dunked him into one of the cold springs on your first day). Even more, there was Masamichi Yaga, the renowned Earthbending master, as your teacher.
And most of all, there was Geto Suguru: prince of the Fire Nation.
Or at least, he was in blood.
Though in name…it was murmured and known across every tribe that there was bad blood between the Fire Lord and the prince. He was the sole heir. He was their hope. He was their future- and yet, the first cracks in the picture-perfect royal family were shown when Geto had been sent to Mount Inferno.
Normally, imperial members were honed to become the deadliest of weapons in the confines of their palaces. Private tutors, techniques, and rigorous training hours you couldn’t even imagine.
No one knew the exact reason, but the message was clear enough.
You yourself had gotten your invitation (more like summons) to Mount Inferno the day after.
Your parents had yelped in joy and told the village elders; the first student in a hundred years to be called from the most revered of the Fire Nation from your little tribe, they celebrated for seven days and nights.
And on Mount Inferno is where you met Geto Suguru.
In your first year. Walking along Mount Inferno; head held high and his air untouchable even in punishment. Students - from first-years to third-years - looked but didn’t speak. Hair down to his shoulders, tied. Robes lined with golden. Equally as golden shoes stepped down the gravelly pathway in a painfully trained staccato, and they were just about to pass you like the rest of them before—
A droplet of water leapt out and splashed Prince Geto’s golden shoes.
You and Shoko had just dunked Naoya’s head into the cold springs anew- thrice for talking garbage about women in the first place, once more for each time he refused to apologize.
You wouldn’t kill the idiot, of course- you’d just teach him a lesson. At fifteen he should know better.
And this was about the twenty-third time and your arm had grown tired from holding down the stupid aristocrat—but you weren’t going to give up on making him eat his words any time soon, alright? Especially not now. Especially not after all he’d said. It didn’t matter if you had to miss orientation and stay here until Yaga had to drag you away- you’d only go kicking and screaming.
And perhaps ‘accidentally’ throwing a first at the damn Zenin brat who-
“Whaddaya staring at?” So, needless to say, you weren’t the happiest of benders when you caught stopping and staring at you less than a foot away.
The spring was on one side of the path leading to the courtyard, and any student walking could easily have avoided it altogether - most did. Most flickered their eyes to the commotion and flickered them away even faster, either not wishing to get involved or not wishing to help Naoya of all people. You see, he’d already made an impression.
One that’d left you slightly more than just cranky- “You wanna be next or what?” You glowered at the long-haired boy. You wouldn’t be expelled just for this- you and Shoko doubted anyone would speak on behalf of the Zenin tyrant anyways. Besides, this was before your first lesson, and if you two weren’t recognized as students yet—then there was technically no expulsion to be done, right?
But to your surprise, Shoko reached across Naoya’s bent-over body to elbow you. “Oi- shut your mouth if you wanna keep it.”
Narrowing your eyes suspiciously at her, “Why?” You’d just met the girl today, but you had an inkling you’d be good friends.
“Don’t you know who that is-”
“Should I?”
She looked at you with widened, disbelieving brown eyes. And it seemed as though she was about to continue-
But before that, the boy casually cocked his head to the side. His deep, charcoal-black hair framed his aristocratic face in a way that looked like a picture. “You’re both Waterbenders, correct?”
You and Shoko shared a look. “Yes…?” She answered. Both Waterbenders; though from different tribes - Shoko was of more nomadic origins, the village of water healers. Whilst yours was a quieter, more diminutive tribe of fishermen and marine waterbenders—you grew up with honed steel and the scent of blood. If you cut yourself, then the strongest healer was several villages away.
The elite-ling before you surely grew up with padded cushions and perfume to make your eyes roll. That irritation weighed down your brows, “What’s it to you?”
His eyes flitted between the two of you, before ultimately resting on you. And to your surprise, he smiled- smiled.
Long and feline.
Ear to gauged ear.
That was the first time Geto Suguru ever smiled at you. Had you known that at some point in your future, those smiles would grow so rare and ravishing, then you would have counted your blessings more scrupulously.
But back then, you’d merely blinked.
And he’d been feeling a tendril of black hair between his fingers, scrutinizing, before he threw it over his shoulder. “Oh, nothing.” He began to walk off without even a single glance backward, “Seeing as you two are Waterbenders, I was just hoping you two didn’t know that my friend Naoya here has a certain…aversion for sharks. That’s all.”
You and Shoko looked at each other once more.
And it would have sounded like yet another goad- it would have. But you and Shoko looked at each other with a whole new understanding—huh…is that so? And whilst she held Naoya down, you reached your dominant hand out and concentrated on the spring water with all your might. The ripples of it. The drowning texture. Power coursed through you, aqueous, and in the absence of its shape- you bent the water into the shape of a gaping shark underneath.
And made it dart straight for Naoya dunked underneath.
Bubbles erupted furiously on the surface of the water as he screamed and thrashed- yet you and Shoko only held him down harder. Held him down until the dagger-like teeth of the ‘shark’ were but mere centimeters from his face—
Then - and only then - do you pull him out by his close-cropped brown hair.
The pinkish face of the Zenin heir gasped for air, and through blubbers, through tears, through swears, he somehow managed out. “I-I’m sorry—!” He clenched his eyes shut, “Fuck- I’m sorry, I won’t say women should walk three steps behind…”
Your fingers dug into his collar even tighter.
“I mean-” He quickly rectified, pathetically shaking both the water and the thought out of his head. Like this, you couldn’t help but snort at him. “I won’t say…such things ever again-” His beady eyes slid to the side and narrowed at you, “Just- please- let me go—”
“Sure.” You eyed him just as wickedly, “If you admit it now that women and other folk can be just as powerful benders as men?” In support, the water gurgled and whirled into a conspicuously-shaped jaw. A shark.
Naoya sputtered, “Y-yes—yes. Women and- o-others can be just as powerful benders as men.” Thrashing even harder, “Please let me go—!”
“Sure thing.” You glanced at Shoko. And at the same time, you both unhanded Naoya’s twisted-up arms and let him fall face-first into the spring with a deafening splash! Cheekily, the water shaped at your whim into the open maw of a shark just as he plummeted. Hungry.
And it was all Naoya could do to let out a high-pitched squeal as he fell into the sharp-toothed, watery abyss. He crash-landed into the spring once more and scrambled to his feet, pushing past other students as he scurried in the opposite direction.
You and Shoko hooted at him the entire way down, only stopping once you lifted your head and caught—
Just a glimpse of amethyst eyes.
Before he turned back around, long hair swaying from side-to-side as he made his way up those steep stone steps. The number of students still making their way up were diminishing, and the first bell was likely to ring soon- but you stood there frozen in your red and black Mount Inferno robes, a blue gem fastened to your belt. Looking after a boy with a red gem attached to his own. “Shoko…who was that?”
“You seriously didn’t know?” She picked her satchel up from where it’d been discarded by some shrubbery on the pathway, and looked at you closely. “That’s the crown prince, Geto Suguru.”
The myth. The prodigy. The disgrace.
“The Geto Suguru?” You asked.
She nodded seriously.
How odd it was that a boy that elicited such a reaction would be the only one to save you two seats for the courtyard orientation. How odd it was that he’d whisper little facts to you about the lost Airbender at your first lesson.
How odd it was that Geto Suguru, the punished fire prince, became your best friend.
He was attached to you by the hip, practically.
He was part of you enough.
Goading you into training long nights at the dojos, throwing spirals of water and fire shooting off cliffsides and seeing who could send them the farthest, helping you discover new springs on Mount Inferno (then promptly pushing you into them), whispering schemes to dunk Naoya or another one of his misogynistic reverse-harem again. For teachers, there was a higher chance of finding you both as a unit - and a trio with Shoko - than finding either one separated.
Which also meant that punishments for breaking one of the Fire Nation’s 80,000 rules was also handed out as a collective.
You win some, you lose some.
Though he’d been off at some meeting or the other with bending master Yaga when Shoko - your other best friend - convinced you to make a dash for it- just a last hurrah. Down the volcano to fortune teller Tsukumo, in and out, before anyone ever notices that you broke curfew. After graduation tomorrow you might never see her again—this was your last chance.
Though she was a Waterbender, Lady Tsukumo was known to be nomadic.
And with Shoko’s urgency buzzing in your ears, and the never-ending uncertainty of what life held after graduation nagging at you- you made the descent.
Which is where you found yourself being heartily laughed at by the blond-haired bender, her head thrown back and her candles flickering - it made it seem as though even the shadows were having a guffaw at your expense.
“Don’t understand?” She asks, what seems like much later. She wipes away a mirthful tear at the corner of her eyes and looks at you in bewilderment, “Don’t understand—? Oh, of course, you don’t understand- tied for first place in scores with the prince, and yet you don’t understand, hm?”
You gape, “How did you-”
“A teller always knows.” The older woman winks, and pulls your palm closer for her to examine. “Tell me now, my dear, what is your type?”
“My- my type—” Sputtering.
“Yes, yes-” Lady Tsukumo tuts impatiently, “Your type. And be specific.”
And even though there was no one here but the two of you- you couldn’t help but cast a sidelong glance around the room. Feeling your heartbeat start to pick up, “I suppose…someone kind. Someone smart- emotionally smart. Someone that loves me for m-”
“Booooooring—!” She announces.
And your jaw just- drops.
What the…
Gaze wide as a mad glint creeps into her eyes. Shoko, you shall never be forgiven. “E-excuse me-”
“You’re excused.” Lady Tsukumo - you wondered whether she had given the title to herself - waves a hand breezily your way. She continues looking down at your upward-facing palm, “Now here’s what I actually see about your type-”
You gulp.
“Tall.”
Alright.
“A powerful bender.”
Well, alright.
“Handsome- no, gorgeous.” She looks most excited at that one—“Long hair. Pretty face. The stuff you write songs about.”
Well, certainly alright…
She turns your palm from side-to-side to capture every angle- then presses two fingers to your wrist and listens to your pulse. Lady Tsukumo’s eyes close. “Hmmm.” She pauses and listens, “And it’s exactly who you have in mind.”
You gasp-
And her eyes sparkle with excitement before—
“I-I didn’t have anyone in mind-”
“Liiiiiiies~!” The blonde-haired woman proudly announces. Before digging her polished nails even deeper into your pulse and seemingly reaping every sweet secret held inside. “I sense tension. I sense confessions long held. I sense agony-” Catching the look in your eyes, “Oh- but the good kind.”
She beams and you narrow your eyes suspiciously at her.
“The good kind- I promise…at least for me to read in here about.” And before you can call her out on it, she presses even harder. “I sense…a wedding here in the Fire Nation.”
And beside yourself, you can feel something at the pit of your stomach lurch. “A w-wedding—?”
She nods, “A royal wedding.” Having successfully put that little hiccup aside, she only grows more excited now. “With public announcements and a national holiday…you’ll wear the traditional Fire Nation garments-” To which you frown, as you’ve always loved the thought of getting married in your own traditional clothes. “-and the feast will be merry and plentiful. And at the end of the night…”
Suddenly, she stops.
A little furrow forms between her brows.
In silence, Lady Tsukumo runs her hand up and down your forearm as though playing the harp. Counting your pulse. Reading your veins. Almost to your elbow. Pressing harder at your wrist to confirm—
“There will be death.”
The words pierce right through you- you feel faint.
But Lady Tsukumo’s grip on your hand is unyielding. She’s almost breaking through skin with her nails - “Death is lonely here.” By now, her hazel eyes are shot wide open and staring right through you - unseeing - as she continues almost in a daze—“A single life will be lost on your wedding night at your hand. Before Dawn has defeated darkness, darkness shall be defeated within. And red shall stain the floors of a royal suite.”
Those all-seeing eyes of her close.
“In blood as we are borne, two worlds reunite under life and death.”
The candles hush.
Darkness.
By the time that Lady Tsukumo has waved them back alight again, you still have your hand reached out and your palm facing upwards. Though the tips of your fingers have started reaching inwards - they remind you of the fire lilies that Geto snuck you out to watch blossom your first year. Shoko had been caught cheating by Yaga and made to do revisions whilst you two explored. A valley of them between the furthest peaks of your school: they were the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen. And so you’d returned.
Your second year. And then your third year.
Though they were ephemeral - just a few weeks of blossoming per year before they crumpled.
And with it, something else crumples, too.
Tsukumo Yuki softly intertwines your fingers with hers and squeezes. Then she says in a soft voice, “I’ll tell you a little secret, young Waterbender. Just as you reshape the water, you have the power to shape your own destiny.”
The night is different when you’re finally stepping out.
Crisp and cool; almost to a sharp fault. The door to the fortune teller closes behind you with a click! and you’re standing upon her step- looking up at the moon.
“I know you’re there, Suguru.”
And from the darkness emerges a playful groan. “How did I pass stealth lessons again?”
You chuckle, “I just know you too well.”
“I’ll say. Shoko told me you came down here so I thought I’d come to escort you.”
Geto Suguru - eighteen just like you - steps into view underneath Lady Tsukumo’s hanging lanterns; admired so ardently by flying termites that flutter around the light in infatuation until their wings fall off mid-flight, and they drop to the floor—crawling around in bafflement as they try to reach their radiant lover once more before they inevitably die.
Under that same light, you’re taking him in.
It’s been quite some time since you’d splattered spring water over the young prince’s golden shoes- and Geto Suguru has grown considerably since then.
His hair had gotten longer. His smile just a little more feline. The princeling you’d had to look down at to speak had hit a sudden growth spurt once he’d reached about halfway through your first year. First to become lanky. And then his body had given him about two more surges in his second year just for the hell of it, just to leave him amongst the tallest in the grade.
And it didn’t matter how tall you yourself were- Geto was at least a head taller and it honestly got on your nerves a little that you now had to raise your head to speak with him.
Your best friend.
Your best friend…right?
Third year was when he started filling his frame out more.
It honestly wasn’t something you thought about until you just-so-happened to notice - and once you did, you just couldn’t seem to stop.
Because Firebender Geto had always been painstaking about keeping his training schedule rigid, keeping his techniques exceptional, never dropping below a cool #1 in Firebending ranks. Never one to fall behind, that was what influenced you to claw up to #1 yourself in Waterbending- and though Shoko wasn’t the type to take things as seriously as the two of you - at least not outwardly - you could tell that she put a certain amount of ‘effortless’ effort into maintaining #2 in Waterbending. But of course, #1 in all healing lessons.
He was one of the earliest to master Firebending.
And it was exactly those extra hours of training and duels that left you a honed warrior- and Geto…someone that was hard to keep your eyes off of.
All that height? He was now padding on extra muscle n’ heft to make his frame much more intimidating - like those royal warriors you’d see mentioned in history classes. Corded shoulders. Defined pecs. Chiselled abs.
Little by little; training sessions with your best friend had begun getting a lot harder when he’d take his helmet off to let his long, river-like black hair cascade down his shoulders. Sticking to his forehead. Pushed out of his thoroughly pretty face. Glistening with sweat—Geto would pant as he tears through the sizzling layers of his armor, bearing more and more skin than you think you could bear-
You once did.
Before everything got so…strange. Whenever Geto would take off his armor - complaining about it being too hot to duel - you’d merely used to throw your helmet at him and do the same.
But now when he was calling your name, breath ragged, staring at you with half-lidded exhausted eyes…
The one thing that ran through your mind was how his waist was so grabbable-
Before you know it, the real-life Geto Suguru is leaning down and giving your forehead a good flick. And the thing about him is that he doesn’t hold back, either, so you’re left paying for the absence of your own caution.
Your best friend.
Your best friend.
Your best friend.
Whining as you rub over that spot, “I’m killing you.” The two of you begin heading the treacherous trek up the volcano. “I’m going to finally report you to Yaga for stealing his prized kale cookies- I swear.”
“Sure thing.” He smiles that feline smile, “Just make sure to add that you ate about half of them, too.”
“On second thought, why steal and tell?”
Geto laughs into the night at that. And you can’t help but turn your head and watch him—so free and unabashed.
It makes something fuss at the back of your mind- “Hey, Suguru…”
He turns to you, profile illuminated by the pale moonlight. “Yeah?”
“What’d Yaga have to say to you?” You ask—it wasn’t like a teacher to set a meeting so late, and especially right before graduation. Attempting at a joke- “He isn’t failing you or anything, right? It’s nothing serious?”
“As much as I’d love to join you as a super senior—” You snort. You both knew you were making the speech as class first tomorrow. “-no. It wasn’t anything serious.”
Looking to him for more information.
To which Geto merely looks at you and smiles- he had this little quirk where sometimes his eyes went completely shut as he smiled. And you honestly hadn’t thought of it too much until now. Now…you think it’s the type of thing where one could write a song about it-
“We just talked about the security measures for when my father arrives.” Geto ultimately sighs, amethyst eyes straight ahead. “Royal visitor and all those tedious things…”
Your lips part, “Ah…” Right. The Fire Lord himself.
“Honestly, I didn’t even think he’d come.” And though he sounds casual about it- you can tell there’s real weight behind Geto’s words. After a few more steps, he turns the questioning onto you. “What about you? What made you decide to go to the fortune teller after all this time?”
You shrug, “Change of pace? Shoko wanted me to do so- ah.”
“Oh yeah? What’d she say?”
And that—that makes you feel so many things at once. So many.
The excitement. The elation. The heart-stopping moment. The crush. They’re all slamming into you at once- and it’s a complete miracle that you’re able to get out…“Honestly…not much. Guess m’not that predictable, huh?”
Geto speaks slowly, “Is that so…”
“What about you?” Turning curiously to him, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you going down there?”
He breaths out a silver cloud into the cool night air, “I have once. My first day here.”
And that makes your brows raise- you’ve never known…“What’d she say?” Your heart races, and your palms feel sweaty when they clench—
“Honestly?” Geto leans in close- reeeeeally close. He brings his face towards yours - and there’s a brief moment where his gaze drops down to your lips—you think he’s going to do it. You think he’s going to close the distance. You think he’s going to kiss you. You think he’s going to prove every premonition right and wrong and so right at the same time. “Not much.” Before he’s pulling back his index and flicking your forehead once more.
You summon a nearby spring to fashion into an oversized fan, and chase him with it all the way up to the dorms.
He laughs the entire way.
Tomorrow was graduation, but every tomorrow after would still be the same.
Would it not?
.
.
.
You wake with a gasp.
You wake to the drums of war.
The morning awakening. The rhythmic beating of a scorned heart. It punctured and pierced and honed itself against the coarse air of the Fire Nation; the crescendo of your traditional drums, followed by the chanting of your nation’s most valiant benders, and the undercurrent of melee when scimitars met jaw blades. You’d gotten used to the sickening crunch of bones being fitted back into place, though the cries of your people still left your stomach churning.
Like prey in wait, the world of battle never really slept.
Just last week, the Earthbenders had made the journey from their encampment to yours—and by now the gashing of boulders, the screeching of metal, and the accretion of unique war cries had become accompaniments to such mornings, too.
Rousing.
Dust erupted from the savanna plains and a thin layer of it rained down on you from the gaps in your tent. You’re blinking awake at the flood of pus-yellow light, and raising your head off the table- you’d fallen asleep poring over your war plans yet again.
You can’t remember the last time you slept in a bed - a bed, let alone a comfortable one. But such things were frivolities at a time like this. Everything could be far, far worse.
You’re leafing through the yellowed parchments on muscle memory, embossed with the insignia of every Earth and Water tribe in the land. There were many such papers; each one differing in only slight revisions, though with the same contents and proposition addressed to the Fire Lord. Your once-friend.
It’s been nine years since you graduated at the top of Mount Inferno—Geto had been standing right beside you that day as Earthbending master Yaga announced your class as he’d announced you all as the new generation of bending masters. The future. The hope. And you exchanged a look with Shoko and Geto that day, tenderness churning within your chest when it sank in that this would be the last time you’d be standing in this courtyard like this. The last time that Mount Inferno would truly ever be yours.
And so you nodded- you’d planned for this moment for a long time.
As Yaga finished his speech, you kept your hands behind your back and flicked them- just a flick. Enough to summon droplets of clear, glistening water from every surrounding spring.
They rose high above your heads and half-crystallized in ice—like diamond shards. Shoko hovered her hand and manipulated the water particles in the air to spread them out across the entire courtyard, and Geto lazily waved his hand to increase the temperature. To make the icicles suddenly pop! and rain down - refracting with the daylight to create a brilliant rainbow above you all.
As the audience awed and gasped then, Geto had stepped - just a single step - closer to you. His shoulders brushed your own, and you remember the tip of his littlest finger grazing yours—barely there.
Before Geto had caught the eye of his father - tunneling through him with his vicious stare - and the heir had stepped away.
Your hands had chased his touch, his warmth then.
But you should’ve known- that should’ve been your first sign.
No matter how many times you promised to write and keep in touch with your two best friends; only one of them responded. Letter after letter to the Fire Nation’s Royal Palace - and all of them went unanswered.
Though, even years later, you were writing.
You hadn’t lost hope- at least, not until your village elder one day asked whether you weren’t invited to the crowning. Whose crowning? Oh, Prince Geto’s crowning as the Prince Regent, of course. His father had become bedridden, and he was overseeing the nation without being formally crowned yet.
That was how you found out.
Seven days after Geto’s induction as the regent, the Fire Nation attacked.
It was on a group of peaceful air nomads that were already far and few between. Then came the villages. Then came the towns. Ultimately—you remember hearing whispers that Lord Geto was actually the one that poisoned his father in hopes of seizing the crown. The Fire Nation had no King for now, though it did have a monster.
In just a few years, life as you knew it was set aflame.
You can’t remember what exactly you’d said in your last letter to him, but you were sure it was some mangled mess of disbelief and threats. You wondered where that old Geto you knew went, you promised you’d make him pay for what he’s done…be it whether you were arrested and charged for treason or not. You never were.
You went through a mountain of papers trying to write something coherent.
And when you finally had it arranged to be sent, you joined the rebels.
Over the course of years, you trained and toughened. You fought your opponents hard and you fought yourself even harder—you knew that Geto Suguru had eyes everywhere across the land. You calloused, you bled, you fell. There was no time to grow gradually used to the ugliness of battle, you were thrust straight into it and forced to grow wiser than your ages. You knew he must know you’ve joined the building uprisings against him.
And you couldn’t disappoint your old classmate, could you?
They granted ascending titles for every one thousand enemy attacks one diverted. At the age of twenty-seven, you were general of the Waterbending faction.
And the battle was becoming decisive.
On one side of the tent was a picture of him from your schooling days - eyes crossed out, and pins and daggers stabbed into him whenever you and your war generals mulled over plans. And at your feet lay the half-melted remains of ice blades you’d been training with.
Sometimes, when the nights were really quiet (as quiet as a battle camp could be), you fashioned sharp streams of water and sent them jetting straight at that picture. Just like you and Geto used to in competition, on a cliffside so long ago.
Only now, there was no laughter.
As you’re straightening up, a rough canvas blanket falls off your shoulders—Shoko must have entered some time during the night and put this over you. Of course she would.
Always a healer, no matter what.
You’re holding the fabric close to you for a few seconds before letting go. A general had to carry only what was needed.
Freshening yourself up with the shallow basin of sun-warmed water at the corner of your tent, you’re donning your sea-blue cloak and walking past the tent flaps. Midday Sun licks at your skin as you step outside.
The Sun in the Fire Nation always seemed hotter than the one in your land, but right now it was the only thing you could feel. You turn your face up to it in greeting and breathe in deeply.
Your brief moment of respite is suddenly shattered by a call of your name - urgent. The sound of an approaching horse. Alarmed; your eyes shoot open and your hand immediately falls to the bone knife fastened to your waist, dropping only once you recognize the approaching men as one of your own—his blue cloak flutters in the wind.
As he nears, you register his wide eyes and his pallid face.
A cold sweat seemed to coat his features despite it being scorching out. And once he’s close enough, other warriors stop his horse by the reins- and he all but collapses onto the ground. Crawling on all fours to you—before you’re waving away your soldiers and helping the man stand up yourself.
“Ijichi.” You support him up and firmly tap the side of his sallow cheeks, “Ijichi! Get yourself together, soldier. What happened?”
As a non-bender, Ijichi was still an integral part of your battle. He was your messenger - and your most trusted one, at that. He was the one that’d successfully delivered your last letter to Geto as your friend, and your first letter to him as Lord: the proposition. You knew Geto wouldn’t lay a hand on Ijichi, no matter what the contents of your letters were.
He knew how just dear your friends were to you- he knew very well.
“He…he…” Ijichi’s pale lips tremble.
Your pulse races. There was only ever one he that could deign such a reaction- “What happened—” Signalling one of the nearby warriors to hand a flask of water over, you wet his mouth with it. Lightly shaking him. “Speak, soldier-”
“H-he has an answer, general.” Ijichi sputters. Hand weakly gesturing towards his satchel-
Your soldiers tear open that brown hide satchel and present you with the sole thing inside—a smooth, strong parchment tied up in a red velvet ribbon. Though it didn’t have the signature embosses and the gaudy golden envelopes that most communication with the palace did, there was no doubt that it was of imperial origins. The only difference was in the way it seemed to be from the hand of the Regent himself, rather than any old elder…
This was straight from Geto.
And you have to be careful not to display the slight quiver at your fingertips as you open it-
‘My dearest best friend,
It has been accepted.
Yours, Suguru.’
Though the handwriting itself was far different from what you remembered his to be. But people change.
“What is it, general?” One of the warriors pipes up from the gathering crowd. The Earthbending masters and other commanders have joined, too.
And you’re looking straight ahead - at no one and everyone in particular - as you just give a single…simple…nod.
Lord Geto Suguru has accepted your marriage proposal.
.
.
.
Riiiiiip—!
You’re clenching your jaw and fisting your hands together as a Fire Nation attendant tears out wax strips smeared down your legs, yanking out the hair underneath. She stares in wonderment for a brief moment, before starting to do the same on your hands.
A scream strangles in your throat.
The journey from the camp to the palace hadn’t been too extensive, and you’d arrived to the roar of trumpets and the wariness of the Fire Nation public. The palace announcement itself had been shaky- but they had to open the doors to you.
They had to.
You were their future Queen, after all.
Just perhaps not what they expected.
Scrubbing and plucking you raw, honey glazes, and milk baths. They’d taken special offense to that little callous between your thumb and index from holding a sword too much.
They’d attempted to scrub it away and failed.
Who would’ve thought that years of battle meant that other things took priority over a little waxing and powdering? Apparently the poor, pampered asses of ‘war’ generals in the Fire Nation’s Royal Palace couldn’t stand any evidence of the raging battles that took place outside their numerous gilded walls—perhaps guilt or inconvenience? Possibly the latter, you doubted they had a conscience. And thus, you hadn’t made it two steps inside the sprawling palace before you were whisked away by a cloud of attendants. To be made into an imitation of something you weren’t.
You’d seen the way they looked at you- as if you dirtied the palace with your mere presence. To your surprise, it seems a majority of the council had long since been taken over by the Zenin elders.
It seems that Zenin Naoya had made a name for himself as the head advisor.
That fool couldn’t advise a cow to moo.
You hadn’t even gotten to see Geto yet - and here you were already being prepared for your wedding.
If it were up to you, you’d forgo all this levity and carry out the plan here and now. You’d barge past all these plumes of dresses and golden antiques, and—
“Now for your perfuming, Your High- ah, I suppose not yet.” The orange-haired girl smiles to herself as she fogs you with some expensive perfume.
You crinkle your nose and expect the worst - some throat-clogging, saturated scent that makes you gag…but what meets you is the soft undercurrent of the ocean, of jasmine, of memories long-gone and hidden. And your eyes are shooting open in surprise.
“It’s good, hm?” She nods excitedly at your reaction. “His Highness had it concocted specially for today.”
“I didn’t take Geto to be the perfumeering type.”
She laughs softly to herself and you look up in curiosity. “Oh- sorry.” Bowing ever-so-slightly—you’re hurrying to tell her that she didn’t need to. “It’s just that…my lady, you refer to His Highness so intimately yet it seems you have not the faintest idea. Lord Geto is the one that has chosen everything for this wedding; from the perfumes to the flowers, to your dress. Oh! Though such strict…presentation aspects were demands from the council.”
Eyes darting to meet her warm honey-brown ones in surprise.
“He had it all thought out, my lady.” She finishes.
“That…” Your lips part. “I don’t understand.” You turn around and let the silk overcoat glide against your skin like a second one, “How does a monster have time to plan a wedding?”
She gasps and skirts her eyes around—as though merely speaking in here could land her in the dungeons. And you wouldn’t be surprised if it did.
The girl looks at you with pleading eyes- about to say something, but you’re shaking your head reassuringly. “It’s alright. You don’t have to answer.”
With a relieved sigh, she goes back to moisturizing and massaging your aching limbs.
“But tell me this-” You continue, as the silence prolongs. “-how did so many of the Zenin family find posts in the palace? Last I knew, it was just Naoya’s father that had a position here.”
“As head advisor, yes.” She nods. “The Zenin advisors have only increased in number and notoriety. Before we even knew it, they went from just one in the palace- to now having the entire family in power.”
You hesitate, “Regent Geto’s doing?”
“Not at all.” To your surprise, she shakes her head. “It started when His Highness Geto Suguru was banished as a prince- that was when the family first came to power. And in the three years of his schooling, they’d only increased. When the young prince returned, there was no extracting them. They controlled it all…or so the old palace keepers whisper.”
Your brows furrow, “Is that so…”
Looking around nervously once more—surely rehashing the palace history wasn’t a crime? “And they also whisper that…” She leans in close, half-covering her mouth conspiratorially. “There’s something strange about Advisor Naobito being the only one to serve His Majesty the King with his breakfasts- but His Highness doesn’t seem to care.”
Shivers down your spine.
“I-I see.”
You do.
You really do.
Nearby, the in-chamber water fountain starts to bubble. The girl gasps and looks between you and it-
That’s what makes you snap out of it - shaking your head and looking up at her with a slight smile. “My apologies. What’s your name?”
She hesitates, likely wondering whether you were going to report her for divulging so much information. But whatever she sees in your face seems to convince her that you’re not like them- you’re not like the Zenins. And she answers, “Kugisaki. Nobara Kugisaki.”
Nobara keeps you company until another flurry of attendants arrive - and soon enough, you find yourself dolled-up in countless layers of red and white silk. Golden patches and embroidery on your sleeves, nimbly designed into visions of mountaintops and fire lilies, the emblem of the Geto family on your back—it bore heavy. You were surprised - you expected more of his name upon you. Your face is painted. You’re perfumed once more. Roses were woven into your hair, and your feet are slipped into golden sandals.
It hurt that your own tribe’s name wasn’t anywhere on your outfit.
When you tried reaching for the sea-blue cloak you loved - not as lavish as the Fire Nation’s robes, but your most prized possession - the attendants had shook their heads.
Still, you tucked it into the wide circumference of your sleeves nonetheless.
As those double doors opened and you were led outside, some of your guards stationed outside - in case of any funny business - froze. Shoko smiled sadly. Ijichi’s jaw dropped—
And you weren’t sure how to feel about everyone reacting to you like so.
The procession was long and mind-numbing with luxury; it gets to a point before opulence becomes vile. And in the Fire Nation, most weddings were status symbols rather than actual ceremonies of love. For the Prince Regent - the future King as far as anyone knew - most of all.
You could hear it outside.
The clothes. The music. The swell of a public that cascaded never-ending into the widespread palace courtyard and watched, and the passing of appetizers leafed with gold. Red-hot ribbons and lanterns, the oversized faces of dragons with drunk ministers atop them—throwing flowers and bits of golden paper - cymbals clashed and dancers of all sorts and music made their way into the palace pavilion. Drummers banged. Children squealed at firecrackers. In contrast, you walked quietly shouldered by your warriors and being led down the pathway to your husband.
The place where the binding ceremony would take place was the pavilion overlooking the Fire Nation public. Where the entrance of the palace was.
At the very top of a hundred stone steps, where the audience convened below.
The elders had drawn a circle of ash for you to step into.
And so you do.
Perfectly placed on display.
A hush falls over the crowd. Caught between merriment at the war ending and morbid curiosity and fear, they were chanting in dialects that you didn’t understand - though the stay word or two you’d learned through intelligence cracking made you recognize they were singing about love, about unison.
Today there would be none.
There would be blood.
Lady Tsukumo’s prediction still lingered at the back of your mind. Though you kept your eyes downward and awaited your fate.
Your fate being the tall, red-clad shadow at the edge of your peripheral vision. He stands next to you.
Your breath catches as it hits you that this was Geto- and he seemed even more broad and intimidating than you remembered. The only things you can make out: long, dark hair and arms crossed behind his back. His uniform seemed to glint with something- gold? Though you don’t look up to confirm, you’re training your eyes down at the stone steps—and feeling the man straighten up beside you.
“It’s a lot of people, isn’t it?”
You almost jolt-
Had you been any less disciplined, even an ounce, you would have darted your head upwards and gaped at him in disbelief. Here was Geto Suguru…speaking to you as if nothing ever happened.
How could he do that? How could he speak like that? What gave him the right—? The very same that broke your heart over and over- no, this was a very different Geto from the one you knew on the mountaintop. How could he stand there like this - wearing the same body, the same face, the same voice but slightly deeper, and smile at you like that-
And pretend like everything was okay?
You speak in an even tone, “It is.”
“I haven’t seen this many people since the graduation.”
Your chest hurts. “I have.” And for the first time, you’re looking at him squarely. “On the battlefields.”
And the first thought that should hit you was how much he’s changed—how his face now frames his face and cascades down his back like ink, his jaw has set into something sharper, his features have become more refined. Melted away the baby fat to reveal the handsome man within. Years of training and war have left him more chiselled than before- and even through the billowing robes of his traditional attire, you can make out the corded muscle underneath.
He’s both familiar and not. Familiar in those eyes like polished crystals peering down at you, not in the severity that hid beneath them. Geto wore the traditional red and black sokutai; not just any red, but the red of blood after its long since been spilled, of battlefields. Piqued shoulder pads. High collar. Fine gold tracing.
Even a section of his hair was bunched-up into a knot atop his head whilst the rest of it flowers, held up with a gold pin. And on his waist was a golden belt studded with…a singular blue sapphire.
He looked so much happier in your memories.
The first thought that actually - actually - hits you is that he’s grown into everything he feared he’d become.
A fiery breeze ruffles Geto’s long hair and makes him look as though a dream. Or a nightmare.
Despite what you’ve said, his gaze remains unwavering. “I see, general.”
Suddenly, the ash around you erupts in flames, like a phoenix—and the marriage rites commence.
.
.
.
You meant it when you said that Fire Nation weddings were known more for their status than their emotion.
Because the actual rites were stiff and sped-through; as though they were hurrying through the sole sentimental part of the wedding in haste to proclaim the two of you married. Once the circle of ash had been set alight, the Royal Fire Sage had appeared behind you two and boomed out invitations to the spirits and ancestors.
And then you’d been made to recite your vows to one another for the entire courtyard to hear. To make it known - to someone else if not the two of you - that you would have to cherish one another, to understand one another, and to…love one another.
Through good times and bad.
And to bring an heir.
As you repeated after him, you wondered just how much of it could have applied before.
And as the two of you finished, you were handed a porcelain sake bowl that looked dipped in gold. As though a wabi-sabi artwork, but every bit of it had been shattered. You both took three sips each of the rich, translucent liquid—promising unity.
Your hands tightened on the bowl.
And then you placed your offerings of evergreen branches as newlyweds, down on the sacred circle of ash, then clapped twice and bowed.
To the public.
The roaring cheers were deafening.
You closed your eyes tightly against the noise.
There was a reception afterwards, of course, and it was just as disgustingly lavish as you thought it would be; though as the married couple, there was rarely any time for you to eat or drink. You couldn’t indulge when there were ministers and master benders and government officials begging for your attention—most of all, you couldn’t kill when you had a plan.
But oh- did you think of bypassing that plan and going in for the strike when Zenin Naoya had come sneering to your raised table. Wishing the newlyweds a long and prosperous life together.
He spat it out like venom.
Even more so when a new attendant had wished ‘the future King and Queen’ a long and happy life together.
Other big, big names came and went. However Geto’s father wasn’t in a befitting state to make a public appearance, and you’d watched Geto’s reaction closely as this was whispered to him by one of the advisors.
He was as still as a stone statue.
But you could forgive the too-tight embraces from families attempting to woo their way into the good graces of the future monarchy, and the ministers that sloshed their sake on you. You could forgive the generals that eyed you suspiciously, and the young aristocrats that tugged on their guardians’ robes and asked which nation you were from…and whether that was allowed. You could forgive it all. You weren’t wearing your nation’s colors—and you had to smile as your soldiers bowed to you as per your royal title.
You never let them bow to you when you were their general. Just general.
You could forgive it all, because your plan started only after the wedding reception.
When the curtains were drawn, and alcohol suffused into the air. When you were beckoned by the team of attendants that readied you for the wedding, and escorted away into the privacy of the royal baths.
You wondered if it was just you who felt like some in the reception were leering like they already knew…
Readied, once more.
By the time you’re donning a sheer red robe, and guided to Geto’s sprawling princely chambers, he’s already there sitting at the edge of the bed. Back turned to you.
His armor removed and attire half-off - draping over one broad shoulder. And the other….was a pale body underneath the luminous moonlight filtering in—rippled with muscles and slightly freckled. Though they looked faded, as if he’d gained them once a long time ago and had rarely been out in the Sun since.
You could guess they were from Mount Inferno.
Tonight was to be your consummation, and you knew they’d be checking for evidence in the morning.
You walk up to the Fire Lord.
Soundless steps.
And yet, he still turns. His long, jet-black hair falls off of one shoulder and tumbles down his back like a waterfall—it’s glossy and reaches down past his waist. There’s a slight dampness to it, and you wonder whether he’d been scrubbed and perfumed down to the bone, too. You don’t know why but you mourn the way his hair covers most of his toned back.
Quickly, however, you snap yourself out of such nonsense.
You gulp and take a step closer. “I have arrived as the attendants have directed me-”
“Must we be so formal with one another?” He speaks. Geto’s tone is deeper than it was on the mountain, with a polished edge to it that spoke of years of lessons—rigorous. More mature. You think back to your first impression of him- no, it wasn’t just padded cushions and perfume after all, huh? “We’re married now, y’know.”
You’re looking up and realize there’s a smile playing at his lips.
“We are.” And your voice, too, sounds so much more mature than back then. “But that doesn’t mean we’re not strangers-”
“But we’re not.”
“We are.”
There’s a frosty silence that stretches between you two, and you’re starting to think it might last until sunrise- but then Geto puts his face in his hands and sighs. Heavy and unbroken. “At least…at least just for tonight…” Voice something so small—something that reminds you of the Geto from nine years ago. “Could we not be strangers?”
You don’t answer.
But as he stares at you - piercing through your very being - your hands move as if hypnotized to the sash of your robe. And his eyes grow murky- they grow dark—following you like a predator follows its prey.
Though which one of you was the predator, it’s hard to say.
With a single flick of your fingers, your robe is dropping off of you.
And if you thought his gaze was smoldering before, they’re practically glazed and blackened now. In almost a trance, he keeps his eyes on you and reaches his hand outwards- and murmurs in a low timbre. “Come to me.”
“Is that an order as King?”
“We both know I have no power as King.”
A plea.
You step. Silently.
And soon enough, you’re standing in front of Geto Suguru - in-between his manspread thighs. He gazed upon you, and you gaze upon him. It’s now that you’re noticing his outer layers had been stripped through, and the only thing that he’s donning now were baggy white trousers doing little to hide the muscles underneath, and a hitoe: it was a dark, draped robe that almost looked like a yukata. Loose and flowy.
Shifting aside to reveal a puffy pink nipple on his left side.
Then before you know it- you’re both pushing him back onto the bed by his shoulders—and crashing your lips into his.
And you’re not sure what you’re expecting- fuck, you’re not sure how long you’ve agonized over this very moment, but Geto’s kissing you and you’re kissing him. And it’s everything you’ve imagined in all your most innocent girlhood dreams.
He tastes of jasmine and crisp summer air - the curtains behind you flutter with a breath of cool air, and you’re gasping. It’s then that Geto takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss.
Clasping the back of your head, he angles it to one side and lets his delicious tongue inside. Exploring your mouth for a few seconds before fishing it back out n’ then leaning even closer to suck on your tongue. The moment he tastes you, he groans. “Please…”
And you think - for a brief, stupid moment - that you’ve wanted nothing more.
But Geto’s canines nip at your lower lip, and reality’s hitting you all at once. All at once.
You’re breaking the kiss with a sickeningly sweet pop! and pushing him down by his shoulders. Geto’s scorching hot pants fan your face, his long hair tickles your neck. Perhaps too afraid to look him in the eyes- to see what expression he has on now, you’re shuffling down his body. Pawing between his legs.
But just before your knees can hit the floor—an arm reaches out and stops you.
Grabbing ahold of your own, he’s pulling you up.
In split-seconds, you’re finding yourself back on the bed - this time with the positions flipped. You have your body rested against a mattress that feels like a thousand clouds. You have your cunt throbbing wildly as Geto beckons you to stay and kneels down on the bedside.
Like he’s praying.
Though the only plea he whispers is between your naked legs.
Getting swallowed up almost instantly in the cute, slobbering kiss he’s pressing against your plump, puckered lips. Just so ready for him.
Geto’s dark brows contort as your legs jerk open a bit further and your cunt’s sloshin’ out.
Lascivious ribbons of creamy slick empty out of you n’ end up dripping down his chin - it glistens underneath the cool, blueish moonlight - and you’re watching as he sticks the very tip of his tongue out to taste. You see those clouded amethyst eyes start to grow even murkier, heavy and half-lidded. He looks up at you in half-shock as the syrupy taste of your cunt enters his mouth, and the infamous Fire Lord can’t help but moan—
“Honey, I want to taste you for eternity.”
“You’re not s…oh.” Eyes clenching shut. Breath catching in your chest. Whatever you were about to say- Geto’s lappin’ the words right out of you.
With the slightest inch of his tongue squeezes in- hot and pulsing between your folds. The ridged texture of his tastebuds glue to your most sensitive parts—polishing off every ounce of the gloss that coated between your pussylips. And once he’s downed it all like the sweetest of mead, Geto purses his pink lips and spits.
A stream of glittering saliva that hits you.
You flinch-
“Too cold?” Geto’s voice just seems so loud in your eardrums. Low and so much more ruined than you remember it- it makes you blink up at him. And whatever he’s seeing in your expression, it seems to answer his question.
Because then he’s running a thumb down the wad of spit plastered to your cunt. Tap-tap-tapping.
And before you know it, you’re feeling the frigid, exposed parts of your pussy turn into something sizzling.
Fuck.
Bubblin’ over and fizzing.
He was using his powers to…your brows shoot up to your hairline.
You’re clamoring onto your elbows. You’re quaking your thighs shut- and actually getting them shoved even further apart—by both of Geto’s bulky shoulders lodging himself even further between them. His sticky, hot breaths were practically basking your cunt - and soon enough Geto’s nose-deep between them and slobberin’. “Sh-shit, now that’s unfair…”
Prolonged, open-mouthed kisses. From the tender edges of your pussylips to fishing his tongue between them- swirling inside your wet hole.
Now that he’d heated up the spittle touching your cunt, it was Geto’s time to smear it all over using his mouth and pretty face. “Mmm, not too bad, huh?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” You scoff. Raking your fingers through his raven locks.
“Ahead of myself? No, no…” Geto murmurs- and he’s purposefully doing it so the vibrations shot up your spine and made you arch into him. The crown of his tastebuds sloshed between your folds and gave you such luxurious licks prodding inwards. Flattened top. Teasing edge of his tongue. Then Geto reaches his right hand up and swats the glistening top of your cunt. Soon enough, you’re feeling the slippery layers of his saliva grow even hotter. “You need to know your place, my little Waterbender.”
“That’s general to you.” You’re tugging on a fistful of his hair. Still damp; though by now it was less with water, and more with sweat.
“General…” Geto repeats. Another swat- controlling and ebbing the heat in a way that made fogginess coil around your brain. “And do you realize that you’re in enemy territory, general? My best friend?”
“I- am aware.” Gritting out—more so because you couldn’t handle the slight whimper that threatens to crackle on the edge of your tone.
You’re dragging an even less merciful handful of his hair in retaliation- dragging and dragging until his lips almost pop off of your cunt. He’s grabbing onto you with a single hand groped underneath your ass, and such a desperate husky noise.
To his credit, you just didn’t expect Geto to moan.
But then again, he didn’t expect you to put a blade to his throat, either.
Geto’s purple eyes snap wide open at the ice-cold feeling- and the air prickles with the power of bending. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that you’d used the dampness of his lengthy hair - the water particles, the ravenous sweat - and melded it into a steel-hard dagger that pricked at his pale throat. Just a single gulp of his Adam’s apple leaves Geto Suguru nicked.
And crimson beads down to his robe—matching. Wedding colors.
‘A single life will be lost on your wedding night at your hand Before Dawn has defeated darkness, darkness shall be defeated within. And red shall stain the floors of a royal suite.’
It would take just a single flick- just a single flick of your wrist to end the Fire Prince’s life right here and right now. To end this all. But you take your time to admire him…at least before the life drains out of his eyes.
That second of eye contact lasts longer than lifetimes- longer than an eternity together. Just the two of you in the royal suite. Geto’s mouth on your cunt, and your dagger at his neck—and to your surprise, he doesn’t look like he’d be anywhere else.
In fact- to your offense, he flickers his eyes down to the callous that was peaking out in the web between your dominant thumb and your index. And slowly - almost snake-like - Geto’s inching his face closer and pressing a soft kiss—right as you were holding the dagger.
Your breath hitches- it’s silent. It’s oh-so-silent.
And Geto’s darting his eyes up at the sound of it, cautiously pulling away. But not to any sort of mortal safety, of course, because when has Geto Suguru ever followed your expectations?
He’s instead maneuvering his face- and unsure where he was going, you’re following his actions with that deadly blade of yours. But the Fire Lord doesn’t run. He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t change. He merely tips his head ever-so-slightly at an angle, then sidles his hot face between your clammy thighs to…to make out with your cunt.
Make out.
Not just lapping and lickin’ like he’d been doing before.
Your mouth falls open, “Oh.”
Not just prodding away between your pussylips with the tip of his tongue.
“O-oh, fuck.”
He’s properly gaping his mouth open and massaging the forefront of your cunt with his muscle. Again and again. The thick, flattened plane of him rests on top of your pussylips n’ drags up and down, back and forth, teasing you mindless before swabbin’ his wet inches inside.
Geto’s practically glued to you- the tiptop of his tongue rovering for every sweet spot inside. Long, drunken thrusts. And with every single one, you’re reaching your arched hips upwards. “Fuck- fuck—”
The silvery tip of your dagger digs against his skin, and the prince flutters his eyes open all feline-like.
Lightning shoots through your body as you take in the utterly dazed sight of him. “You realize that I can- hah, that I can just kill you now, right?”
“I’m aware.” Languidly, he’s blinking his eyes open properly. Your pussy just tasted so good lacquering his tongue like this; in such a warm…wet layer of your sap. And the only thing the fearsome Firebender can do right now is tip his head back and let those juices drain to the back of his throat. “And it’s only makin’ me harder.”
“This?” Pressing the blade even harder. “This.”
In response he can only nod.
Nod and nod and nudge your pulsing clit with his nose.
Your jaw’s just dropping. Was he making fun of you…?
“Fuck- I-I think I get it now.” You’re blubbering, hand tremoring. “You really are a monster-”
“I am.” Though you can’t decipher his tone of voice. Merely feeling the way Geto presses a few more noisy kisses on your cunt, before he’s raising his hand and-
You shut your eyes.
You’re hearing the solid smack! on those swollen, needy lips before you feel it. Hot. And just as soon as the searing sting makes its way through your thrumming vessels, Geto’s attached his mouth to your cunt once more and is tunneling his tongue crazily into your pretty hole. Just so wet n’ needy for him that you’re sucking him up after every hackhammerin’ thrust. Squeezes him closer.
He moans- fucking moans as he cuts himself off from breathing. He doesn’t care if he suffocates - as long as it’s between those tremblin’ legs of yours.
Though it’d be a damn cold day in hell before you ever let him beat you to your mission objective.
So you’re pulling back your deadly dagger, and you’re catching the slight surprise flickering in Geto’s eyes at the act. Quickly replaced by something more knowing, something…far darker and unreadable when that blade finds itself positioned back on his beautiful throat.
The vertical line of it stands out starkly. A thin line of crimson draws itself on the edge.
You’re somehow clenching through gritted teeth, “I…need to kill you—for the good of this world.”
He keeps perfect, ruinous eye-contact with you as he leans his pretty face forwards. He keeps eye-contact with you as he raises his hand and spanks your pussy once more.
“So do it.”
Hot sparks explode behind your eyes.
And the imprint of all five of Suguru’s doughy fingertips seem to emblazon themselves on your cunt- you’re realizing then that he’s using his powers again. He’s leaving a mark on your pussy…for however long he may be alive. For however long you may let him stay alive.
And he’s eating you out like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have.
The sweetest of sultry desserts latched onto his mouth - Geto ties your legs tighter around his head. Then he’s mouthing aside your soaked pussylips to stick his tongue in and out, in and out, in and out. He’s pinpointing every hidden spot inside you with his dexterous tongue- quirking it juuuuust right to one side and hittin’ your g-spot ruthlessly.
“I am going to—” Though the words feel weak, even on your lips. “I-I am going to-”
“So fucking do it.” He’s a man on death row. He’s a man starved- your dagger moves even further upwards and Geto’s sharp white canines make an appearance as he hisses. “Do it…”
“I-”
“I dare you.”
And for all the world, you might have possessed the steadiest arm in all of the land. But the way he’s makin’ your eyes roll to the back of your head - just the winding, zig-zagging slashes of his tongue squeeeeezing into your pussy - would be enough to make anyone tremble. Even during their life’s mission. “I…sh-shit.” Bucking your traitorous hips upwards - so hard that it leaves a smear of glittering slick from his upper lip n’ to the tip of his nose.
Slash after slash.
Probe after probe.
He’s just so fatal with his tastebuds - sizzling against your velvety inner walls. And you wondered whether that was just you or his powers…
Before another hot smack! resounds against the sprawling corners of the royal suite. And Geto’s taking your star-struck moment to swirl the ends of two fingers inside, scissorin’ and bullying all their slender inches.
They were the hands of the strongest Firebender of today.
And they were smearing apart your snug channel. Squelching. Smushing themselves inside- the sheer length of them…oh, it felt like they were about to go on for daaaaays. And you’re rutting up into his vicious thrusts with a whimper, “P-please…”
“Please, do it if you must.” He breathes out scalding pants. Nostrils flared. Skin red. You’re left utterly shocked at his admission- you look up into his eyes and they’re crystal clear. “If it shall bring you peace- do it.”
Gaping, “Wh-what do you mean me…”
But he’s only honing his slick-glossed, slithering digits. And he’s such a quick learner, too, he’s locating your g-spot with only a few more thorough thrusts—his favorite target. That pulsing area writhes underneath his touch- and you know where he is exactly when the heat spreads from Geto’s fingertips.
Leaving you ruined both inside and out.
Leaving him grinning around the gummy nub of your click. Sucking.
“If that is to be your wedding gift-” The mound of his voicebox pushes deeper against your blade, a hairsbreadth away from something irreversible. “-then take it-”
“Sh-shiiiiit—” Tearing up.
“If that is what you’ve been dreaming of all this time-” He continues, voice growing more and more guttural by the second. Geto’s practically gulping your pussy into him, clinging onto him. Quivering. “If revenge is the only thing th-that’s let me cross your mind…if only for the briefest second, then I shall thank it.”
Streaming down your cheeks now. “Su—fuck.” You could feel the twisting and turning at the pit of your stomach as you grew ever-closer.
He continues. “If it is what my wife desires…then so be it.” Was he fucking drunk? Was he talking out of…of your pussy? There was a slurring edge to Geto’s words, toppling over one another. And those beautiful amethyst eyes of his struggle to remain open - blinking lazily - as he laps n’ keeps lapping at your leaking pussy. Those juices smearing all over his jaw. “Kill me.”
Then down to the column of his throat.
Then collecting on your trembling blade.
Geto’s boring straight into your eyes as he utters. “But until then, m’gonna keep making you cum over and over again.” Quirking the curvaceous tips of his fingers to ram straight into your g-spot- he makes you shatter. “For as long as I have left to live, m’gonna make you the happiest woman on Earth.”
“That’s just unfair-” You’re damn-near sobbing. One of your hands claws through his night-black hair, and the other uses the flattened edge of the dagger to let you see his face better. “That’s just really, really unfair…”
“I was never a fair man.”
Then you’re being fucked through your waves of bliss like never before- those looooong, arching cresendos of dopamine through your body. Those white-hot stars. The edges of your vision blurring.
And the only thing your muddled mind can think to do is plant your feet flat on the mattress and arch- and press your drippin’ cunt closer to his face. As Geto Suguru suckles on your clit, he traps it between his teeth and draaags it out far enough that you yelp.
All the while, his fingers were slammin’ straight into your g-spot. Over and over.
Rubbing the softened tips of it to that pulsing spot—he’s elongating your orgasm like never before. He’s making you feel those carnal sensations in eeeeevery single ridge and crevice inside your cunt, three of his fingers stuffing you full by now. “Never was an understanding man.” He gasps through French kisses on your clit - every time he rolled his tongue over it, you were mewling. “Never was a kind man- hngh. Never was a good man.”
Smack!
It resounds even louder than the last few, the feeling of his heated-up fingers spanking your cunt.
And you swear you’re sent straight over the edge for a second time—
“I can only promise to be the damn best husband for as long as I have.”
It’s with this notion in mind that you’re dragged through your intense peaks, and once you’re finally coming back to - it’s to the sound of Geto pulling away from your spent pussy with a loud slurp! He follows the stray wires of sap that still connect him to you- pressing a final few kisses before finally wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Then looking you deep in your eyes as he then licks off the glowy sheen that covered his skin.
This was what did it for you.
You’re raising your stone-cold blade high—high, higher, and even higher then. Until it was well above his head, and then—
Slashing it down to decimate his outer robe.
Even Geto himself looks shocked at this- before you’re grabbing ahold of him by the shoulders and dragging him up onto the bed. It dips with a groan at the weight of you both, its ancient springs equally as shocked, and you don’t care if you’re causing a commotion when you pull him by a lock of his hair till your back rests against a vast metal headrest. Against your skin, you could feel the twists and twirls of some intricate wooden carving - but the only thing you could focus on right now was him.
Him and the aching, throbbing erection he was sporting in his loose trousers.
The fabric paper-thin. The outline of his cock obvious.
He was so looooong and deliciously curved to the right, hard enough that you could spot at least one thick vein prodding down the side of him. Precum had seeped from the top of his blushin’ red crown and darkened a patch in his trousers; it sticks slightly to his skin as Geto rests a hand on the hemline and teases taking it off.
“Do I need to bend a dagger for that, too?” You quirk a brow.
“Hah…” Geto huffs out a laugh, “No need to exert yourself, my little Waterbender- or more like…my wife.”
Ah, his wife.
His wife.
His wife.
And then your…husband does the honor of stripping down his only remaining piece of clothing.
And the first thing you notice is that he’s even bigger than what your imagination had concocted. Red-hot and throbbing.
A slight spattering of black curls dust his base, and partway up his navel. It glistens with beads of precum that just refused to stop streaming from the tip of Geto’s cock - hard. So painfully hard.
Fucking painful.
Even contact with the frigid air seemed to make him quiver, n’ his cock was pulsing so hard that you could physically count it from where you were seated. Eyes wide and gaping - you don’t feel the slightest bit abashed about staring, and Geto doesn’t seem the slightest bit self-conscious. He’s got a gorgeous cock, and he knows it.
It feels so hot as he places the ruddied tip straight on top of your raw cunt and presses down. Not even easing inside- just smushing your folds down so that you’re getting a good feel of him.
And you do, of course.
You’re grabbing Geto by each one of his luscious deltoids and digging your nails into the firm muscle. Crashing your lips into his. Hissing, “I-inside.”
Making his velvety, sap-covered tip squeeze between your pussylips. He’s entering you with a buck and a cracked groan at the back of his throat—“I already am, general.” Just a single inch inside and he sounds breathy. Just a single inch inside and his head drops forwards- a curtain of inky black hair falling around you like a veil to the world.
You’re reaching upwards and taking out his signature golden hair pin. Even more of it.
You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this…vulnerable.
And then the Fire Lord’s throwing your legs over his shoulders and bending you flexibly down in half, hands finding purchase upon either side of your waist n’ slamming his hips into you like a madman. “And I’m have a d-damn good time fucking my wife.”
Geto’s reeling his lower half back- all the way until his ruby-red tip is purposefully stretching your hole out. Feeling you - just feeling you.
Before giving you a thorough thrust from the crown of his cockhead and down to his thick base. So thick. Your mouth’s falling open into a similar ‘oh’ that your pussy’s being expanded into.
Then repeating.
And repeating.
“Fuck, she’s so wet. Is that because you’re the- hah, land’s greatest Waterbending master-”
“Shut up.”
“And if I refuse?” There’s that hint of mischief in his voice you recognized from your past. “And if I claim that this pussy actually lov- liked this mouth of mine not too, mmm, long ago?” Through a clenched grin and furrowed brows, he somehow manages out. “So what do you have to say about that, general?”
Your maw keeps dropping open the more and more of his jagged thrusts he’s placing. “W-weren’t you the one who said he’d be happy to- even hngh—die by my blade?”
“I was. I am.” He replies - and it’s so earnest that you don’t have anything more to say to him. Suddenly, Geto’s giving you a right slam! of his cocktip- colliding against what feels like the very back of your throat. “And I stand by- ngh, every word I said.”
“Th-then…”
Before you’re able to sputter out anything more, he’s reaching his right hand down. Snaking his long fingers between those plump pussylips of yours - Geto plaps! the flattened edge of his thumb down on top of your clit. Then starts rolling n’ rolling over it in time with his solid thrusts. And just as every passing second made you keen out more…it also made you more honest.
And he could tell.
Geto’s feline smile presses on top of your forehead: a chaste kiss. One he’s repeating on your temples, your nose, either side of your cheeks, your chin, and finally your lips.
Humming against them, “But the reason I said that was because I’m in love with you.” And he says it so easily. Shock courses through your body- or perhaps that was just the feeling of him slammin’ into your g-spot. You get the distinct feeling that Geto had known where it’d be all this time - already having mapped you out with his roving fingers - and that he’d been holding out until this exact moment. “But why aren’t you completing your mission, yet?”
Your lips tremble- “I…”
“Let me make it clearer for you.” Gravelling tone pitching just a bit—just as he punishes out another slam! of his fingertips against your stuffed pussy. “Why haven’t you killed me yet?” He tosses his head with an attractive smile, “Is it because it feels too good? Be honest.”
Well…You’re scoffing, “You wish-”
He grins an irresistible grin before scorching his fingertips against your swollen cunt once more. Those Firebending powers of his certainly weren’t at full capacity - they weren’t even being used at a fraction of it.
And yet, it still made itself known in how even the tiniest bit of contact made heat sprint through every atom, every axiom of your being.
And you can only clench your hand around Geto’s damp hair, feeling the glide of those silken locks through your fingers. It makes the man hoverin’ above you on the bed wince—letting out a throaty noise of ecstasy as you’re handling him so meanly. He fucking loved it.
He’s dreamt of this for too fucking long.
Noticing this, you’re wrenching him back by his hair and spitting straight into his pretty mouth. Those pouty lips of his enclose immediately ‘round the sweet glob of spit you’re letting out - and he’s trying to kiss you almost immediately. “Mmmm…” Geto’s long lashes bat shut. At the very split-second that it had landed, you swore you could’ve felt his bashin’ cockhead swell even bigger. “Thank you, my wife.”
Eyes opening once more- you see there’s such a carnal glint in them that you can’t explain.
“But don’t think that’s gonna make me forget.” And suddenly, you’re understanding just why his name was whispered far and wide. Why not a soul in his palace seem to speak a word against him. For fear, or…Yet another swat. “Why haven’t you killed me yet, my little Waterbender?”
It was honestly feeling more like an interrogation at this point.
Mockingly, Geto cocks his head to the side and bears you his throat.
Perfectly unharmed and unscarred. The thin line where your blade lay earlier was practically invisible.
“C’mon…let me make this even clearer for you.” He goads, “Here’s your target. Here’s your enemy—kill me, my wife. Let’s see if you can, general.” Something almost maniacal in his grin, Geto’s dashing his dark hair backwards like a mane and pressing his forehead to yours. “Aren’t you the greatest Waterbender alive? You’re here because you’re bound by duty, are you not? Then why don’t you?”
A few harder thrusts.
Eyes wide. Tone crazed. “Why don’t you—?”
Why don’t you? Any other soul would stop themselves out of fear- perhaps out of proximity.
Good thing that you weren’t just any old soul.
And so you’re summoning that blade once more in a way that feels almost subconscious- your mind wasn’t really concentrated on the weapon. How could it be? When Geto’s plummeting cockhead was only growing speedier and speedier by the second - his round, reddened tip swirling about your insides and pinpointing every spot with his white precum. They were just the sloppiest strikes.
Again and again.
Upturning even the smallest slick orifices and bruising his circumference into your spongiest depths. Your cervix stung with the imprint of him.
Absolutely tortuous despite your training.
Which might be why the handle of your blade’s already half-melted; water dripping down your hand by the time you’re raising it to Geto’s pretty throat once more. “I…I am bound by my duty.” You breathe.
The enemy Lord’s grin widens as he registers your words. So you were finally taking the bait…
He looks down at the misshapen, gnarled excuse of a blade pushed to his throat—and notices the droplets of water cascading down your arm. And without a single warning, he’s craning his neck down - avoiding the sharp edge of the weapon - to liiiiiiick up those ice-cold droplets on your skin. It feels almost teasing looking at his tongue like this, already knowing what it’s done to you once.
Murmuring almost awe-struck, “I am the general of the rebellion’s Waterbending faction and I am here to kill you.”
“Yes—” He whispers. Pitch raising. Octaves higher. “Yes.” There’s a thundering squelch! between your legs as he then grips onto your clit with torrid fingers.
Your blade raises- ready to strike. “Geto Suguru, you are hereby to be assassinated at the hands of the new age. An act of revolution.”
“Yes—”
“An act of peace.”
“Fuck- yes.” Brows knitting once you clench.
“An act of…love.” Impatiently, Geto then turns to smack! the glossy top of your clit. To pinch it. And he does it with heat-coated fingers that make you see stars.
He stares at you, and you can’t look away. “So do it.” Almost gruffing the words out at you. And for how long he’s been saying these words to you, it’s just now hitting you at full force that this was a challenge. And how cocksure he was…“So kill me if you can bear to do it.”
For your nation, for others, you have to do this—you have to. Your hand trembles on the handle of the squat dagger. It feels small and almost…childish in your hands. But the longer the pause stretches between you two, the more it melts - until your weapon is nothing in your hands at all.
It was futile and you always knew it was. He did, too.
This was never going to happen.
Especially not when he was fucking you so incredibly—
And you’re merely wrapping both around the back of Geto’s head and tugging him to you.
You’re crashing our lips into his with a moan. “I can’t-” You gasp. You gawk. You’re barely breathing every time his mouth’s parting from yours and slamming back down with an even harder kiss. “I can’t bring myself to kill you, Suguru.”
Pain. It sounds like defeat. But to Geto Suguru, he’s heard no sweeter music. “And why is that…?” The infamous Fire Lord tugs on your bottom lip with his teeth.
“I-I don’t-”
Smack! Right on top of your clit. Honesty, remember?
“That’s not an answer.”
Heat coils between your legs - almost feeling like flames licking at your skin. He was making it clear that you were putty in his hands. “Please-”
Smack! Harder.
“It’s b-because I…”
“Speak up, general.” Smack! Smack! Smack! Harder. Three consecutive slaps of his fingertips- before you could even attempt to formulate an answer. Though Geto wasn’t completely merciless…at least not with you - he soothes over the sting with a few glissades of his fingertips. Pressing down on your knobbly clit then and combatting the pain with pleasure. Pinching. “Your soldier can’t hear you.”
And then you don’t know what exactly is doing it for you: perhaps the flared ridge of his tip, oh-so-perfectly grazing over your g-spot—or perhaps the way those half-shuttered eyes of his were staring down at you.
Practically boring down.
Seeking your soul.
There’s such an intensity about him- and you’re pretty sure you’re not imagining the way the air around you two heats up a few degrees. Palpable to a degree. Your skin perspires, and a bead of sweat runs down Geto’s own temple.
Tensely balancing at the edge of his jawline as he whispers. “Tell me, my heart…”
“I-it’s because I love you, too.” The confession comes rushing out of you before you even realize it. But once it’s out in the sweltering open air - there’s nothing more to do.
Nothing more to see. Nothing more beautiful than Geto Suguru’s pinched brows as you somehow - somehow…as though refusing to let himself believe such an idea - surprise him. His eyes glisten, his lips part. And that toned chest of his shudders just a lil’ as his breath hitches.
For a long time, Geto doesn’t let out anything but a few rasping grunts as he fucks you—fully and thoroughly—
And then he’s collapsing on top of you n’ puncturing out a few more sloppy strokes. Body hunched into yours. Mouth open and pressed on the column of your throat.
Heat bends around Geto’s fingertips - thrumming with energy, nearly vibrating - when he captures your clit. Harder.
Geto feels you clenching around him - throbbing furiously - and echoes out a prolonged grooooan as your third high of the night overcomes you. “Sh-shiiiiit—” It’s not one that you were expecting, and the sudden flashes of white behind your vision leave you startled. Your head drops back, and you’re mewling out Geto’s name twofold. “S-Suguru-”
“You haven’t called me that in years.” A drunken grin spreads across his face. One hard thrust that bangs into your g-spot. “Say it again-”
“Suguru-”
And one more spank. Sparks of pleasure more than you could register.
“Suguru—”
Your yelping n’ yowling were like music to his ears; the sweet sound of victory. And every time his pace quickened, your pupils are left dazed and confused—blinking up at him blearily.
Babbling.
“What’s thaaaat, my little Waterbender?” Geto’s pert lips twitch with amusement on either side, and he’s soon leaning his head down to hear you. To tease you by mimicking not hearing you—“You’ve got something to say to your lover? Heh- or maybe it’s to your husband?”
“It’s something to the- hngh, pain in my ass.” You snipe out.
His free hand reaches down n’ gropes a good handful of your ass. “We haven’t gotten there yet.”
And as your mouth drops open as his sheer audacity- Geto wastes no time returning your favor from earlier by spittin’ straight into your maw. Letting you swallow it before he’s thumbing over your clit again, “As I was- fuck! saying…”
“Mhmmm?”
And instead of just telling him - you suppose that showing him would be just as effective. And you’re running your hands all over the curves and muscles of his sturdy body; along the plush area of his pecs, and then down wherever you could reach his abs—pathetically reaching to grab onto Geto’s dripping, ruby-red cock. “I need you inside.”
His fingertips flare with his- slamming down on your clit once more. You just felt so raw and perfectly overstimulated. “I already am…?” Geto raises a brow.
“No—” You shake your head. And as for the bending powers…two could play that game. Without a single warning, you’re bending the moisture at the tips of your digits and dropping their temperature starkly - making the powerful Firebending master shiver at the play with heat. “I need you to cum inside me, Suguru.”
And you always did know he was weak for first names, didn’t you?
Because in no time, Geto’s then hiding his blushing face into the crook of your neck- and gluing his ravenous hips to yours. With a few twitches deep inside, his scorching-hot tip bubbles over—finally.
And then he’s pouring out bucketload after bucketload of hot, gooey cum.
Body bowing. Toes curling. His long hair was knotted and dampened with perspiration, sticking to your own clammy body as he’s tangling the two ever-closer.
Geto isn’t even completely done with the crescendo of his high before he’s already attempting to fuck every ounce of it inside you.
Sticky. It’s a satiny mess between your legs, and Geto’s ecstasy was just the tip of the iceberg. “Fuck.” The true sloppiness presented itself when it was time for him to fuck each and every wad into you - directing the sheer volume of it with his fat red cock. A thorough prod of his shaft leaves a few droplets being swerved straight into your womb. “O-oh, fuuuuuck-”
“Shit.” Just as he utters his sensual sounds - all of the stray parchments in the room catch on fire and peter themselves out. Instant. He’s bending the combustion in the air around you two. “Oh, gods…”
Without a single word.
Without a single intention.
You’re still suffering from the sultry aftershocks of your own high- and yet you have to clear your head. You have to be the rational one. “Suguru-”
SLAM!
Before you can sputter out anything more, he’s reaching an arm out to grip onto the headboard and leaving you speechless.
Just the sound of you saying his name- just the sound of you saying his name had his heavy balls clenching once more. And suddenly you’re feeling an even greater warmth seep into your stomach—Geto’s cumming once more. And the veiny length of his shaft was just accumulating it all at the back of your pussy with squelch after squelch!
Broken, mangled remains of your name escaping his throat.
You can’t help but stare up at the corded muscles of his biceps- arms enough to…kill for. Almost as soon as you’re thinking the thought, you watch as Firebending seeps out of his limbs n’ melts through the metal headboard. Geto’s catching the look on your face with a priggish smile.
“Oh, shut up.” You roll your eyes.
“I didn’t say a thing.”
He didn’t have to. Because he’s pressing on your stomach after the final zap of his high has completed - burnished red cockhead finally calming down - and he’s watching the cum drip out of you. All of him—that he’s stuffed lovingly inside your pussy.
And Geto doesn’t think he’s felt more victorious.
“Suguru..” You start. “Earlier, when you said something about you having no power-”
“I meant it.” He wasn’t lying. He looks deep into your eyes, “As the Prince Regent I am technically the one authority in the palace. Yet it remains a farce…my father still holds one true reign, and the council has decided unanimously that he rules from his deathbed. How competent, yes?”
You ponder, “I see.” Then you ask—“Did you ever read…”
He looks at you so intently, and you shake your head and rephrase the question.
“Why didn’t you answer any of my letters?”
“Letters?” Geto’s eyes flash. “You wrote letters?”
“Oh, Suguru…” Such sadness in your tone. It was obvious they’d never even reached him. “Almost every week for the first few years. I stopped when the war commenced…seemingly by your doing.”
Nearby, a loveseat catches fire and immediately puts itself down. Lips trembling, he grits out—“I…I had no idea.” Enraged. “Those fucking elders- I wondered whether you’d just gotten sick of me-”
“What? No, don’t be stupid-”
He chuckles, “Glad to know you still think so highly of me.” Nuzzling your cheek.
“I do.” You stubbornly hold back your tears, “And I need to know…how in league are you with the Zenins?”
And to your surprise, a smile spreads across his face. “The Zenins?” He rests his forehead against yours and sighs, “Silly Waterbender. The entire reason I was sent to Mount Inferno in the first place was over a fight about the Zenins- and even then, they bartered their son in there to keep an eye on me. And if I was in cahoots with the Zenins to any degree, would I have started the rebellion?”
Your heart skips a beat. “You’re the one that started the rebellion?”
“Yes, from the confines of my lavish prison, unfortunately.” Geto grimaces. “Though I’m glad it got strong enough to this point. It was me who sparked and funded the idea…even misinformed the imperial guard away from where riots took place. But the uprisings, the community, the victory- that was entirely the peoples. While the only thing I could do was sit here and play nice with the Zenins.” Bitterly.
Pulling him deeper to you. Two halves of the same future: you think back to Lady Tsukumo’s prediction. “My big, strong husband. Was poor wittle tea time tough?”
“Oh, it was deplorable.” He jests.
And Geto exhales properly as though the first time in years.
You ache for him.
Just as he aches for you. For your past and for your future. “I’m sorry, my wife.” He tremors after a long stretch of silence. “All this time…I wish I could’ve been a stronger prince.”
You can’t help but punch him softly on his shoulder, “Stupid Suguru. It’s okay. We’re all just grown-up kids pretending we know the way.” Sniffling. You could have a real wedding later, you could make up for time later. “But you better make it up for these nine years we didn’t see the fire lilies, or else…”
“I’d do anything for you.” He breathes. Lips pressing to yours, “I’d let the world burn for you.”
.
.
.
History will remember this day.
As the start of how a bender from the Water Nation would one day become the Queen of the Fire Nation; as the start of a reckoning that started from within the palace itself and spread like a disease into the lands outwards; as the day of revolution.
The Zenin family has long since held the palace captive.
Sitting up on their perfumed, padded cushions and ordering the extinguishment of anyone that wasn’t like them. It was upon their orders that the Fire Nation attacked—and on their orders that the war was prolonged. Nine years of death and destruction.
And that night, after wiping yourself down, you’re sneaking out of the royal suite once Geto’s eyes had closed. Roaming the dark, winding hallways like a predator at night; your eyes were wide and your Waterbending thrummed at your fingertips. Now it had an edge and was begging to meet flesh.
The first chamber that you’d encountered after exiting the marital bedroom was the current King’s chamber - one that Geto had told you had been banned to him since he could remember. He hadn’t seen his father since he’d first gotten here nine years ago. Perhaps because of the decoration and distraction of the wedding, the door had finally been left unlocked and you could peer in. And from the foot of the doorway, you stood watching—as one of the Zenin ministers sped a spoonful of curdling concoction that should’ve been medicine. Perhaps.
But the sweet, simpering smell that drifted from it told you something else.
Fire lilly.
Poisonous when cooked.
Your fingers twitched—and you were just about to send a deadly stream of water spearing through the man. But a sudden tap on your shoulder make you jump-
Whirling around to find Geto.
He smiles at you warmly, and then mouths something in the semi-darkness. It’s hitting you instantly what he means: this one is mine. It’s his revenge to take. Nodding understandingly, you watch as the spark of Firebending starts to curdle around his digits—and you’re scurrying off into the darkness with a kiss pressed to his cheek.
You know exactly where you need to go.
You’d made note of the layout when Nobara had escorted you around.
And she’d given this room a wide berth.
Silent as the shadow that falls, dawn licks at the edge of your figure once you’re walking up to a bed chamber and knocking. Just a light rap. And before whomever was inside can answer, you meld into the shadows behind—just as Zenin Naoya steps out, you’re wielding a dagger of your water and ending him.
A clean cut. Right across the throat.
Because the Zenins, in starting this war, never intended for Geto Suguru to become King. They hoped for him to abdicate such a blood-soaked throne, or at best for an assassination from you…which was why Naoya himself had written you the letter. You did think it was strange that Geto’s handwriting wasn’t even the faintest shadow of what you remembered it to be. They had an inkling that you wouldn’t be giving yourself up to the Fire Nation so easily.
They wanted Zenin Naoya to be King.
The body falls.
A single life will be lost on your wedding night at your hand. Before Dawn has defeated darkness, darkness shall be defeated within. And red shall stain the floors of a royal suite.
The Sun is clawing away at a new day.
In blood as we are borne, two worlds reunite under life and death.
A wild night in Vegas left you hungover, married, and shocked to discover your new husband is Max Verstappen, four-time Formula 1 World Champion. What starts as a drunken mistake turned into something more and a question you never thought you’d ask—was this really just a stupid decision, or the best thing that ever happened to you?
pairing. Max Verstappen x wife! fem! reader.
warnings. rom-com (i tried), 10,6k words, accidental marriage, soulmates-ish, love at the first sight, my poor humor, soft! max, reader is clueless about f1, domestic fluff (literally just reader and max bullying each other white they’re married) alex s. m., lestappen bromance, pet names (schatje, baby).
YOU CAME TO LAS VEGAS FOR ONE REASON: to have fun. Maybe gamble a little, maybe dance a lot, and definitely forget about the stress of your everyday life. It was supposed to be a wild weekend with your friends—filled with overpriced cocktails, glittery outfits, and questionable decisions. You knew the Grand Prix was happening the same weekend, but you weren’t exactly a sports girl. Formula 1 meant fast cars and loud engines, and the only thing you really cared about was how the race would mess up traffic. You had no idea how much more it would mess up your life.
One night, your friend—who always seemed to know someone who knew someone—dragged you to a party she swore would be crawling with celebrities. You didn’t believe her, but you went anyway, dressed in something sparkly and slightly too short, because why not? Vegas was built for nights like this. The party was on a rooftop, lights glowing against the desert sky, music thumping through your bones, and drinks flowing like water. You weren’t sure who was famous and who was just pretending to be, but everyone looked expensive and slightly untouchable.
And then you met him.
He was tall, with messy hair and a grin that made you feel like you were the most interesting person in the room. Dutch, he said. His name started with an M—Mark? Max? You couldn’t quite remember. He was charming in a way that felt effortless, confident in a way that bordered on cocky, and somehow still made you laugh until your cheeks hurt. You didn’t know who he was, but you liked him. And the drinks kept coming. Tequila shots, champagne, something neon blue that tasted like candy and regret.
The night blurred into a haze of laughter, dancing, and whispered conversations that felt like secrets. You remembered him pulling you onto the dance floor. You remembered him saying something about fate and bad decisions. You remembered kissing him. And then—
Well, no drink could have prepared you for what came next.
───
You woke up with a headache so sharp it felt like someone was playing drums inside your skull. The room was too bright, too quiet, and far too unfamiliar. But what truly terrified you wasn’t the pain—it was the man sleeping beside you.
His back was turned, broad and bare, the sheets tangled around his waist. His hair was a mess, sticking out in every direction. He looked peaceful, annoyingly comfortable, like he belonged there. Like you belonged there.
You sat up slowly, clutching the sheet to your chest as if it could shield you from the chaos of whatever had happened the night before. Your dress—what was left of it—was draped over a chair like it had given up. One heel peeked out from under the bed. The other was missing entirely.
You glanced at him again, trying to piece together the night, and that’s when your eyes caught something that made your stomach drop.
A ring.
On his left hand.
Bold, shiny, and impossible to miss.
Your heart stuttered. Oh God. Did you sleep with a married man? You stared at the ring, panic rising in your throat. But something about it tugged at your memory—a flash, a moment, a laugh. You looked down at your own hand, slowly, carefully, like you were afraid of what you’d find.
And there it was. The same ring.
Only yours had a diamond. A very large, very catchy diamond.
You blinked. Once. Twice.
Oh fuck.
Your heart was already racing, but it kicked into overdrive when your eyes drifted to the nightstand. Amid the clutter—an empty glass, a phone, a crumpled napkin—was a piece of paper that looked far too official for a party night in Vegas. Thick, cream-colored, with bold lettering across the top. You leaned closer, squinting through the haze of your hangover, and your stomach dropped.
It wasn’t just a piece of paper.
It was a marriage certificate.
You froze, staring at it like it might disappear if you blinked hard enough. But it didn’t. It stayed right there, mocking you with its very real, very legal presence. You reached out with a shaky hand and picked it up, scanning the names printed neatly in black ink.
Max Emilian Verstappen.
You blinked. That name sounded… familiar? Maybe? You weren’t sure. It rang a bell, but not loud enough to make sense of it. You looked down, and there it was—your own name, printed right beneath his. Only now it had a new addition. His last name. Your name, with his last name.
You stared at it, mouth slightly open, brain refusing to catch up.
You married him.
You didn’t walk. You launched yourself out of the bed like it had burst into flames, nearly tripping over the twisted sheets as you scrambled to grab your phone. Your heart was racing, your brain still foggy, and you had no idea what you were doing—only that you needed to not be in that room. You bolted to the bathroom, slammed the door shut behind you, and locked it like you were hiding from a monster. For what? Safety? Privacy? Maybe just a moment to breathe. Or maybe in case Max Verstappen woke up and decided it was time for a honeymoon on a yacht. You didn’t know what married people did. You weren’t supposed to be one of them.
The bathroom light was way too bright, and you winced as it hit your face. You blinked hard, trying to adjust, and caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. It wasn’t pretty. Your makeup was smeared like a bad painting, your hair looked like it had fought a tornado, and your eyes were wide with panic. You looked exactly how you felt—like a disaster. A very confused, slightly drunk, newly married disaster.
Your thumbs were shaking as you opened Google, typing in the name from the certificate as fast as you could.
Max Verstappen.
And then your screen exploded with results.
Photos. Headlines. Videos. Interviews. All of it.
“Four-Time World Champion Max Verstappen Wins in Las Vegas.”
“Verstappen Dominates Under the Vegas Lights.”
“Undeniable King of Formula 1.”
You stared at the screen, jaw slowly dropping.
There he was. The man in the bed. Standing tall in a sleek racing suit, champagne bottle in hand, sweat glistening on his skin under the podium lights. His arms were raised in victory, his grin wide and confident, like he owned the world. Another photo showed him on the top step of the podium, gold trophy in one hand, waving with the other. Cameras flashed around him. Fans screamed his name.
And okay. You could admit it.
Your husband? He was hot.
Like, really hot.
Of course he had to be the kind of guy who looked even better sweaty. Of course he had to have that smirk. That face. That body. That entire vibe. And of course he had to be one of the best athletes in the world.
“Fuck!” you hissed the second your phone buzzed in your hand, nearly dropping it into the hotel sink.
Incoming call: my girl xx
You didn’t even hesitate. You smacked the green button and brought it to your ear like it was a direct lifeline to reality.
“I think I married Max Verstappen!” you whisper-screamed the second the call connected, pacing across the bathroom in bare feet, trying not to pass out or throw up or—god forbid—wake him up. You had no idea if the feeling in your chest was joy or terror. Probably both. Definitely both.
There was a beat of stunned silence on the other end.
Then: “Y/n, what the fuck? Did you take something? Are you high?”
You let out a strangled laugh, half-sob, half-manic giggle. “No! I mean—I don’t think so? But like… I woke up next to this guy, okay? Big, hot, Dutch guy. Tall. Sleepy. Smug. And he had a ring on. And then I had a ring on. And then—” you reached over to snatch the paper from the counter again, yes you took it with you “—there’s literally a marriage certificate. Signed. With both our names. His is Max Emilian Verstappen. I googled him. He’s a four-time Formula One World Champion?!”
You stopped to breathe, then whispered aggressively, “I married a rich race car driver.”
Your best friend went quiet again, then finally said, “Wait… Max Verstappen? Like, actual Max Verstappen? The hot one who wins everything and never smiles?”
“Yes!” you hissed. “Except he does smile, and I think he kissed me last night, and he definitely slept next to me—and with me, and now I don’t know if I should cry or call Vogue and pitch a cover story as his wife.”
“Y/n, I left you alone for five minutes and you got married?!” your best friend shrieked so loudly through the phone that you had to pull it away from your ear before it shattered your eardrum.
“I didn’t do it on purpose!” you whisper-yelled, pacing the bathroom like a wild animal trapped in a cage. Your bare feet slapped against the cold tile, your sheet toga flapping behind you like a cape of shame. “There were drinks! There was dancing! He had a really nice smile, okay? I don’t even like racing! I came to Vegas for overpriced cocktails and bad decisions, not a whole husband!”
You were so deep in your meltdown that you didn’t hear the footsteps until they were right outside the door.
Then—two soft knocks.
“Are you panicking in there?” a deep, amused voice called through the bathroom door.
You froze. Completely. Like a deer caught in headlights. Like someone had hit pause on your entire body.
Your eyes went wide. Your mouth opened. That voice—it was him.
Your husband.
Max Verstappen. Actual Max Verstappen. Speaking. To you.
You turned toward the door, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. “Yes—I mean no!” you called back, instantly cringing at how weird your voice sounded. You sounded like someone who had definitely married someone by accident.
There was a pause. You thought you heard him laugh. Just a little. Low and quiet. Like he found this whole thing funny.
You turned back to your phone, whispering like you were in some kind of spy movie. “Gotta go. I’ll call you later.”
“Wait, Y/n! Does he have any hot fri—”
You hung up before she could finish the sentence and dropped the phone onto the counter like it had burned your hand. You stared at the door, heart racing, brain spinning, and absolutely no idea what you were supposed to say next.
You couldn’t stay locked in the bathroom forever, no matter how much you wanted to hide from the world—or from the man waiting outside. You had to face it. Face him. Face the fact that you were somehow married to Max Verstappen.
Slowly, you reached out and unlocked the door, pushing it open just enough to peek your head out. You weren’t sure what you expected—maybe chaos, maybe cameras, maybe him halfway through packing his bags to escape this mess. But instead, you saw him standing there calmly, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed and into a magazine cover. His hair was still messy, shirtless, but he looked relaxed. Too relaxed. Like this was just another normal morning.
“There you are,” he said, his voice soft but amused. “Do you want something? Coffee? Water? You look pale.”
You blinked at him, stunned. “Yeah, and you look completely fine! You shouldn’t!” you said, stepping out and slowly making your way back to the bed. You sat down carefully, still wrapped in the sheet, trying to keep your brain from short-circuiting.
He tilted his head, clearly confused. “Why?”
You stared at him, trying to find the right words. “Because you’re Max Verstappen! You’re like… F1’s big dog. The guy who wins everything. You married a random girl in Vegas!” You paused, trying to breathe, trying to make sense of it all. “Oh my god, can you imagine the drama? The headlines? The press? The fans? Your team? Your mom?”
“We can keep it secret for now, if you want,” Max said, his voice calm and casual, like he was suggesting you skip breakfast or order room service. Not like he was talking about hiding a marriage from the entire world. He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, looking way too relaxed for someone who had just woken up married to a complete stranger. His expression was unreadable—cool, collected, almost amused.
Meanwhile, you felt like your entire body was buzzing with panic. Your heart was racing, your thoughts were spinning, and you were pretty sure your eye was twitching. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a sheet, trying to figure out how your life had turned into a headline overnight.
You stared at him, trying to process what he’d just said. Keep it secret? Like it was no big deal? You couldn’t even think straight, and he was already planning how to cover it up. Your mouth moved before your brain could catch up.
“We should annul it,” you blurted out, the words tumbling out fast and loud. “Obviously.”
Max turned his head slowly to look at you, like you’d just said something completely ridiculous. His eyebrows lifted, and he tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out yet.
“Why?” he asked, voice still calm. “I like you.”
Your brain stopped working.
You blinked at him, mouth falling open, unsure if you’d heard him right. “Wh—what?” you stammered, eyes wide. “You like me? We met like—what—ten hours ago?”
Max shrugged, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “And I liked those ten hours.”
You stared at him like he’d just suggested you move to Mars. “That’s not a reason to stay married!” you said, your voice high and full of disbelief. You couldn’t believe you were even having this conversation. You were wrapped in a hotel sheet, hungover, and somehow arguing about the validity of a marriage with a man you’d met less than a day ago.
Max didn’t flinch. He didn’t laugh. He just looked at you with those stupid, perfect blue eyes—calm, steady, and annoyingly unreadable. “It’s not a bad one either,” he said, voice smooth and quiet. But there was something in his eyes. A spark. A glint of amusement, maybe interest. Maybe even a challenge. Like he was waiting to see what you’d do next.
You clutched the sheet tighter around yourself, trying to hold onto reality, but your brain had already started to drift. You couldn’t help it. You imagined it—being his wife. Not just the ring on your finger or the chaos of last night, but the life that came with it. The luxury. The attention. The private jets and race paddocks. The kind of dinners where the wine cost more than your rent. The interviews where people called you Mrs. Verstappen. Waking up in Monaco. Falling asleep in Italy. Kisses in Singapore.
It was ridiculous. It was insane. It was completely out of your comfort zone.
And yet… it didn’t sound bad.
Okay. Maybe annulment was a little dramatic.
“Okay,” you sighed, dragging a hand through your tangled hair as you sat up straighter on the bed. The sheet was still wrapped around you like some kind of makeshift armor, and you were starting to feel like you’d need it. Your head was spinning, your heart was still racing, but you knew you couldn’t keep dodging the reality of what had happened. “We should… talk about this. All of it.”
Max’s lips curled into a smirk the moment the words left your mouth. He looked far too amused for someone who had just woken up married to a stranger. “That’s how I like you,” he said, clearly enjoying your slow descent into chaos. “Assertive. Calm. Rational.”
You gave him a look. A sharp, tired, are-you-kidding-me look. “I’m none of those things right now.”
He shrugged, completely unfazed, his eyes still sparkling with mischief. “Still. Be grateful you married me and not Lando.”
You blinked. “Who’s that?” you asked, your eyebrows pulling together in confusion.
Max paused, then actually laughed. A real laugh. Not a smirk or a chuckle, but a full, amused laugh that made his shoulders shake slightly. “Oh wow. You really don’t know anything about Formula One, huh?”
You stared at him, unsure if you should be embarrassed or proud. “Is he, like… worse than you?”
Max tilted his head, clearly enjoying the question. “Debatable,” he said, his grin growing wider. “He’s a walking red flag though.”
You didn’t know what that meant exactly, but the way Max said it made you laugh. Just a little. Just enough to forget, for one second, that your life had completely flipped upside down.
───
The hotel breakfast room was way too quiet. That strange kind of quiet that only happens when everyone’s hungover and pretending they aren’t. Even the soft clink of a spoon against a coffee cup felt like it echoed through your skull. You were surrounded by people who probably had millions in their bank accounts, all dressed in expensive clothes and sipping tiny espressos like they hadn’t made a single bad decision the night before. But you knew better. You could see it in their tired eyes and slow movements. Vegas had worked its magic on everyone.
You sat across from Max, your very real, very hot husband of roughly ten hours, trying to act like this was normal. Like you did this kind of thing all the time. Like waking up married to a stranger and then sharing breakfast with him was just another part of your weekend plans. You picked at your croissant, trying to look casual, even though your brain was still spinning.
“So,” you said, raising an eyebrow as you tore off a piece of pastry, “tell me something about you, my husband.”
The word husband still felt strange coming out of your mouth. It made your stomach flip a little. It was weird, but also kind of exciting. You barely knew anything about Max—other than the fact that he was ridiculously attractive, strangely calm about the whole situation, and apparently some kind of international sports legend.
Max leaned back in his chair, looking relaxed, like he had all the time in the world. “Well,” he began, “I’m Dutch, but I was born in Belgium. So technically I’m Dutch-Belgian. My mum’s from Belgium.”
You nodded slowly, pretending to take that in like it was important information. But honestly, your brain was stuck on the way he said my mum. It sounded so soft, so sweet, and it didn’t match the image of a guy with arms like his and a face that belonged on a billboard.
“I started karting when I was four,” he continued, “then got into Formula One when I was seventeen. And now I’m here—with four world championships.”
You blinked. “Casual,” you muttered, trying to sound unimpressed, even though your jaw wanted to drop.
Max gave a small shrug, like it was no big deal. He wasn’t bragging. He was just telling the truth. And somehow, that made it even more impressive. You could tell he wasn’t trying to show off. He was just… being himself.
And honestly? He was kind of a racing nerd. You could see it in the way his eyes lit up when he talked about karting, in the quiet pride in his voice when he mentioned his career. You weren’t into sports. Like, at all. But there was something really endearing about how much he cared. It wasn’t just a job to him. It was his whole world.
And because you couldn’t help yourself—because even though you didn’t follow racing, you did know the one headline that had practically broken the internet—you tilted your head and asked the question that had been sitting quietly in the back of your mind.
“Aren’t you the one who robbed Lewis Hamilton of his eighth title?”
Max didn’t answer right away. He paused, his eyes narrowing just slightly, like he was deciding how honest he wanted to be. There was a flicker of something in his expression—not anger, not guilt, just… something unreadable. But then, slowly, his lips curled into a smile. Calm. Cool. A little smug.
“That’s what some people say, yeah.”
You blinked, surprised. That was not the reaction you expected. No awkward laugh. No defensive speech. No attempt to explain or justify. Just a simple, quiet answer that carried more weight than a whole press conference. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t back down. He just sat there, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just casually admitted to being part of one of the most controversial moments in sports history.
It was the kind of energy that made your stomach twist. The kind that said he knew exactly who he was and didn’t feel the need to explain it to anyone—not the media, not the fans, and definitely not the girl he’d accidentally married in Vegas.
You chewed slowly, studying him. You weren’t sure if you wanted to punch him or kiss him. Maybe both.
But deep down—and you’d never admit it out loud—you were starting to think you might’ve married someone weirdly interesting. And dangerously charming.
“But that’s a long, boring story,” Max said with a casual wave of his hand, brushing off four world championships and one of the biggest rivalries in sports like it was nothing. Then he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, and gave you a look—the kind that made your heart skip a beat. There was a mischievous glint in his eye, playful and curious. “I want to know something about you, Mrs. Verstappen.”
The way he said it—so smooth, so relaxed, like it wasn’t the most insane thing either of you had ever done—made your stomach flip. Mrs. Verstappen. You’d been trying not to think about how official that sounded. How serious. How… weirdly not awful. It was ridiculous, but hearing it out loud made something flutter in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was panic or something else entirely.
You cleared your throat, trying to snap out of it. “Uh—well,” you began, suddenly feeling very aware of how painfully normal you were compared to him. He had trophies and fans and a career that spanned continents. You had… a messy Instagram feed and a half-used planner.
“Mostly I live off my dad’s money,” you said, giving a small, awkward laugh. “Because, you know, he prefers to pay me to leave him alone.” You took a sip of juice, hoping it would make you sound less ridiculous. “But I studied art. And now I sort of work in marketing? Like, social media stuff. Influencer-adjacent.”
You winced a little as the words came out. God, you sounded lame. Like you were trying to explain your life to someone who’d never had to worry about rent or job interviews or whether their post got enough likes. You were sitting across from a man who drove cars at 300 kilometers an hour for a living, and you were talking about hashtags.
Max didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just nodded, like everything you’d said made perfect sense. Like you made sense. It was strange, really—how someone so far removed from your world could listen like he’d known you for longer than ten hours. His expression was calm, open, and maybe even a little curious.
“And I, uh, moved to Monaco a few months ago,” you added, almost as an afterthought. You weren’t sure why you said it. Maybe because you wanted to sound a little more interesting. Maybe because you wanted to find some common ground with the man sitting across from you.
But that got a reaction.
Max’s eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across his face. “No way,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You live in Monaco?”
You nodded, feeling a little sheepish. “Yeah. Mostly for the tax thing, but let’s pretend it was for the vibe.”
Max grinned, and it was the kind of grin that made your stomach flip again. “Me too.”
Your jaw dropped a little. “You’re kidding.”
He shook his head, still smiling. “I’ve lived there since I was eighteen.”
You stared at him, trying to wrap your head around that. Eighteen. Already living in Monaco. Already racing in Formula One. Already building a life that sounded like something out of a movie. Meanwhile, you were still figuring out how to pay your phone bill on time at that age.
“I mean, most of the drivers do,” Max said, leaning back in his chair, eyes wide with disbelief. “You live in Monaco and don’t know anything about Formula One? Even though there’s a Grand Prix happening there every year? It’s like… the biggest event in the city.”
You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to look offended, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “Hey! I do know who Charles Leclerc is,” you said, lifting your chin slightly. “He’s Monaco’s bias—the hometown hero everyone pretends they’re not obsessed with.”
Max blinked, then burst out laughing. Not just a chuckle, but a full, warm laugh that made his shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle at the corners. It was the kind of laugh that made your chest feel lighter, like you’d said something genuinely funny and not just accidentally charming.
“I married the right girl,” he said, still grinning, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe his luck.
You felt your cheeks warm, and you looked down at your plate, trying to hide the smile that was now impossible to fight off. It was ridiculous. You were still hungover. You were still confused. You were still technically married to a man you barely knew.
You loved every second of it.
───
You’d been in Monaco for a few days now, and somehow, without really planning it, you’d spent most of that time at Max’s place. His apartment was sleek and modern, with huge windows and a view that looked like it belonged in a travel magazine. Sometimes he came over to your place too, and it was starting to feel… normal. Comfortable. Like you’d known each other for way longer than just a few chaotic days. You went on cute dates—late-night walks by the harbor, quiet dinners tucked away from the cameras, even a grocery run that turned into a mini adventure. You’d both agreed to act like you were just dating, like the marriage part was a funny secret between you. And honestly? It worked. It felt easy. It felt right.
So when Max insisted that you had to bake a cake for your one-week anniversary, you didn’t argue. You went out and bought all the ingredients, found a beginner-friendly recipe online, and tried to convince yourself this wasn’t going to end in disaster.
Standing in his kitchen, surrounded by flour, eggs, and a very confused Max Verstappen, you gave him a look. “I’m warning you,” you said, tying your hair up and glancing at the recipe again. “The last time I baked anything, I was eighteen. It was a birthday cake for my best friend, and it was… not great.”
Max raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “Well,” he said, gesturing to himself, “do I look like I’ve baked anything in my life?”
“No,” you said as you rolled up your sleeves, determined to make this cake happen—even if it ended up more like a sweet disaster than a masterpiece. Max stood beside you, watching the recipe on your phone like it was written in a foreign language. You handed him the whisk and pointed to the bowl.
“Okay, start mixing the eggs and sugar,” you said, trying to sound confident.
Max squinted at the bowl, then at the whisk, then back at you. “You’re trusting me with this?”
“You drive cars at 300 kilometers an hour,” you said, grabbing the flour. “I think you can handle a whisk.”
He gave you a dramatic nod, like he was accepting a mission, and started whisking with way too much enthusiasm. Sugar flew out of the bowl. You gasped and jumped back, laughing as tiny crystals landed in your hair.
“Max!” you shrieked, swatting at him with a dish towel.
He grinned, completely unbothered. “Precision is overrated.”
You tried to stay focused, measuring flour and butter, but Max kept sneaking little pokes at your side, bumping your hip, stealing spoonfuls of batter when he thought you weren’t looking. At one point, he dipped his finger into the mix and held it out to you.
“Try it,” he said, eyes sparkling.
You leaned in, tasted it off his finger, and paused. “Not bad.”
He smirked. “Told you. Natural talent.”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart was fluttering. The kitchen smelled like vanilla and sugar, and the air was warm with laughter and something softer—something sweeter.
The cake was safely tucked away in the oven, and for the first time in the past hour, the kitchen was quiet. Warm. Sweet-smelling. You leaned against the counter, catching your breath, your cheeks flushed from laughing too hard and moving too fast. Max stood nearby, watching you with that familiar smirk that made your stomach flip every time.
“You have flour on your nose,” he said, pointing at you and laughing softly.
You reached up to wipe it off, but then paused, a mischievous idea forming. You looked at him, narrowing your eyes playfully, and moved your hand toward his face.
“Oh, don’t you dare,” he warned, stepping forward just as you lunged.
Before you could get him, Max caught both of your wrists in his hands. His grip wasn’t tight—just firm enough to stop you, but gentle enough to make your heart flutter. You tried to wriggle free, laughing, but he was too strong, too steady. And honestly? You didn’t really want to escape.
He pulled you closer, slowly, until your body was pressed against his. Your chin rested just under his collarbone, and you tilted your head up to look at him. His eyes were soft now, not teasing, just… warm. You smiled without meaning to, and he smiled back, like he couldn’t help it either.
And in that moment, something shifted.
You felt it in your chest—a quiet, fluttering feeling that wasn’t panic or confusion anymore. It was something sweeter. Something softer. Were you falling for your own husband? The thought hit you like a whisper, unexpected but not unwelcome.
Max leaned down and pressed a light kiss to your lips. It was gentle, slow, like he was testing the waters. Like he wanted to make sure you were still with him in this strange, beautiful mess.
You smiled against his mouth, pulling back just enough to speak. “Was this part of the recipe?”
He grinned, eyes sparkling. “Obviously,” he said, and kissed you again—this time longer, deeper, like he didn’t care if the cake burned.
When the oven finally beeped, you jumped a little, startled out of the warm haze you’d been floating in. You grabbed an oven mitt and carefully pulled the cake out, setting it down on the counter. You blinked at it, surprised. It actually looked… good. Like, really good. Golden, fluffy, not burned. You tilted your head, inspecting it like it might suddenly collapse, but it held its shape perfectly.
“See?” Max said proudly, stepping beside you. “It looks fantastic.”
You laughed, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “Yeah, but does it taste fantastic?” you teased, eyeing the cake like it might be lying to you.
Max didn’t answer. Instead, he turned toward the fridge and pulled out a bowl of whipped cream—dark blue, of course. “I want to decorate it,” he said, already grabbing a spoon and getting to work.
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Okay, Picasso,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter to watch.
Max was focused, tongue slightly poking out in concentration as he carefully spread the whipped cream across the top of the cake. He wasn’t fast, but he was determined. You stepped closer, peeking over his shoulder, and smiled at the mess he was making. The letters weren’t perfect, the spacing was off, and the whipped cream was a little too runny—but it was adorable.
And then you saw it.
Written in slightly crooked, slightly smudged letters across the top of the cake:
Max + Y/n, always and forever
Your heart did a little flip.
You stared at the words, warmth blooming in your chest. It was silly. It was messy. It was whipped cream on a cake made by two people who barely knew what they were doing. But it was also sweet. Thoughtful. Real.
You looked up at Max, who was still focused on smoothing out the edges, and felt something soft settle in your chest. This wasn’t just a joke anymore. It wasn’t just a wild Vegas story. It was starting to feel like something more.
“Aww,” you whispered, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.
Max glanced at you, eyes twinkling. “Too cheesy?”
You shook your head. “Just cheesy enough.”
───
One thing about your husband, Max Verstappen—he adored Charles Leclerc. Like, actual bromance level. The kind of friendship that involved inside jokes, constant teasing, and way too many shared podium selfies. So when the idea of a double date came up, it wasn’t dinner or drinks or something chill. No. It was karting. Because of course it was. The most on-brand plan imaginable for two Formula One drivers who couldn’t go five minutes without turning something into a race.
The guys were hyped. Already texting about lap times and trash talk before you’d even left the apartment. And you? You were nervous. Really nervous.
Alex was everything. Fashion icon. Gorgeous. Confident. The kind of girl who looked like she belonged on magazine covers and red carpets. She was Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend—the it-girl of the paddock. And you were… well, you. Clumsy. Still adjusting. The newly accidental wife of Max Verstappen who had only just learned what a pit stop was.
You clutched Max’s hand tighter as you both walked toward the karting center, your stomach bubbling with nerves and regret over the fizzy energy drink you’d chugged earlier. Your heart was racing, and not in the fun, adrenaline kind of way. More like the what if I embarrass myself in front of Monaco’s golden couple kind of way.
“Max,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, “what if they don’t like me? I mean, I’m not exactly—”
“Schatje,” he cut in gently, turning his head to look down at you. That soft half-smile was already forming on his lips—the one that always made your brain short-circuit a little. “They’re both excited to meet you. Charles has heard so much about you already.”
You blinked up at him, heart still fluttering, but something about the way he said it made you feel a little steadier. Like maybe you weren’t walking into a disaster. Like maybe you did belong here, even if you weren’t sure how yet.
You stepped inside the karting center, your nerves buzzing just beneath your skin like tiny sparks. The smell of rubber and engine oil filled the air, and the sound of distant engines revving made your heart beat a little faster. You spotted Charles and Alex waiting near the entrance, both dressed casually but somehow still looking like they belonged on a magazine cover. Max’s face lit up the second he saw them. He walked straight over and pulled Charles into one of those quick, half-hug, half-pat-on-the-back greetings that guys do when they’re trying to act cool but are clearly happy to see each other.
Before you could even process the moment, Alex stepped toward you with a bright smile and zero hesitation. “You must be Y/n,” she said, her voice warm and confident. “You look stunning, girl.”
You blinked, caught off guard by how friendly she was. Before you could even say thank you, she pulled you into a hug—not the awkward kind, but the kind that felt real. The kind that said, you’re safe with me. It was soft and strong all at once, and something in your chest loosened. Just like that, you knew: this girl was going to be your girl.
“And you’re even prettier in person,” she added with a grin, looping her arm through yours like you’d been friends forever.
You laughed, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to melt. “You’re literally so cool, this is unfair.”
Max, overhearing your comment, smirked and leaned toward Charles with a playful glint in his eye. “Maybe we should do a few laps without them,” he said, voice teasing. “You know, as revenge for that time you pushed me off track.”
Charles rolled his eyes, already used to Max’s drama. “You brake-tested me,” he replied, deadpan.
Max waved him off, already distracted by the sight of you and Alex laughing together like old friends. You could feel his eyes on you, and when you glanced over, he was smiling—that soft, proud kind of smile that made your stomach flutter.
Alex leaned in and whispered, “I think we’ll definitely find something to talk about.”
You nodded, heart lighter than it had been all day. You weren’t just the accidental wife anymore. You were part of something. Something fun. Something real.
Max walked over, his voice quieter now, just for you. “Cheer for me, schat,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. The warmth of it lingered as he grabbed a helmet and headed toward the karts with Charles, already tossing playful insults back and forth.
You and Alex sat down on the bench near the track, the loud buzz of go-karts filling the air as Max and Charles disappeared around the first corner. At first, the sound was a bit much engines roaring, tires screeching—but after a few minutes, it started to feel kind of normal. Like background noise to a day that was already turning out better than you expected. You leaned back, letting the sun warm your face, while Alex pushed her sunglasses up and turned to you with a friendly smile.
“So,” she said, her voice light, “how’s it going? Being a WAG and all?”
You laughed softly, brushing your hair behind your ear. “It’s new. I didn’t grow up watching racing or anything, so I’m still learning. But… I’m happy.”
And you meant it. Even though everything had happened so fast— the wild Vegas night, the surprise marriage, the dates, the quiet mornings—it felt good. Like you’d landed somewhere that made sense, even if it was unexpected.
Just then, a blur of navy and red flew past the pit lane. Max’s kart. He lifted one hand off the wheel and waved as he sped by. Even with the helmet on, you could tell he was smiling. And without thinking, you smiled too—like it was automatic now.
Alex saw it and grinned. “You’ve got it bad,” she teased. “But don’t worry—Max is even worse.”
You blinked. “Really?”
She nodded. “He called Charles the morning after Vegas. Didn’t even say hi. Just started talking about you. Said you were funny, smart, and somehow kept up with him better than anyone else.”
Your mouth opened a little. You hadn’t known that. Max had never told you. You’d been wondering if this was just fun for him, something casual. But hearing that he’d been excited enough to call his best friend the next morning?
Your heart did a little flip.
Alex leaned closer, her voice softer now. “He’s serious about you. I’ve never seen him like this.”
Max and Charles walked over with matching grins, the kind that spelled trouble in the most entertaining way. Their hair was messy from the helmets, their cheeks slightly flushed from the race, and they looked way too proud of themselves for two grown men who’d just spent twenty minutes trying to out-drive each other.
“They’ve got two-seater karts,” Charles said, clearly amused. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and you could already tell he was up to something. “Wanna race?”
Max stepped forward, smirking straight at you like he was already imagining the chaos. “And you two are driving,” he added, handing you a helmet like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Your eyebrows shot up. “Me driving? With you in the kart?”
“Exactly,” Max said, his voice calm but teasing. “Don’t worry, I trust you.”
You stared at the helmet in your hands, heart thudding a little faster. You weren’t a racer. You weren’t even sure you knew how to start the kart. But Max was looking at you like you could do anything. Like he believed in you without question. And somehow, that made you want to try.
Charles turned to Max with a smug smile. “We’ll see which couple’s faster. Verstappen’s or Leclerc’s.”
There was something in his tone—playful, yes, but also curious. Like he was watching closely. Like he could feel there was more going on than you were letting on. You were still supposed to be just Max’s girlfriend, after all. But something about the way Charles looked at you, then back at Max, made your stomach twist. He was catching on. Maybe not the whole story, but something.
You and Alex exchanged a quick glance, wide-eyed and a little too in sync. You could tell she felt it too—the shift, the tension, the unspoken truth hanging in the air.
Alex leaned in, her voice low and full of humor. “If we crash,” she whispered, “at least we look cute doing it.”
“M’lady,” Max said with a dramatic little bow, holding the helmet like it was a crown. You laughed, nerves still buzzing in your chest, as he gently placed it on your head. His hands were careful, adjusting the straps with surprising focus, making sure everything was secure. His fingers brushed your skin, and even through the nerves, you felt a little spark—soft, warm, grounding.
You took a deep breath, the weight of the helmet settling over you like a reminder that this was real. You were about to drive a kart. With Max Verstappen sitting beside you. No pressure, right?
“I’m sorry in advance if we crash,” you said quietly, trying to joke your way through the nerves.
Max looked at you, that familiar grin spreading across his face— confident, playful, and just a little smug. “We won’t,” he said simply, sliding into the seat next to you like he’d done it a thousand times. “You’ve got this. You’re a Verstappen now.”
Your heart did a little flip at that. The way he said it—not as a joke, not as a tease, but like it meant something. Like it was something.
You glanced over at Alex one last time, catching her smile through her helmet. She gave you a thumbs-up, her eyes full of encouragement. You smiled back, grateful for her calm energy, her warmth, her quiet way of saying you’re not alone.
The countdown lights began to flash in front of you—red, red, red— and your grip tightened on the wheel. Your heart was racing now, faster than the engines around you. You weren’t sure if it was fear or excitement, but it didn’t matter.
The lights turned green, and you hit the gas a little harder than planned. The kart jolted forward, and Max let out a quick laugh beside you—not mocking, just amused. “Okay, okay, not bad,” he said, gripping the side of the seat. “Keep it steady, baby. Eyes on the track.”
You nodded, trying to focus, but everything was moving so fast. The wind rushed past your face, the engine roared beneath you, and the track curved ahead like it was daring you to mess up. Max leaned slightly toward you, voice calm but firm.
“Brake a little before the turn. Not during. You’ve got this.”
You followed his instructions, easing into the curve, and to your surprise—it worked. The kart glided through the corner without spinning out or crashing into the barrier. You grinned under the helmet, adrenaline buzzing through your veins.
“See?” Max said, clearly proud. “Natural talent.”
You barely had time to process anything—the speed, the noise, the curve ahead—before Max reached over and casually placed his hand on your thigh. It wasn’t rough or rushed. Just steady. Warm. Like it belonged there. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Your brain short-circuited.
Your heart jumped straight into your throat, and your grip on the wheel faltered for just a second. The next turn came up fast, and you almost missed it entirely.
“Max!” you shouted, half-laughing, half-panicking, as you swerved a little too wide. Your voice was breathless, your cheeks burning, and you couldn’t stop smiling even though you were trying to act annoyed.
He didn’t move his hand. Didn’t even flinch. Just leaned in slightly, his voice low and full of amusement. “What? I’m just helping you relax.”
You glanced at him, eyes wide behind the helmet visor. “You’re distracting me!”
Max grinned, completely unfazed. “Not a chance. You’re doing great.”
You shook your head, trying to focus again, but your heart was racing faster than the kart. His hand was still there, grounding you and distracting you all at once. And somehow, even with the chaos of the track and the roar of the engine, you felt safe. Like you could crash and it wouldn’t matter—because he’d be right there, laughing beside you.
The checkered flag waved, fluttering in the wind like a final exclamation point, and your kart zipped across the finish line just a breath ahead of Charles and his. The moment you passed it, your heart nearly exploded with adrenaline. You’d done it. You’d actually won—with Max beside you, coaching you, cheering you on, and somehow making you feel like you belonged in his world.
Max let out a triumphant laugh, the sound full of pride and joy. He turned to you, eyes shining. “See? Told you we wouldn’t crash,” he said, grinning as you both reached up and pulled off your helmets at the same time.
You were breathless, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, but you couldn’t stop smiling. The rush of the race, the thrill of the win, and the warmth of Max’s presence all wrapped around you like a hug. You barely had time to catch your breath before Max leaned over, grabbed your waist, and lifted you out of the kart like it was nothing.
Your feet left the ground, and you gasped, laughing as he held you close. His arms were strong and steady, and you felt completely safe in them—like the world could spin out of control and you’d still be okay as long as he was holding you.
Before you could even react, Max leaned in and kissed you. It was warm, gentle, and full of everything you’d been feeling but hadn’t said out loud. Your knees went weak, your heart fluttered, and for a moment, everything else disappeared.
As Max pulled back from the kiss, still holding you close, you both heard the unmistakable sound of clapping—slow, exaggerated, and clearly sarcastic.
Charles stood a few feet away, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, well, well,” he drawled. “Didn’t realize the winner got a kiss as a trophy. Is that FIA-approved?”
You laughed, cheeks burning, but Max just grinned and tightened his hold on you. “Oh fuck FIA.” he shot back.
───
People always say that if your marriage can survive building IKEA furniture, it can survive anything. And honestly? They weren’t wrong. Because if there was one thing Max Verstappen could do—besides win races and make your heart race—it was turn even the most ordinary task into something dramatic, chaotic, and somehow… special.
It had all started so innocently. One quiet evening, Max looked around the apartment, spotted the overflowing corner of helmets, trophies, race gloves, and random F1 gear, and casually announced, “I need another shelf.” Like it wasn’t already the fifth one. Like his personal shrine to motorsport wasn’t slowly taking over the living room.
You’d barely finished your tea before you were in the car, heading to nearest IKEA. The store was a maze of bright lights and confusing arrows, and the two of you spent way too long arguing over shelf designs and trying to pronounce the Swedish names printed on the boxes. Max insisted that sturdiness could be judged by how aggressive the name sounded. You ended up choosing one that sounded like someone sneezing mid-sentence and tossed it into the trunk, blissfully unaware of the emotional damage waiting at home.
Now, you were on the floor, leaning against the couch, a half-eaten bag of chips beside you and How to Train Your Dragon playing softly in the background. The room smelled faintly of wood and frustration. Max sat cross-legged across from you, surrounded by a chaotic sea of screws, wooden pegs, and panels that all looked suspiciously similar. He studied the pieces like he was preparing for a race — focused, intense, and slightly overconfident.
You held the instruction manual in your lap, flipping through the pages with growing dread. The diagrams looked like they’d been drawn by someone who hated happiness. You glanced at Max, who was already trying to fit two pieces together that clearly didn’t belong.
You squinted at the instruction manual, turning it sideways, then upside down, then back again. The tiny drawings made no sense, the arrows pointed in every direction, and the parts in front of you looked nothing like the ones in the pictures.
“I can’t understand a single thing,” you groaned, tossing the booklet onto your lap. “This is actual nonsense.”
Max glanced over, already halfway through trying to jam two wooden panels together. He reached for the manual, flipping it over with a smirk. “Maybe because you’re looking at the French side,” he said, holding it up and pointing at the tiny flag in the corner.
You blinked. “Oh.”
He handed it back to you, this time opened to the English section, like it was some sacred scroll. “Voilà,” he said dramatically. “Now we build.”
You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. “You’re so annoying.”
You were twenty minutes into building the SNÖRKLIG—or whatever—shelf—and already three emotional breakdowns deep. Your patience was dangling by a thread, or more accurately, by one tiny wooden peg that refused to fit anywhere it was supposed to. The living room looked like a battlefield. Panels were scattered across the floor, screws rolled under the couch, and the instruction booklet had become your personal lifeline.
“I told you that piece goes on the bottom, Max,” you said, clutching the manual like it was sacred scripture. Your voice was calm, but your eyes were wild. You’d stared at the same diagram for so long, you were starting to see it in your dreams.
Max, sitting cross-legged across from you, held a long wooden panel sideways like it was a sword. “No, it doesn’t,” he insisted, pointing at the drawing. “It clearly goes on top. Look at this!”
You leaned over, squinting at the page. Then blinked. Then sighed. “Max… the drawing is upside down.”
He paused, looked at the manual again, then slowly rotated it in his hands. His face shifted from confident to sheepish in about two seconds.
“Oh.”
You stared at him, deadpan. “You’ve been building this thing backwards.”
Max shrugged, still gripping the panel like it hadn’t just betrayed his entire sense of confidence. “Well, it’s a shelf,” he said, voice casual. “It’ll still hold stuff.”
You stared at him, completely deadpan. “No, Max. It will fall. With all your trophies. Do you really want to explain to Christian why your 2023 championship is lying in shattered pieces on the floor because you refused to read IKEA instructions?”
That made him pause.
His eyes flicked to the mess around you—screws scattered like confetti, dowels rolling under the rug, and a pile of wooden panels that looked more like a failed art project than a shelf. He blinked slowly, like reality was finally catching up to him.
“…Maybe we should build it again,” he said, voice quieter now. Almost humble.
You didn’t respond. You just stared at him, blinking once. Slowly.
Max dragged a hand down his face, groaning like he’d just lost a race by half a second. “Oh, fuck this,” he muttered. “Can’t we just steal Charles’s?”
You blinked. “Wait… you actually want to steal a shelf?”
Max held up a screw like it was proof of his suffering. “Yes. I’d rather get arrested in Monaco than build another one of these Swedish nightmares.”
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your water. “You’re ridiculous.”
He gave you a serious look. “Schat, I drive F1 cars. I build engines in my sleep. But this shelf?” He pointed at the wobbly mess in front of you. “I’m ready to throw it out the window.”
You slid off the couch and sat beside him, bumping his shoulder. “Okay, okay. We’ll do it together. I’ll read the instructions. You build. And no making it up as you go.”
He sighed, but a small smile crept onto his face. “Fine. But if it breaks again, I’m calling Charles and asking for his shelf. I’ll say it’s an emergency.”
You snorted. “Deal.”
Max grabbed the screwdriver like he was on a mission, mumbling in Dutch as he started taking the whole thing apart. You sat cross-legged next to him, reading each step slowly while Toothless blinked on the screen, like he was silently cheering you on.
Halfway through, Max smacked his forehead. “Wait—this piece was upside down the entire time?”
───
The whole evening had felt strange from the start.
You’d just gotten back from the Red Bull event, and something heavy had settled over you, like a weight you couldn’t shake off. Everyone at the event had seemed so sure of themselves. They walked through the room with ease, dressed perfectly, laughing like they’d known each other forever. They spoke in a language you didn’t quite understand—F1 slang, sponsor talk, inside jokes that flew right past you. They belonged there. They fit.
And then there was you.
You’d stayed close to Max, smiled when people looked your way, nodded politely during conversations you didn’t know how to join. You weren’t rude. You weren’t awkward. But you felt like a shadow—present, but not really part of the picture. You weren’t one of them. You didn’t have the same shine, the same confidence, the same rhythm. You were just… there. A little too quiet. A little too unsure. A little too you.
And that thought had stuck. It had crawled into your chest and made a home there, whispering doubts every time you tried to push it away.
You didn’t belong in Max’s world. Not really.
And now, sitting in the quiet of your shared space, that realization was louder than ever. It stirred inside you, uncomfortable and sharp, making you question everything. Not because Max had done anything wrong—but because you weren’t sure you were enough for the life he lived. The spotlight. The pressure. The people who seemed born to be part of it.
You slipped off your heels slowly, one by one, letting them fall to the floor with soft thuds. The dull ache in your feet was familiar, but it was nothing compared to the heaviness pressing down on your chest. It had been building all evening, creeping in during small moments—quiet glances, awkward silences.
Max sat beside you on the edge of the bed, close enough that your shoulders touched. He didn’t speak right away, just let the silence stretch for a few seconds. Then his voice came, low and steady, but with that quiet edge that meant he wasn’t going to let it slide.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Talk to me.”
You kept your eyes forward, staring at the wall like it might offer you a way out. You blinked slowly, trying to keep your voice from cracking. “Nothing’s going on,” you said, flat and controlled, like if you said it calmly enough, it might become true.
Max didn’t respond right away, but you could feel the shift in him. The way he turned slightly toward you. The way his gaze settled on your face, searching. You didn’t have to look to know he wasn’t buying it.
“Don’t lie, baby,” he said quietly.
“No—I just think you shouldn’t be with someone basic like me,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Your voice cracked at the edges, soft and shaky, but honest. “I feel like I don’t belong in your world.”
You didn’t need to look at Max to know he was staring at you like you’d just said the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. You could feel the shift in the air, the way his body tensed beside you, the way his silence turned sharp.
“Don’t ever say that again,” he said, voice low but firm, no hesitation. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. What the fuck do you mean I shouldn’t be with you?”
You shook your head, tears brimming, frustration bubbling up. “I mean—I don’t know what tyre strategy works best in fucking Barcelona—“
He snorted, cutting you off before your spiral could go any further. “Neither does Red Bull, so what’s your point, schatje?”
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden humor in his voice. It was dry, sarcastic, but warm. And it made something inside you loosen just a little.
You tried to fight the smile tugging at your lips, but the weight in your chest hadn’t quite lifted. It was still there, lingering beneath the softness of the moment. “You know what I mean,” you said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
Max tilted his head, eyes warm and steady. “Yeah, I do,” he said. “But I don’t need you to know every world champion since 1960. You’re not Sebastian Vettel.” His tone was light, teasing, but full of truth. Then he reached out, palm open, waiting. “I just want you to be my wife. My Y/n. The one who makes me laugh when everything feels too damn heavy.”
You looked at his hand, heart thudding, and hesitated for only a second before slipping yours into his. His fingers curled around yours instantly, like they belonged there.
A small smirk played at the corner of his mouth, eyes glinting with mischief. “My wife Y/n, who had to Google me the morning after marriage.”
You let out a soft laugh, cheeks warming a the memory, “I thought you were footballer!”
“Just remember that you belong with me. Always,” Max said, his voice low and steady, each word wrapped in quiet certainty. He looked at you like you were everything—like nothing else in the world mattered more than you sitting right there beside him. “And the rest? Fuck it.”
You didn’t even get the chance to respond. Before your thoughts could catch up, he leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss into your hair. It wasn’t rushed or dramatic—it was grounding. The kind of kiss that said I’ve got you, even when your doubts were loud and your heart felt unsure. The kind that made the noise fade, just for a moment, and reminded you that with him, you were safe.
─── FEW MONTHS LATER
You were home alone while Max was away for the race weekend. Originally, you’d planned to go with him—packed your bag, even picked out your paddock outfit—but work had piled up fast, and someone had to stay back with the cats anyway. Max’s spoiled little shadows had made it clear they preferred you when he was gone, taking turns curling up beside you or watching your every move from the couch like tiny, judgmental bodyguards.
Evening had settled in quietly. The sky outside was a soft shade of blue-gray, and the apartment was filled with the low hum of your laptop fan and the occasional sound of a cat jumping down from furniture. You were slumped behind your screen, shoulders aching, eyes twitching from too many hours of emails and spreadsheets. You blinked hard, rubbed your temples, and muttered to yourself, Just one more email. Then I’m done.
And then—ding-dong.
You jumped, heart skipping. The sound sliced through the quiet like a siren.
You hadn’t ordered anything. You weren’t expecting anyone. Max was halfway across the world, and no one ever just showed up.
Brows furrowed, you pushed your chair back slowly, the cats immediately hopping down to follow you like a tiny security team. One brushed against your leg, the other sat at attention near the hallway, tail flicking.
You padded toward the door, cautious, curious, and just a little unnerved.
You opened the door slowly, still unsure what to expect—and were immediately met with a wall of white lilies. A bouquet so massive it looked like it might swallow the delivery man holding it. You blinked, momentarily stunned, the soft scent of the flowers already drifting into the hallway.
“I didn’t order anything?” you said, brows furrowing as you tried to peek around the blooms.
The man glanced down at the tag, then looked back up with a polite smile. “Are you Mrs. Verstappen?”
Your heart did a tiny flip at the sound of the name. Mrs. Verstappen. It still felt surreal every time someone said it out loud. You cleared your throat, suddenly warm all over. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”
He nodded and gently passed the bouquet into your arms. “Then these are yours.”
You took them carefully, the weight of the flowers surprising, petals brushing your cheek as you stepped back inside. The cats stared up at you like you’d just brought home a jungle. You sighed, closed the door behind you, and locked it with a soft click.
You carried the bouquet to the kitchen, heart fluttering, mind already racing with one thought:
Max.
You placed the stunning bouquet into a vase, the lilies blooming like soft stars across your kitchen island. Their scent filled the room, light and calming, and for the first time all evening, the apartment didn’t feel so quiet. It felt like Max had somehow reached across the distance and wrapped the space in warmth.
As you adjusted the stems, fingers brushing against soft petals, something caught your eye—a folded piece of paper tucked gently between the flowers. Your name was scribbled across the front in Max’s unmistakable handwriting, a little messy, a little rushed, but so him.
Your heart fluttered as you pulled it free and unfolded it slowly, careful not to tear the edges.
I wish you were here. Don’t work too hard, and please—eat something other than burnt toast. Even though I’m halfway across the world, I need you to remember how deeply loved you are. Always and forever. With love, Verstappen.
babsie radio ! hope u’re not disappointed y’all cuz this is literally fluff w little plot…still was fun to write <3 love love downbad! max. also yes, i love pet name “schatje” i am not sorry if it’s too many times 🤗
taglist. @lvrpiastri @athanasia-day @hott1es @scarlettxx389 @haniette xx
summary: your life was perfect… perfect boyfriend (an impending proposal) perfect life, until it all comes crashing down. your scummy boyfriend leaves you for Harvard Law school?? saying he needs someone “less” blonde and more serious in his future :| guess you’ll just have to go to Harvard law to get him back! shouldn’t be that hard right? only now he’s engaged?! and you happen to meet a very handsome TA who happens to also be so so sooo dreamy and sweet…
pairing: emmet!hiromi x elle!reader
word count: 13.5k roughly…
content: MDNI, legally blonde au! fem!reader, mentions of female anatomy, minimal use of y/n, blonde/slightly ditzy reader kinda, he falls first she falls harder trope, slow burn, lots of world building, lots of unnecessary dialogue, bad academia mentioned sorry xx, naoya cameo (sorry), some canon divergence bc i say so, vivian is the fiancé bc I’m not subjecting any jjk girlies to him, fluff, some terms of endearment (sweetheart, honey, baby), eventual smut, !! dry humping, piv, handjob, oral (m/f receiving), unprotected piv (be safe), creampie, belly bulge, multiple positions?
extra: art credits - @mizuart_bolillo @hunnismokah
18+ minors no not interact!
Everything about tonight is perfect, it has to be. Perfectly curated date dress (this is the date, it has to be perfect). Dress pink and sparkly, hugging your figure just right. Spaghetti straps. Short hem hugging the plump curve of your ass. Skin tight perfection, accentuating every curve. A borderline scandalous v neck. Glitzy strappy pink heels, elongating your legs juuusst right. Oh, of course perfectly voluminous hair (not a curl out of place). And the finishing touch… the makeup you’d spent hours perfecting. The exact shade of lipgloss he likes, plump and pink. The prettiest pink blush… volumising lashes! to create that pretty doe eyed fluttery look. Everything about you tonight was thought out with him in mind. What he likes.
Oh, and of course the restaurant he’d picked was just perfect! Apparently Madonna dines here! There are these gorgeous warm toned fairy lights twinkling throughout the space. Gentle piano music played somewhere nearby. Round tables covered with cloud white tablecloths. Candles and rose vases are centered on every table. It’s just so romantic! This is the perfect proposal destination. The place is packed tonight, other couples nearby enjoying each other's quiet company. It’s a gentle atmosphere filled with quiet conversations, flushed cheeks and adoring looks.
Of course he’d choose such a romantic place to propose! He’d waited long enough… The anticipation is just eating you up. He just had lunch with his grandma for Christ's sake! She flew in! Obviously to hand deliver the ring (how thoughtful). 4 years together and now it’s finally time. It’s been bliss. Especially lately he’s been attached at the hip. Never without his hands on you. It’s honestly been a bit exhausting, but of course he’s been more affectionate… what else would a man do before he proposes. You’re just the picture of the perfect couple. Respective presidents of your sorority/frat. Typical white picket fence couple, collage sweethearts to be. It’s just so cliche but you wouldn’t want it any other way! And all of your girls just knew a proposal was on its way! They’ll want to see the ring later tonight.
It’s not until you’ve had your fill of the wine, mind pleasantly hazy. Meal nearly done. When finally he starts talking, a smug grin on his face. “Pooh bear, there’s something important I want to talk to you about… one of the reasons I wanted to come here tonight was to discuss our future.” Your lashes flutter, straightening up. Pushing your shoulders back, internally grinning when his gaze flickers down to your exposed plump chest. Locking in to this moment, this is it! “I am perfectly amenable to that discussion.” Fingers curling under your chin, staring directly into his eyes.
“Good. Well, you know how we’ve been having all kinds of fun lately?”, nodding along, “Yes.”
“It’s about time I start getting serious about my life. I’m going to Harvard Law in the fall and… it’s about time I started thinking about settling down. My family expects it of me.” Tears start to sprinkle your waterline, palms turning clammy, chest exploding with butterflies, massive smile slowly taking over your glossed lips. Answer at the ready.
“I plan on running for office one day. So If I’m going to be a senator by the time I’m thirty I need to stop dicking around. And well if I’m going to be a senator… I need to marry a Jackie. Not a Marylin.” A record screeches to a halt somewhere in the distance. Wait what? Your brows slowly start to crease, smile faltering. That doesn’t make sense, this isn’t how you start a proposal… What does that even mean? Heart stuttering in your chest.
“Naoya… what are you talking about?” Confusion lacing your tone, head tilting, bouncy curls following.
“I’m talking about us Pooh bear, you know I love you but I need to start planning for my future and what my family expects of me.” Sly grin turning his face from one you recognise to something foreboding.
“Wait, what is this? Are you not proposing?” Your glossy lips turn down completely now. Breath caught in your throat.
“Oh Pooh bear, I can’t marry you…” he drawls. Faux frown on his face, voice laced with condescension. “You’re not serious marriage material. We’ve had fun together but my family would never let me marry someone like you. You’re not serious marriage material. You were just some fun before all the responsibilities and expectations I’ll have at Harvard.” He finishes. Not an ounce of remorse or regret in his cruel words. Just smug indifference. That makes you pause. Heart literally shattering into a million pieces.
“Someone like me? Not serious marriage material?! What is going on… are you- are you seriously dumping me?” Voice raising slightly coming out broken. Now the tears really start. 4 years. 4 perfect years together and he decides you’re not serious enough for him! It was just some fun. What the fuck is happening right now.
Sobs start leaving erratically now. Shoulders jumping with their impact. Mascara streaking down your previously perfectly done face… and to make things worse people start looking at the very obvious scene unfolding. Stares filled equally with pity and disgust. Dumping you at a romantic restaurant. Seriously!?
“So what! Am I too blonde? Are my boobs too big?!” You burst out between sobs. Trying miserably to make sense of his drastic change of mind.
“Oh pooh bear… shhh don’t cry please. Let’s not make a scene.” He’s looking around at the other people in the restaurant skeptically as he tries to reason with you.
“Bad salad.” He says to the couple at the table next to you.
Stumbling up from your seat you snatch your purse and all but burst out of there, tugging on the hemline of your dress trying not to trip over your own feet. The only thought going through you right now is to get out of here as quickly as you can. Before you break down completely on the sidewalk.
A few minutes later you’re sniffling as you walk (limp) down the street, a car slows down by you and without looking you know who it is. Turning slightly and there he is. Arm hanging over the side of that stupid convertible daddy probably paid for, lips pulled down in a cruel frown. Eyes swirling with mirth.
“Cmon Pooh bear, let me take you home.”
“No.”
“Cmon you’ll ruin your shoes…” Honestly you would just walk if it weren’t… 30 minutes away, and he is right… in these shoes? So reluctantly you nod.
The silence stretches broken every now and then by your sniffles. Upon arrival at Delta Nu, you can’t even look at him. Just sniffling quietly trying to control your sobs until you’re alone. You’re ruining your makeup!
“Look Pooh bear, I wish this wasn’t how it had to be. You know how I feel about you. But I have to marry someone serious, smart, elegant… and you’re just not that.” Okay ouch. The undermining is astounding. Who is he to say you’re not smart or serious or elegant!
You can’t even say anything to him right now so you just leave. By the time you’re at the door he’s already gone.
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The state your poor room has succumbed to over the past few days is downright deplorable. Curtains blocking out any natural form of light. The only illumination you’ve been receiving comes from glaring tv across from you. The floor looking like a tornado of chaos and dirty tissues has swept through your space. Chocolate wrappers cover your bed among the fluffy blankets and old clothes, creating a safe cocoon for your borderline malnourished person to rot away in. Watching sappy romcoms probably wasn’t the best idea… “Cmon babe you’ve gotta get up, let’s go do something! Why don’t we go shopping or… get our nails done? That always cheers you up!” Some of your girls have been trying to get you out of your room for days now… you just shake your head and sink deeper into the plush mess you’re moulded to.
“I don’t feel like shopping or manicures right now… I just want Noaya back.” Sobs erupting again. You try to ignore the sympathetic frowns thrown your way. A clean tissue presented to you. You were with him for 4 years. Your most susceptible years. Of course this hurts. How can you not be serious enough for him after 4 years… Why did he need a Jackie and not a Marylin? And! Who’s to say you’re not a Jackie!
Brows furrowed you’re picking at chocolates covering you again, only taking small bites of each. Because that means it doesn’t count! How can you be serious enough for him? You seriously like shopping! And your girls and of course bruiser! Regardless. You don’t have much time to get Naoya back… he’ll be heading off to Harvard in the fall. If only you could go with him. It would be so fun. Wait… That’s it! You just have to go with him! Both girls gasp as you suddenly spring up out of your bed. Hair sticking in every direction, crazed smile taking over your face, eyes wide as saucers.
“I know how to get him back! I just have to go to Harvard with him?!” Honestly this is the best idea you’ve had in a while! Your girls look stunned. Both speechless at your outburst and… confused. “How are you going to do that..?” Uncertainty lacing their intermingling voices.
“I just have to get into Harvard law before graduation, should be easy enough!” You’ve got a 4.0GPA and a dream. Who cares if your grades are from all your fashion classes…
The next few months of your life are full of studying. No more parties… no more distractions. You’re more dedicated than you’ve ever been before. Often exhausted from the long… torturous hours of reading, but it’s all for a good cause! Your professors have all seemed so surprised with your newfound tenacity… and an interest in Harvard? You aren’t sure why. What is so surprising about someone realising they want to attend an Ivy League institution… All that’s left to do is submit your Harvard video essay and absolutely smash that LSAT! And if you do say so yourself that video essay was perfect! It really makes an impression. Featuring an incredible shot of you in your tiniest bikini…
“Aaand done. Pencil down.” This is it! your practice test for the LSAT and thank god your girls are being so helpful! Timing you to the exact second you’ll need to be done. “…143. I’m sorry babe but you need a 175 to pass…” the solemn looks around don’t deter you. You just need to study harder before the real thing!
“It’s here!!! Where is she?” All the yells and chatter downstairs have your ears perking up. Descending the stairs you see… all your girls huddled around holding something? A letter. The letter. The LSAT results!
Perfect 179… you’re going to Harvard!!
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The campus is so cute! Georgian brick architecture. Gorgeous fall leaves cascading from the surrounding oak. The joy is clear on your face to any passing students, your grin magnetic. Your outfit is perfectly pink. Hair bouncing as you sashay up the stairs of your new home. This is going to be so fun!
“Bruiser, how do I look?” Twirling in front of your pup showing him your perfectly curated outfit for your first day. Hair is up in a bouncy pony, cascading strands framing your face. Makeup flawless. Glossy lips. Smart flannel patterned blazer. Dark pencil skirt hugging plush thighs. Smart heels. And some fake tortoiseshell glasses you found that complete the whole smart lawyer to be look!
Squinting up at the bulletin board. Okay so it’s actually hard to see in these glasses… “Excuse me, I’m sorry… are you here to see me?” Turning to see Naoya. The shock is evident on his face. After a moment his gaze turns from incredulous to drags up and down your form, lingering on your chest.
“No, silly. I go here!” You’re all smiles and excitement upon seeing him again. This is just so perfect now you’ll get back together and everything will be perfect again. His eyes blow wide and his mouth gapes. “You? You go here. Harvard?” He sounds stunned… tone unbelieving. But that’s probably because he wasn’t expecting to see you!
“Mhm! Isn’t this so great! We’ll get to see each other all the time.” Your eyes twinkle up at him, smile gleaming. Expecting him to be happy you’re here. “This must be a mistake. There’s no way you could get into Harvard Law.” He all but sneers at you. Not at all excited to see you… it seems the opposite. That makes you frown, this is not a mistake. You got in because of your own hard work!
“What. Like it’s hard?” Head tilted girlishly. Gracing him with a smile he doesn’t really deserve right now. He blanches at you, absolutely speechless. You’re just about to start up again when a hand slithers over his shoulder… a hand adorning a very massive diamond ring on it. Then she comes into view. Brunette. Preppy. Kind of plain. She’s wearing a tight smile as she squeezes her claws into his shoulder. “Who’s this?” Eyes narrowed at you.
“Oh this is a friend from collage…” he offers quickly. What. The. Fuck. A friend?! Not the girl you were with intimately for 4 years up until very recently!
“This is Vivian… my Fiancè.” The world stops. Fiancé? Your mouth gapes eyes tracing between them urgently, surely this is a joke. He couldn’t have moved on that quick… could he? It’s only been a few months.
“O-oh well that’s great! I’ve gotta get going, I don't want to be late on my first day.” Yeah fuck that you need to get out of there. Turning and strutting away with as much dignity as you could muster right now. Forcing the tears back. Let’s just focus on getting through the day and then later you can wallow in self pity…
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Stumbling out into the open courtyard you spot a few benches near a big old oak tree, all but collapsing onto it. Bursting into tears your shoulders shake as you bury your head into your hands. Small sniffles leave you. Okay maybe Harvard is going to be harder than you first thought… On top of the crappy day you’re already having, your professor decided to chew you out in front of the whole class! How are you expected to just know things? On the first day? You’re here to learn! A smooth masculine voice cuts through your internal turmoil like a beaming light.
“Excuse me. Are you okay?” Tear streaked face turning toward the voice. You open your mouth to reply and oh! Oh wow… Next to you is a man. Very tall. Lean. Broad shoulders. Long legs. Wearing a mouth-wateringly frame flattering dark suit. His hair is gorgeous. Short, well-kept, dark chocolate-brown hair. All wind swept and pushed back like he’d been running his fingers through it, a few stringy strands hanging over his forehead. And his eyes, oh my god they are mesmerising. Downturned puppy eyes that probably look perpetually tired. Chocolate gaze, so dark it’s nearly black. His brows furrowed slightly in concern. His cheekbones are to die for! And that nose. Is it Hawk or Roman? Doesn’t really matter, you suppose. It’s distracting either way!
Realising he’s waiting for your answer, “oh, um. Yeah. Do they put you on the spot like that all the time?” Your sniffles subsided a little. “The professors? Yeah, they, they tend to do that. Socratic method.” He answers, mouth turning up slightly by the corner.
“So if they don’t like the answers, they’ll just kick you out?” You ask brows turning up.
“So you have Stormwell, huh?”
“Yes! Did she do that to you, too?”
Clearing his throat, “No. But she did make me cry once. Not in class, I waited til I got back to my dorm… but she’ll kick you right in the ball- or wherever. But, yeah. She’s tough. Really tough.” Offering you a small smile.
“Great.”
Turning to you he continues, “But don’t worry, it gets better. Who else do you have?”
“I have Callahan, Royalton, and Leviathal.” You offer softly.
“Yeah.. let’s see, speak up in Callahan’s class. He really likes people who are opinionated.”
“Okay.” You nod along. Listening intently.
“And in Royalton’s class… try to get a seat near the back. He tends to spit when he talks about product liability.” That causes a soft laugh to leave you, eyes crinkling. He smiles back at you softly. It’s quiet for a moment. Just staring at each other.
“And, uh, for Leviathal, make sure you read the footnotes, cause that’s where he gets a lot of his exam questions from.”
“Right. Wow. I’m really glad I met you” smile brighter now. This handsome stranger was being so nice… the first person to treat you with some kindness here. You give him a big grin that he mirrors. A comfortable silence stretches. Fall breeze. The sun is shining. It’s nice.
“Hey.” Someone tries to break the bubble. Completely unnoticed.
“Are you a third year?” You ask the nice stranger.
“Well-“ he’s cut off abruptly.
“Hey. Y/n.” Naoya.
Turning slowly. “Uh, hi.” You answer wearily, having been rudely interrupted. “Can I help you Naoya?” He gapes slightly.
“I wanted to talk to you…” he offers with a tight lipped smile, eyeing the handsome man next to you.
“Oh well. I’m good, but thank you. I’m actually in the middle of something.” Leaving no room for argument you turn back to the man next to you. Smiling uncomfortably. Naoya just stands there for a minute, seething.
“I’m y/n by the way, and you are…?” Smiling brighter now. He eyes the retreating Naoya, then turns back to you slightly confused.
“Higuruma, Hiromi.” You outstretch your manicured hand between you promoting him to shake your hand… his larger hand enveloping yours completely. Charming smile returning to his lips.
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You’re catching the gawking stares of everyone you pass. “Nice costume party.” You scowl at Vivian. Stood in the living room of some party she invited you to, under the guise that it was a costume party. It most certainly is not. While you’re all dolled up in a scandalous pink playboy bunny costume the rest of the party goers are in casual attire.
You thought you had made some progress with Vivian, turns out she’s still a conniving little bitch that’s out to get you. Although you do look good… hair half up, half down. Glowy makeup. Pink floppy bunny ears. Pink fishnets. Pink pumps… and of course the pink bunny outfit consisting of a corset and a fluffy little tail. Fine. If she wants to play games, you’ll play games.
Ignoring her snickers and fake apology you’re off to find a drink. Upon arrival at the keg you hear another whistle in your direction - about to chew someone else out, you turn abruptly to find Naoya. Sly grin on his face as he takes you in, gaze dragging ever so slowly up your legs to your hips. Bouncing up to your breast looking… oh so delectable in that corset. He’s all but salivating as he saunters right up into your personal space.
Hands slowly reach out itching to trail up your thighs. He’s gripping your hips quite firmly then pressing himself flush against you. You slide back against the table behind you as he peers down your top at your chest. “Fuck look at you pooh bear.” Voice dropping a few octaves, doing things to you still that it shouldn’t - feelings don’t just disappear after 4 years okay!
Giving your best doe eyed expression, looking up at him slowly. “Why thank you. I tried.” And yes you did dress up… not exactly for him but, it feels good to have Vivian scowling at you after her decision to mess with you. And you know what you’re doing. Confidence in your attire because, who cares. Only then…
“Maybe we should slip away for a few minutes… reminisce on old times?” Naoya slimily suggests while kissing down your neck slowly. Right in front of his Fiancée. Look you did want him back at first but definitely not via cheating? (Though you could argue that he probably cheated on you to begin with, that doesn’t mean your morals align with his!)
“Ugh get off.” Pushing him softly away from you. Giving him an incredulous look before storming away. Fuck this party and fuck that scumbag. Who does he think you are. First and foremost you are a girls girl! And I guess on the way home you could do with buying a laptop for class… seeing as you’re missing one.
Hands full of a large box, a throat clearing behind you causes you to turn your head… and what a surprise! There in line behind you stands none other than Higuruma. Seeing him glance at your outfit with a lifted brow. “Don’t ask.” You offer with an eye roll, he smiles softly with an upturn of his hands. “Wasn’t gonna.” And though he was respectful, you couldn’t help but notice his eyes linger on your legs for a moment. Now this attention is very wanted. And if he looked at your ass when you turned forward. So what?
After checking out you wait for him outside. Hoping to catch him for a chat or something… if only for the excuse to look at him a bit more. And ever the gentleman he is, he offers to walk you back to your building. “Wouldn’t want anything untoward happening to you in that outfit now, would we?” He’d offered.
It’s so nice just existing near him, seeing him around campus especially in Callahan’s class has been such a pleasure. He’s always so nice to you even when other people aren’t. He never judges and most times if you need help with class, he’s glad to assist. He’s becoming a fast friend. Often found studying together in the library, or sat talking at the campus cafe. The lingering glances between you are just an added bonus.
“Not to pry but… where were you? Dressed up like that?” Eyeing you softly, “-you look great by the way.” That causes your cheeks to burn, hopefully it’s dark enough out that he doesn’t notice.
“Oh well, Vivian invited me to a costume party… but turns out it wasn’t really a costume party.” Looking down at your feet that’s slightly embarrassing to admit. You didn’t have to tell him that! You could’ve said anything else.
A deep frown tugs his lips down, “it's okay though! At least I looked good.”
“That you do. You know you don’t have to put up with her treating you like that.”
“I know… I just want to be civil with her, I mean yes. I did want to steal her fiancée back but I don’t want to hurt her you know? And he’s just so cruel. Y'know tonight he tried to get me to leave with him, in front of her!” Huffing at that memory, disgust clings to you very obviously as a shiver runs through you. He stops walking at that. Turning to him confused you find him with furrowed brows, soft crease between them. Mouth downturned. “He didn’t hurt you did he?”
“No! Of course not, I left after that. It made me feel pretty icky though. Like seriously I can’t believe I was with him that long, he’s kind of horrible.” That makes the man laugh. Tension dissipating into something softer.
A soft look takes over his features as he steps closer to you, “you deserve so much more than that douche.” The way he’s looking at you causes tingles to shoot up your spine and heat to spread across your face. Probably very obvious now… his intense gaze holds something, you can’t quite name.
“Thank you Higuruma, that’s very kind.”
“Hiromi. Call me Hiromi.”
Gazes locked you can only nod, with the close proximity and the way he’s looking at you… there’s not a thought in your mind except how handsome he looks right now. Haloed by the soft street lamps, gleaming hair falling over his face and there’s a twinkle in his eye. The silence stretches but it’s not awkward, it’s just still. Calm. Like a breath of fresh air. You’d probably be content staring at him for the rest of your life.
With Higuruma’s help and kindness that first day you met, classes have become much more bearable. He basically handed you the cheat codes! Stormwell has been very impressed with your progress. Pleased looks directed your way whenever you speak up during her lectures. And as it turns out… Higuruma actually TA’s for professor Callahan! Now you get to see him all the time in class. You’ve become closer? Almost friends you’d say. Which makes it less awkward when he catches you staring at him in Callahan’s lectures…
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“Well, yeah but without this man’s sperm, the child in question wouldn’t exist.” Naoya’s answer to professor Callahan’s problem has you itching for some reason. Next thing you know.. your hand shoots up. “Yes, Ms. Woods?”
“Although Mr. Zenin makes an excellent point, I have to wonder if the defendant kept a thorough record of every sperm emission made throughout his life.”
“Interesting, why do you ask?” Callahan asks brows raised.
“Well, unless the defendant attempted to contact every single one-night stand to determine if a child resulted in those unions, he has no parental claim over this child whatsoever. So why now? Why this sperm?”
“I see your point.” Comes Callahan’s reply.
“And for that matter, all masturbatory emissions where sperm was clearly not seeking an egg could be termed as child abandonment.” Some snickers scatter around the room.
“I believe you’ve just won your case.” Sounding impressed. The room goes silent.
After class Callahan stops you, “Ms. Woods, you did well today.”
“Really?” Your pride swells. Positive affirmation really does wonders to the ego.
“You’re applying for my internship, aren’t you?” He looks up at you through his glasses.
“I don’t know.” Would you even get in?
“You should. Do you have a resume?” Oh my god!?
“Yes, I do. Here it is.” Reaching through your bag for that piece of paper and handing it over animatedly. “It’s pink.”, “and it’s scented. I think it gives it a little something extra. Don’t you think.” Smiling brightly before practically floating out of the room.
Turning to Hiromi, “Do you think she just woke up one day and said, ‘I think I’ll go to law school today?’”
Chuckling a bit, “Well that lapse in judgement aside, I think she’s got a lot of potential.” Callahan hands Hiromi the resume, “here smell this.” Sniffing sceptically.
“What is that?” Admittedly it smells really fucking good. Something floral. Maybe a hint of citrus? “It's her resume.” Smiling at that, “smells good.”
Manicured hands shake slightly as you reach up to touch the list, trailing down to find… your name! “I got it!” Squealing slightly you turn to Vivian and Naoya, “Oh, Naoya. Do you remember when we spent those four amazing hours in the hot tub after winter formal?”, biting his lip (ew), “Yeah- No.”
“This is so much better than that! Excuse me, I have some shopping to do.”
“… Four hours.”
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You’re currently at Callahan’s law office going over the murder trail you’ll all be assisting him on. Unfortunately Naoya and Vivian are here too… whatever this is your future you can ignore them.
The accused happens to be Brooke Taylor! A fellow Delta Nu although a few years ahead of you, and honestly a personal hero of yours. Her spin classes were amazing! Really transformed your lower body. She’s a genius… and an accused murderer apparently. After going on and on about how amazing she is, Callahan cuts in abruptly. “Well, in all likelihood, she’s completely guilty as well. She was seen standing over her husband's dead body.”
Naoya adds in his two cents, “by who?”
“His 26 year old daughter and the pool boy.” Then the meeting room door opens revealing a welcome sight. A bright smile takes over your face, a smile he mirrors as soon as he locks eyes with you. Quietly taking a seat. “Sorry I’m late, excuse me.” While talk continues in the room after his appearance, you can’t help but shift your gaze to him every now and then. And every time you do you’re met with his magnetic chocolate gaze. You could get drunk off of that look.
Truthfully that happens a lot. The lingering glances. Or you’ve just noticed it more recently…
“This is Higuruma Hiromi, another associate. Top three in his class, and former editor of ‘Harvard Law Review’.” A small smile forms on his face, “thanks for the introduction.”
“So what about the murder weapon?”
“The gun is still missing. The coroner said he’d been dead 30 minutes when the cops arrived, giving Brooke plenty of time to stash it.”
A knot forms in your stomach. She’s not even here to defend herself, and professor Callahan has already deemed her guilty. “I just don’t think Brooke could’ve done this. Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people don’t just shoot their husbands. They just don’t.” Callahan looks less than impressed with you after that. Hiromi though, you caught him smiling to himself.
“Why would I kill my husband?” You know what? Prison orange may not be the best colour… but Brooke is totally pulling it off!
“Insurance, a love affair, pure unadulterated hatred. Believe me, the D.A. will come up with plenty of reasons.” Callahan sounds exhausted. “I loved him.” She’s seething.
“He was 34 years older than you. That doesn’t look so good to the jury.”
“Show them a picture of his dick. That might clear up a thing or two.” Everyone in the room chokes. Yes, girl, tell him.
Callahan’s been trying this whole visit to get Brooke’s alibi, which she won’t give. Positive you won’t need it to win this case. Once the meeting meets an impasse everyone starts filtering out. You’re packing up when she calls out to you. “Hey…”
“Hi.”
“I know you.” She seems to be filing through her brain for an answer.
“I’m a Delta Nu, and a huge fan of yours.” Her grin comes easy, recognition flashing behind her eyes. “You took my class.”, “Well thank god one of you has a brain.”
You’re huddled up at the firm going over the case files, Hiromi beside you. Working diligently in silence. There are mountains of files and books scattered all about. Peeking at him from the corner of your eye. He’s got… glasses on that elegant curve of his nose. God he looks so good. Thin black rectangular frames. Sliding down ever so slightly when he’s buried in a file. Absent-mindedly his fingers reach up to slide them back into place. Suit jacket long forgotten. His side of the table is coordinated chaos. Yours… well it’s a lot more interesting. Pink fully tipped pen fluffing about with your vigorous note-taking. Statements and files scattered around you… more flippantly.
Eventually he speaks up, baritone cutting through the frantic scribbling. “Well if Brooke didn’t kill the guy who did?” Before anyone else you answer. “My money's on the angry daughter or the ex wife.” The only issue with that is… his daughter has a hefty trust fund. What would be her reason for killing him? And the ex wife was away. We need to get that alibi.
“I brought you some necessities. Some Calvin Klein, 720 cut sheets, the entire Clinique skin care line, some aromatherapy candles, a loofah… oh! And the bible.” Enthusiastically presenting a glimmering cosmo magazine, cheesy grin on display. She smiles at you behind the visitor screen. Hand pressed up to the glass. “You’re an angel.”
“So how are you? Are you alright? You look so… orange.”
“I’m okay… I’m just glad it’s you and not Callahan.”
“He means well. He’s very brilliant.” Scoffing at that, “He better be for what I’m paying for him.”
“Brooke I have to tell you the real reason I came here… we need your alibi.” Her face sinks. “You don’t understand I can’t… it’s shameful… it’ll ruin me.”
“How?”
“I’ve made my fortune on the ability to perfect women’s bodies with Brooke’s Butt-Buster workout.”
“Oh! I know! You helped me go down two sizes!”
“That’s great! Um… okay, on the day of my husband's murder… I was getting …” she mumbled inaudibly… “What?”
“I was getting liposuction.” Again she was too quiet over that stupid prison phone.
“Huh?” Then she just explodes, “Liposuction!”
“Oh my god!”
“I know! I’m a fraud! It’s not like normal women can have this ass! If my fans knew that I bought it… I would lose everything! I’ve already lost my husband. I’d rather go to jail than lose my reputation.”
“Brooke… your secret’s safe with me.” She softens at your kind tone. “Thank you.”
After refusing to give up Brooke’s alibi. Callahan begrudgingly sent you and Hiromi off to visit the ex wife, at some spa she’s decided to hide in.
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Hiromi offered to drive, so currently you’re sat in his passenger seat stealing glances at him. Soft radio in the background, sprawling trees surrounding the road you’re on. It's quite peaceful. He’s focused on the road offering small comments to your enthusiastic yapping. You’re sat cross legged skirt riding up slightly, turned in toward him. And if he knows you’re admiring his side profile or his grip on the wheel, he’s not mentioning it.
In turn you pretend not to notice when his burning gaze lingers on you. “Your work on this case has been very impressive, Callahan may not show it but he’s impressed. I am too.” He stays facing the road. Warmth flutters your chest at the praise. “Thank you Hiromi, that means a lot.” Toothy smiles exchanged. Turning to change the radio station. You both reach for it at the same time, hands colliding. “Oh- sorry.”
You go to retract your hand back when he reaches over to grasp your wrist. A startled look crossing your features when you turn to him. Hesitating a moment before gently releasing your wrist to brush his fingers up your palm, fingers sliding together gently before he intertwines them. A perfect fit. “Is this… okay?” His thumb rubs soothing circles to the top of your hand.
“It’s more than okay Romi.” You tighten your fingers around his. Taking in the feeling of his slightly hardened skin. Hand much larger than yours, completely enveloping yours in his gentle grasp. Blush dusting your cheeks when you meet his gaze. His eyes are kind, lips upturned. His face screams adoration. “Romi? That’s new.” His smile doesn’t lessen, “yeah, do you… like it?” A breathy laugh leaves him and he just nods. He absentmindedly brings your joined hands up to rest against his chin, soft breath dusting over your knuckles. And every now and then a soft press of his lips lands there too. It’s so gentle. He’s so gentle. The rest of the ride is filled with soft glances and quiet conversation.
Eventually the conversation leads back to the case. Back to Brooke, “She seems completely untrustworthy to me.” Your head tilts, “Why?”
“This is a person who made her living by telling women that they’re too fat.”
“Brooke would never tell a woman she was too fat.” He hums.
“And she seems like she’s hiding something.”
“Maybe it’s not what you think.”
“Maybe it’s exactly what I think.”
You face him with brows furrowed. “You know, you’re being a butthead.” A burst of laughter leaves him. “A butthead? Why would you call me that?” An easy grin covering his face. Hand squeezing yours tighter.
“You know, romi, you just need to have a little more faith in people. You might be surprised.” Humming softly. “I can’t believe you just called me a butthead. I mean, no one’s called me a butthead since about the ninth grade.” Murmuring, “maybe not to your face.” Fondness flashes across his features.
… “So I hear that little tart shot my ex husband.” She’s lounging without a cure in the world, face mask, on cucumber covering her eyes. The picture of relaxation. Hiromi answers first, “well, that’s what we’re actually trying to prove didn’t happen.”
Cutting in gently, “do you have any reason to believe that it did?” She removes the cucumber now peeking out at you, “I’ve never actually met the woman before… but my daughter tells me she can be quite the little bitch.” Right. “Did your daughter ever mention anything about the relationship between Brooke and her husband?”
“Well, she did say that they humped like gorillas. I guess that wasn’t enough, though, for Brooke.” Hiromi’s brows crease, “why do you say that?”
“Well… haven’t you seen the cabana boy?” With that this conversation is over. On the way back to the car you pipe up. “She’s lying.”
“And you know this for a fact?” Opening the passenger door for you, turning to meet his eye. “Did you see the icky brown colour of her hair?” His brows meet his hairline, closing your door before rounding the car. Buckling himself in, “So? Now you discriminate against brunettes?”
“Why shouldn’t I? I’m discriminated against as a blonde.”
“You know, being a blonde is actually a pretty powerful thing. You hold more cards than you think you do. And I personally would like to see you take that power and channel it towards the greater good, you know?” He says it so assuredly, it’s emboldening. I guess he is right, you do get… more attention from your looks, why not use that attention. Make people listen past the colour of your hair.
The car comes to a halt in front of your building, “Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Reaching for the handle. “All right.”
He leans over to catch your gaze through the open door, “Hey, how do you think I’d look as a blonde, you know?” A single brow raises, mirth coating your tongue. “I don’t think you could handle it.” Fluttering your fingers in a wave. “Bye.”
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The courtroom is full. Perfectly polished tapered suits, conservative button ups and pencil skirts galore. Witness testimonies beginning today, first is the deceased’s daughter; Miss Windham, on the stand. Answering the district attorney’s questions.
“And where was she exactly?” Leaning into the mic, eyes locked on Brooke. “Standing over my father’s dead body.”
The ex wife is next. “And where was she exactly?”
“Well, she was sitting next to the pool, topless, while the Latin boy handed her a drink.”
The pool boy, “Mr. Salvatore, can you tell us what this is?” Holding up a tiny leopard print speedo. He leans in smirking, “My uniform.”
“This is the… uniform Mrs. Windham asked you to wear while cleaning her pool?” He leans in again, slowly. “Yes.”
“And, are you not having an affair with Brooke Windham?”
“Define ‘affair.’” Oh how you want to slap the smug freaking look off of his face right now!
The D.A. Continues, “Have you and Mrs.Windham had sexual relations?”
“Yes. Okay, yes.” With that the court concludes, until 9am the following day. Brooke is absolutely seething when she approaches you, “You know a Delta Nu would never sleep with a man who wears a thong.” Nodding along, “Never!”, “I just liked watching him clean the filter.” She offered solemnly.
“I know, I believe you, Brooke.”
“Take care of me, y/n.” And she’s ushered away by the court Marshall.
“I will.”
The next day, when court is let out for a quick recess. You’re on your way to the water fountain in the hallway needing some refreshment. Upon approach you’re rudely cut off by the pool boy. Arms crossing over your plush chest, heel tapping rapidly waiting for an apology. He takes a long drink. When he’s done he turns, eyeing you up and down.
“Don’t stop your little last-season Prada shoes at me, honey!” Oh! How dare he. These are so NOT last season! Scoffing at him as he struts away… a sudden gasp escapes you. Running back into the courtroom. Skirting to a stop before the defence table.
“Romi! He’s gay! Enrique is gay!” Callahan turns to you.
“What?” Hiromi offers, utterly confused with your sudden outburst. Turning to Naoya, “Naoya, what kind of shoes are these?”
“…Black ones.” Spinning back to Hiromi, “see!”
Callahan blanches at you, “what are you talking about?”
“He’s gay. He isn’t Brooke’s lover, he's making it up.” Hiromi turns you to him gently, hands on your shoulders, “Wait, back up. How do you know he’s gay?”
Huffing, “Gay men know designers. Straight men don’t.” Brooke snaps her fingers pointing at you, “Know what? He did leave a Cher tape in the pool house one time.”
Callahan having reached his limit interjects. “While I appreciate your masterful legal theory, I have a murder trial to attend to. Hiromi?”
“Okay. I’ll take care of it. Thanks.” Offering a guilty smile your way. “Okay.”
Callahan proceeds to question the pool boy, completely ignoring your astute observation. Asking questions that do not help Brooke in any way! “Do you have any proof of your affair with Mrs. Windham?”
“Only the love in my heart.”
“Well, if that is the only evidence he has, your honour, I think I’m done.”
“You may step down-“ Hiromi stands, shooting you a subtle wink. “Actually. I’d like to ask a couple of questions, your honour.” He approaches a very unhappy looking Callahan, “Just give me a couple minutes.” At his reluctant nod, Hiromi approaches to question the pool boy.
“Did you ever take Mrs. Windham on a date?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“A restaurant in Concord where no one could recognise us.”
“How long have you been sleeping with Mrs. Windham?”
“Three months.”
“And your boyfriend’s name?”
“Chuck.” Nodding solemnly, Hiromi starts to back away, “Right.” Going to sit down, you smile at him mouthing a thank you. The courtroom erupts.
Enrique realising what just happened. Wide eyed. Jaw on the floor, “Wait! Pardon me.” Hiromi turns back around, “yes, Mr. Salvatore?”
“I was con- I was confused. I thought you said friend! Chuck is just a friend.”
A deliciously well dressed man stands suddenly from the courtroom benches, “You bitch!” The room gasps as he storms out the doors. “Chuck! Wait!”
Banging ensues, “Silence in my court!. Mr. Salvatore, sit down.” Hiromi turns to you leaning in conspiratorially, grin gracing his dark features. “Thanks.” Not only did he show you he trusts you, he also showed Callahan that you’re not to be ignored. You don’t think anyone has ever stood up for you the way he just did… and at the jeopardy of himself.
“Oh, y/n, Callahan asked to see you before you leave.” Vivian calls, carrying a world record amount of papers, “really?”
“Yeah, you know, he already has his coffee, but maybe he needs a doughnut.” Snorting, “do you need any help?” Gesturing to her full hands. “No, I’m fine. Thank you though.”
Approaching his door you knock and wait for a reply. “Come on in.”
Entering the dim office you leave the door slightly ajar, he’s sat in a leather single seat with papers scattered around the coffee table ahead, gesturing to the leather couch next to him. “Take a seat.” Flattening the back of your skirt as you lower yourself down.
“Is everything all right?” He sets his papers aside. “You followed your intuition today, and you were right on target. I should have listened.”
“Thank you.”
“About the alibi…” ringing your hands, “I’m sorry-“
“I’m impressed you took the initiative to go get it. That’s what makes a good lawyer. And, on top of that, you gained the clients trust and kept it. That’s what makes a great lawyer. You’re smart, y/n, smarter than most of the people on my payroll.” Pride swells in your chest. “Wow.”
“I think it’s time to discuss your career path.” He gets up and slowly approaches you, sitting… very close to you. So close your legs aren’t just touching they’re practically squished together, his breath is fanning across your cheek. “Have you thought about where you might be a summer associate?”
“Oh, um, not really. I know it’s very competitive…”
“Well, you know what competition’s really about, don’t you? It’s about ferocity, carnage. Balancing human intelligence with animal diligence. Knowing exactly what you want… and how far you’ll go to get it. How far will you go?” His words turned sultry as he went on. His slimy paw dropping to your knee slowly gliding up. Absolute horror takes over you. Fight or flight taking over, hitting his hand away and scrambling to your feet.
“Are you hitting on me…?” He doesn’t seem too concerned with your sudden reaction, slimy gaze tracking you. “You’re a beautiful girl.” The reality of the situation comes crashing down upon you.
“So everything you just said…” a carnivorous grin turns his face dark, “I’m a man who knows what he wants.”
Straightening, “And I’m a law student who just realised her professor is a pathetic asshole.” Turning to storm out, “Too bad, I thought you were a law student who wanted to be a lawyer!”
Rushing to the elevator your hands are shaking trying to hit the buttons. Face pale with tears starting to fall. When the doors open you’re scrambling to leave as fast as humanly possible. Bumping into a wall of lean muscle, you try desperately to avoid his gaze so he doesn’t see your tear streaked face. Silently his hand reaches out, turning your face up gently. His calm demeanour cracking.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Sniffling trying to avoid his too soft gaze, “I’m quitting.” Face furrowing in confusion, fingers feather light as he wipes your tears away cupping your face in his strong hands. “Why? What happened?”
“Law school was a mistake. This whole internship was a mistake.” Shoulders starting to shake violently.
“What are you talking about? you earned it.” Gripping his wrists as if your life depends on it.
“I didn’t earn anything, Romi! Callahan only gave me that internship because he liked the way I looked. Which he made very clear tonight when he tried to feel me up.” His fingers twitch, face hardening. Not at you, never at you. Voice strained, holding back. “What? Callahan did what?”
“Just forget about it. I’m going back home. No more boring suits. No more pantyhose. No more trying to be something that I’m just… I’m just not.” You’re pressed flush against his sturdy chest so suddenly it almost gives you whiplash. A hand cradling your head there, another strong arm curling around your waist protectively. And you just break apart in his steady hold as he holds you. “How about I take you home.” Nodding through your sobs he guides you out to his car, strong arm wrapped around your shoulder keeping you steady.
.
.
.
“Are you going to be okay?” His soft voice cuts through the silence. Still sitting in the car, parked outside your building. “I don’t know… could you- could you come in for a bit?” Tear soaked eyes, lashes fluttering, glossy lips turned down into the sweetest frown, how could he say no?
Your door shuts softly behind him as you move to clear some space. Flicking on your bedside lamp to illuminate the room in a soft orange hue, pink tassels of your lamp shade creating a gentle ambiance. Hands shaking trying to move textbooks off of your plush pink sofa. His fingers curl around your wrist pulling you soft into him again. Chin resting on your head, fingers softly brushing through your hair. “Honey, why don’t I do that? Why don’t you just go get ready for bed, hmm?” An airy sigh leaves you at the feeling of his fingers running through your hair. Nodding he leaves a small kiss to your hairline before you walk off to get sorted.
Freshening up in your little bathroom. Face washed. Teeth brushed. Skincare done. You step back out to find him settled into your sofa, blazer folded neatly over the hand-rest his tie lost on the table somewhere. Looooong legs stretched out in front of him, head resting back on the sofa… his neck exposed presenting the delicious bob of his Adam's apple. Your heart stutters. He looks so relaxed.
Hearing the door open he peeks an eye open to find you, leaning against the doorframe. Cute fluffy pink socks, tiny leopard print cotton shorts… baby pink tank top. The neckline leaves little to the imagination. You’re trying to kill him, he's sure of it. Your gaze is softlidded. No longer tear soaked, still slightly puffy. The corner of his mouth lifts, arm coming up to beckon you over, “c’mere sweetheart.” Oh wow. His voice is deep, laced with sleep. Deep eyes tracking your movements. If your thighs clench subtly… well he doesn’t mention it.
Sitting next to him, his open arm wraps protectively around your shoulder pulling you flush against his side. Collapsing into him. Head pressed against his admittedly plush chest you wrap your arm across his stomach. Breasts pressed flush against his side, cheek squishing comfortably into his pecs. His hand runs up and down your arm in a soothing motion, goosebumps erupting on your skin. Your other hand sliding up his broad back to lay your palm flat between his shoulder blades, pressing in. You could feel him shiver at the movement.
Once you settle in, a dreamy sigh escapes you, eyes fluttering shut. Legs curled up against his lap. His scent washes over you… he smells so masculine. Earth and spice with a subtle hint of something citrus. You’re breathing him in like a drug. “You smell good.” Comes your mumble, spoken into his chest. You can feel the rumble under your check as he hums in acknowledgment. Breaths slow down as you find comfort in each other's warmth.
Rousing slowly as the early morning light peeking in through the blinds, filters across your vision. Lifting your head softly realising it’s still resting on a sturdy chest. A hand curled around your waist and another placed firmly over your lower back, splayed fingers just grazing the soft plush of your ass. And, oh. Peeking up through droopy lashes, to see Hiromi sleeping peacefully. Chest rising and falling softly, hair mussed from sleep.
He looks so pretty with the soft light filtering in, fanning across his cheeks. Raising slowly trying not to wake him, you move to get off. Only for a sudden weight against your back to press you back down. Firm palm splaying across your shoulder blades. He’s peeking down at you now, eyes swirling with warmth. Lips turned up. “G’morning.” His voice is thick with sleep. “Morning.” You whisper back.
“Are you feeling better?” His palms move to caress your waist gently, feather light touches that make you shiver. “I am. Thank you, for staying with me Romi.” And it’s true you’d all but forgotten what had happened in Callahan’s office. His gentle presence was exactly what you needed. Need. Sitting up slightly you press your forehead to his, your sweet gaze meeting his searching. Fondness all you can find.
His hands find your hips, fingers pressing in, kneading the flesh. When his gaze finally flickers down to your plush lips you lean in. Hands splayed over his cheeks. Pressing a soft kiss to his lips. He hums at your taste. Palms squeezing your hips now. Pulling back you move to pepper appreciative kisses over his face. Starting right next to his mouth, his cheeks, his forehead and finally his nose. When you pull back his lips are slightly ajar, brows fanning up and his cheeks are dusted a light pink…
“God, you’re so cute.” Reaching up to you, he grips the nape of your neck. Firmly pulling you back to his lips, kiss more sure now. Noses bumping every so often. Soon you’re shuffling down to settle your hips flush against his, pressing down firmly. Pulling a low groan from the back of his throat. When you eventually part for breath, a glistening string of saliva connects you together.
You’re both panting at the lack of air. You roll your hips once, experimentally watching for his reaction. Seeing his eyes blow out, chocolate being slowly replaced by black pools of lust. Large hands moving to grasp your hip and upper back he sits up slowly with you splayed across his lap. Knees bracketing his slender hips. Soft thighs pressed flush to his meatier ones. Your manicured hands sliding over his chest slowly, appreciatively. Eventually coming to a stop on his rounded shoulders. Large hands sliding down to cup under your upper thighs.
You just sit there admiring one another quietly for a good while. Hungry gazes tracing over every inch of each other. Moving your hands up his neck to glide your fingers through his soft chocolate locks. “You’re really pretty Romi…” you’re admitting, voice breathy and lust hazed. A soft huff leaves him, “Yeah?” Nodding enthusiastically, his smile deepens. Eyes softening.
“I think you’re the pretty one. Beautiful actually. Not just that you’re sweet… intelligent, determined. I think you might be the most genuine person I’ve ever met.” His fingers come up to brush hair out of your face, caressing your cheeks. They heat up under his touch. Stars in your eyes. “Romi?”
“Hmm?” He’s staring at your lips now.
“I think… I might be falling seriously in love with you.” His grin is blinding. Eyes locking on yours with laser focus. “I think I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.” He’s admitting sincerely. Scrambling off his lap your knees hit the carpet with a thud. Hands flying to his zipper… only he grabs your wrists to stop you? “Sweetheart… you don’t have to.”
“Romi, please. I want you.” Your eyes are pleading… and how could he say no? He nods softly, then releases your hands. Letting you reach up to slowly unbutton and slide his zipper down. He lifts his hips to help you shimmy his slacks down his thighs, letting them pool down past his knees. Fingers tracing the band of his boxers.
Snagging and snapping them back into place. Doe eyes leading up at him through thick lashes. You trace your fingers across to his… prominent bulge. Dragging your nails teasingly over his throbbing veins through the fabric. Earning soft, drawn out groans from the man above you the closer you get to his leaky tip. Music to your ears. He sounds so pretty and breathy.
Palm slipping across the soft fabric of his boxers. Slowly palming his bulge earning a few dewy drops of pre. Completely entranced with the sight. His hand comes down to your chin bringing your face up to look at him. And oh. He’s damn near salivating. Eyes blown. Lips parted. And finally after what feels like forever he leans down to press a sloppy kiss against your lips. Mouths parting to taste one another. His tongue poking out to tease your lower lip. Meeting him halfway you slide your tongue over his, tasting him. Eager moans mingling together. Parting from him reluctantly, to return to your earlier task.
Sliding his boxers down his hips to release his cock. Oh and it springs up so angry… pretty pink flushed tip dribbling. His length was one thing, counting 7… 8… maybe even 9 inches… but his girth. He’s just soooo thick from the pudge of his mushroom tip to the… thick circumference of his cock. A prominent vein runs down the underside of his length, begging for attention. Trembling fingers reach out to teasingly draaaaagggg a nail along that pulsing vein. His cock jumps at the contact. Your thighs press together, only now noticing the slick collecting at your center.
Lightly circling your fingers around to trace a thumb over his leaking tip. Bringing your face down, lips connecting with his tip. A needy sound erupts from him at the sight. Eyes following your every move. Looking up deep into his eyes beginning to leave small kisses over his tip. Smearing another drop of pre over them… creating the perfect sticky gloss. His mouth hangs when your tongue licks a fat stripe up; following along his prominent vein all the way up to his engorged tip, closing your mouth around it and sucking gently. His hand flies to the back of your head, caressing. Head thrown back with loud drawn out groans escaping him. “Fuck, baby. That feels so good… don’t stop.”
Hanging your maw open tongue lolling out over his tip, letting hot saliva spill down over him. Your left hand goes to his thigh, the right gripping his base and squeezing your fingers. Then moving to slowly pump him, coating him in your saliva. Wrist twisting closer to his tip, fingers meeting tighter at his base, setting a steady pace. Making sure to give his leaking tip ample attention. Between flicks of your wrist you leave an array of filthy kisses and soft sucks. His moans are downright filthy. His eyes glazed over, vision moving erratically between your pretty face and your increasing pumps of his cock. His jaw just hangs open letting his groans spill out freely, only spurring you on. It’s then he notices the movement of your hips below him. Rolling back and forth over nothing but air, thighs squeezed tight desperately seeking some friction.
You’re in a world of your own absolutely drunk on the taste of him, head bobbing shallowly over his angry tip. Tongue tracing sultry lines up and down his sensitive slit. Eagerly swallowing every drop of pre you can get your greedy tastebuds on. A particularly harsh suck from you has him groaning out unashamedly, “F-fuck, baby. You should stop soon or I’m gonna cum- oh my god!” Right as he says that your left hand comes down to softly cup and roooollll his tightening balls between your clammy fingers. Giving them a firm squeeze. And that does it. He’s bowing forward completely boneless. Mouth dropping soundlessly. Hips jerking with every spurt of cum shooting up into your awaiting maw. Pumping thick ropes onto your tongue to slide down the back of your throat. You greedily suck down every drop, pumps slowing down to ease him through his high. Easing off to gently suck on his twitchy tip. Until the stimulation becomes too much and he has to pull you off of him. Chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat coating his hairline. Heavy pants leaving him as he takes you in. Swollen, glossy, cum soaked lips. Eyes swirling with lust, drool coating your chin, cheeks flushed so pretty. Watching you loll your tongue out to show him the mess you made of him before swallowing the rest of it alllll down.
Pulling you up to him for a heated kiss, groaning out between licks into your mouth. Tasting the salty remnants of his spent on you, “Fuck. Sweetheart. That was incredible…” when you pull back you give him the biggest toothy grin you can muster right now. “Romi… that was so hot. Was that okay?” He splutters.
“Okay?? That was probably the best head I’ve ever had.”, yeah way to boost a girl's ego alright. Fingers curling around your arms he’s dragging you up to stand. Hands splaying over your hips, gently rubbing up and down, eyeing the embarrassingly obvious wet patch on the front of your shorts. Big fingers moving down to trace your mound over those tiny shorts, dipping down to lightly caress your folds through the slick material. Your hips twitch at the lingering touch. So close to where you need it. He guides your hands to grip his shoulders. Leaving a soft kiss to your wrist before his hands trail back down. Fingers itching at your waistband. Downturned gaze flicking up to ask permission that you eagerly grant; head nodding enthusiastically.
Fingers dipping into the hem of your sticky shorts, sliding them down your soft legs. Promoting you with a light tap to your calf to lift your feet out of them. They’re flung somewhere across the room. Now he’s eye level with your sticky panties. Which leave nothing to the imagination with the way your slick has them sticking to every nook, cranny and fold. He groans lowly at the sight. Palms molding to your legs as he slides them up, up, up. Cupping the underside of your ass appreciatively. Pulling you closer to his face. And just… pressing his nose into the front of your mound inhaling your sweet scent. Pulling a lewd moan from somewhere deep in your chest.
He’s dropping to his knees in front of you. Not caring for the sickening crack against the floor. Eyes locked on your soaked panty covered center. His hands slide over your hips to grip the waistband, your hands flying up to grip his hair threading your fingers through the silky locks at his nape. He’s pressing lingering kisses on what’s already exposed; lower stomach, across to your right hip, the left… to the very top of your mound. Then he’s pulling your panties off of you slowly, eyes locked on the way they stick and unstick from your dribbling folds. The warm puffs of breath leaving his nose zap your folds, he chuckles low at the shiver you let out. Chocolate gaze swirling over every exposed inch. “She’s so pretty, baby.” He’s mouthing into your thighs. Leaving slow, lingering kisses to each… dangerously close to your center. His left hand draggggging up from your calf to the back on your knee, lifting your leg to fit snugly over his shoulder.
Exposing you fully to his hungry gaze. And he just stares. Fingers coming up delicately to graze through your folds, collecting slick as he goes. The lightest touch of his fingertips gently spreading you open to expose your puckering hole in all her glory winking to him. Trailing his fingers up to your pulsing bud at the apex he’s just dying to get his mouth on… he nuzzles in nose first against your slick bud. Nudging it back and forth gently. Pressing harder against it. He’s eliciting soft mewls from you. Your toes curl in anticipation. “Romi… please. Don’t tease.” You plead, sounding so gone already, tone mewling and breathy.
He pulls back to lock eyes with you. A loud whine escapes from you at the loss of contact. That’s when he really dives in. Long tongue darting out to maze between your folds greedily, head knocking into your thighs through his vigor. Tongue flattening out to drag torturously all the way from your winking hole up to your twitchy little clit begging for attention. His lips lock on granting you a few gentle sucks before rolling the slick tip of his tongue round n round in tight circles over your increasingly sensitive nub. Alternating between sharp and soothing sucks, driving you absolutely mad. Tears spring from your eyes, mouth dropping open to mewl out obscenely at the sight of his eyes rolling back from the sharp, sweet taste of you absolutely drenching his face. He’s humming encouragingly whenever sharp moans of his name leave you. Sending filthy vibrations through your clit that reach down into the depths of your heat.
“Romiiiii. Oh my god!” You’re slobbering out the words between sharp gasps. Mind blank. Unable to focus on anything other than the way he’s devouring you. The feel of his fingers digging into your thighs. Reaching around to hold your folds open for him as he trails that vulgar tongue down to maddeningly circle your hole. Nose pressed flush to your sensitive clit, bumping softly with the rolls of your hips over his eager maw. A sharp squeal rips from you when he slides his thick muscle into your hole, swirling it around to open you up. He’s paying extra attention to the gummy spot along the front wall of your heat. Rubbing his tip up and down with the perfect pressure making you see stars. “Shiiiittt. Romi right there, don’t stop.” You’re sobbing out. Feeling the warm pressure building. Blooming from deep within.
Your lithe fingers curl into his hair now tugging harshly… pulling a deeeeeppp groan from his chest. Your legs start shaking from deep within the muscles, head thrown back, eyes reaching the back of your skull. He rips your orgasm from deep within you. Continuing through your high to flick his muscle against that gummy spot inside you. Groaning out as your walls cling desperately to him, nose continuously nuzzling your buzzing clit back and forth. Guiding you softly now through the waves of your high. Until your mewls and whines reach a higher pitch and your poor shaking hands are trying to rip him away. Muscles tensing viciously with over sensitivity.
Conceding he slowly pulls his tongue out of your hole to lick up every drop of your release. Cleaning you softly between your over sensitive jolts against his drenched jaw. Parting with a final feather light kiss to your overworked clit his eyes gleam up at you. He gently sets your leg back on solid ground, hands holding you steady on shaky legs. Leaning down and carefully grabbing hold of his face, you’re leaning in for another filthy kiss. His mouth slick with the taste of you mingling with your combined saliva.
You’re tugging on his rumpled button up urging him to take it off. Bringing you both back up to full height he’s backing you up to your plush pink covered bed, knees hitting the edge you’re falling back with a bounce. Your gaze drags up his torso watching his buttons go one by one. Exposing his broad, tanned chest to you bit by bit. It’s a mouth-watering sight. He’s a lot … thicker? Then you expected. All lean muscle sure but god he was defined. Toned slender stomach… thick arms you just wanted to dig your teeth into.
His boxers go next thrown over his shoulder as he eyes you up, legs spread awaiting the welcomed weight of him. His knees hit the mattress and he’s crawling up over you, thumbs catching the bottom of your tiny shirt eagerly dragging it up and over your head. Tits spilling out deliciously for his greedy gaze. Palms sliding down to cup the underside of them, lifting slightly, pressing them together. Palms splayed wide over the side of your ribs, thumbs roving over your tits to brush over your pert nipples. Ripping a soft moan from you at the delicate touch.
Your legs move to brush against his hips urging him to press his weight fully down onto you. Enticing him to split you open. He’s taking his time. Teasing your sensitive nipples. Your needy little hole is just pulsing, urging him to finally fill it. “Romi please!” Tears filling your eyes, thrashing against the sheets, pure need taking over your fuzzy brain.
“I know baby… you need me bad huh? Needy little cunt can’t wait?” Your brain scrambles, nodding and whimpering up at him. Tears are threatening to fall harder now. With a hum he grabs the base of his cock and drags the tip up and down your soggy folds, bumping into your clit. He taps his tip meanly over your jolting nub before he’s guiding his tip back down, snagging it on your tight ring of muscle.
Pressing his lips to yours tenderly, before he slowly presses his tip past that first tight ring of muscle. Swallowing down your gasps greedily. Forehead pressed to yours, he’s looking down between your bodies. Grunting at the resistance of your tight hole. Reaching down between your bodies to slowly rub his thumb in loving little circles over your clit, peppering kisses down your jaw. Trying to ease you open. Feeling your hole flutter and give, he presses in barely another inch. Continuing to slowly ease you open on his cock, fingers and lips working to distract your mind as the effect it has on your body helps him finally press his pubic bone flush against you. Shared satisfied groans leave you both upon finally feeling every inch of each other. His throbbing length combined with those delicious pulsing veins feel heavenly, a deep sigh leaving you. Your twitching walls greedily sucking his length in. “So fucking tight baby, oh my god.”
“Feels so good, romi… so full.” Reaching down between your bodies pressing your palm against your lower stomach and… feeling him there. Bulging out of you. Pressing down softly. Broken moans leave you both instantly. But when he starts moving… thick pulsing inches pulling back slowly until just the fat tip remains. Then he’s pushing forward torturously slowly dragging himself through your plush walls, you feel everything. Every inch. Every pulsing vein. The light smack of his balls tapping against your skin. It’s maddening. Your walls mould to the shape of him.
He moves his hands to pin your hips down. His thrusts remain slow and deep. Cock filling you tenderly. It’s slow and sensual -loving- but then he starts grinding his hips deeeeep into you. Probing around gently with his tip to find that special spot. Watching every expression crossing your face. Then suddenly he’s angling his hips upwards and pulling the most pornographic sounds out of you. Your hands fly up to clutch his biceps, fingertips digging in to find some purchase while your back arches up into him so sluttily. “Ohhh yeah, right there? That feel good baby?” His tone teasing, eyes locking on the sight of him protruding your lower stomach. Mouth hanging open. Watching the bulge appear and disappear completely entranced. Your walls cling onto him pulling long drawn out groans from his open maw. His hands are moving to grip your legs now, moving them to rest on his shoulders.
Changing the angle when he sits back, leaning on his haunches. His strong grip on your legs when he repositions causes your hips to rise up off the bed. Suspended in his hold. Squealing when his next experimental thrust hits your sweet spot dead on. He’s turning his head to kiss your ankle tenderly. Pulling your focus to him. A charming smile beamed down at you.
Repositioning his arms to wrap securely around your knees pressing the backs of your legs flush against his chest. “Ready?” He’s asking softly between more peppered kisses against your ankle. “… yes?” With the leverage of his position he starts pounding into you. Hips swaying back and forth easily in his position, able to angle his hips to thrust deep up into your sweet spot. Your hands scramble to claw at the comforter below you needing something to ground. Hiromi alternates between deep thrusts into your sweet spot and burying himself to the hilt grinding into you, trim hairs at his public bone rubbing deliciously into your neglected clit. The bed creaks lewdly below you… surely alerting others of your early morning activities. Not that either of you are trying to be quiet.
His pace starts to increase, sweat coating your bodies now, the stench of sex so strong it’s heady. Intoxicating. You can feel your body exploding with heat, starting deep in your core and spreading rapidly. You start grabbing at his wrists needing to feel him close. Mewling out. Pleading with your eyes. He seems to get the message when he lets you drag him down toward your face. Legs stuck between you folding you in half as you get your greedy paws on his face, bringing him down for a needy kiss. Jaw hanging open around your moans, his cock is pressing so tight into every nook and cranny from this angle. Lathering him with filthy open mouth kisses and he folds you further into a mean mating press. He’s hitting into you so deep now you can feel him kissing your womb with every hard knock of his gooey tip.
You’re gasping into him now. Meeting his eyes, brows curved up in pleasure, eyes glassy. His hands are splayed out beside your head, hips curving into your heat swiftly, breathing erratic. He can feel your gummy walls pulsing faster, vice grip threatening to trap his swollen cock any second. Reaching between you he starts strumming expertly on your clit, groaning out as he feels how much it’s fluttering under his fingertips. His hips are starting to stutter thrusts becoming erratic, veins throbbing against your walls rapidly now. And you’re crying out. “Romiii! I’m so close... Gonna cum!” With a few more tight circles against your clit and perfectly aimed thrusts to your sweet spot. You’re convulsing around him.
Tight cunt locking around his cock so hard he can barely move, hips thrashing under him violently. Your eyes disappear into your skull, and the highest pitch squeal erupts out of you. He coaxes you through it, littering kisses across your face. Hands rubbing your hips soothingly. Hips rolling softly through each wave of your high. Until your breaths start to flow out less sporadic and your eyes find him again. “You did so good, sweetheart.” He’s cooing down at you, his voice cracking in time with his stuttering hips.
“You gonna cum romi?” He doesn’t need to answer, his cock is jumping inside you. “Wan’ it in me. Please romi… want you to cum in me.” You're slurring out. “Oh, fuck!” He’s croaking out, giving a few final thrusts before he’s pressing flush against you. Spurting his gooey cum deep in you. Coating your walls in him. His stomach twitching with the intensity of his orgasm, thrusting shallowly until his tip is dribbling. Legs wrapped tightly around him, letting him come down buried in you. He collapses onto you, hefty weight welcomed. Melting into each other finally spent. You meet for another soft kiss.
.
.
.
“You’re fired. I have new representation.” Callahan guffaws at Brooke. “Who?” Turning to find… you. “Excuse you, you’re in my way.”
“She’s a law student. She can’t defend you.” Clearing your throat , cue David reading; Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court ruling 3.03.
“See? Thank you, David.”
“Counselors, approach the bench…” turning, Callahan tries to stop you. “You’re not going up there.”
“Oh, yes, I am.”
“Y/n Woods, your honour. Rule 3.03 of the Supreme Judicial Court states that a law student may appear on behalf of a defendant in criminal proceedings.” Callahan ever the party pooper cuts in, “I’m not allowing it.”
Turning so sweetly to him, “But you agreed last night… in your office when we discussed my career.” Sweet smile gracing your lips.
“The ruling also states that you need a licensed attorney to supervise you. Mr. Callahan?”
“That I won’t agree to.”
Hiromi interjects, “Uh, I’ll supervise, your honour.” And with that it’s settled. You will be defending Brooke. The first person to be cross examined by you would be… the deceased’s daughter. Miss Windham.
“Miss. Woods, you may begin questioning.”
Wow there’s a lot of people here… and Brooke is now depending on you, the nerves set in instantly. “Um, first of all I would like to point out that there is no proof in this case, but there is a complete lack of mens rea which by definition tells us there can be no crime without a viscous will.”
“I am aware of the meaning of mens rea. What I’m unaware of is why you’re giving me a vocabulary lesson when you should be questioning your witness.”
“Yes, your honour, um… Miss Windham, when you arrived back at the house, was your father there?”
“Not that I saw, but like I said, I went upstairs to take a shower.” She looks so smug.
“And when you came downstairs, what happened?”
“I saw Brooke standing over his body, drenched in his blood.”
“But Mrs. Windham didn’t have a gun?”
Leaning in smirking she speaks clearly into the mic. “No. She’d stashed it by then.”
Hiromi interjects, “move to strike that from the record, your honour. It’s speculation.”
“So stricken.” Turning to Hiromi with an anxious look on your face, he nods, urging you to go on.
“Miss Windham, did you hear a shot fired?”
“No. I was in the shower.”
“Okay, so, some time in the 20 minutes that you were in the shower, your father was shot.” Trying to piece together a story that just doesn’t fit.
“I guess.”
“Your father was shot while you were in the shower, but you didn’t hear the shot because… because you were in the shower?” Why does that seem wrong…
Scoffing, she leans in, “Yes. I was washing my hair.”
“Where is she going with this?” Hiromi’s second chair asks,
“Have a little faith, Gerard.”
Looking back at the papers available, “Um, Miss Windham, what had you done earlier in the day?”
She answers dryly, “I got up, got a latte, went to the gym, got a perm, and came home.”
Bingo. Turning back to her approaching slowly, “Where you got in the shower?”
“I believe the witness has made it clear that she was in the shower.” Laughs erupt around the courtroom. “Yes, your honour. Um, Miss Windham, had you ever gotten a perm before?”
“Yes…?”
“How many would you say?”
“Two a year since I was 12. You do the math.”
Continuing, “You know, a girl in my sorority, Tracy got a perm once? We all tried to talk her out of it. Curls weren’t a good look for her, she didn’t have your bone structure. But, thankfully, that same day, she entered the Beta Delta Pi wet t-shirt contest, where she was drenched head to toe.”
“Objection! Why is this relevant?”
Turning to the judge pleadingly, “I have a point. I promise.”
“Then make it.”
“Yes, ma’am. Um, Miss Windham, why is it that Tracy’s curls were ruined when she got her hair wet?”
“Because they got wet?” She bristles slightly.
“Exactly. Because isn’t it the first cardinal rule of perm maintenance that you’re forbidden from getting your hair wet for at least 24 hours after getting a perm at the risk of deactivating the ammonium thioglycolate?” Her eyes widened visibly. “Y-yes.”
“And wouldn’t somebody who’s had, say, 30 perms in their life be well aware of this rule? And if in fact you weren’t washing your hair as I suspect you weren’t, because your curls are still intact, wouldn’t you have heard the gunshot? And if in fact you had heard the gunshot, Brooke Windham wouldn’t have had enough time to hide the gun downstairs before you got there, which would mean you would have had to have found Mrs. Windham with a gun in her hand to make your story plausible. Isn’t that right?” Hand propped up on your cocked hip, staring her down. And she just breaks…
She bursts out. “She’s my age! Did she tell you that? How would you feel if your father married someone your age?”
“You, however, had time to hide the gun, didn’t you Miss Windham? After you shot your father.”
“I didn’t mean to shoot him. I thought it was you walking through the door!” She’s posing straight at Brooke, tears staining her face, the court erupts in gasps. ‘Order! Order! Order!”
“Oh my god.” Turning to Hiromi dazed, you approach the defence table slowly. Distantly you can hear the judge ordering the daughters' immediate detainment. When you reach Hiromi he’s beaming, reaching out to shake your hand in congratulations. “Well done. I knew you could do it.”
“I’m the matter of the state vs. Brooke Windham, the case is dismissed. Mrs. Windham, you are free to go.” Cheers fill your ears.
“Miss. Woods, how did you know Miss Windham was guilty?”
“The rules of haircare are simple and finite. Any cosmo girl would’ve known.” With that you’re walking through the courtroom doors head held high. Until… someone starts calling out for you. Naoya. “What?”
“I just wanted to say that you were brilliant in there. And that I was wrong. And you’re the girl for me.” Deadpan, “Really?”
“Yes. Pooh bear… I love you.” He tries to kiss your hand. “Oh, Naoya. I waited so long to hear you say that… but if I’m going to be a partner at a law firm before I’m 30, I need a boyfriend who’s not such a complete bonehead.” In cuts Hiromi offering his hand out to you, which you take gladly squeezing gently.
Walking out of the courthouse together…
a/n okay I hope this isn’t completely horrible. if I keep editing I’ll go crazy and change the whole thing. feedback is welcome! also I haven’t seen this movie in ages so I hope this makes sense 😭
summary: to your chagrin, you get partnered with an irritating DSO agent who happens to take an interest in the case you're working on.
cw: nsfw (18+) - mdni!!, smut, re9!leon, fbi!reader, age gap, kissing, vaginal fingering, oral sex, blow job, p in v, spanking, choking, finger sucking, brat taming, praise kink
wc: 10k
a/n: obsession's gotten so bad i started having dreams about him <3
also on ao3!
There’s a man sitting at your desk.
You’d arrived at work a little before 9, steaming cup of coffee in hand and a stack of case files tucked under your arm haphazardly. It was only until you’d heard the curious, hushed whispers that you’d realized your desk was currently taken, occupied by an unfamiliar man clad in a leather jacket.
Were you being relocated? Promoted? Demoted?
A barrage of thoughts flits through your mind as you approach your desk slowly, mentally preparing yourself to give the man a piece of your mind. The man doesn’t even flinch when the case files drop onto your desk loudly, your coffee cup following soon after as you set it down roughly before crossing your arms over your chest.
“Can I help you?”
His head tilts towards you, shaggy hair shifting as his gaze travels over you with interest. You stare back at him blankly, brows furrowing when you take in the scruffy stubble covering his jaw and the weathered look to his skin. He had to be at least twice your age, but even you could admit the man was stupidly handsome. You’re only left with more questions than you started with as you continue to stare at him, feeling bewildered. The flex of his gloved fingers catch in your periphery, distracting you as you glance down to find him piecing together a disassembled gun with practiced ease, the parts set out neatly on your desk.
His voice is gruff when he speaks. “You’re younger than I expected.”
“You… were expecting me?” you ask, irritation seeping into your voice, patience growing thin. “Who the fuck are you?”
The man’s brows raise at your blunt question, fingers still moving deftly, his eyes flickering with mirth.
“You know, the FBI promised me a warm welcome,” he says, the chair swiveling as he turns to face you fully. “Can’t exactly say you’re delivering on that promise.”
“Yeah well, I didn’t make any promises,” you retort, giving him a tight smile, watching as he leans forward, sliding his newly assembled gun back into its holster. “Besides, you still haven’t answered my question.”
He sighs, leaning forward, his arm outstretched as he offers you his hand. “Leon–”
He’s interrupted by the Unit Chief calling out your name. Your eyes narrow when you see the case file in his hands, glancing back at Leon before you leave him, stepping inside the Unit Chief’s office, the door clicking shut behind you.
“We’ve got two new bodies,” he says, handing you the case file. “Unsub’s been crossing jurisdictions and the local police department is… well, concerned to say the least. Think you can handle it?”
You nod, flicking through the pages, nose scrunching when you see the images of the crime scene – each more grisly than the last. Mutilated bodies, blood smeared across the walls, messily carved symbols etched into the wooden door of the victims’ home.
“Seems ritualistic,” you murmur, reading through the reports. You glance up at him, clutching the case file to your chest protectively. “You’re letting me take this alone? I’m flattered.”
“Ah,” the Unit Chief shakes his head, nodding towards Leon. “Not exactly.”
“What?” you scoff, looking at Leon who gives you a smile and waves through the glass. You glare at him, yanking the blinds shut. “The old man?” you hiss, “he’ll only slow me down.”
The Unit Chief sighs, taking a seat in his chair. “That man is Leon Kennedy. DSO. It’s only a precaution. He’s more experienced than any team we could put together and after what happened with Agent Ashcroft, the FBI is trying to be more… mindful.”
“Ashcroft?” you echo, remembering the Rhodes Hill incident. “That’s– that’s because they sent an analyst into the field of all things. She must’ve been terrified. I’m a field agent, I can handle myself.”
“Agent Kennedy took an interest in the case,” he replies, hands clasping together. “If there’s bioterrorism involved, he’ll be useful. If there isn’t, use him as an idea board. The Unit Chief peers up at you, his expression stern. “My decision is final.”
Your jaw works irritatedly before you huff out a heavy breath, nodding reluctantly. “Yes, sir.”
Despite your sour mood and the urge to slam the door shut, you carefully close it, making your way back to Leon. You drag a spare chair towards your desk, sinking down onto it. Leon shakes his head when you offer him the case file.
“I’ve already read it.”
“Huh,” you stare at him, lips pursing while your eyes squint in recognition. “Leon Scott Kennedy,” you drawl, jabbing your finger at him, “you’re the Raccoon City cop. I’ve heard stories about you. Shouldn’t you be…” you gesture to him pointedly, “retired?”
“Ouch,” Leon says, his hand moving to press against his chest as he feigns being hurt. “You really don’t want me here, do you?”
“All I know is that you’re some big-shot DSO agent that I don’t need on my case, Leon,” you shoot back, flipping open the file to read the autopsy reports more thoroughly.
“The first case you’ve ever been in charge of,” Leon muses, his leather gloves creaking softly as he picks up a stray pen, putting it back into its place. “I’m impressed. Not everyone gets to be a lead on a case like this. Then again, you’re pretty good at this kinda thing.”
Was he buttering you up? He had to be. You don’t bother looking up as you mark a few things of interest off on the report.
“Thank you,” you murmur, scrawling a few notes down on a notepad before you pause, head turning to find him watching you carefully. “How did you know that?” you ask, a hint of suspicion in your voice, “we’ve never met before.”
Leon shifts, grunting softly as he tries to get more comfortable in your chair. “I took the liberty of reading your file,” he replies flippantly, his expression darkening as he tries to work the chair’s jammed lever. “Fuckin’ chair… how do you sit in this all day?”
“I don’t sit all day!” you snap, “and you read my file? I don’t care if you have the fucking clearance, you can’t just–”
You’re interrupted by a loud snap, teeth gritting together when you realize he’s pushed the lever too hard – or perhaps, underestimated his own strength – the lever cleanly detached and now clutched in Leon’s gloved hand.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” he murmurs, setting the lever down on your desk, patting it awkwardly. “I’ll buy you a new chair.”
You have half a mind to reach over and strangle him. You even consider doing it, until he grumbles under his breath and shrugs off that jacket of his, your murderous intent forgotten as soon as you catch sight of his thick biceps. With those things, Leon could probably strangle you and have no problem doing it.
The sheer size of him renders you incapable of tearing your gaze away, your stare settled firmly on his shoulders, arms and chest – every part of him unfairly thick and muscular – his skin-tight shirt leaving you barely conscious of the way your throat was beginning to dry up.
Your newly broken chair creaks once more under Leon’s weight, the sound piercing through the haze of your shameless staring. You blink uncertainly, taking another lingering peek at his biceps while he’s too busy trying to get comfortable.
“We’d better get going,” you announce, grabbing the file before standing up abruptly. “The local PD is probably waiting for us.”
“We can take my car,” Leon says as he follows you into the elevator.
“I’m not in the habit of getting into cars with strange men,” you say testily, pressing a button before turning to face him.
“And I’m not in the habit of babysitting FBI agents,” Leon drawls, leaning against the wall of the elevator, his arms crossing over his chest.
The movement makes his shirt stretch tighter if anything, the fabric clinging to his broad forearms stubbornly, his watch glinting softly in the lighting. Your head tilts, eyes narrowing with irritation when you register his insult.
“No one asked you to babysit,” you say, shaking your head. “I have a gun,” you take it out of the holster attached to your hip, pointing it at him, “and I’m smart. I’ll have this case wrapped up in a day or two, so stay the fuck outta my way.”
A smile pulls at his lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he lifts his hands in mock-surrender. The amusement in his eyes makes him look a little younger, your heart fluttering with delight for a moment before you tamp it down violently.
When the elevator comes to a stop, Leon takes your bag before you can protest, his gloved fingers brushing yours briefly. You step after him, brows raising with begrudging respect when you see his car. Big-shot DSO agent, your mind supplies as he puts your bag into the backseat, gesturing for you to get in. You sigh heavily, opening your mouth to argue but Leon’s already disappeared inside his car, the engine rumbling to life. Muttering a curse under your breath, you get in his car, pulling the door shut firmly.
–
“What do you mean there’s only one room available?”
“What’s there to understand?” Leon asks, dangling the singular key in front of your face. “Rooms are all booked out. They’re celebrating some special harvest festival according to the receptionist.”
“Harvest festival?” you echo, peering up at him. “You gotta be fucking kidding me. That’s like the perfect cover for our unsub.”
“I would help,” he murmurs, nudging your shoulder gently to get you to step aside, “but you wanted me to, what was it?” you roll your eyes when he snaps his fingers, pretending to think. “Ah yes, stay the fuck outta your way.”
You snatch the key hanging from Leon’s finger, ignoring his aggrieved sigh as you push past him and stomp back down the stairs to the reception, ready to demand another room. All the receptionist does is give you an apologetic smile and offer you a discount. You swallow your pride as you trudge back up the stairs, doing your best to avoid Leon’s eyes when you find him leaning beside the room’s door, his brows raising amusedly.
“I don’t want to hear it,” you mutter, slotting the key into the lock.
Leon shrugs non-committally. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
The door is heavy as you push it open, Leon’s hand moving to keep it open for you as you step inside. You fumble in the darkness for the light switch at the same time Leon does, his strong, calloused fingers brushing over yours. It’s enough to have an unwanted shiver running down your spine, warmth blooming in your chest and a flush settling high on your cheeks despite your stubborn annoyance with him.
“Fuck me.”
You follow his gaze when he swears, taking in the lit room. There’s a shitty couch in one corner, a tiny area with a coffee machine and table, and… a bed.
“Okay,” you say slowly, staring at the one, pitiful bed you had been afforded. “Great! So I think you should go and chew out the receptionist.”
“I’m not doing that,” Leon scoffs, bending down to take off his boots, his gun clattering against the table as he sets it down. “I can take the couch.”
You look back at the couch, brows furrowing. “That’s really nice of you and all, Leon,” you begin, stepping further inside the small room, “but I don’t think you’re exactly going to fit.”
“You care about me or something?” he drawls, looking over at you with a smile as he opens his duffle bag to pull out a towel and a set of clothes.
“Get over yourself. I’m just worried about your…” you gesture towards him vaguely, “potentially geriatric bones.”
Leon chokes on a laugh, his brows shooting up. “Geriatric? I’m 49. My bones are in perfect working order.”
“Right, nevermind. You did break my chair.”
“I did you a favor,” he retorts, slinging the towel around the back of his neck. “It was a hunk of junk.”
“It was in perfect working condition!” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Do you always defend inanimate objects with such passion?” Leon muses, stepping closer until he’s only a few inches away, head cocking to the side.
“When they’re close to my heart, yes.”
“A chair is close to your heart?”
You decide to double down. “Yes, Leon.”
“Huh,” he nods slowly, clicking his tongue. “You got attachment issues?”
“Did my file not tell you that?” you smile up at him snarkily.
Leon grins, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I skipped over your psych eval.”
He turns, disappearing into the bathroom. You glare at the door and huff out a sigh, removing your shoes before grabbing the case file and flopping down on the bed tiredly. You flick through the pages absentmindedly, settling on the symbols carved onto the door. You hadn’t seen anything remotely like it before and the database search you’d done earlier in the car had come up empty.
“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, glancing towards the bathroom.
You’d exhausted all your options save for one. A reluctant groan leaves you as you stand, approaching the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe.
“Hey, Leon?” you call out when you hear the spray of water come to a stop. “I… might have been a little difficult earlier,” your voice sounds strained, “but if you could maybe take another look at the file, then I would… you know, probably appreciate it or whatever.” You swallow, face twisting with discomfort. “Please?”
Leon laughs, the rich, deep sound seeping through the crevices. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he says, sounding entirely too entertained by your attempt to ask him for help. “I’ll take a look for you.”
You frown at the door, jolting when it swings open suddenly. A few wisps of steam escape, and you blink owlishly, finding yourself face-to-face with his bare chest. It’s hard to keep your gaze from wandering over his exposed skin, a light dusting of hair covering his chest coupled with a few scars. A strange, gurgling noise escapes you when he shifts back to grab his towel, his broad, muscled back now visible to you. You sway, moving to grip the doorframe, knees feeling weak.
“You okay?” Leon murmurs, glancing over at you as he ruffles his damp hair, brows furrowing.
“Yes!”
Your voice is shrill, pitching up awkwardly until you clear your throat and give him an equally awkward smile.
“Perfectly fine,” you clarify, this time sounding breathless as you try and fail to not look down, inhaling sharply when you see his defined abdomen and the dark, coarse hair below his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his sweatpants.
“It’s just that you look…” you trail off, fingers itching to reach out and squeeze and touch. Hot. Attractive. Fuckable. Really fucking fuckable for a 49-year-old man. “Like shit,” you settle on, the words tumbling out of you in a strained manner as you force yourself to meet his eyes. “You– you look like shit, Leon.” You pat his shoulder jerkily. “Unfortunately.”
“Right, sure,” he says, his head tilting as he stares down at you, unconvinced. “You really know how to flatter a man.”
“I’m charming like that,” you say, hands clasping behind your back.
Leon hums, and you stare back up at him, gaze flitting away for one moment to get a glimpse of his left hand. No ring. Perfect. You pinch yourself as soon as the thought comes.
“You gonna let me out?”
“What?”
When Leon gestures towards you, you realize you’re still standing in front of him, blocking the way out. You move to the side sheepishly, pushing the case file into his chest quickly before locking yourself in the bathroom.
You let out an embarrassed groan once you’re in the shower, burying your face into your hands. What the fuck was wrong with you? There was no way that all it took was some dorky, attractive, older man to have you feeling out of sorts. A dull ache flares between your thighs at the thought of Leon, fingers sneaking past your folds to rub at your traitorously swollen clit. It doesn’t take much, just the image of his body pressed against yours, his arms wrapped around you, mouth pressed against your ear while he grunts–
You cum with a muffled whine. Scrubbing the rest of your mortification off of your skin with soap, you dry off, slipping into a pair of sleep shorts and a hoodie. You pad out of the bathroom to find Leon sitting at the table – thankfully with a shirt on – a few containers of food littered across its surface while he’s hunched over his laptop.
“Hey,” he greets when he sees you, gaze travelling over you briefly before turning his laptop towards you. “I had a look. Your guy might be part of a cult,” Leon brings up another image, showing it to you, “they’re not the exact same, but similar enough. Might be worth looking into.”
“Cult? That’s fun,” you murmur, dropping into the chair beside him, watching as he runs his hair through his hair. “Thank you for taking a look, and the food.”
His brows raise. “Those might be the most sincere words to come out of you today.”
“Shut up,” you say, although a small smile pulls at your lips.
Dinner is quick as you both make a plan for tomorrow – visit the local PD, check out the crime scene and investigate a few related areas of interest. Leon settles down on the couch soon after, adjusting his pillow a few times before grunting as he tries to get comfortable. You were right, he doesn’t fit. He looks so awfully crammed, knees bent and back hunched at an awkward angle that even you feel bad about it.
“Leon,” you say exasperatedly, “we can both fit on the bed. That can’t be good for your back.”
“This is fine,” he replies stubbornly, shifting onto his back uncomfortably, arm hanging off the edge. “I’ve slept in worse places.”
“I can’t deal with you complaining about your back tomorrow,” you say, gesturing towards the bed. You lay down, squirming to the side to make space. “See? You can have the other side.”
“You sure your boyfriend won’t mind?”
“What?” you ask confusedly, sitting up on your elbows. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Leon grunts as he gets to his feet, dropping down onto the bed without further protests. It’s a tight fit, but you both manage, a sliver of space left between your bodies. You stare up at the ceiling, lips pursing, feeling antsy.
“Did you…” you glance over at him, feeling entirely too bold for your own good, “did you ask because you were interested?”
He stares back, brows raising. “Interested in what?”
“In what?” you repeat irritably, “are you seriously playing dumb?”
Leon smiles back at you, shrugging lazily. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Maybe if you clarified what it was you wanted from me–”
“I don’t want anything from you!” you sputter, flushing hot. The bed creaks as you flop onto your side, facing away from him. “You’re old and weird and infuriating and–”
“I feel like you’re avoiding my better qualities.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, I know you want to, baby.”
It’s a miracle your neck doesn’t snap with how fast you turn to look at him.
“May I remind you that this,” you gesture between your bodies wildly, “is a professional relationship?”
“Yeah?” Leon murmurs, raising his brows, “is that why you got off in the shower? Rubbed one out to make yourself feel better ‘bout liking me?” He looks unfazed when your jaw slackens, tapping the wall behind his head. “Thin walls.”
“That is none of your business.” You lean closer, eyes narrowing in an attempt to hide your growing embarrassment. “HR is going to have a fucking field day with you.”
You flop back onto your side, trying to put some distance between you, but there’s such a little space on the bed that you end up half-dangling over the edge. Leon doesn’t say anything, the silence between you thick and stretching on uncomfortably until you sit up, turning to face him.
He stares back at you, the bed creaking softly as he shifts, folding an arm under his head. His shirt stretches tight, thick bicep flexed and the sight is enough to make you lose your last nerve.
Your hand cups his jaw, head dipping to press a kiss to his lips. It’s meant to be quick, fleeting, to get whatever the fuck you have bottled up inside of you. Leon doesn’t seem to agree as he returns your kiss roughly, stubble scratching against your skin, his hand moving to cup the back of your head, blocking your escape.
“Where’re you going?” he murmurs, lips brushing over yours.
“This–” you whine softly when he kisses the underside of your jaw, fingers tightening into his shirt. “This is a bad idea.”
“I happen to be full of those.”
“You’re so fucking corny,” you groan, mouth dropping open as he trails kisses along your jaw lazily.
His lips are soft, calloused fingers massaging your scalp whilst an arm slides around your waist to pull you into his side. Another whine escapes you, head tipping towards him as his hand wanders under the hem of your hoodie, hot skin drifting over your waist and higher, his thumb grazing the curve of your breast.
“And you’re a fucking brat,” Leon says, watching your expressions closely as you whine and pant, pulling him towards you for another kiss, arms wrapping around his neck tightly.
He groans into your mouth, lips slotting over yours feverishly, his hand squeezing at the back of your neck. You squirm, throwing your leg over his hip, mewling when he licks into your mouth. Leon’s a good kisser, you think dazedly as his tongue strokes against yours in a filthy motion that has heat blistering in your stomach. His hand moves, circling around the front of your throat, squeezing gently.
You blink up at him hazily when he pulls away, lips slick with spit and pupils blown out. A smile spreads across your lips as you arch into him, hands sliding up over his strong forearm, fingers wrapping around his wrist.
“You can squeeze harder,” you whisper, pressing his fingers into your skin harder, gasping when he grants your request, eyes rolling back as the pressure around your throat constricts.
“That’s a little fucked up, baby,” Leon breathes out, watching as you writhe and suck in a ragged breath, his brows furrowing.
His brows raise when you glare at him, leaning over you to let his nose nudge against yours, kissing you gently before he tightens his grip a little more, drawing out a choked noise from you. There’s a heady fog settling over your mind the more he keeps you from barely breathing, something slow and syrupy creeping into the crevices of your brain as he presses a kiss to your cheek. He’s letting go before long though, brushing the pad of his thumb over your lips roughly.
“I can handle it,” you mumble hoarsely, head tipping as he massages your throat, huffing out a breath when he laughs against your cheek.
“Yeah?” Leon rasps, his gaze darkening when you suck his thumb into your mouth, tongue swirling around the digit needily, head lifting as you feign bobbing your head. “What, you want me to put you in your place or something? Is that what you need?”
The idea is appealing. You’ve been strung tight for months, between work and the never-ending cases that were stacking up on your desk, you hadn’t exactly gotten much time to yourself, to wind-down from the constant wear and tear brought about by the commitments demanded from you by the FBI.
“Maybe,” you say slowly, looking away. “I don’t know. I guess I just want some… attention or whatever.”
“From me?” Leon says, his fingers sliding over your jaw to guide your gaze back to him. “Your way of asking for attention is acting bratty?”
“I don’t know!” you sputter, pushing at his chest, feeling shy.
“Oh, that’s cute,” he coos, smiling down at you. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll give you all the attention you fuckin’ need.”
You squeak when he moves suddenly, sitting up before he’s dragging you towards him, maneuvering you until you're bent over his lap. A whimper is punched out of you when he squeezes the fat of your ass through your shorts, lashes fluttering when each consecutive grope grows rougher until it stings lightly.
“Guess if you’re into choking, you should be into something like this,” Leon murmurs thoughtfully, squeezing your ass greedily. “‘s been a while since I’ve done this with someone.”
“Since you’ve– ah– groped someone?” you ask, hips wiggling when his touches disappear, ass lifting involuntarily to chase after his touch.
“Kissed, touched,” he sucks in a sharp breath, “groped… fucked.”
You glance at him over your shoulder, brows raising curiously. “Can you still get it up?”
A sharp yelp escapes you when his hand comes down on your ass, hard and punishing. It stings, the pain spreading out over your ass unforgivingly. You try and glare at him but his hand is coming down again, landing another heavy spank to your other ass cheek.
“It was just a question!” you protest, squeaking when he spanks you again and again, eyes squeezing shut as the red-hot pain spreads over your ass, the ache in your pussy beginning to burrow deeper.
“I know,” Leon murmurs, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. “Do you want me to stop?”
You pout into the sheets, voice quiet. “No.”
He huffs out a soft laugh, tapping your hip. You lift them, letting him tug your shorts down, mewling softly when he squeezes your ass, his fingers dipping past your panties, stretching them before letting them snap back against your skin.
“Cute panties,” he says, his hand rubbing over your stinging ass, fingers sneaking between your thighs, brushing over the drenched, ruined fabric. “Too bad you’ve made them all messy, baby. So fucking wet for me. You like my hand on your ass?”
“Yes,” you grumble, glaring at the wall. “Stop asking stupid questions, you jerk.”
You jolt when he spanks you, letting out an agitated breath when his hand palms over ass before coming down again in several repeated motions. A whimper escapes you when pleasure bleeds through your body, teeth sinking into your lower lip when the pace of Leon’s slaps quicken. It hurts but feels so good all the same, your thighs trying to squeeze together with how uncomfortably wet your pussy is becoming.
“Don’t– fuck! Don’t stop,” you mewl, arching your back, tears prickling at your eyes. “Leon– please ah–”
“Please?” Leon echoes, “look at that, you’re back to being polite. Good fuckin’ girl.”
You whine in agreement, nodding dazedly as you look back at him, unfocused eyes finding his lopsided smile, heart fluttering in your chest. You reach back for him, hand fighting his shirt, lips parting, eyes slipping shut when he leans towards you, head dropping to kiss you deeply, his fingers squeezing at your ass gently.
“You gonna stop being a brat? Hm? You wanna be my good girl, baby?” Leon rasps against your lips, stealing another soft kiss, his hands still palming at the blistering flesh of your ass, squeezing every now and again to force a pitiful whine out of you. He clicks his tongue when you slur, nose nudging against yours gently. “I asked you a question, sweetheart. Use your words for me.”
“Yes,” you manage out, pushing your ass back into his greedy, awaiting palm, a few stray tears dripping down your cheeks. “‘m gonna be– nghh– ‘m gonna be your good girl, Leon.”
“Yeah?” he breathes out, voice sounding rough as his thumb strokes over your cheek, wiping away the tears. “My sweet, pretty girl.”
“It– it hurts,” you babble, jerking in his lap when he rains an unsuspecting slap down onto your ass, teary eyes rolling back when his fingers slip between your thighs suddenly, rubbing at your swollen, aching clit through the dampened fabric of your panties. “Leon– ah fuck!”
“I know it does,” he soothes, pressing harder against your clit until your legs kick up, “but you asked for this, baby. Remember? You came up to me all pretty and said you wanted attention.”
“Stop being mean,” you hiccup, leaning into his palm when he offers it to you, nuzzling into the warm, rough skin.
“Mean?” Leon whispers, “‘m taking care of you, sweetheart.” He hums as he wipes away the saliva beading at the corner of your mouth, spreading it over your lips before his thumb presses down more firmly, a grunt of satisfaction leaving him when your lips part obediently. “There you go,” he breathes out, “suck on my thumb while I play with this needy, little pussy, baby.”
You whine, fingers clinging to his wrist as you suck lazily, tongue swirling around his thumb. His fingers rub against your wet panties, drawing out a soft mewl from you as he pets your clothed pussy.
“You can take them off,” you mumble around his thumb, biting gently before sucking again, happy to have your mouth occupied. “Want you to touch me.”
“I kinda like ‘em on,” Leon murmurs, his fingers grabbing at your thighs before they move, slipping past the waistband. “Besides, I can touch you like this.”
Your eyes flutter shut when his fingers glide through your sticky, puffy folds, breath hitching while Leon groans when he feels your wet pussy. His fingers are thicker than yours, slipping over the soft skin before the calloused pads find your clit. Your thighs twitch, toes curling when he starts to rub your clit using slow, measured circles.
“Is this how you do it?” he asks, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Did you play with your clit til you came in the shower?”
“Mhm,” you nod, peering up at him, lashes fluttering. You lap at his thumb, tongue flicking against the tip playfully, letting him watch.
“Fuck,” Leon rumbles, his thumb brushing over your bottom teeth before rubbing against your tongue. “So fuckin’ gorgeous, sweetheart. Look at you.”
You smile, lips wrapping back around his thumb soon after, eyes rolling back when his fingers leave your clit to play with your fluttering hole. A long whine leaves you when he circles your hole teasingly, the tip of a finger pressing in briefly before he draws them back out to rub at your clit.
“Put ‘em in,” you mewl, hips beginning to roll against his hand, one of your hands squirming underneath you to try and move his wrist. “Leon,” you grumble, pulling his thumb out of your mouth when he tries to press against your tongue again. “Put ‘em in.”
“What happened to being polite?” he muses, dipping his finger in again and then pulling it out.
“If you put ‘em in, I’ll be polite,” you reply, blinking up at him sweetly, a smug smile on your face.
Leon laughs, watching as your mouth drops open when he finally inches one finger inside of your clenching pussy, beginning to slowly fuck it in and out of you.
“Go on then,” he coaxes, “beg all pretty for me, sweetheart. Tell me what you want.”
“P– nghh– please fuck me with your fingers,” you whimper, fingers moving to rub at your throbbing clit. “Please, Leon? Want– fuck– want another finger.”
He doesn’t make you beg any further, sinking another finger into you. You shove your face into the sheets, hips wiggling back to meet the thrust of his fingers, your fingers quickening their pace against your clit.
“Taking me so good,” Leon murmurs, using his other hand to spread you open. You flush, feeling entirely too exposed as he stares down at your pussy stretching around his fingers. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy just sucking my fingers in.”
Your walls flutter around his fingers at that, hand reaching out for him blindly, fingers managing to curl into his shirt. You yank him down, mumbling something incoherent around his lips before dragging him down further, lips pressing against his. You moan into his mouth when he starts thrusting his fingers in and out of you harder, curling them just right.
“Leon,” you pant against his mouth, biting his lower lip before tugging it. Leon groans, his fingers scissoring before you moan again, lapping at his lips. His eyes roll back when your lips find his neck, head tipping to bare more of it to you until you manage to move, crawling up onto his lap, his fingers slipping out of you momentarily.
His back hits the bed when you push at his chest, his fingers finding your pussy again, thumb rubbing at your clit while his fingers sink back inside. You shove your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in with a mewl, pawing at his firm chest as you let your hips drop, fucking yourself on his fingers.
“You gonna do that on my cock?” Leon moans, his fingers tangling in your hair when you kiss his neck feverishly, teeth scraping against his throat, the action enough to draw a hoarse growl from him. “Gonna ride my cock like you’re riding my fingers, gorgeous?”
“Yeah,” you murmur against his neck, latching onto his skin and sucking, all with the intent of leaving a mark of your own, like he had done on your ass. “Wanna– ahhh– wanna ride your cock, Leon.”
“Fuck,” he mutters, an arm clamping around your waist to hold you flush against him, his thumb pressing against your clit harder, the lewd noises of your pussy growing louder with every snap of his wrist. “You’re gonna drive me fucking insane.”
You smile against his throat, kissing the underside of his jaw when his throat bobs uncertainly.
“We haven’t even fucked yet,” you whisper, fingers slipping into his hair, pulling at the strands to make him expose his neck further, drawing out a pretty whine from his lips. “Think you can handle me?”
Your smile fades when his fingers pull out of you suddenly, a sharp yelp leaving you when he grabs your hips and manhandles you onto your stomach, the fabric of your panties tearing loudly as he rips them off of you and pulls your ass into the air.
“Those were comfy!” you protest, glaring at him. “Leon?” you jolt when he slaps your ass hard, pulling your asscheeks apart. “Leon, wait– ah fuck!”
You squeal when he buries his face between your thighs, lurching forward unsteadily on your knees, hands grabbing out for the pillows. He’s ruthless, tongue gliding through your warm folds, drinking down your slick with a rough growl, his hands squeezing at your hips, tugging you back onto his mouth when you try and squirm away. The stubble on his cheeks and jaw isn’t helping, scratching against your skin deliciously as he nips and spits onto your cunt.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he snaps lowly, biting punishingly into your thigh when you try kicking at his chest. “Huh?”
“I didn’t–” your leg jerks when Leon bites the back of your thigh, fingers curling into the pillows tightly when he bites the fat of your ass soon after, tongue laving over the bite.
“You didn’t what?” Leon asks, thumb finding your swollen bud, his tongue drifting over the inner crease of your thigh, barely shy of your aching pussy. “You didn’t mean it, is that it, baby?” he drawls, wet fingers rubbing over your pussy.
“Yes!” you choke out, hand slapping against the pillow when he sucks your clit into his mouth lazily, his nose pressing into your pussy, rough hands massaging your ass. “I– nghhhh– I didn’t mean it, Leon.”
“Oh, I think you did,” he sighs heavily, feigning disappointment. He clicks his tongue condescendingly. “I thought you were being my sweet girl, but turns out you’ve just got one hell of a mean streak. Just can’t help being a bit bratty, can you, pretty baby?”
“I’m not a brat,” you wail, shoving your face into the pillows the same time he presses his face into your pussy.
You don’t think anyone’s touched you like this before, let alone used their mouth like this. Leon’s strong, his hands clamping down onto you to keep you in place as he flicks his tongue over your clit, teeth scraping over the sensitive bud. You drool messily, whimpering and whining as he laps at your cunt, his tongue prodding against your hole.
“Oh fuck,” you whisper, glancing behind you, eyes wide to find Leon looking at you hungrily, his gaze dark and feral. You swallow nervously, thighs twitching when he kisses the curve of your ass. “Leon, Leon– oh fuck!”
A squeal escapes you when he presses his tongue into your clenching cunt, eyes squeezing shut so tightly that you feel dizzy, hips pressing back needily to meet the movements of his tongue. He fucks it into you, head tilting as he holds you against his mouth, a hand moving under your hoodie to stroke over the length of your back.
You arch, mewling, hips swaying dazedly as he caresses your pussy with his tongue. A soft, ragged moan leaves you when his mouth moves, returning to your clit, toes curling when he presses his fingers back into you.
“You sound so pretty falling apart on my tongue,” Leon murmurs, rubbing his tongue over your clit with a groan, his fingers crooking inside of you. “You gonna cum, baby? Pretty pussy’s clenching around my fingers.”
“Nghhh–” you slur into the pillows, trying and failing to keep your eyes open, your lids drooping shut when his fingers press against that spot inside of you, his fingers rubbing over it with just the right amount of pressure.
His stubble brushes against the backs of your thighs, lips soft as he trails hot kisses all over your skin. Your hips jerk when he fucks his fingers into you harder and faster, the pressure in your lower stomach growing greater. When his mouth latches back onto you, you moan loudly, knees beginning to buckle.
“Fuck! ‘m gonna cum– ‘m gonna fucking cum, Leon,” you whine, hugging the pillow to your chest, a sharp breath of air leaving you.
“Cum then, sweetheart,” he whispers, “be a good girl and cum for me.”
You cry out when he sucks harder on your clit, his face pressing harder into you, nose buried into your pussy. Leon groans loudly, the vibration shooting up through you, making your pussy clench around his fingers tightly. Your body trembles, knees giving out finally when his tongue flicks at your clit, another moan tearing its way out of your throat as you cum.
“That’s it,” Leon snarls, managing to hold you up despite your arms feeling rubber. “Cum just like that. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”
You whimper, still twitching as he laps at your cunt gently, tongue sweeping over your folds as he slurps down your slick, his thumb rubbing against your clit to draw out the final waves of your orgasm while his fingers slow their pace inside of you before pulling out completely.
Leon’s body is hot when he hovers above you, his hands brushing away the sweaty hair clinging to your skin, head dipping to press soft kisses to your cheek, his stubble oddly soothing as it rubs along your skin.
“You okay?” he asks softly, hands drifting down over your back, squeezing your waist soothingly, hands petting at your still reddened and slightly bruised ass. “I guess I’ve been a little pent up.”
“A little?” you murmur, fingers sliding into his hair when he kisses your neck. “I think you’re more than a little pent up, Leon.”
He grunts in agreement, dropping another kiss to your neck before laying down on his back, letting out a heavy breath.
“I haven’t exactly had time to relax,” he sighs, “too many fucking responsibilities ever since Raccoon City.”
You hum, sitting up, arms still a little wobbly. Leon watches you, his eyes tracking your every movement. You smile at him, eyes twinkling, fingers hooking into the hem of your hoodie before you pull it up over your head, tossing it to the side. He sucks in a sharp breath when he sees your breasts, hand reaching out before he pauses mid-reach. You take his hand, pulling it toward your breast, smile growing wider when he squeezes.
“Are my tits helping you relax?” you ask innocently, hands landing on his chest as you swing a leg over his hip, straddling him.
“Guess so,” Leon says, his other hand joining the fray, squeezing your untouched breast. “Pretty fuckin’ tits, sweetheart.”
Your eyes flutter shut as you let him play with your tits, distracted momentarily by the way his fingers move – pinching and tugging, thumb sweeping over your hardened nipples. It’s when you shift on his lap that you become aware of how hard his cock is, hips rolling against the clothed length.
“To answer your question,” he murmurs, tracing the curve of your breast, gently cupping one in his hand, thumb stroking over the soft flesh. “I can, in fact, still get it up.”
You snort, unable to stop the laugh that bubbles out of you. Leon grins back, his head tilting as he peers up at you, hands sliding down over your sides to grab your waist.
“I didn’t doubt you for a second,” you breathe out, voice laced with amusement, your hands beginning to pull at his shirt. He helps you, lifting his arms so that you’re able to pull it up over his head easily. “You do look pretty good for a 49-year-old.”
You lean forward, kissing him gently before you trail kisses down his neck and over his chest, lips brushing over his thick pecs. Leon sighs, his eyes slipping shut, a hand cupping the back of your head as you continue to lay his skin with kisses. You kiss his scars tentatively, squirming lower to kiss his abdomen, tongue darting out to trace the defined ridges of his abdomen.
“You tryna make me cum?” Leon rasps, half-lidded eyes watching you as you bite at his side playfully.
“That is a priority, yes,” you say, following the trail of coarse hair that lies under his navel and the thick bulge laying further down.
His hands in your hair tighten when you nuzzle into his sweatpants, nose brushing against the fabric. When you breathe in, you can smell him, all heady and musky and arousal is seeping into your bones once more, mouth sucking at his clothed cock.
“As much fuck– I would like that,” he grumbles, hips bucking when you mouth at him again, spit dampening his sweatpants, “I’ll cum if you put your mouth on me, baby.”
“Just one suck,” you mumble stubbornly, pulling his sweatpants and boxers down.
Your eyes widen when his cock bobs heavily, struggling with its own weight. You swallow, blinking dazedly as you take in the length and the thickness and the heavy balls that sit underneath. The tip is flushed angrily, darkened and dripping with globs of pre-cum that don’t seem to stop, his cock twitching when you lean towards it slowly.
“It’s big,” you whisper, glancing up at Leon before your eyes find his cock again, pussy beginning to throb as you imagine the stretch. “Really fucking big. You’re– you’re that hard for me?”
Leon grunts, his hand wrapping around his cock, giving it a quick pump. “Yeah, just for you, sweet girl.” He pumps it again, holding his cock towards you. “You said you wanted a taste, go ‘head, pretty baby.”
You don’t need any further invitation, licking your lips hungrily, tongue lolling out. You drag your tongue along the hot length of his cock, feeling the smooth skin and saltiness of his pre-cum. Leon groans, his hips bucking again, another glob of pre-cum dribbling out. You lean forward just in time, catching it on your tongue before your lips wrap around his thick cock.
“Fuck– fuck, baby,” Leon moans, twitching underneath you as you bob your head, beginning to suck. “Your mouth– hah– fuckkk.”
You peer up at him, eyes glittering as you let your tongue swirl around the head before you pull off, pressing a wet, sticky kiss to the tip of his cock.
“Don’t do that,” he mutters hoarsely, shaking his head, “don’t fucking kiss my cock like you’re fucking in love with it.”
You do it again, brows raising when his cock twitches, looking over to find his hand clenched into the sheets, knuckles nearly white.
“I think you like it,” you tease, moving to wrap your hand around his cock, stroking it slowly. “And… I think your cock likes it too.”
“Fuck me,” he growls, head tipping back when you take his cock back into your mouth, sucking and slurping lewdly. He groans and grunts through it, eyes peeling open to watch you swallow around his cock, your pupils blown wide with lust.
When his head lolls to the side, you take your chance, head dipping before he can stop you to suck one of his balls into your mouth. He tastes so dizzyingly nice, spit beginning to leak from the corners of your mouth. Leon’s cock kicks and you land one last kiss to the tip before he’s pulling you up towards him, muffling your whine with a messy kiss.
“Wanna ride it,” you mumble against his lips, worming closer, breasts squishing up against his firm chest.
Leon doesn’t answer, too busy tipping your head up by your chin to kiss you again, stealing your breath. You paw at his chest, fingers finally latching onto his thick biceps. Squeezing, you moan into his mouth when his tongue strokes against yours, arms wrapping around his neck as he pulls back up onto his lap.
Your hips roll, bare pussy gliding along the length of his cock, the tip catching on your newly swollen clit, making you twitch. He refuses to let up with the kisses, groaning into your mouth when you pull at his hair, feverishly swallowing up every little noise that bleeds from your throat.
“Yeah?” he breathes out finally, head tipping back for a moment as he catches his breath, calloused hands squeezing at your hips. “You wanna bounce on it? Hm? This needy pussy of yours need a fat cock to keep it happy, baby?”
“Mhm,” you nod, biting your lip, arousal blistering over your skin, lust beginning to cloud your thoughts once more. You press closer, lips brushing against his ear as though telling him a secret. “It needs your fat cock, Leon.”
“C’mere,” he mutters roughly, moving you up onto your knees, hand grasping the base of his cock to hold it steady for you. “Sink down on it, sweetheart.”
You shift, lowering yourself slowly, letting out a muffled gasp when you start to take his cock, the head of it already beginning to stretch out your pussy as it bullies its way past your entrance.
“‘s just so fucking thick,” you moan softly, peering up at him.
Leon hums, his thumb stroking over your lower lip while his other hand strokes over your hip soothingly.
“You got it, baby,” he smiles, dropping a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You took my fingers and my mouth so fucking good. Only got a few inches left, yeah?”
Your brows furrow as you bite your lip harder, gasping when you finally take all of him, pussy fluttering around his cock wildly in an attempt to adjust to his sheer size. You feel so full, so much so that you think you can feel him in your stomach.
“Good fuckin’ girl,” Leon whispers, his arms wrapping around your waist as he leans against the headboard of the bed. “Take what you need from me, sweetheart. ‘s all yours.”
“Leon,” you mewl, dragging out the syllables of his name, whimpering against his mouth when he kisses your cheek. “I… I can’t,” you say, flushing hot, “it’s too big, I don’t–”
“Good girls don’t give up,” he breathes out, hands moving to squeeze at your waist, “not to mention you were so headstrong earlier. Where’s that attitude now, baby?”
“You fucked it outta me,” you retort poutily, shoving your face into the crook of his neck.
“And to think you said I was old and weird– shit, baby–”
You relish in the loud, guttural groan he lets out when the walls of your pussy squeeze around him. Nuzzling closer, you kiss the spot under his ear before your hips move, rocking and rolling in a lazy rhythm as you get used to his size.
“I’m not giving up,” you murmur, glancing up at him as he watches you, head tipping back when his hand moves up over your breasts, slipping between them to wrap around your throat.
“Atta girl.”
Leon squeezes and you moan, grabbing his wrist as your knees dig into the bedding, hips beginning to rise and fall. He pulls you into a sloppy kiss, growling into your mouth, panting as his tongue slips over yours messily, his thumb prying your mouth open. You pant, tongue lolling out as you ride his cock, the bed creaking from your motions as you fuck yourself on his cock needily.
“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” Leon rasps, watching you with dark eyes, his hair messy and hanging over one side of his face. “So fuckin’ gorgeous, sweetheart.”
You smile at him dopily, breath slowing when his hand tightens, starting to cut off your intake of oxygen. His nose nudges against yours, breath hot as he kisses you, lips working against yours eagerly until his grip loosens, letting you suck in a breath.
“You trust me that much?” Leon asks, smiling back at you with a feral look in his eyes when your hand wraps around his throat. “You think that’s a good idea, sweetheart? You wanna choke me out while you ride my cock?”
“Oh, you can take it,” you whisper, tightening your grip. Your movements don’t slow, thighs smacking against his as you bounce on his lap, your hand landing on his shoulder for leverage as you drop yourself down on his cock harder, setting a firmer rhythm. “Heard you– ahh– kicked ass back at Rhodes Hill.”
He grins, eyes glinting, a ragged noise leaving him when you pant into his mouth, licking at his lips.
“Yeah, I still hah– got it,” Leon muses, hands squeezing at your ass.
Your brows furrow when his grip tightens, a moan punched out of you when he grips your hips starting to lift you, using you as he fucks you on his cock.
“That’s it,” he drawls, controlling the rhythm and you, his forehead pressing against yours as he jerks you up and down his thick, throbbing cock. “Take my fat fuckin’ cock, baby. Cute, little pussy’s just swallowing me up.”
You whimper, hand sliding to cup the nape of his neck, your bodies moving together as his cock carves its way through your pussy, nestling against that spot before it glides out and drives back in. His chest is pressed against yours, firm muscle pressed against your soft breasts, the coarse thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbing along your clit.
“Harder,” you whisper, eyes finding his, hips starting to sway back to meet his thrusts when he plants his feet into the bed, knees bending as he fucks his cock up into you. “Want it– nghh– harder, Leon.”
“That might strain my joints, baby,” he says softly, smiling up at him when you huff out an annoyed breath. “What? You were concerned about my bones.”
“Fuck your bones,” you groan, pushing at his chest, squirming off of his lap onto your hands and knees, ass swaying up into the air. You look back at him over your shoulder, hand worming between your thighs to spread yourself open for him, wet, dripping pussy all on display for him. “‘m so empty,” you whisper, voice lilting. “Fill me up?” You bat your lashes, “please?”
Leon mutters a low curse, his chest heaving as he rises up onto his knees, using your ankle to pull you toward him, his hand stroking his cock with uneven motions, knuckles tightening when he sees the slick webbing between your puffy folds and clinging to your thighs.
You’re half-expecting some witty remark, but all Leon does is brush a rough kiss to your shoulder, grunting into your ear before he’s notching the head of his cock against your aching pussy and driving his cock into you.
“Too– fuck! Too fast!” you squeal when he starts thrusting hard and fast, the bed beginning to rock with every snap of his hips.
“But you said you were empty,” Leon rumbles into your ear, “‘m just filling up this needy, pretty fucking cunt for you, sweetheart. So stop squirming,” his hand clamps down on your hips, “and fucking take it.”
You wail into the room, thrashing under him when his hips smack into your ass, balls slapping against your throbbing clit, the lewd noises echoing through the small space. He draws moan after moan out of you, his cock pounding into your pussy unforgivingly. You think you can feel it in your throat, his fat cock sliding through your gripping, fluttering walls.
Leon’s body is draping over your back, his mouth settling right next to your ear as he grunts and groans. Your toes curl, back arching when he pushes down on the small of your back, his breathing ragged as he grinds his impossibly thick cock into you.
“Fuck,” you mewl, spying his flexed bicep near your head, drool pooling into your mouth. Your head tilts as the muscle bulges, all inhibitions lost when you follow the line of his arm to stare hazily at his veiny forearm. You lean towards his bicep, teeth sinking into the thick muscle with a moan.
Leon’s breath hitches, his hips stuttering for a moment when he realizes you’ve bit him before his thrusts start up again, his hot, heavy cock pounding back into your needy pussy. You lick his bicep, tongue laving over his warm skin, eyes rolling back when his arm moves, wrapping around your throat, his bicep pressed up against the side of your neck.
“You keep– fuck– staring at my arms, sweetheart,” Leon rasps, grinning against your cheek when you let out a choked moan, his breath cut off by a low moan of his own. “Is this what you need? A strong arm wrapped around your throat, fat cock pounding into your needy cunt and sweet, little kisses?” He punctuates his question by kissing your temple.
“I– nghhh– need you,” you whine, feeling dazed as he drops his weight onto you a little more, enough so that you can feel every inch of him against your back.
You can’t really do anything but take it, his skin slapping against yours and breath rough in your ear. When his fingers move, finding your clit to rub the swollen bud, you whimper, clutching the sheets, nails raking against the fabric as the string of pleasure draws tighter.
“‘m gonna cum,” you say hoarsely, cunt clenching around his cock desperately. “Leon– Leon, Leon, Leon!”
“‘m right here, baby,” Leon whispers, kissing your cheek, “taking my cock so well. Doing so– fuck– good for me, yeah? Cum whenever you want, sweet girl, I’ve got you.”
Your body jerks when his fingers rub against your clit faster, a ragged scream erupting from you as you cum violently. Leon swears, his grip on you faltering, the arm on your throat drawing away as you twitch on his cock, grasping at the sheets, at the pillows until Leon offers you his hand.
Your fingers lace together with his and you squeeze tightly, gasping uncontrollably until his mouth finds yours, capturing your lips in a kiss. You whimper into his mouth, knees weak and thighs tired, your death-grip on his hand loosening when he soothes you with soft kisses. Your pussy clenches and Leon groans into your mouth, his hips jerking forward unevenly.
“‘m gonna cum too, pretty baby,” he grunts, fingers pushing at your ass gently, hips beginning to pull away. “Greedy, little pussy’s clenching around me too tight, I can’t–”
“Inside,” you mumble, letting your hips sway back tiredly, trying to swallow down the length of his cock. “Cum inside.”
“That’s– shittt– a bad idea, baby,” Leon groans, his head dropping forward to rest against your shoulder as his hips rock into you, pace stuttering.
You can feel his cock throb and twitch, a soft mewl escaping you. “You said you were full of bad ideas.”
Leon lets out a startled laugh, his breath coming out in short, choppy bursts. “I did– hahhh– I did say that. Take my cum then, sweetheart, gonna flood this perfect fuckin’ cunt with cum.”
He grips your hips, thrusting forward with a hard drive of his cock. Leon swears under his breath, his hips jerking into your ass as he cums, cock kicking and throbbing as hot, thick cum floods your pussy.
You let out a contented noise when he moans into your ear, low and guttural, the sound making you feel warm. His softening cock slips out after a few moments and Leon pulls himself away from you, the bed protesting under the weight of you both. You curl up into his side, head dropping over his chest, eyes drooping when you feel the steady beat of his heart.
Leon’s hand settles on your head, stroking over your hair lazily as he pants, chest rising and falling.
“Do you feel relaxed?” you murmur, peering up at him with a sleepy smile.
“I feel fucked out,” Leon mutters, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek, rubbing at the spot of drool that had pooled at the corner of your mouth. “You did a number on me, sweetheart.”
“I aim to please.”
He laughs, hauling you closer and you smile, kissing the underside of his jaw. “You went above and beyond, I can tell you that much.”
You snort, arms wrapping around his neck. “Am I gonna get that in writing?”
“I’ll think about it,” Leon murmurs, his fingers slipping under your chin to tip your head, lips pressing against yours. You hum into the kiss, fingers tangling in his soft hair, a quiet noise leaving you as he squeezes your ass.
When Leon pulls away, you chase after his lips, eyes fluttering shut when he returns your kiss just as eagerly, your thigh hooking over his hip, brows furrowing when you feel his cock against your thigh.
You look down, cheeks flushing when you find his spent cock beginning to harden, the fat length bobbing gently as it fills out.
“Already?” you murmur, sighing softly when he leaves stubbly kisses along your jaw.
“What can I say?” Leon whispers, his hips bucking when your hand wraps around his hardening cock. “You uh… bring out the best in me, I guess.”
You raise your brows, unable to stop the wide smile that spreads across your face. “Your best attribute is your cock? That’s a little disappointing.”
He grins, groaning when you kiss his pec.
“You didn’t seem to think it was disappointing when I fucked you with it.”
“It is nice,” you acquiesce, head tipping back as he leans into you, trailing hot kisses down your neck, his hips beginning to rock lazily, meeting the strokes of your hand.
“I do have other nice, non-sexual attributes,” Leon says, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb stroking over your skin gently. There’s a light flush settled on his cheeks and he clears his throat, sucking in a soft breath when you squeeze his cock. “Maybe you’d like to find out sometime?”
Your smile softens, affection beginning to creep in through the cracks of your ribs. Leaning forward, you kiss him gently.
Synopsis. Six months since you’ve broken up with Toji Zenin - hotshot center for the men’s national team, perhaps the most feared man in ice hockey - and you’ve moved on…somewhat. Six months since you’ve broken up with him, and listen- Toji doesn’t mean to be a homewrecker, but he’d totally still wreck that p—ahem. Now if only he could get that two-timing boyfriend of yours out of the way…
Pairing. Toji Fushiguro x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, ice hockey player!Toji, ex-boyfriend!Toji, Winter Olympics AU, exes to Iovers, second chances, ice hockey finals, ice hockey games, jerseys, Naoya cameo, channeling my Naoya hate tbh, fights, sIight vioIence, Toji being in his feels, yearning, pússydrúnk Toji, oraI (fem rec.), p talking, p sIapping, P WORSHIP, he’s GONE, he’s better than HIM and he proves it, fíngering, spítting, overstím, manhandIing, doggy, Iocker room s, he’s big, making it fit, ‘teaching’ your p, cervíx smooches, multiple o’s, he’s JEALOUS, desperate s, rough s, slight marathon, sIight exhíbitíonism, needy Toji, FÉRAL Toji, creampíes, cúmpIay, proposals, sIight bréeding, happy ending, Shiu cameo heheh, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 12.1k
A/N. SURPRISE!! Hiiiiiiiiighly request hehehe- inspired by this scrumptious Tiktok by the lovely @/bellursjournal <33
234 fights.
234 won.
Ice hockey wasn’t just about the hard-hitting, fast-paced, ice-cold adrenaline that coursed through each and every single player there—outreaching like a gale towards the rows of audiences that jumped up in elation. Shivering at the impact of every skate, glide, and punch.
No, ice hockey was also about bringing people together.
And as corny as it may sound, it was part of why Toji loved these games so much. As one, he made them stand. He made them shout. He fired them up until they became immune to the frigidness of Milano Santagiulia Ice Hockey Arena.
So it wasn’t exactly out-of-the-ordinary to see a fight start up during one of these games - between players (him especially) and between fans.
What was slightly unusual was to see a fight occur between a player and a fan. Which is exactly what he was watching happen right now.
And even more unusual was just who it was.
You—arguing with some brute he assumed to be your boyfriend.
Tch…Toji’s scarred lips curl without him even realizing it. He’d noticed you the second you stepped into the rink - he always did. The second you’d stepped into his life, the second you’d stepped out of it. It was like this undeniable tug at the pit of his stomach, this rush of victory, this sudden warmth that he couldn’t explain - and couldn’t quite imitate no matter how many layers he wore.
Not that he would reminisce, of course.
You’d met at one of his games—and to this day, no matter how many other matches he played in, he still considers that one of his best. It was in the feeling that you gave him - that game felt different. It was.
His eyes kept drifting to where you sat behind the plexiglass, and his skates have never glided smoother across the ice. It was a win for the records. After the game, Toji himself had been mulling over whether or not he should approach that pretty university student that had been shouting his name throughout the entire game- when you yourself had shyly walked up to him in the fan-signing section.
Steps tentative, a book crushed to your chest.
You’d asked him for an autograph in that sweet voice—and he’d scribbled his number out then and there. Media training be damned.
And when he’d asked you who your favorite player was- lo and behold, you’d replied that it was…Shiu Kong. He doesn’t think he’s laughed louder in his life.
That was also the game that got him on the radars of national team scouts.
You’d dated for a year. Almost exactly.
And to be transparent, it’s already been six months since the two of you broke up. Over some…honestly, he doesn’t even remember properly. He knew it had to do with his updated training regiment and the way he’d been pushing himself during the Olympics drafting season - and because of it, Toji knew he fucked up. He knew he missed dates, missed quality time, missed milestones. Barely came home from the rink.
You didn’t even care about that, he thinks. You wanted him to pace himself and take some breaks, he thought that sounded like a nightmare. Eventually, the last straw had been when he’d missed your one-year anniversary, and it’d accumulated into an explosive argument- that, he could remember.
He’s gotten better since then, he thinks.
But Toji was just about as over it as any man would be over the love of his life- fuck, did he really get his cringe after the break-up? That probably wasn’t good for his health. But it’s just that…he hasn’t felt that particular rush of victory ever since you left.
Not even when he was chosen for the official Japanese ice hockey team, not even when they landed in Milan, not even when they progressed to the finals.
But today…
The fucking finals of the Olympics and he was sitting on the players’ bench before the game, scouring the stands for but a glimpse of you. The fuck have you done to him?
He could feel that surge of warmth, however. As though every fibre of his body had long since attuned to you, wasn’t whole without y- fuck off. The point was that you were somewhere here.
And Toji was reminded of those days you’d be sitting in the very first row of his games- front and center, waving a banner with his number, wearing one of his red jerseys. ZENIN—it would say on the back. Not one from the merchandise store, of course, though those sold out so fast that even Toji himself wouldn’t be able to get his hands on one.
So his eyes slid along the first rows of fans. The turnout was incredible.
Japan vs. the US.
And Toji could guise his sudden alertness towards the audience as checking for any distractions in the stands - he didn’t want to be off his game during the fucking finals, now, did he? Especially not considering that their newest recruited defense player was…
But he knew that was bullshit.
Nothing ever threw Toji Zenin off his game.
And yet…and yet once he spotted you - seated amongst a clump of blue-wearing supporters on the other side of the rink, right opposite where he sat on the players’ benches - he couldn’t help the sudden jitter that ran through his body. Honestly, he thinks he might just break that streak of (substantiated) overconfidence before a match-
Fuck, how beautiful you were.
Just as beautiful as the day he lost you, it makes everything almost move in slow-motion. If this were a movie - and it somewhat feels like one right about now - then the music would swell, and Toji’s eyes would turn to hearts, and perhaps there’d be a dance number or two and then a montage of-
Bullshit, bullshit! Toji Zenin wasn’t thrown off his game.
Toji Zenin was unaffected by your presence- and the fact that you were wearing a jersey clearly representing the other team. He didn’t fucking care.
He didn’t. Not even about the fact that you were currently in the middle of a very heated argument with one of the US players. Blond hair. Black tips. Shorter than him. Not even by how close you leaned into him. And Toji doesn’t bother to wipe the scowl off of his face as he perks his ears in your direction - one could never be too sure whether you were trading secrets with this e-boy blue-team boyfriend of yours.
You would never, to be clear, but just- just let him fucking evesdrop-
“—can’t believe you would do this to me.” Your voice carries, and the little tremor in your tone makes his eyes widen.
Sure enough, he could see the glimmer of tears in your eyes.
You’re rising up from your seat slightly, and it draws the attention of fans around you. Seething, “I can’t believe you would-”
“Shhhhhhhh—” The man has the audacity to bring a finger to his lips and shush, likely louder than you were being in your controlled tone. Trembling, but controlled. His half-blond bangs sway just a little as he looks towards his own team and coaches, then back towards you. “You’re being crazy right now.”
“I’m being crazy?” Laughing in disbelief. Holding up a phone that seemed to be the other man’s, presumably given to you for safe-keeping during the match. “I’ve seen the messages, and you say I’m being crazy-”
“You are. You’re acting hysterical and I need you to calm down.” Toji couldn’t see the man’s ugly face, as he had his back turned towards the benches. But he could see every bit of how this particular sentence made your expression crumple- “Look I don’t know what you think you saw on those texts, but it isn’t what you think it is. It’s locker talk- I went out with the other players, got some drinks, met some fans and…nothing happened with any-”
“You’re cheating on me-”
“You’re paranoid.”
Your eyes flash, “But-”
“You know I always hate to talk to you like this, baby. I really do.” He reaches up and puts a pale hand on the plexiglass, “But you’re just being paranoid. And I don’t want to call you insecure, but-”
“Don’t you dare—” You’re standing up now.
“See? This is exactly what I mean.” From the ruffling of his uniform, Toji could tell he was crossing his arms. Oh, how he wished this son of an asshole would turn around right now- just turn around and let him get a good look at what gave him the right. His cruel lips curl just a little bit in a way that just looked so familiar. It makes his blood boil. “You’re being crazy.”
And Toji sees the exact moment you furl in on yourself. “But…” It makes his fists clench.
Before he knows it, he’s gritting his teeth so hard he tastes metal.
“I’m a hockey player, baby, I’ve gotta network.” With such a tone of finality, he ends off—“Stop being so hysterical, and maybe we can have a civil conversation after.” The man kicks his blades into the ice and starts to push off, “Cheer for me loud during the game. My teammates are going to be watching.”
You don’t say a thing.
But he does, “You’re lucky you’re dating me, y’know?”
And that’s when Toji’s eyes finally fall to the text upon the man’s uniform.
ZENIN.
He knows who it is even before he turns—and Toji falters. Not out of reconsideration, or anxiety, or fear - but out of the sheer surprise that ah, this was going to be convenient.
Because Toji Zenin knew the bastard - more than he would have liked to.
Naoya Zenin was a part of his past whether he wanted to or not. He was the snot-nosed, bratty second heir to Zenin Industries that would hide behind corners and snicker to himself whenever Toji got caught sneaking out to the arena again. Whenever he was told off for going against Zenin family values - against his duty to become the head of their sport equipment business - by whichever higher-up happened to be feigning for a stress outlet that day.
Short and sweet, Toji Zenin wasn’t supposed to become an ice hockey player—let alone the fucking best in the country. But he digresses.
And how fucking hilarious was it that the (second) heir to a family so vehemently against Toji becoming an ice hockey player…also became an ice hockey player? He had an inkling this would happen - when Naoya’s mean-spirited amusement turned into surveillance attempting to catch him sneaking out of the estate, turned into watching him play at the local arena. Turned into awe.
He knew the boy was stunned ever since the first time he watched Toji play. And he never laughed when Toji was caught after that day.
But it seems that that still hadn’t stopped the kid from growing up into a fucking asshole like the rest of them.
He was damn glad he’d escaped from that household the very second he’d gotten an offer from a local team, the Tokyo Ice Bucks. Though a morbid part of him wished he’d stayed just long enough to be there for when Naoya announced that he, too, wanted to become just like their disgraced once-heir. How he wished he could’ve seen the reactions of his high-strung relatives, his uptight family friends, his parents, his council—though, seemingly it hadn’t worked out too bad for Naoya.
As he climbed up the ranks, he’d heard through the grapevine that his cousin had been sent to some of the most expensive training centers in the world. Ultimately getting signed onto a team in the US (though the hefty sum his family had paid likely helped, but those were just rumors of sports business…). He also knew that the other man had gotten naturalized recently, getting chosen for the Olympics team. He knew it all.
Toji just didn’t know that Naoya would also be your fucking boyfriend.
“Major scene, eh?” Kusakabe clatters himself down on the bench, slightly winded after a practice run. He fixes the laces on his ice skates, “I saw your ex-girlfriend there, she’s gotten even more beautiful. She seemed to be arguing with-”
“Mhm.” Replying absent-mindedly, Toji stands.
“Something about cheating- what a fucking bastard. Doesn’t deserve her, but then again neither did you.”
“I know.”
And Kusakabe frowns, “Does she know that she’s dating your weirdo estranged cousin?”
“No fuckin’ clue.”
“Oi…” Comes the slightly wary tone at Toji’s swift, dismissive responses—Kusakabe looks up at his teammate. “Don’t do something stupid.”
But Toji doesn’t answer, too fixated on watching the remains of your argument with Naoya: you sitting down weakly in your chair, looking around to make sure no one notices as you wipe away the tears in your ears before they overspill. He sees red.
He shoots up to a stand.
“Oi-” Kusakabe’s more panicked tone echoes across the ice- did Toji already get inside the rink? He was skating on the ice before he even registered it. “Oi, fuck-face. Asshat. Toji—”
But Toji’s eyes were set on one thing, his ears were listening for the commentator announcing the imminent start of the game.
“Toji, don’t do something stupid-”
And maybe he was stupid. Because it wasn’t for nothing that Toji Zenin was named the most feared man on the ice by The Hockey News just this year. He stood big. He stood tall. He stood unafraid to fight his entire childhood, so why should he be afraid to fight on the ice?
234 fights since the start of his ice hockey career.
234 fights won.
And right now the man wasn’t afraid to get blood on his hands, even if it suspended him.
Their coach barks at the rest of the Japanese team to get into position, and it’s a blur as he bends low at the faceoff spot, awaiting the referee to release the puck. Toji Zenin: captain of the Japanese Ice Hockey team.
His eyes shift past the US captain before him—to where Naoya Zenin was lined up as well. And he can see the precise, exact moment that the other man registers- and a shiver courses down his spine.
The puck drops.
It goes to the Japanese team.
Toji swoops the puck using the blade and attacks between the forwards- pitiful, honestly. He could almost let out a slight burst of laughter as he senses the dumbfounded looks on their faces—and yet, he doesn’t spare them a single glance backwards as he races between members of the other team. Past center. Past forward.
A right-winger attempts to steal the puck. He’s ignoring Kusakabe’s call to pass and toe-dragging around his bland-faced opponent to skate right past. Right winger. Left winger.
The forward surpassed yet again.
At the speed of light, screaming audience members meld into one.
All but you.
You—you’re all that’s on his mind as Toji makes it unscathed up to the defense- past left defense.
Until he’s left facing the very man he hasn’t seen in ten years. Eyes like his, though they were dark and widened in fear - somewhere in the far distance of the stadium, Toji hears one of the commentators make a remark about their relation. He doesn’t listen.
He feints the puck slipping out from the leash of his hockey stick for a split-second—just long enough for excitement to flicker in Naoya’s eyes and for his own hand jerk to claim it. Only to smile- hah, you fucking thought.
And Toji’s slamming at the back of the puck - straight into the net of the goal.
Bursts of cheers and commentary as the Japanese men’s ice hockey team scores the first goal of the Olympic finals. Fans getting up onto their feet. Hands high in the air.
But Toji’s own curls into a fist that meets Naoya Zenin’s jaw.
The sickening sound of bone crushing against flesh, knuckles - it’s never sounded sweeter in Toji’s ears. The baffled man is on the floor before he can even register what happened. Thud! There’s a gasp that echoes throughout the stadium, before the two-toned man haplessly attempts to get up and get at least one hit in for his own dignity—but it’s too late, he raises a feeble hand but it falls. Meanwhile Toji pummels punch after punch.
Hard enough that it makes the ice floor shudder.
Long enough that the referee glides over and their team starts surrounding them.
Naoya’s now spread-eagle on the floor and sobbing for mercy, which Toji genuinely didn’t hear - he genuinely didn’t. Couldn’t. His ears were ringing and his eyes were seeing red- no, they were seeing that vision of you wiping away your tears.
His prominent knuckles met the swoops and structure of Naoya’s face, features that he can’t deny make him wonder…did you see Toji in him? The proud slash of his mouth. The high cheekbones of the Zenins.
It made something twist within him to think that not only might you have seen Toji in him- but then he would’ve betrayed you as such. As if Toji ever would.
Naoya made you cry.
He couldn’t beat this fucker harder.
It takes four of his own teammates to pull him off.
And by then, even the commentators had stopped speaking, the audience watching in a mix of interest and horror. Their hands on their mouths. Toji staggers onto his feet and yet his hands were still clenched - still twitching as though he was in the middle of the fight.
Kusakabe’s nails dig into his skin even through those thick uniforms, and he’s muttering something in his ear about the referee and a five-minute timeout. But Toji doesn’t care.
Toji isn’t looking at the referee, or the coach, or any of his teammates.
He turns his head over his shoulder to look at you—
You with your mouth agape, your eyes fixated reciprocatively on him, your blue jersey taken off to reveal your normal clothes underneath. There was a slight tremor in your body as you take in your ex-boyfriend, Toji.
Victorious from beating up your cheating boyfriend.
And the black-haired man can only smirk.
He tastes iron, and it’s only then that he realizes he had a nosebleed. Dripping from his left nostril and down across his lips, his garish grin; not from a single thing Naoya did, of course - that fucker hadn’t even gotten a single hit in…Toji was almost reconsidering whether the bastard was a Zenin at all - but perhaps from his teammates fighting against his fighting, perhaps from his sheer anger, perhaps just from looking at you for the first time in six months.
Even from here, he could see the slightest snippet of your bra strap peeking out from underneath your t-shirt.
It was the Japanese national ice hockey team red.
Or more like, Toji Zenin red.
He smirks even wider.
.
.
.
Needless to say, Naoya Zenin was carried out of the game in a stretcher.
Toji didn’t feel any regret about it - not even a single speck. His penalties still applied as well- for about five minutes before he was back to kicking ass in the finals. Metaphorically, this time.
He was about to show them why exactly he’d become the captain of the national team in such a short time.
And he could take on whatever shit they were commenting about a ‘family feud’ and a ‘beau stuck in the middle’ (who the hell even told them that? He was sure it must’ve been that loudmouth Kusakabe) if only…every time he circled the perimeter of the rink, he could see that smile of yours through the plexiglass screen. No banner with his name, but still cheering him on in a sea of blue.
Also needless to say—Japan won gold at this year’s Olympics for men’s ice hockey.
The celebrations were overpouring - streamers, confetti, fans attempting to jump their way into the rink. This was about tenfold the intensity of celebrating any local game they’d won, and yet…his eyes were anywhere but on the commentators, the audience, the teammates that were huddling around him.
Toji was turning his dazed head left and right- only attempting to find you.
“We won—” Kusakabe yelled out at him, giving him a hefty thump on the back and pulling the man into his embrace. “We fucking won, you asshat-”
“We did.” Toji’s lips felt parched. He couldn’t see a single sign of you through the chaos. “I think.”
They - meaning the rest of the team, with their captain tacked-on and looking slightly astray ever since he lost sight of you - celebrated for the pictures, for the podium. They celebrated on the ice and off it.
Eventually, the celebrations extended past the rink and towards their locker rooms. It was a sprawling room that’d been especially constructed; white walls and wood-panelled furnishings, even whiter ceilings that gloried down even more spotless racks for each, swathing the end of the room in a semi-circular fashion. It was where they kept their helmets and their jackets, took them off like armor after such a win. Towards the other end of the chamber were the stalls where they showered, large enough to house a small group in each of them, with benches of clean wood.
The tile beneath was colorless except for five familiar rings intertwined, spreading their wings from one end of the locker room where the showers were—and down to the benches where the celebration had bled out.
The players had long since filtered out to celebrate with food and family, except for one particular captain of which he had no family visiting. But also because he was getting his final warnings on pulling such a stunt like that…
“—I have no idea what-” Coach Shiu Kong peers through his stern eyebrows at the man seated on the bench, his head bowed low. “-or who triggered you to start enforcing like that, but know that you are walking on very thin ice.”
If Toji hears the other man - his best friend - then he doesn’t show any sign of it.
“Their defender practically needed to be hospitalized.” Shiu sighs, “I don’t give a shit if you beat the boy up, but keep it within guidelines. I overheard some of the officials discussing whether we should’ve given you a much tougher penalty.”
At that, Toji flinches.
“A much tougher penalty.”
Being a player himself not too long ago, however, Shiu could understand the other man somewhat. And he knows the captain would do it all again.
Gladly.
Toji remains silent, and Shiu pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look- you’re lucky you got off with a five-minute penalty this time. Insanely lucky. Next time you’re not gonna be so lucky, so I suggest you keep your fists to yourself.”
“Tch…” Their star player wrinkles his nose and looks away.
To which Shiu claps him on the shoulder, “Look, you did good out there.” Looking closely at the other man, “And I know the girl- I’ve seen her around practice when you used to bring her, before she stopped coming around. Gorgeous. But keep your head on straight.”
One final clap. “You did good.”
Before he, too, leaves.
The locker doors swing behind him. And then there was one.
As the celebrations raged on outside, Toji doesn’t know how long he spends sitting on that bench - thinking to himself. About what? Everything and anything. He couldn’t quite pinpoint one thought before it flowed into the next one, and even then just as he’d register it—suddenly it was speeding into the next. Aqueous.
But one thing was for sure, they were all about you.
You.
You.
You.
Knock-knock-knock.
Who the hell knocks on locker room doors?
Slightly bemused and perhaps wondering whether this was a paparazzi hoping for a good shot, Toji leans back in his seat and lets the knock reverberate. He doesn’t answer before the doors are clicking open, and a set of footsteps ring across the vast, dampened chamber - a set of footsteps that he’s memorized far better than his own heartbeat.
It was you.
This realization doesn’t damper his shock a single bit as your head peeks ‘round the tiled corner. Breathing out an exhale of relief as you realize that he’s the only one there, you’re revealing yourself properly in his line of vision now.
“Oh, good.” And your voice- fuck, even your voice doesn’t feel real. It echoes slightly in the space, and makes you sound even more dream-like in Toji’s ears. “I didn’t feel like walking in here and seeing an eyeful of ice hockey dick.”
“Think about ice hockey dick a lot?” They’re the first words out of Toji’s mouth to you in six months, and suddenly he feels like banging his head against a wall.
“You mean Naoya?” Your nose crinkles in distaste, and he feels like spitting. “Hell no—” He feels like laughing. “I told him we’re breaking up the second he got put on that stretcher.”
He startles himself with a guffaw, “As the bastard was being carried off?”
“As the bastard was being carried off.” You’re nodding, before awkwardly shifting on your feet. “I’m sorry.”
One of his brows raise, “For what?”
“I didn’t know he was your cousin. I just thought the last name was a coinci-”
“Nah- forget about it.” Waving off one hand - roughened with so many years of training, of holding a hockey stick as though a lifeline - in your direction. “No harm done, girlie. Guess that jus’ means you have a type- though obviously…” Toji stabs a finger in his direction, “-I’m the handsome one of the family.”
“As humble as ever, I see.” You tease.
“Always.” He shrugs in a nonchalant attempt, though his green eyes kept straying to you. “You look good.”
You’re meeting his eyes slowly. “You look good, too.”
And whatever he sees in your expression makes him gulp. “Fuck-” He whispers underneath his breath, reaching up and rubbing the burning back of his head. “Now, not that I mind ya being in the men’s locker room but…”
“O-oh.” You jump slightly, as though just now reminded of your objective. “I wanted to thank you.”
He’s taken aback. “Huh?”
“For…well not that I condone violence buuuut—” Averting your gaze from his, “I wanted to- thank you.”
“Y-yeah.” Breathless, “No harm done. The fucker didn’t deserve you anyway.”
“Oh yeah?” There’s a slightly challenging look in your eyes now, “I wonder who did.”
Toji Zenin then stands from his seat, and you’re taking a half-step back as if you’d forgotten just how much the athlete towered. His shoulders had gotten broader since the last time you saw him, fitting out the shape of his brand-new uniform snugly. His biceps bulkier. His hips more defined. His face more ruggedly handsome. His sage eyes sharper—and currently locked in on you…
“To be quite honest…” Toji starts, a slightly husky timbre to his tone, “I don’t think anyone did.”
You jut your chin up in defiance, “I disagree.”
“Clearly the current dating pool isn’t good enough if you ended up dating fucking Naoya of all people.” And was that a silent seething you could hear in his tone? “Never would I blame you for what he did, girlie. Never. I’m just wondering what the hell attracted you to him in the first place.”
And your hand’s reaching up to touch him- “I have…I have no idea.”
“Because don’t you know what you deserve?” His large right hand reaches out to cup your cheek tenderly- before he’s gliding it to the back of your neck and squeezing you meanly. “Tell me.” He tightens his fist and makes you look up properly at him, “Tell me what you deserve.”
To which you’ve just finished grabbing onto his red jersey. Tugging him to you—you’re walking backwards and dragging your ex-boyfriend with you. “Someone…handsome.”
He grins, “Mhmmmm?” Fingers tap-tap-tapping the cute column of your throat. “And what else?”
“Someone big n’ strong.” Step by step, you head towards the nearest vertical surface you can remember - one of those wooden partitions that separated the shower stalls from the changing area. “Someone really good at hockey.”
“Heh-” He fails to hide the glint in his eyes, “And?”
“Someone sweet, though he pretends not to be.” Giggling at his huff, “Someone interesting. Someone that opens up. Someone that won’t give up.”
“And?”
“Someone filthy rich-”
“Heh, gold-digger.”
“Someone that can change for the better for me.”
It’s with a quiet thud—! that you’re hitting the partition now- taking Toji with you. He braces himself with a large arm pressed on the area above your head, and from here you can ogle every single muscle, vein, and twitch.
Every single scorched pant as he leans in.
Blinking up at him, your heart races at the question you were about to ask. “Someone that’ll fuck me right?”
He smirks and you swear you can feel it against your mouth. “Why the question mark, doll?”
And then his lips are on yours.
Rushing. Ravenous. Famished.
Toji massages his scarred lips against yours, smacking at the taste of that dewy cherry lipgloss you had on. And he doesn’t hesitate for a single second before letting the tip of his tastebuds draaaaaaaag right down that gloss, humming. “Missed this taste.” He trails his right hand up to rest against the edge of your chin—widening the gap between your pretty lips n’ swiping his eager tongue in. Hot and open-mouthed.
Kissing you so filthy.
Toji fucking groans something feral as his tongue slips even deeper, reclaiming those velvety spots inside you. And as he feels your mouth water, feels your hips start to squirm, the ice hockey player can’t help but chuckle.
Lifting his left hand off of the wooden surface to run down your front, managing you away from the partition and inside the stall. You’re walking blindly backwards, being led by solely his hands - nothing inside but the showerhead above and the wide open space. Toji pushes you against the cold tile and kisses you even more fervently—“Missed how wet she’d get just from kissing me.”
Cupping your pussy through your short, short skirt.
“Is she purring already?”
You gasp, “You can’t just say that-”
“What was that?” Toji cocks his head in near-innocent confusion, “Can’t hear you over her congratulations.”
“You fucking-”
The next thing you’re seeing is enough to knock the wind out of your lungs - and the words. And it’s not because of anything Toji says, it’s not because of his expressions or his gestures, or even the way he rubs the mountains of his palm against your clothed pussy—it’s because of the way he doesn’t hesitate before letting his knees hit the tiled ground with two deep thuds.
Fucking kneeling before you.
Toji throws your non-dominant leg over his shoulder, and bores up at you with half-lidded eyes. Heavy. Darkened with arousal- he wanted you so fucking bad.
He was a man deep in thirst.
In a single motion, the hockey player flips your skirt up n’ tucks the hemline into your waistband.
It’s almost as if he’s in a daze - as if he’s hypnotized - as he brings his face closer to your throbbing core. Where your pussy was nearly beating out of your red panties—before Toji flares his nostrils and gives that dampened spot on your panties a gooooood sniff. “Mmm, s’like coming home.” Your mouth gapes as you wonder whether he even realized what he was saying- was it possible to even act so starved? So animalistic? Open-mouthed, he breathes out a scorching hot pant that makes your legs shake. “Shit—shit, shit shit-”
“What?” You squeak out in—well, perhaps in surprise, perhaps because of the way your ex-boyfriend doesn’t waste a second more before nudgin’ your legs apart and sticking his nose right between your clothed slit. Slurp!
And his mouth merely opens with a gasp.
With a groan.
A sudden jolt courses through the hockey captain’s muscular body. And before you know it- before Toji himself knows it, he’s clasping onto either side of your hips and draaaagging your pussy all down his face.
All across every handsome feature of his. It doesn’t matter if you still have panties on, he’s gaping his dampened maw wide open and saaaaalivating across every nook n’ cranny he could reach. That cute crevice of your pussylips growing even wetter as you start to feel his nosebridge rub uuuup and down, uuuup and down- up and down.
Gurgling those sweetened wads of slick at the back of his throat as he ebbs himself even closer- “Oh my god, pretty girl…” And for a second there, you think he’s talking to you—only to find Toji pulling away with a squelch! of fabric. His half-lidded eyes remain fixated between your legs, and that sinful mouth of his glistens eagerly with your juices. “Fuck, oh my god-”
“Wh-what is it?” You’re squealing out, despite fully knowing that he’s talking to your pussy by now. Just your pussy.
And Toji croons upwards, his glazed eyes flickering towards you. “Your sorry excuse of a boyfriend doesn’t eat you out, does he?”
You gape.
How the fuck did he know?
“Because she told me- duh.” Toji rolls his verdant eyes as though the answer should’ve been obvious - the answer to a question you clearly don’t remember asking. Out loud, at least.
Although…your mind isn’t clear at all.
It’s so clouded by the way he massaged the top of your folds with his tongue. Those rugged, textured tastebuds flicking aaaaaall over your outer lips, dipping into the outline created by your slit. In and out. In and out.
It’s as though he was already attempting to fuck you through your damn panties- perhaps the only thing holding him back right now. Toji taps the flattened surface of his tongue across your sopping slit once he’s completely sure he’s slurped up every ounce of you there was to slurp-
“Can you hear her?” He utters hoarsely. And he doesn’t even need to wait for your response - Toji surges in once more in a way that was almost uncontrollable—“She’s purrin’ so much- heh.”
Eyes rolling to the back of his head at the cloying, clingy taste.
You were just so weeeeeet and warm.
“She’s been so neglected. Poor pussy.”
“Oh—” Your mouth drops.
And that’s the last thing you’re managing out before Toji tucks the rounded tip of his finger beneath your ruined red panties, making it snap- once before tuggin’ them aside and spitting. Letting the vertical line of saliva lubricate you a bit more for him to swab his tongue everywhere and anywhere—“She- she hasn’t been tasted like this in aaaaages.”
“I haven’t, I haven’t-” You sob.
That pointed chin of his plasters against your cunt, nearly hitting the back. And Toji’s pushed up so deeply against your pussylips that you’re wondering whether he even has the space to breathe- crushing his face between your folds. What was that saying about big noses? “She hasn’t been tongued the way she likes it.”
Wrenching your head off of where it’d been rested against the cold tile wall. “H-huh?”
With a growl, you’re shocked as his four thick fingertips come slammin’ down on your pussy. “Pay attention, doll.” And he’s juuuuust nudging aside your sensitive folds to lap up the sap leaking between them. Feeling that cute orifice of your hole that was just clenchin’ around him, “She hasn’t been tongued the way I know she likes it. Dirty girl.”
And you’re shivering as the very first inch of his girthy muscle slips inside your entrance. “Fuh-fuuuuck-”
“She hasn’t been tasted like she deserves.” He pants out between rovering movements with his head now, baaaaaack and forth. Baaaaack and forth. Faster each time. Deeper each time. “She hasn’t been spat on. She hasn’t even been fingered-”
“Fuh-fuuuuck, ngh—yes.” You’re keening out, your voice crackling dangerously. “I mean no- no, he didn’t.”
Feeling the leer of his lips against your other ones, something almost cruel to their shape. “I know.” His severe timbre - mixed with the scrape-scrape-scrape of those textured tastebuds inside you - make you see stars. No warning—and he’s reaching up to plaster the crown of his thumb against your throbbing clit. “And I’ll fuckin’ kill him for it.”
Without thinking much of it, you’re grabbing onto a handful of his jet-black hair and bowing your body forwards. “Toji—”
“Look at her.”
As though he wasn’t even hearing you right now- Toji’s eyes were widened, his voice slightly breathy. Both of his hands were positioned on either side of your cunt n’ spreading your puffy pussylips apart. “Fucking look at her…”
Toji’s tone was trembling.
Toji’s tone was wrecked.
And you’ve never seen the man knot his dark brows like this- as though he was at the feet of a shrine and worshipping you with looooong, deep thrusts into your wet cavern.
So watching him between your legs like this- you already knew that Toji was a ravenous eater from your relationship. But to hear him be so desperate?
You couldn’t help the next words that fall from your mouth, “N-Naoya always thought it was emasculating to-”
There’s a brief squelch then a smack!
He’s tugging his hands away from your stinging clit, before kissing all over it. Sucking. It made your knees weeeak to feel him unabashedly press up against your pulsing nub as he thrusted his tongue inside - sniffing, moaning, breathing you in. “How can ya have a pussy like this…”
Letting his jaw droop even further open as he presses the tip of his tongue inside, swabbin’ into every geysering orifice. “How—?” He’s massagin’ your tight walls apart from one another, accelerating with every soft gasp you’re letting out. “How can ya have a pussy like this n’ not just fucking drown yerself in it?”
You’re bucking off of the frigid tile, leaking out a few more dewdrops of slick.
He moans as he watches that bead of translucence exit from your hole n’ cascade between your legs- “Some men die of thirst whilst others fucking- fuck, fist their cock to the thought of this pussy every night.”
Excitement zips down your spine as you realize he’s talking about himself- every night? For six months straight? “Every-”
“Every night.” Toji affirms. “Six months straight. I thought about how many times I’d make you cum on my tongue.”
“Shit—” He’s then fucking your poor hole battered, harder than the strokes he had before. Those were just to fit the first few inches of him inside, these were to make your velvety pussy feel him.
“Every fuckin’ night. I missed this pussy soooooo—” Spitting. “-much. Every night, I thought about how much my poor girl must be missin’ me. Every night, I thought about how much better she’d taste than any sweet dessert in the world.”
“Toji—” Your whines rattle through the locker room. “Shit, it feels so good-”
“And it’s the fuckin’ least she deserves.”
Without any further warning, Toji then slides the larger end of his thumb between your sopping wet slit. Collecting a few wads of your clingy juices, he’s pushing it back in—
“Fuck, she’s so tight.” He whispers underneath his breath, nose crinkling at the way your gooey walls immediately rush to clench around him. His tip being engulfed by the warmth. Not only were you sucking him in, but those cutely trembling hips of yours were jerkin’ off the wall expecting more, more, more- “She hasn’t been fucked properly in a while…”
And before you can even register it, he’s removing his thumb with a wettened plop! Rapidly replacing it with his lengthy middle finger, his index.
Scissoring those scouring tips open inside you.
Swabbing them into those ridges n’ sweet spots.
Letting them jostle against one another and against your most tender areas-
Fuck, you’re throwing your head back.
Those thoroughly thick fingers of his kept filling you up so much more than his tongue did, and you’re gnawing down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from making too much noise—even more than you already were. In and out. In and out.
How you missed the pleasurable burn of him stuffin’ you.
The way it sends carnal shockwaves up your spine- especially every time he pushes past the shy squeezes of your first ring of muscle. The first restraint.
“T-Toji…” You’re wailing out in that pretty tone that makes his ears perk up immediately, “Please—” Your hips rut upwards, “So close to…”
“Tch- d’you even have to ask?”
And you didn’t think that Toji Zenin was ever the type to forget anything to do with your cunt, did you? Did you?
Because this wasn’t his first damn rodeo: you best believe that the first time Toji ever had the chance to feel you clenchin’ around his fingers, he took the time to memorize every nook and cranny inside. He’d mapped it all out.
He’d drilled it straight into his brain that if he quirked his fingers juuuuust so to feel the spongy depths of your roof- then shovelled his fingers along that pathway…juuuuust so. He’d be greedily swallowed up until his joints, and it’d only take a few more vulgar thrusts for him to locate that special bundle of nerves inside of you.
The one that made you see stars. The one that made you call his name out loud enough for the neighbors to hear-
“Heh…” He dares crack a smirk, “And he hasn’t found this spot yet, right?”
And right now, your prettily cracking whine was echoing across every corner of the locker room. “T-Toji—” He’d found your g-spot. Reeling his slick-glazed fingers back just enough to roughly push and push, to dig his rounded fingertips against that throbbing area. Constantly. “Right there- k-keep going. Right there-”
“Heh- keep going? You seriously ever thought I’d stop—?” The captain of the national theme looks genuinely baffled you’d asked, disbelieving of the words. Him? Stopping when you’re completely begging for him not to? “Doll, I’d rather fuckin’ die than let this pretty pussy down.”
And with that said, Toji wraps his swollen lips around your clit once more.
He was stimulating you with twice the blissful waves now- once with his fingers probing into you and pinpointing each sensitive nerve inside you. The other through the wet smacks! of his lips, latching onto your knobbly clit and sucking as though the sweetest candy in the world.
You watch as Toji’s handsome cheeks hollow out because of his suctioning. His pretty pink lips were all glossed over with layers of your sploshin’ cunt, rolling drunkenly over that nub.
“I need you to cum on my tongue.” The black-haired man sputters against your wet, treacly cunt—his breaths becoming more n’ more ragged by the second. Tone thick, “I need you to cum on my fuckin’ tongue so bad-”
“M’so close—” You’re using the leverage you have on his sweaty bangs to tug him in even deeper- not that Toji could go even deeper.
But he smirks at your sheer desperation and you can feel the formulation of his expression against your sodden pussy. And that’s when your panties are being properly ripped off your hips- straight off. Clean. With his teeth. As you buck and gasp, he’s spitting out the useless lace remnants into his left hand and snakin’ it between his legs.
And you’re not quite sure - you can’t see beyond his hunched core - what Toji’s doing with that particular treasure. But by the way his biceps suddenly flex as though gripping something, by the way he lets out a sudden grooooooan deep into your pussy- you can already guess.
Toji’s sculptured arm starts flying up and down at a rapid pace.
In the same sloppy, striking cadence as he’s fuckin’ his tongue between your soft pussylips. He jerks himself off furiously, a thin line of sweat drizzling down his forehead the more, and more, and more-
“Toji, baby—” You’re whimpering out, tugging on his shaggy strands a bit to make him look at you. “M’gonna cum- so don’t stop, m’kay?”
“Has-” Panting out a murky breath, “Has he ever made you cum before?”
To which you’re almost embarrassed to shake your head, “N-no…”
“Can’t believe he’d- fuck.” Toji grumbles, his thick brows marrying together. Those sharp canines of his make an appearance as he snarls, “M’gonna kill that bastard. M’gonna fucking kill him-” Slapping the velvety underside of his tongue down-down-down—“But first m’gonna make you cum.”
And since the last time you saw him, Toji Zenin has learned to keep his promises. And he’s proving it.
Which is why it takes only a few more vicious strikes at the very bottom of your pussy - at the very target of your g-spot - for you to throw your head back n’ start shaking with your orgasm. The white-hot pleasure coursing through your every blood vessel makes you cry out, so much better than you remembered.
This wasn’t the same as idly prodding yourself with your vibrator while your boyfriend wasn’t home.
This makes you buck. This makes you gasp. “C-cumming—” Your thoughts coming belated to you as you’re riding out Toji Zenin’s handsome face, elongating your high on the prominent curve of his nose or the puffiness of his lips. “Cumming, Toji, shit…s’the best it’s ever felt.”
“Uh-huh?” He murmurs up wetly at you. “Only the best for m’girl.”
“Your girl?” And that makes something within you tremor almost as much as your orgasm.
“Shhhhh, and ride out your orgasm-” He’s talking you through those soaring peaks of your high - incredible.
Because not only was Toji curving his fingertips just right against your g-spot, but he smirked against your clit and gently bit down on that nub.
You’re flinching upwards- never having experienced something so strong. At least, not in six months.
And it seems like forever before your high passes - not that you were complaining. That orgasm left you all heated and raw, feeling so wound-up that you honestly thought a mere brush of Toji’s fingers would be enough to get you cumming again.
Your overwhelming wave of pleasure is just barely finished before Toji stands up to his full height again.
Blinking away the tears in your eyes, you’re looking up at him. The slightly-dimmed lights of the locker room created the effect of a halo around his head- how ironic…because the way he’d made out with your pussy made you think of Toji to be someone from quite the opposite realm.
But you don’t get to comment on that right now.
No- you were too busy watching slack-jacked as he tugs off his national team jersey.
And you’d already seen Toji shirtless before - of course, you have. You’ve already seen him in every state there was to see him—but it’s seeing him after so long that really makes your cunt twitch. Your eyes sweep across his broad shoulders, those toned pecs with a certain familiarity- you note that he still had that unruly line of his happy trail. It was deep black in color, a ruggedly handsome look to it as it started off at his abs then snaked all the way down, down, down…
His chiselled abs. His slightly-tanned skin.
The only real difference that you could’ve pointed out was that Toji, in fact, seemed a little…bigger than you remembered him. Bulkier. Beefier. Broader around his arms and his pecs.
And perhaps that was in part to do with memory- but more likely it was that his new training regiment with the national team had been serving him well. Very well.
And his cock, fuck, his cock…
Toji hadn’t fully exposed himself as he jerked off whilst eating you out- but it was more than enough. Just enough of his black hockey pants getting nudged down—they stuck around his meaty upper-thighs, and you’re left starin’ at the thiiiiick throbbing cock in-between.
Toji was big. Toji was hard. Toji was so reddened at the tip of his bulbous shaft that you wondered whether it must be painful-
You hadn’t forgotten just how big he is, had you?
But you swear Toji had been around seven or eight inches the last time you’d…seen him all those months ago. But this? This was about nine- fuck, if you pulled out a ruler than you wouldn’t be surprised if he was around even ten inches.
Perhaps that was just your imagination refusing to concede that your ex was the largest you’ve ever had. The best, too.
Thickened so much that it made your legs squeeze. Covered in veins from underneath his reddish tip, and aaaaaaaaall the way down to his tanned base.
Those hefty balls of his clenched at your attention, and you’re both thinking at the same time that he must’ve really missed you.
Toji reaches his right hand up to his face and spits—slithering it down to give his aching erection a good tug. That mere touch was enough to make him ooze out a few more droplets of pre, capping the top of his crowned tip as though the prettiest glaze.
He has to cough ever-so-slightly to rip your attention away from his cock.
Even then, you could barely keep your eyes off of your ex-boyfriend as he turned his hockey jersey the right way. About to throw it over his shoulder when—he looks at you and seemingly gets an idea.
“Off, doll.”
And suddenly it’s a blur of hands and grabbing - Toji’s pulling your own clothes off, ultimately leaving you in absolutely nothing. He tucks those remnants of your panties in his pants pockets, and tugs your head through the holes of the jersey—
“Y-you’re making me wear this?” You’re babbling out stupidly as he steps back to admire his work, “And only this?”
Toji lets out a low whistle, “Fuck, yeah.” Before gesturing for you to twirl- “Now turn around n’ put your hands on the wall- hah, I want to see my name on you while I fuck you.”
Nevermind the fact that technically this was his last name, as well.
But that didn’t matter - never would. These were Toji’s colors, Toji’s number.
And right now, it was Toji’s fat- aching cock that was making your pussylips bulge apart. Slowly and sensually.
He might’ve been ravenous when he was tasting you for the first time in six months - but Toji was taking his goooood time filling up your driveling orifice. Stuffing back the beads of slick that kept on spraying out of you, letting his pointed tip stretch your entrance out.
He’s letting his breath hitch as he reels his hips back a bit, pushing his twitching cock iiiiiiiiiinside and then out. Iiiiiiiiiinside and then out.
Baaaaack and forth.
Baaaaack and forth.
That ruddied roundness of his cockhead gets stuck between your lips, and Toji’s brows furrow- he attempts to pull out. He really does.
But you’re just gobbling him up so damn greedily- inch by fucking inch. That he can’t help but arch his toned hips against yours- soothing the globes of your ass cheeks a bit before Toji gives a nice, honed thrust. Pointed deep towards the back of your pussy.
Though he isn’t getting that far with your snug channel.
“O-oh—” The captain groans out as he’s sucked in deep, push by fuckin’ push. The intrusion of his girth makes its way ‘round your first ring of tight fuckin’ muscle - slotted between your legs and enough to leave your knees weak with only a few shallow thrusts.
Toji’s having such fun holding onto the side of your waist- eventually moving to hook ‘round your pretty thighs when it seemed as though you were going to collapse.
His pretty girl, so desperate to take him that you can’t even stand.
“Fuck, you feel so good.” He breathes out, scorching breath gusting down the curvature of your spine. “Fuck, my girl’s pussy feels so good—”
“Toji-” And for the first few of his semi-thrusts, you’re letting your eyes roll to the back of your head. But thereafter you’re jerking your hips back in desire for more, craving all those carnal itches inside of you satisfied by Toji’s thick cock. “N-need it.”
Toji opens his mouth to tease - you’re sure of it - but at that very moment you’re using your velvety walls to give him a thorough clench that makes him break off into a groan. “This pussy’s been so hungry f’me, hm?”
Shivers wracking through your entire body. “Y-yes-”
“He didn’t fuck you like he should’ve, hm?”
“He didn’t—fuck.”
“Always wished it was your- heh, ex beside you, huh?”
Tearily, you’re looking back at him with an expression of sheepish guilt. “Yes…”
“Oh—” And the mere fact that you said that - your mere answer - is enough for the towering man to hunch his body into yours. To buck his hips into you like an animal.
It wasn’t even planned.
Just an instinctual movement to graze his dribbling tip against the very forefront of your womb- Toji lets his cockhead pulse inside you for a moment before starting to fuck you again. Slightly speedier, slightly deeper.
Slightly rubbin’ the line of his flared ridge against your dewy insides—it made the man’s balls clench to watch the way you’d drip n’ suction around him. You were fucking thinking of him? Just as much as he was thinking of you? “So this pussy has been greedy f’me.” As if to prove his point, he’s easing in just a few more puckered inches to swipe the front of his burning divot against your spongy cervix. “How many times have you touched yerself to the thought of me?”
“I-I—” It takes you a sudden slap on your pussylips to realize that he was genuinely waiting for an answer.
“How many times?” Toji gasps between his clenched canines, Adam’s apple bobbing in fervor. “And don’t lie to me, girlie- I know s’been more than once.”
“So many times-” Just the most sultry scrape against your g-spot- the sensation of Toji’s pulsating cockhead pressing on those nerves feels so good. Good enough to reveal your secrets, your hazy brain seems to think. “T-too many times to count-”
“Fuck.” He has to gnaw down on his bottom lip to keep himself from cumming too soon. Too fast. If anything, he wasn’t going to be like that (likely) two-pump chump boyfriend of yours.
Which is why the older man finds himself smearing his left hand over your pussylips once more- this time, however, it wasn’t to place a mean spank. It was to spread those folds open and roll his fingertips over your neglected clit. “Dirty girl. And h-how many times have you cum just from the thought of me?”
“All of those times, Toji.” The constant rhythmic nudgin’ of your favorite spot was enough to leave your mind absolutely shattered by this point in time. “All those times I—ngh, can only cum if it’s you.”
“Oh?” Fuck—fuck, fuck, fuck. D-don’t even fuckin’ say…” He reaches down and slams his hand against your clit once more - partly to take his mind off of those sinful words you were babbling, partly out of punishment for exactly those. And if you were in any better state of mind, then you’d have marvelled at the fact that you’d just made Toji Zenin sound damn starstruck. Just with your pussy. “Don’t even fuckin’ say that shit.”
He leans over you and nuzzles his cheek against your own.
Scarred lips muttering into your ear, “I know she’s been- fuck, needing me just as much as I need her.” They’re kissing down your sweaty temple for a few seconds before sinking his teeth into your ear lobe, “I know she’s been fucking—dreaming of me, wishing for me, fantasizing about me, getting so fuckin’ aroused at just the thought of me that- hah, locker rooms like these were a problem.”
Blinking the tears away from your eyes, “W-wait…”
“Or maybe that was just me.” Toji finishes off. Though he really didn’t have to for you to realize that he’d been talking about himself the entire time.
Toji had been craving you these past six months.
Desiring you.
Fucking his fist and his pillows at the thought that - perhaps one day - he’ll have you underneath him like this again.
And perhaps that’s why there was a strange reverence to everything he did. Something jittery at his fingertips, something that made him hold you a little tighter - as though to make sure that you were really real.
He’s looping both strong arms around your tremoring figure and gluing you to his toned front. There, you were being massaged after each rub n’ puuuuuull of his vein-decorated cock down your swallowing insides. Hand still reaching downwards.
Toji lets out the most lecherous slurps once he still manages to loop his hand between your sodden pussylips n’ toy with your clit. Finger pinching. Thumb rolling. Just by how sensitive you were - still getting re-used to the sultry sensation of someone else’s hand upon your nub - he knew that that damn Naoya wasn’t properly lovin’ on this part of you, either.
And it makes his blood boil just as it did on the rink today.
His fingers move on top of your clit at an almost frenzied pace- back arching, head throwing back.
Naturally, your lips spread wide open to let out an echoing moan—but it’s too late. Toji’s already leaning in and replacing it with a dollop of his sweetened saliva, “Yeah…” He looks down at you as though you were a dream, “M-maybe that was just me- fuck, but I have one question, doll.”
“Yes—?” Sobbing out.
“Have you ever…” Almost as if it was a precious secret, meant to be between the two of you and the locker room, Toji leans down to whisper against your ear. “-imagined me while he was fucking you?”
Your jaw drops.
Your cunt twitches.
And Toji feels the flooding of your walls with arousal- it’s splashin’ either side of his cylindrical girth. One that was probing and pushing—and speckling every sweet spot inside you with his sap, Toji was fucking you as though he was furious with you.
Long, hard pummels of his hips.
Hard enough that the skin surrounding his pelvis area was reddened.
Long enough that your mind was already completely muddled - filled with only the probin’ pressure of his plump cockhead. Pointing against the cute button of your g-spot once more—“Yes.” You whisper.
And if there was anything - anything - that could make the Toji Zenin falter, then it would’ve been this. Because for two split-seconds you’re feeling the constant sloppy scouring of your innards pause- before it’s resuming harder than ever.
Before he’s fully bottomed-out now and slamming against the gooey depths of your womb.
Before you’re cumming from just that single thrust-
“Y-yes—?” Even Toji’s voice shatters on the repetition of your answer - and he’s looking down at you with his deep, probing eyes. “You- you thought about m-me fucking you when you were still with that bastard?”
You turn around at the amused disbelief in his voice, and nod. “Always thought about you, Toji.” You’re not blind to the way this particular sentence makes the other man flinch—“Every time. He must’ve thought that- ngh, he was the one making me feel good this whole time but it was- oh. It was you.”
“And it…felt good?”
“So good-”
Unsure what to say - unsure what to even do- Toji merely leans down and bites the tender side of your throat. Sure for anyone to see past your collar.
Claimed.
You squeal as you’re fucked through your second high of the night, “A-always you—Toji.” Though loooooong and rugged smooches of his tip, perfectly pointed to graze your ridges inside and ultimately end up on the g-spot.
Tears bursting to your eyes. Hands slipping with sweat along the tiles.
Toji pulls you even deeper into his embrace - grabbing ahold of your neck with his free hand, the other reaching down to pinch your clit in short, staccato pulses. Matching the peaks of your high. He makes sure to wait just until your wracks of pleasure are at their highest, before plummeting his throbbing cock inside.
Maximizing the rub-a-dub of those prominent veins of his. Sending spurts of pleasure shivering all throughout your body at their massage.
Ridged shaft stretchin’ out those spots that feel the best, his sheer length splitting you up from the inside - you couldn’t possibly forget how well Toji’s cock filled you. Reaching into any deep crevice and orifice, markin’ himself out aaaaaall across your channel with the rounded bruises he left behind.
The captain of the ice hockey team was ruttin’ into you so hard that it was causing the heels of your feet to lift off the floor.
His thick fingertips dig into your body, plastering you against him- “Always you, my girl.” His words come out sharp and exhaled, “Only you.”
“O-only—ngh.” He catches you from slipping down the vertical wall, scorched chuckles dusting down the crook of your neck. “Toji…”
“Hmmmm?”
Slight panic bleeding into your tone, “Th-there’s someone in the other l-locker room—fuck.”
“Fuckin’ what?”
Still wracking with the waves of your high. “There’s someone in the other locker room-”
Growling, he’s bowing his powerful lower half towards you - where you were frantically gesturing and miming something at the other side of the wall. The locker rooms were positioned as such that they were side-by-side, sharing a single wall split down the middle of its vast cavern, from which they ignored the existence of the other out of courtesy.
And no matter what one might fear about rowdy ice hockey teams, it never did cause any issues. Yet.
Right now you could hear someone’s footsteps through the tiled wall, you could hear someone’s existence, you could hear someone muttering.
Seemingly not having the best of days - though after that loss, you couldn’t blame them - your mystery US player was banging on locker doors and hissing out swears. It’s only once he seemingly drops something on the floor by accident, letting out a string of expletives starting with ‘b’ that it’s clicking just exactly who this player is—
“Oh, look-” Toji’s the first to start, and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “-your wittle boyfriend’s here, too, doll.”
“He’s not my-”
“Why don’t we give him a proper welcome, hm?” Toji’s crooning out meanly, “Why don’t we cheer him up? That little ah- incident on the ice must’ve really been a blow to his ego.”
You’re shivering at the implications, “D-don’t you fucking dare-”
“Whaaaaaat? M’not doing nothing.” Scarred lips quirking up into a grin- you’re noticing that Toji hasn’t slowed his hammerin’ down for a single second. In fact, he’s reeling his slick-glazed cock backwards and leaning the weight down upon your lower half, probin’ you at even deeper angles. The smooth, slippery tip of his shaft was swabbing away into those nice bundles of nerves- “I didn’t even say that you should do anything.”
Hiccuping at the feeling of him funneling you full - all the way to your throat. “Th-then—”
“I just need you to be a—mmm, good girl f’me and- hah, take it.” The constant smacking of his toned hips get even harder, louder. Ricocheting off your eardrums and off the walls- “Take aaaaaaall from tip to base.”
The utmost amount of squelches n’ slurps leaving you.
You wondered if Naoya could already hear you…
Shivering at the carnal feeling of him stretchin’ those tiniest orifices within you up. You loved the way his honed tip would ease in, only getting thicker and longer and thiiiicker and loooonger the more he’s fucking you. The more.
“Take it aaaaaaall until this greedy pussy’s satiated-” He pinches your clit once more, lining down the spot of your nerves. “Take it all until this pussy remembers-”
There’s the sound of another locking being slammed from the other side of the wall.
And you’re shivering-
To which Toji grinds his hips in close - so close - that you’re unable to buck n’ swerve your hips away. Eagerly taking those deeply probing grinds of his, “Take it until this pussy remembers who’s always fucked her right.”
You’re mewling through your tears, “Y-you—”
And Toji grins before bunching up that red, red jersey of his in his free hand. Looking at the name that flashed upon your arched back, jostling with each thrust - “And who’s that? What’s the name on the back of this jersey?”
“But he has the same—fuck.” Moan echoing so fucking loud this time- you’re swearing you hear the other man pause whatever he was doing. Hear him listen. Hear him wait. “Zenin.”
Something drops to the floor on the other side of the wall, as if fallen in shock.
And Toji smirks.
“That’s right-” He pants out open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, “Can’t hear you- what’s the name?”
“Zenin-”
“Still can’t hear you-” Thrusts and bursts of pleasure steadily climbing up in intensity. Even though you’ve just cum, you could feel a twitching at the pit of your stomach. “What’s the name?”
“Zenin-”
“What’s the fuckin’ name?”
There was no way he couldn’t hear by now. The slapping. The clenching. The moans. “Zenin—”
He slaps your clit once. “And who’s last name is that?”
You knew you were going to fall apart soon. You knew that all it’s going to take was one final thrust- reeling his rounded, glossy tip back as far as it would go. It’s letting just a few tears cascade down your cheeks, and you’re looking back - “Y-yours, Toji?”
“No.” He grins—chiselled core pummeling into yours. He teases your clit with a cute lil’ heart drawn on top, “S’gonna be yours.”
“Oh—” With the loudest, most lecherous moan yet- you’re falling apart all over Toji Zenin’s cock. So sensitive that your orgasm rips through your stark and primal - nothing but a resurgence of bliss that leaves your limbs feeling all weak.
They’re shaking just a lil’ as you’re riding out your high on his vein-covered cock, the perfect number of strikes before your g-spot feels raw.
The perfect number of strikes before your clouded mind gets even cloudier—and Toji’s throwing his head back with a sharp, busting orgasm. Toes curling. Abs clenching. Beading from the drooling divot of his shaft, he gushes out constant volumes of cum.
Letting it dribble all the way from your deepest depths to your sultry hole- and then spotting even the tiniest crevices inside of you with his pearly white juices. “Shit-” His crackling tone breaks out into the heady air, “Sh-shit, now she’s properly mine again- heh.”
As Toji fucks his wads of seed deeper inside you, they’re letting off the most lewd squelches.
“Now she’s shut up her yowling a bit- ngh, my girl’s been wanting this for so long, huh?”
“Yes.” You nod.
“She’s been starvin’ for my cum?” He coaxes, “She’s been all empty without me?”
“So filthy…” You’re mumbling out. Uncaring anymore of what Naoya would think - you didn’t hear anything more from his side of the locker room—maybe he’d disappeared?
“Damn right.” Toji chuckles. Dark bangs covering most of his vision as he’s pumping his thickened tip inside, swervin’ aside your sopping wet walls to make even more room for his thick cum. “She’s now all full I think, hmmmm?”
And you certainly felt full.
You could feel the splashin’ around of those gooey puddles of sap inside you, clinging onto the tiniest spots they could. He was only messing your insides even further with every single thrust—leaving a wet puddle of most of it seeping into the very back of your womb. “I th-think so-”
“What was that, Mrs. Zenin?” Toji goads, his voice ringing out loudly. “Think yer all full with my cum or do you want even- hah, more?”
You’re murmuring something unintelligible that he has to lean in to hear.
“What was that? Can’t hear you, doll, you’ve gotta speak up-” Suddenly, he leans away and addresses the other side of the wall. “Whaddaya think, Naoya? Think she deserves some more-”
“Toji, shut up—” Swatting behind at him.
Toji escapes with a burst of gruff laughter, “Of course, I wouldn’t ask that fucker-” He presses a somewhat chaste kiss onto your lips, “Tell me, doll, what do you want?”
“I w-want…” You’re repeating from before.
“Hmmmm?”
“Think I might want your baby, Toji.” Peering up at him with such pretty heart-eyes.
And that makes his breath hitch.
That makes him stall.
Toji’s green eyes widen just a fraction- before he’s pulling out and turning you around. Staring deep into your eyes, the captain urges you to jump - wrapping your legs around his toned waist, your hands on his shoulders, your body being easily hoisted by his own - so that he can lift you off the floor.
Probin’ that rock-hard tip of his inwards-
“Guess there’ll be one more Zenin this time next year- heh. ”
.
.
.
Naoya Zenin was stunned. He was speechless.
Which is highly unusual, because Naoya Zenin is never shocked. Never speechless.
Except for when he saw the estranged Toji Zenin at the game…and when he got beat up by Toji Zenin at the game…and right now, as it’s slowly dawning upon him that Toji Zenin was fucking his girlfriend after the game-
Naoya didn’t think you were serious, alright?
Because how many fuckin’ times have you threatened to break up with him over stupid shit like that? This was just a little outing with the boys - to a few nighttime establishments with a few nighttime girls - that was being blown majorly out of proportion.
And sure, Naoya might have embarrassed himself thoroughly in front of you and a couple million spectators today.
But what couldn’t a 5000 yen bouquet fit?
He was planning on making up with you right after, telling you to stop being paranoid and perhaps this will only make your relationship stronger in the long run. And he’d just gotten back from the medic to get his shit back when…when the noises had started up.
It was a slightly damp noise at first, almost like water.
Then came the soft groans.
The impact of skin-on-skin.
The voices that made it undeniable—if only he couldn’t recognize them. And he almost couldn’t, to be quite honest, Naoya had never heard you making such noises when it was him in bed.
But he knew it was you.
Worst of all, with Toji fucking Zenin of all people.
And it was when Toji had loudly announced your engagement to him, the way you’d be taking his last name (Naoya had no clue the two of you had dated before, and he didn’t want to know) that’d been the last straw for him. He dumps his bangs and his uniforms behind, storming out from a locker room that was now thoroughly invaded by the sounds of your sex.
Muttering some unrepeatable phrases underneath his breath, Naoya’s so caught up in his wallowing that he nearly doesn’t notice the man he bulldozes over in his effort to get away.
“Oh, hey—” Shiu smiles sheepishly at the younger man, “I just wanted to check on y-”
“I’m fine-”
And with that he’s storming off. To where? He doesn’t know, he’ll probably have to come back and get his shit later but…
He takes it that you’ve now officially broken up with him.
Meanwhile, suit-clad, clipboard-holding Shiu is left utterly confused at what just happened. He’d expected a screaming match, maybe several lawsuits by the spoiled heir of the Zenin Industries at least.
Refusing to believe his luck, Shiu takes a peak inside the opposing team’s locker room just to make sure that everything was alright- and that’s when he hears it. “—think I might want your baby, Toji.”
Oh.
Oh.
It was coming from the other side of the large wall- their locker room.
And he’s recognising the voice- wait, that’s your voice. Toji’s ex that he’d been moping over for these past six months, the one that triggered their captain to get in that fight today in the first place.
Though, he doesn’t blame you- with that fucker as a boyfriend? Shiu doesn’t think he’s biased for claiming that his best friend’s leagues better.
But, at the end of the day, Shiu was their coach above all.
And as their coach, he couldn’t allow his players to get into anything reckless or anything violating the code of the Olympics. They’d all be in such deep shit if you happened to be caught - so you must forgive Shiu for doing what he has to do.
For rounding the other side of the locker room entrances and stepping into his own team’s chamber. Heady with sweetness, with sex.
He’s here as a coach to warn the two of you- really. That’s just it.
That’s it.
Nothing else. Nothing else at all.
No ulterior motives.
His pants tighten, cock twitching traitorously at the barrage of noises leaking into every corner of the room.
Shiu raps on your stall door as a…coach.
A/N. Mwahahaha…come to me coach… ALSO TO MY PHILIPPINES BABYGIRLS WE MISS YOUUUU <33
summary: your life was perfect… perfect boyfriend (an impending proposal) perfect life, until it all comes crashing down. your scummy boyfriend leaves you for Harvard Law school?? saying he needs someone “less” blonde and more serious in his future :| guess you’ll just have to go to Harvard law to get him back! shouldn’t be that hard right? only now he’s engaged?! and you happen to meet a very handsome TA who happens to also be so so sooo dreamy and sweet…
pairing: emmet!hiromi x elle!reader
word count: 13.5k roughly…
content: MDNI, legally blonde au! fem!reader, mentions of female anatomy, minimal use of y/n, blonde/slightly ditzy reader kinda, he falls first she falls harder trope, slow burn, lots of world building, lots of unnecessary dialogue, bad academia mentioned sorry xx, naoya cameo (sorry), some canon divergence bc i say so, vivian is the fiancé bc I’m not subjecting any jjk girlies to him, fluff, some terms of endearment (sweetheart, honey, baby), eventual smut, !! dry humping, piv, handjob, oral (m/f receiving), unprotected piv (be safe), creampie, belly bulge, multiple positions?
extra: art credits - @mizuart_bolillo @hunnismokah
18+ minors no not interact!
Everything about tonight is perfect, it has to be. Perfectly curated date dress (this is the date, it has to be perfect). Dress pink and sparkly, hugging your figure just right. Spaghetti straps. Short hem hugging the plump curve of your ass. Skin tight perfection, accentuating every curve. A borderline scandalous v neck. Glitzy strappy pink heels, elongating your legs juuusst right. Oh, of course perfectly voluminous hair (not a curl out of place). And the finishing touch… the makeup you’d spent hours perfecting. The exact shade of lipgloss he likes, plump and pink. The prettiest pink blush… volumising lashes! to create that pretty doe eyed fluttery look. Everything about you tonight was thought out with him in mind. What he likes.
Oh, and of course the restaurant he’d picked was just perfect! Apparently Madonna dines here! There are these gorgeous warm toned fairy lights twinkling throughout the space. Gentle piano music played somewhere nearby. Round tables covered with cloud white tablecloths. Candles and rose vases are centered on every table. It’s just so romantic! This is the perfect proposal destination. The place is packed tonight, other couples nearby enjoying each other's quiet company. It’s a gentle atmosphere filled with quiet conversations, flushed cheeks and adoring looks.
Of course he’d choose such a romantic place to propose! He’d waited long enough… The anticipation is just eating you up. He just had lunch with his grandma for Christ's sake! She flew in! Obviously to hand deliver the ring (how thoughtful). 4 years together and now it’s finally time. It’s been bliss. Especially lately he’s been attached at the hip. Never without his hands on you. It’s honestly been a bit exhausting, but of course he’s been more affectionate… what else would a man do before he proposes. You’re just the picture of the perfect couple. Respective presidents of your sorority/frat. Typical white picket fence couple, collage sweethearts to be. It’s just so cliche but you wouldn’t want it any other way! And all of your girls just knew a proposal was on its way! They’ll want to see the ring later tonight.
It’s not until you’ve had your fill of the wine, mind pleasantly hazy. Meal nearly done. When finally he starts talking, a smug grin on his face. “Pooh bear, there’s something important I want to talk to you about… one of the reasons I wanted to come here tonight was to discuss our future.” Your lashes flutter, straightening up. Pushing your shoulders back, internally grinning when his gaze flickers down to your exposed plump chest. Locking in to this moment, this is it! “I am perfectly amenable to that discussion.” Fingers curling under your chin, staring directly into his eyes.
“Good. Well, you know how we’ve been having all kinds of fun lately?”, nodding along, “Yes.”
“It’s about time I start getting serious about my life. I’m going to Harvard Law in the fall and… it’s about time I started thinking about settling down. My family expects it of me.” Tears start to sprinkle your waterline, palms turning clammy, chest exploding with butterflies, massive smile slowly taking over your glossed lips. Answer at the ready.
“I plan on running for office one day. So If I’m going to be a senator by the time I’m thirty I need to stop dicking around. And well if I’m going to be a senator… I need to marry a Jackie. Not a Marylin.” A record screeches to a halt somewhere in the distance. Wait what? Your brows slowly start to crease, smile faltering. That doesn’t make sense, this isn’t how you start a proposal… What does that even mean? Heart stuttering in your chest.
“Naoya… what are you talking about?” Confusion lacing your tone, head tilting, bouncy curls following.
“I’m talking about us Pooh bear, you know I love you but I need to start planning for my future and what my family expects of me.” Sly grin turning his face from one you recognise to something foreboding.
“Wait, what is this? Are you not proposing?” Your glossy lips turn down completely now. Breath caught in your throat.
“Oh Pooh bear, I can’t marry you…” he drawls. Faux frown on his face, voice laced with condescension. “You’re not serious marriage material. We’ve had fun together but my family would never let me marry someone like you. You’re not serious marriage material. You were just some fun before all the responsibilities and expectations I’ll have at Harvard.” He finishes. Not an ounce of remorse or regret in his cruel words. Just smug indifference. That makes you pause. Heart literally shattering into a million pieces.
“Someone like me? Not serious marriage material?! What is going on… are you- are you seriously dumping me?” Voice raising slightly coming out broken. Now the tears really start. 4 years. 4 perfect years together and he decides you’re not serious enough for him! It was just some fun. What the fuck is happening right now.
Sobs start leaving erratically now. Shoulders jumping with their impact. Mascara streaking down your previously perfectly done face… and to make things worse people start looking at the very obvious scene unfolding. Stares filled equally with pity and disgust. Dumping you at a romantic restaurant. Seriously!?
“So what! Am I too blonde? Are my boobs too big?!” You burst out between sobs. Trying miserably to make sense of his drastic change of mind.
“Oh pooh bear… shhh don’t cry please. Let’s not make a scene.” He’s looking around at the other people in the restaurant skeptically as he tries to reason with you.
“Bad salad.” He says to the couple at the table next to you.
Stumbling up from your seat you snatch your purse and all but burst out of there, tugging on the hemline of your dress trying not to trip over your own feet. The only thought going through you right now is to get out of here as quickly as you can. Before you break down completely on the sidewalk.
A few minutes later you’re sniffling as you walk (limp) down the street, a car slows down by you and without looking you know who it is. Turning slightly and there he is. Arm hanging over the side of that stupid convertible daddy probably paid for, lips pulled down in a cruel frown. Eyes swirling with mirth.
“Cmon Pooh bear, let me take you home.”
“No.”
“Cmon you’ll ruin your shoes…” Honestly you would just walk if it weren’t… 30 minutes away, and he is right… in these shoes? So reluctantly you nod.
The silence stretches broken every now and then by your sniffles. Upon arrival at Delta Nu, you can’t even look at him. Just sniffling quietly trying to control your sobs until you’re alone. You’re ruining your makeup!
“Look Pooh bear, I wish this wasn’t how it had to be. You know how I feel about you. But I have to marry someone serious, smart, elegant… and you’re just not that.” Okay ouch. The undermining is astounding. Who is he to say you’re not smart or serious or elegant!
You can’t even say anything to him right now so you just leave. By the time you’re at the door he’s already gone.
.
.
.
The state your poor room has succumbed to over the past few days is downright deplorable. Curtains blocking out any natural form of light. The only illumination you’ve been receiving comes from glaring tv across from you. The floor looking like a tornado of chaos and dirty tissues has swept through your space. Chocolate wrappers cover your bed among the fluffy blankets and old clothes, creating a safe cocoon for your borderline malnourished person to rot away in. Watching sappy romcoms probably wasn’t the best idea… “Cmon babe you’ve gotta get up, let’s go do something! Why don’t we go shopping or… get our nails done? That always cheers you up!” Some of your girls have been trying to get you out of your room for days now… you just shake your head and sink deeper into the plush mess you’re moulded to.
“I don’t feel like shopping or manicures right now… I just want Noaya back.” Sobs erupting again. You try to ignore the sympathetic frowns thrown your way. A clean tissue presented to you. You were with him for 4 years. Your most susceptible years. Of course this hurts. How can you not be serious enough for him after 4 years… Why did he need a Jackie and not a Marylin? And! Who’s to say you’re not a Jackie!
Brows furrowed you’re picking at chocolates covering you again, only taking small bites of each. Because that means it doesn’t count! How can you be serious enough for him? You seriously like shopping! And your girls and of course bruiser! Regardless. You don’t have much time to get Naoya back… he’ll be heading off to Harvard in the fall. If only you could go with him. It would be so fun. Wait… That’s it! You just have to go with him! Both girls gasp as you suddenly spring up out of your bed. Hair sticking in every direction, crazed smile taking over your face, eyes wide as saucers.
“I know how to get him back! I just have to go to Harvard with him?!” Honestly this is the best idea you’ve had in a while! Your girls look stunned. Both speechless at your outburst and… confused. “How are you going to do that..?” Uncertainty lacing their intermingling voices.
“I just have to get into Harvard law before graduation, should be easy enough!” You’ve got a 4.0GPA and a dream. Who cares if your grades are from all your fashion classes…
The next few months of your life are full of studying. No more parties… no more distractions. You’re more dedicated than you’ve ever been before. Often exhausted from the long… torturous hours of reading, but it’s all for a good cause! Your professors have all seemed so surprised with your newfound tenacity… and an interest in Harvard? You aren’t sure why. What is so surprising about someone realising they want to attend an Ivy League institution… All that’s left to do is submit your Harvard video essay and absolutely smash that LSAT! And if you do say so yourself that video essay was perfect! It really makes an impression. Featuring an incredible shot of you in your tiniest bikini…
“Aaand done. Pencil down.” This is it! your practice test for the LSAT and thank god your girls are being so helpful! Timing you to the exact second you’ll need to be done. “…143. I’m sorry babe but you need a 175 to pass…” the solemn looks around don’t deter you. You just need to study harder before the real thing!
“It’s here!!! Where is she?” All the yells and chatter downstairs have your ears perking up. Descending the stairs you see… all your girls huddled around holding something? A letter. The letter. The LSAT results!
Perfect 179… you’re going to Harvard!!
.
.
.
The campus is so cute! Georgian brick architecture. Gorgeous fall leaves cascading from the surrounding oak. The joy is clear on your face to any passing students, your grin magnetic. Your outfit is perfectly pink. Hair bouncing as you sashay up the stairs of your new home. This is going to be so fun!
“Bruiser, how do I look?” Twirling in front of your pup showing him your perfectly curated outfit for your first day. Hair is up in a bouncy pony, cascading strands framing your face. Makeup flawless. Glossy lips. Smart flannel patterned blazer. Dark pencil skirt hugging plush thighs. Smart heels. And some fake tortoiseshell glasses you found that complete the whole smart lawyer to be look!
Squinting up at the bulletin board. Okay so it’s actually hard to see in these glasses… “Excuse me, I’m sorry… are you here to see me?” Turning to see Naoya. The shock is evident on his face. After a moment his gaze turns from incredulous to drags up and down your form, lingering on your chest.
“No, silly. I go here!” You’re all smiles and excitement upon seeing him again. This is just so perfect now you’ll get back together and everything will be perfect again. His eyes blow wide and his mouth gapes. “You? You go here. Harvard?” He sounds stunned… tone unbelieving. But that’s probably because he wasn’t expecting to see you!
“Mhm! Isn’t this so great! We’ll get to see each other all the time.” Your eyes twinkle up at him, smile gleaming. Expecting him to be happy you’re here. “This must be a mistake. There’s no way you could get into Harvard Law.” He all but sneers at you. Not at all excited to see you… it seems the opposite. That makes you frown, this is not a mistake. You got in because of your own hard work!
“What. Like it’s hard?” Head tilted girlishly. Gracing him with a smile he doesn’t really deserve right now. He blanches at you, absolutely speechless. You’re just about to start up again when a hand slithers over his shoulder… a hand adorning a very massive diamond ring on it. Then she comes into view. Brunette. Preppy. Kind of plain. She’s wearing a tight smile as she squeezes her claws into his shoulder. “Who’s this?” Eyes narrowed at you.
“Oh this is a friend from collage…” he offers quickly. What. The. Fuck. A friend?! Not the girl you were with intimately for 4 years up until very recently!
“This is Vivian… my Fiancè.” The world stops. Fiancé? Your mouth gapes eyes tracing between them urgently, surely this is a joke. He couldn’t have moved on that quick… could he? It’s only been a few months.
“O-oh well that’s great! I’ve gotta get going, I don't want to be late on my first day.” Yeah fuck that you need to get out of there. Turning and strutting away with as much dignity as you could muster right now. Forcing the tears back. Let’s just focus on getting through the day and then later you can wallow in self pity…
.
.
.
Stumbling out into the open courtyard you spot a few benches near a big old oak tree, all but collapsing onto it. Bursting into tears your shoulders shake as you bury your head into your hands. Small sniffles leave you. Okay maybe Harvard is going to be harder than you first thought… On top of the crappy day you’re already having, your professor decided to chew you out in front of the whole class! How are you expected to just know things? On the first day? You’re here to learn! A smooth masculine voice cuts through your internal turmoil like a beaming light.
“Excuse me. Are you okay?” Tear streaked face turning toward the voice. You open your mouth to reply and oh! Oh wow… Next to you is a man. Very tall. Lean. Broad shoulders. Long legs. Wearing a mouth-wateringly frame flattering dark suit. His hair is gorgeous. Short, well-kept, dark chocolate-brown hair. All wind swept and pushed back like he’d been running his fingers through it, a few stringy strands hanging over his forehead. And his eyes, oh my god they are mesmerising. Downturned puppy eyes that probably look perpetually tired. Chocolate gaze, so dark it’s nearly black. His brows furrowed slightly in concern. His cheekbones are to die for! And that nose. Is it Hawk or Roman? Doesn’t really matter, you suppose. It’s distracting either way!
Realising he’s waiting for your answer, “oh, um. Yeah. Do they put you on the spot like that all the time?” Your sniffles subsided a little. “The professors? Yeah, they, they tend to do that. Socratic method.” He answers, mouth turning up slightly by the corner.
“So if they don’t like the answers, they’ll just kick you out?” You ask brows turning up.
“So you have Stormwell, huh?”
“Yes! Did she do that to you, too?”
Clearing his throat, “No. But she did make me cry once. Not in class, I waited til I got back to my dorm… but she’ll kick you right in the ball- or wherever. But, yeah. She’s tough. Really tough.” Offering you a small smile.
“Great.”
Turning to you he continues, “But don’t worry, it gets better. Who else do you have?”
“I have Callahan, Royalton, and Leviathal.” You offer softly.
“Yeah.. let’s see, speak up in Callahan’s class. He really likes people who are opinionated.”
“Okay.” You nod along. Listening intently.
“And in Royalton’s class… try to get a seat near the back. He tends to spit when he talks about product liability.” That causes a soft laugh to leave you, eyes crinkling. He smiles back at you softly. It’s quiet for a moment. Just staring at each other.
“And, uh, for Leviathal, make sure you read the footnotes, cause that’s where he gets a lot of his exam questions from.”
“Right. Wow. I’m really glad I met you” smile brighter now. This handsome stranger was being so nice… the first person to treat you with some kindness here. You give him a big grin that he mirrors. A comfortable silence stretches. Fall breeze. The sun is shining. It’s nice.
“Hey.” Someone tries to break the bubble. Completely unnoticed.
“Are you a third year?” You ask the nice stranger.
“Well-“ he’s cut off abruptly.
“Hey. Y/n.” Naoya.
Turning slowly. “Uh, hi.” You answer wearily, having been rudely interrupted. “Can I help you Naoya?” He gapes slightly.
“I wanted to talk to you…” he offers with a tight lipped smile, eyeing the handsome man next to you.
“Oh well. I’m good, but thank you. I’m actually in the middle of something.” Leaving no room for argument you turn back to the man next to you. Smiling uncomfortably. Naoya just stands there for a minute, seething.
“I’m y/n by the way, and you are…?” Smiling brighter now. He eyes the retreating Naoya, then turns back to you slightly confused.
“Higuruma, Hiromi.” You outstretch your manicured hand between you promoting him to shake your hand… his larger hand enveloping yours completely. Charming smile returning to his lips.
.
.
.
You’re catching the gawking stares of everyone you pass. “Nice costume party.” You scowl at Vivian. Stood in the living room of some party she invited you to, under the guise that it was a costume party. It most certainly is not. While you’re all dolled up in a scandalous pink playboy bunny costume the rest of the party goers are in casual attire.
You thought you had made some progress with Vivian, turns out she’s still a conniving little bitch that’s out to get you. Although you do look good… hair half up, half down. Glowy makeup. Pink floppy bunny ears. Pink fishnets. Pink pumps… and of course the pink bunny outfit consisting of a corset and a fluffy little tail. Fine. If she wants to play games, you’ll play games.
Ignoring her snickers and fake apology you’re off to find a drink. Upon arrival at the keg you hear another whistle in your direction - about to chew someone else out, you turn abruptly to find Naoya. Sly grin on his face as he takes you in, gaze dragging ever so slowly up your legs to your hips. Bouncing up to your breast looking… oh so delectable in that corset. He’s all but salivating as he saunters right up into your personal space.
Hands slowly reach out itching to trail up your thighs. He’s gripping your hips quite firmly then pressing himself flush against you. You slide back against the table behind you as he peers down your top at your chest. “Fuck look at you pooh bear.” Voice dropping a few octaves, doing things to you still that it shouldn’t - feelings don’t just disappear after 4 years okay!
Giving your best doe eyed expression, looking up at him slowly. “Why thank you. I tried.” And yes you did dress up… not exactly for him but, it feels good to have Vivian scowling at you after her decision to mess with you. And you know what you’re doing. Confidence in your attire because, who cares. Only then…
“Maybe we should slip away for a few minutes… reminisce on old times?” Naoya slimily suggests while kissing down your neck slowly. Right in front of his Fiancée. Look you did want him back at first but definitely not via cheating? (Though you could argue that he probably cheated on you to begin with, that doesn’t mean your morals align with his!)
“Ugh get off.” Pushing him softly away from you. Giving him an incredulous look before storming away. Fuck this party and fuck that scumbag. Who does he think you are. First and foremost you are a girls girl! And I guess on the way home you could do with buying a laptop for class… seeing as you’re missing one.
Hands full of a large box, a throat clearing behind you causes you to turn your head… and what a surprise! There in line behind you stands none other than Higuruma. Seeing him glance at your outfit with a lifted brow. “Don’t ask.” You offer with an eye roll, he smiles softly with an upturn of his hands. “Wasn’t gonna.” And though he was respectful, you couldn’t help but notice his eyes linger on your legs for a moment. Now this attention is very wanted. And if he looked at your ass when you turned forward. So what?
After checking out you wait for him outside. Hoping to catch him for a chat or something… if only for the excuse to look at him a bit more. And ever the gentleman he is, he offers to walk you back to your building. “Wouldn’t want anything untoward happening to you in that outfit now, would we?” He’d offered.
It’s so nice just existing near him, seeing him around campus especially in Callahan’s class has been such a pleasure. He’s always so nice to you even when other people aren’t. He never judges and most times if you need help with class, he’s glad to assist. He’s becoming a fast friend. Often found studying together in the library, or sat talking at the campus cafe. The lingering glances between you are just an added bonus.
“Not to pry but… where were you? Dressed up like that?” Eyeing you softly, “-you look great by the way.” That causes your cheeks to burn, hopefully it’s dark enough out that he doesn’t notice.
“Oh well, Vivian invited me to a costume party… but turns out it wasn’t really a costume party.” Looking down at your feet that’s slightly embarrassing to admit. You didn’t have to tell him that! You could’ve said anything else.
A deep frown tugs his lips down, “it's okay though! At least I looked good.”
“That you do. You know you don’t have to put up with her treating you like that.”
“I know… I just want to be civil with her, I mean yes. I did want to steal her fiancée back but I don’t want to hurt her you know? And he’s just so cruel. Y'know tonight he tried to get me to leave with him, in front of her!” Huffing at that memory, disgust clings to you very obviously as a shiver runs through you. He stops walking at that. Turning to him confused you find him with furrowed brows, soft crease between them. Mouth downturned. “He didn’t hurt you did he?”
“No! Of course not, I left after that. It made me feel pretty icky though. Like seriously I can’t believe I was with him that long, he’s kind of horrible.” That makes the man laugh. Tension dissipating into something softer.
A soft look takes over his features as he steps closer to you, “you deserve so much more than that douche.” The way he’s looking at you causes tingles to shoot up your spine and heat to spread across your face. Probably very obvious now… his intense gaze holds something, you can’t quite name.
“Thank you Higuruma, that’s very kind.”
“Hiromi. Call me Hiromi.”
Gazes locked you can only nod, with the close proximity and the way he’s looking at you… there’s not a thought in your mind except how handsome he looks right now. Haloed by the soft street lamps, gleaming hair falling over his face and there’s a twinkle in his eye. The silence stretches but it’s not awkward, it’s just still. Calm. Like a breath of fresh air. You’d probably be content staring at him for the rest of your life.
With Higuruma’s help and kindness that first day you met, classes have become much more bearable. He basically handed you the cheat codes! Stormwell has been very impressed with your progress. Pleased looks directed your way whenever you speak up during her lectures. And as it turns out… Higuruma actually TA’s for professor Callahan! Now you get to see him all the time in class. You’ve become closer? Almost friends you’d say. Which makes it less awkward when he catches you staring at him in Callahan’s lectures…
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“Well, yeah but without this man’s sperm, the child in question wouldn’t exist.” Naoya’s answer to professor Callahan’s problem has you itching for some reason. Next thing you know.. your hand shoots up. “Yes, Ms. Woods?”
“Although Mr. Zenin makes an excellent point, I have to wonder if the defendant kept a thorough record of every sperm emission made throughout his life.”
“Interesting, why do you ask?” Callahan asks brows raised.
“Well, unless the defendant attempted to contact every single one-night stand to determine if a child resulted in those unions, he has no parental claim over this child whatsoever. So why now? Why this sperm?”
“I see your point.” Comes Callahan’s reply.
“And for that matter, all masturbatory emissions where sperm was clearly not seeking an egg could be termed as child abandonment.” Some snickers scatter around the room.
“I believe you’ve just won your case.” Sounding impressed. The room goes silent.
After class Callahan stops you, “Ms. Woods, you did well today.”
“Really?” Your pride swells. Positive affirmation really does wonders to the ego.
“You’re applying for my internship, aren’t you?” He looks up at you through his glasses.
“I don’t know.” Would you even get in?
“You should. Do you have a resume?” Oh my god!?
“Yes, I do. Here it is.” Reaching through your bag for that piece of paper and handing it over animatedly. “It’s pink.”, “and it’s scented. I think it gives it a little something extra. Don’t you think.” Smiling brightly before practically floating out of the room.
Turning to Hiromi, “Do you think she just woke up one day and said, ‘I think I’ll go to law school today?’”
Chuckling a bit, “Well that lapse in judgement aside, I think she’s got a lot of potential.” Callahan hands Hiromi the resume, “here smell this.” Sniffing sceptically.
“What is that?” Admittedly it smells really fucking good. Something floral. Maybe a hint of citrus? “It's her resume.” Smiling at that, “smells good.”
Manicured hands shake slightly as you reach up to touch the list, trailing down to find… your name! “I got it!” Squealing slightly you turn to Vivian and Naoya, “Oh, Naoya. Do you remember when we spent those four amazing hours in the hot tub after winter formal?”, biting his lip (ew), “Yeah- No.”
“This is so much better than that! Excuse me, I have some shopping to do.”
“… Four hours.”
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You’re currently at Callahan’s law office going over the murder trail you’ll all be assisting him on. Unfortunately Naoya and Vivian are here too… whatever this is your future you can ignore them.
The accused happens to be Brooke Taylor! A fellow Delta Nu although a few years ahead of you, and honestly a personal hero of yours. Her spin classes were amazing! Really transformed your lower body. She’s a genius… and an accused murderer apparently. After going on and on about how amazing she is, Callahan cuts in abruptly. “Well, in all likelihood, she’s completely guilty as well. She was seen standing over her husband's dead body.”
Naoya adds in his two cents, “by who?”
“His 26 year old daughter and the pool boy.” Then the meeting room door opens revealing a welcome sight. A bright smile takes over your face, a smile he mirrors as soon as he locks eyes with you. Quietly taking a seat. “Sorry I’m late, excuse me.” While talk continues in the room after his appearance, you can’t help but shift your gaze to him every now and then. And every time you do you’re met with his magnetic chocolate gaze. You could get drunk off of that look.
Truthfully that happens a lot. The lingering glances. Or you’ve just noticed it more recently…
“This is Higuruma Hiromi, another associate. Top three in his class, and former editor of ‘Harvard Law Review’.” A small smile forms on his face, “thanks for the introduction.”
“So what about the murder weapon?”
“The gun is still missing. The coroner said he’d been dead 30 minutes when the cops arrived, giving Brooke plenty of time to stash it.”
A knot forms in your stomach. She’s not even here to defend herself, and professor Callahan has already deemed her guilty. “I just don’t think Brooke could’ve done this. Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people don’t just shoot their husbands. They just don’t.” Callahan looks less than impressed with you after that. Hiromi though, you caught him smiling to himself.
“Why would I kill my husband?” You know what? Prison orange may not be the best colour… but Brooke is totally pulling it off!
“Insurance, a love affair, pure unadulterated hatred. Believe me, the D.A. will come up with plenty of reasons.” Callahan sounds exhausted. “I loved him.” She’s seething.
“He was 34 years older than you. That doesn’t look so good to the jury.”
“Show them a picture of his dick. That might clear up a thing or two.” Everyone in the room chokes. Yes, girl, tell him.
Callahan’s been trying this whole visit to get Brooke’s alibi, which she won’t give. Positive you won’t need it to win this case. Once the meeting meets an impasse everyone starts filtering out. You’re packing up when she calls out to you. “Hey…”
“Hi.”
“I know you.” She seems to be filing through her brain for an answer.
“I’m a Delta Nu, and a huge fan of yours.” Her grin comes easy, recognition flashing behind her eyes. “You took my class.”, “Well thank god one of you has a brain.”
You’re huddled up at the firm going over the case files, Hiromi beside you. Working diligently in silence. There are mountains of files and books scattered all about. Peeking at him from the corner of your eye. He’s got… glasses on that elegant curve of his nose. God he looks so good. Thin black rectangular frames. Sliding down ever so slightly when he’s buried in a file. Absent-mindedly his fingers reach up to slide them back into place. Suit jacket long forgotten. His side of the table is coordinated chaos. Yours… well it’s a lot more interesting. Pink fully tipped pen fluffing about with your vigorous note-taking. Statements and files scattered around you… more flippantly.
Eventually he speaks up, baritone cutting through the frantic scribbling. “Well if Brooke didn’t kill the guy who did?” Before anyone else you answer. “My money's on the angry daughter or the ex wife.” The only issue with that is… his daughter has a hefty trust fund. What would be her reason for killing him? And the ex wife was away. We need to get that alibi.
“I brought you some necessities. Some Calvin Klein, 720 cut sheets, the entire Clinique skin care line, some aromatherapy candles, a loofah… oh! And the bible.” Enthusiastically presenting a glimmering cosmo magazine, cheesy grin on display. She smiles at you behind the visitor screen. Hand pressed up to the glass. “You’re an angel.”
“So how are you? Are you alright? You look so… orange.”
“I’m okay… I’m just glad it’s you and not Callahan.”
“He means well. He’s very brilliant.” Scoffing at that, “He better be for what I’m paying for him.”
“Brooke I have to tell you the real reason I came here… we need your alibi.” Her face sinks. “You don’t understand I can’t… it’s shameful… it’ll ruin me.”
“How?”
“I’ve made my fortune on the ability to perfect women’s bodies with Brooke’s Butt-Buster workout.”
“Oh! I know! You helped me go down two sizes!”
“That’s great! Um… okay, on the day of my husband's murder… I was getting …” she mumbled inaudibly… “What?”
“I was getting liposuction.” Again she was too quiet over that stupid prison phone.
“Huh?” Then she just explodes, “Liposuction!”
“Oh my god!”
“I know! I’m a fraud! It’s not like normal women can have this ass! If my fans knew that I bought it… I would lose everything! I’ve already lost my husband. I’d rather go to jail than lose my reputation.”
“Brooke… your secret’s safe with me.” She softens at your kind tone. “Thank you.”
After refusing to give up Brooke’s alibi. Callahan begrudgingly sent you and Hiromi off to visit the ex wife, at some spa she’s decided to hide in.
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Hiromi offered to drive, so currently you’re sat in his passenger seat stealing glances at him. Soft radio in the background, sprawling trees surrounding the road you’re on. It's quite peaceful. He’s focused on the road offering small comments to your enthusiastic yapping. You’re sat cross legged skirt riding up slightly, turned in toward him. And if he knows you’re admiring his side profile or his grip on the wheel, he’s not mentioning it.
In turn you pretend not to notice when his burning gaze lingers on you. “Your work on this case has been very impressive, Callahan may not show it but he’s impressed. I am too.” He stays facing the road. Warmth flutters your chest at the praise. “Thank you Hiromi, that means a lot.” Toothy smiles exchanged. Turning to change the radio station. You both reach for it at the same time, hands colliding. “Oh- sorry.”
You go to retract your hand back when he reaches over to grasp your wrist. A startled look crossing your features when you turn to him. Hesitating a moment before gently releasing your wrist to brush his fingers up your palm, fingers sliding together gently before he intertwines them. A perfect fit. “Is this… okay?” His thumb rubs soothing circles to the top of your hand.
“It’s more than okay Romi.” You tighten your fingers around his. Taking in the feeling of his slightly hardened skin. Hand much larger than yours, completely enveloping yours in his gentle grasp. Blush dusting your cheeks when you meet his gaze. His eyes are kind, lips upturned. His face screams adoration. “Romi? That’s new.” His smile doesn’t lessen, “yeah, do you… like it?” A breathy laugh leaves him and he just nods. He absentmindedly brings your joined hands up to rest against his chin, soft breath dusting over your knuckles. And every now and then a soft press of his lips lands there too. It’s so gentle. He’s so gentle. The rest of the ride is filled with soft glances and quiet conversation.
Eventually the conversation leads back to the case. Back to Brooke, “She seems completely untrustworthy to me.” Your head tilts, “Why?”
“This is a person who made her living by telling women that they’re too fat.”
“Brooke would never tell a woman she was too fat.” He hums.
“And she seems like she’s hiding something.”
“Maybe it’s not what you think.”
“Maybe it’s exactly what I think.”
You face him with brows furrowed. “You know, you’re being a butthead.” A burst of laughter leaves him. “A butthead? Why would you call me that?” An easy grin covering his face. Hand squeezing yours tighter.
“You know, romi, you just need to have a little more faith in people. You might be surprised.” Humming softly. “I can’t believe you just called me a butthead. I mean, no one’s called me a butthead since about the ninth grade.” Murmuring, “maybe not to your face.” Fondness flashes across his features.
… “So I hear that little tart shot my ex husband.” She’s lounging without a cure in the world, face mask, on cucumber covering her eyes. The picture of relaxation. Hiromi answers first, “well, that’s what we’re actually trying to prove didn’t happen.”
Cutting in gently, “do you have any reason to believe that it did?” She removes the cucumber now peeking out at you, “I’ve never actually met the woman before… but my daughter tells me she can be quite the little bitch.” Right. “Did your daughter ever mention anything about the relationship between Brooke and her husband?”
“Well, she did say that they humped like gorillas. I guess that wasn’t enough, though, for Brooke.” Hiromi’s brows crease, “why do you say that?”
“Well… haven’t you seen the cabana boy?” With that this conversation is over. On the way back to the car you pipe up. “She’s lying.”
“And you know this for a fact?” Opening the passenger door for you, turning to meet his eye. “Did you see the icky brown colour of her hair?” His brows meet his hairline, closing your door before rounding the car. Buckling himself in, “So? Now you discriminate against brunettes?”
“Why shouldn’t I? I’m discriminated against as a blonde.”
“You know, being a blonde is actually a pretty powerful thing. You hold more cards than you think you do. And I personally would like to see you take that power and channel it towards the greater good, you know?” He says it so assuredly, it’s emboldening. I guess he is right, you do get… more attention from your looks, why not use that attention. Make people listen past the colour of your hair.
The car comes to a halt in front of your building, “Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Reaching for the handle. “All right.”
He leans over to catch your gaze through the open door, “Hey, how do you think I’d look as a blonde, you know?” A single brow raises, mirth coating your tongue. “I don’t think you could handle it.” Fluttering your fingers in a wave. “Bye.”
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The courtroom is full. Perfectly polished tapered suits, conservative button ups and pencil skirts galore. Witness testimonies beginning today, first is the deceased’s daughter; Miss Windham, on the stand. Answering the district attorney’s questions.
“And where was she exactly?” Leaning into the mic, eyes locked on Brooke. “Standing over my father’s dead body.”
The ex wife is next. “And where was she exactly?”
“Well, she was sitting next to the pool, topless, while the Latin boy handed her a drink.”
The pool boy, “Mr. Salvatore, can you tell us what this is?” Holding up a tiny leopard print speedo. He leans in smirking, “My uniform.”
“This is the… uniform Mrs. Windham asked you to wear while cleaning her pool?” He leans in again, slowly. “Yes.”
“And, are you not having an affair with Brooke Windham?”
“Define ‘affair.’” Oh how you want to slap the smug freaking look off of his face right now!
The D.A. Continues, “Have you and Mrs.Windham had sexual relations?”
“Yes. Okay, yes.” With that the court concludes, until 9am the following day. Brooke is absolutely seething when she approaches you, “You know a Delta Nu would never sleep with a man who wears a thong.” Nodding along, “Never!”, “I just liked watching him clean the filter.” She offered solemnly.
“I know, I believe you, Brooke.”
“Take care of me, y/n.” And she’s ushered away by the court Marshall.
“I will.”
The next day, when court is let out for a quick recess. You’re on your way to the water fountain in the hallway needing some refreshment. Upon approach you’re rudely cut off by the pool boy. Arms crossing over your plush chest, heel tapping rapidly waiting for an apology. He takes a long drink. When he’s done he turns, eyeing you up and down.
“Don’t stop your little last-season Prada shoes at me, honey!” Oh! How dare he. These are so NOT last season! Scoffing at him as he struts away… a sudden gasp escapes you. Running back into the courtroom. Skirting to a stop before the defence table.
“Romi! He’s gay! Enrique is gay!” Callahan turns to you.
“What?” Hiromi offers, utterly confused with your sudden outburst. Turning to Naoya, “Naoya, what kind of shoes are these?”
“…Black ones.” Spinning back to Hiromi, “see!”
Callahan blanches at you, “what are you talking about?”
“He’s gay. He isn’t Brooke’s lover, he's making it up.” Hiromi turns you to him gently, hands on your shoulders, “Wait, back up. How do you know he’s gay?”
Huffing, “Gay men know designers. Straight men don’t.” Brooke snaps her fingers pointing at you, “Know what? He did leave a Cher tape in the pool house one time.”
Callahan having reached his limit interjects. “While I appreciate your masterful legal theory, I have a murder trial to attend to. Hiromi?”
“Okay. I’ll take care of it. Thanks.” Offering a guilty smile your way. “Okay.”
Callahan proceeds to question the pool boy, completely ignoring your astute observation. Asking questions that do not help Brooke in any way! “Do you have any proof of your affair with Mrs. Windham?”
“Only the love in my heart.”
“Well, if that is the only evidence he has, your honour, I think I’m done.”
“You may step down-“ Hiromi stands, shooting you a subtle wink. “Actually. I’d like to ask a couple of questions, your honour.” He approaches a very unhappy looking Callahan, “Just give me a couple minutes.” At his reluctant nod, Hiromi approaches to question the pool boy.
“Did you ever take Mrs. Windham on a date?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“A restaurant in Concord where no one could recognise us.”
“How long have you been sleeping with Mrs. Windham?”
“Three months.”
“And your boyfriend’s name?”
“Chuck.” Nodding solemnly, Hiromi starts to back away, “Right.” Going to sit down, you smile at him mouthing a thank you. The courtroom erupts.
Enrique realising what just happened. Wide eyed. Jaw on the floor, “Wait! Pardon me.” Hiromi turns back around, “yes, Mr. Salvatore?”
“I was con- I was confused. I thought you said friend! Chuck is just a friend.”
A deliciously well dressed man stands suddenly from the courtroom benches, “You bitch!” The room gasps as he storms out the doors. “Chuck! Wait!”
Banging ensues, “Silence in my court!. Mr. Salvatore, sit down.” Hiromi turns to you leaning in conspiratorially, grin gracing his dark features. “Thanks.” Not only did he show you he trusts you, he also showed Callahan that you’re not to be ignored. You don’t think anyone has ever stood up for you the way he just did… and at the jeopardy of himself.
“Oh, y/n, Callahan asked to see you before you leave.” Vivian calls, carrying a world record amount of papers, “really?”
“Yeah, you know, he already has his coffee, but maybe he needs a doughnut.” Snorting, “do you need any help?” Gesturing to her full hands. “No, I’m fine. Thank you though.”
Approaching his door you knock and wait for a reply. “Come on in.”
Entering the dim office you leave the door slightly ajar, he’s sat in a leather single seat with papers scattered around the coffee table ahead, gesturing to the leather couch next to him. “Take a seat.” Flattening the back of your skirt as you lower yourself down.
“Is everything all right?” He sets his papers aside. “You followed your intuition today, and you were right on target. I should have listened.”
“Thank you.”
“About the alibi…” ringing your hands, “I’m sorry-“
“I’m impressed you took the initiative to go get it. That’s what makes a good lawyer. And, on top of that, you gained the clients trust and kept it. That’s what makes a great lawyer. You’re smart, y/n, smarter than most of the people on my payroll.” Pride swells in your chest. “Wow.”
“I think it’s time to discuss your career path.” He gets up and slowly approaches you, sitting… very close to you. So close your legs aren’t just touching they’re practically squished together, his breath is fanning across your cheek. “Have you thought about where you might be a summer associate?”
“Oh, um, not really. I know it’s very competitive…”
“Well, you know what competition’s really about, don’t you? It’s about ferocity, carnage. Balancing human intelligence with animal diligence. Knowing exactly what you want… and how far you’ll go to get it. How far will you go?” His words turned sultry as he went on. His slimy paw dropping to your knee slowly gliding up. Absolute horror takes over you. Fight or flight taking over, hitting his hand away and scrambling to your feet.
“Are you hitting on me…?” He doesn’t seem too concerned with your sudden reaction, slimy gaze tracking you. “You’re a beautiful girl.” The reality of the situation comes crashing down upon you.
“So everything you just said…” a carnivorous grin turns his face dark, “I’m a man who knows what he wants.”
Straightening, “And I’m a law student who just realised her professor is a pathetic asshole.” Turning to storm out, “Too bad, I thought you were a law student who wanted to be a lawyer!”
Rushing to the elevator your hands are shaking trying to hit the buttons. Face pale with tears starting to fall. When the doors open you’re scrambling to leave as fast as humanly possible. Bumping into a wall of lean muscle, you try desperately to avoid his gaze so he doesn’t see your tear streaked face. Silently his hand reaches out, turning your face up gently. His calm demeanour cracking.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Sniffling trying to avoid his too soft gaze, “I’m quitting.” Face furrowing in confusion, fingers feather light as he wipes your tears away cupping your face in his strong hands. “Why? What happened?”
“Law school was a mistake. This whole internship was a mistake.” Shoulders starting to shake violently.
“What are you talking about? you earned it.” Gripping his wrists as if your life depends on it.
“I didn’t earn anything, Romi! Callahan only gave me that internship because he liked the way I looked. Which he made very clear tonight when he tried to feel me up.” His fingers twitch, face hardening. Not at you, never at you. Voice strained, holding back. “What? Callahan did what?”
“Just forget about it. I’m going back home. No more boring suits. No more pantyhose. No more trying to be something that I’m just… I’m just not.” You’re pressed flush against his sturdy chest so suddenly it almost gives you whiplash. A hand cradling your head there, another strong arm curling around your waist protectively. And you just break apart in his steady hold as he holds you. “How about I take you home.” Nodding through your sobs he guides you out to his car, strong arm wrapped around your shoulder keeping you steady.
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“Are you going to be okay?” His soft voice cuts through the silence. Still sitting in the car, parked outside your building. “I don’t know… could you- could you come in for a bit?” Tear soaked eyes, lashes fluttering, glossy lips turned down into the sweetest frown, how could he say no?
Your door shuts softly behind him as you move to clear some space. Flicking on your bedside lamp to illuminate the room in a soft orange hue, pink tassels of your lamp shade creating a gentle ambiance. Hands shaking trying to move textbooks off of your plush pink sofa. His fingers curl around your wrist pulling you soft into him again. Chin resting on your head, fingers softly brushing through your hair. “Honey, why don’t I do that? Why don’t you just go get ready for bed, hmm?” An airy sigh leaves you at the feeling of his fingers running through your hair. Nodding he leaves a small kiss to your hairline before you walk off to get sorted.
Freshening up in your little bathroom. Face washed. Teeth brushed. Skincare done. You step back out to find him settled into your sofa, blazer folded neatly over the hand-rest his tie lost on the table somewhere. Looooong legs stretched out in front of him, head resting back on the sofa… his neck exposed presenting the delicious bob of his Adam's apple. Your heart stutters. He looks so relaxed.
Hearing the door open he peeks an eye open to find you, leaning against the doorframe. Cute fluffy pink socks, tiny leopard print cotton shorts… baby pink tank top. The neckline leaves little to the imagination. You’re trying to kill him, he's sure of it. Your gaze is softlidded. No longer tear soaked, still slightly puffy. The corner of his mouth lifts, arm coming up to beckon you over, “c’mere sweetheart.” Oh wow. His voice is deep, laced with sleep. Deep eyes tracking your movements. If your thighs clench subtly… well he doesn’t mention it.
Sitting next to him, his open arm wraps protectively around your shoulder pulling you flush against his side. Collapsing into him. Head pressed against his admittedly plush chest you wrap your arm across his stomach. Breasts pressed flush against his side, cheek squishing comfortably into his pecs. His hand runs up and down your arm in a soothing motion, goosebumps erupting on your skin. Your other hand sliding up his broad back to lay your palm flat between his shoulder blades, pressing in. You could feel him shiver at the movement.
Once you settle in, a dreamy sigh escapes you, eyes fluttering shut. Legs curled up against his lap. His scent washes over you… he smells so masculine. Earth and spice with a subtle hint of something citrus. You’re breathing him in like a drug. “You smell good.” Comes your mumble, spoken into his chest. You can feel the rumble under your check as he hums in acknowledgment. Breaths slow down as you find comfort in each other's warmth.
Rousing slowly as the early morning light peeking in through the blinds, filters across your vision. Lifting your head softly realising it’s still resting on a sturdy chest. A hand curled around your waist and another placed firmly over your lower back, splayed fingers just grazing the soft plush of your ass. And, oh. Peeking up through droopy lashes, to see Hiromi sleeping peacefully. Chest rising and falling softly, hair mussed from sleep.
He looks so pretty with the soft light filtering in, fanning across his cheeks. Raising slowly trying not to wake him, you move to get off. Only for a sudden weight against your back to press you back down. Firm palm splaying across your shoulder blades. He’s peeking down at you now, eyes swirling with warmth. Lips turned up. “G’morning.” His voice is thick with sleep. “Morning.” You whisper back.
“Are you feeling better?” His palms move to caress your waist gently, feather light touches that make you shiver. “I am. Thank you, for staying with me Romi.” And it’s true you’d all but forgotten what had happened in Callahan’s office. His gentle presence was exactly what you needed. Need. Sitting up slightly you press your forehead to his, your sweet gaze meeting his searching. Fondness all you can find.
His hands find your hips, fingers pressing in, kneading the flesh. When his gaze finally flickers down to your plush lips you lean in. Hands splayed over his cheeks. Pressing a soft kiss to his lips. He hums at your taste. Palms squeezing your hips now. Pulling back you move to pepper appreciative kisses over his face. Starting right next to his mouth, his cheeks, his forehead and finally his nose. When you pull back his lips are slightly ajar, brows fanning up and his cheeks are dusted a light pink…
“God, you’re so cute.” Reaching up to you, he grips the nape of your neck. Firmly pulling you back to his lips, kiss more sure now. Noses bumping every so often. Soon you’re shuffling down to settle your hips flush against his, pressing down firmly. Pulling a low groan from the back of his throat. When you eventually part for breath, a glistening string of saliva connects you together.
You’re both panting at the lack of air. You roll your hips once, experimentally watching for his reaction. Seeing his eyes blow out, chocolate being slowly replaced by black pools of lust. Large hands moving to grasp your hip and upper back he sits up slowly with you splayed across his lap. Knees bracketing his slender hips. Soft thighs pressed flush to his meatier ones. Your manicured hands sliding over his chest slowly, appreciatively. Eventually coming to a stop on his rounded shoulders. Large hands sliding down to cup under your upper thighs.
You just sit there admiring one another quietly for a good while. Hungry gazes tracing over every inch of each other. Moving your hands up his neck to glide your fingers through his soft chocolate locks. “You’re really pretty Romi…” you’re admitting, voice breathy and lust hazed. A soft huff leaves him, “Yeah?” Nodding enthusiastically, his smile deepens. Eyes softening.
“I think you’re the pretty one. Beautiful actually. Not just that you’re sweet… intelligent, determined. I think you might be the most genuine person I’ve ever met.” His fingers come up to brush hair out of your face, caressing your cheeks. They heat up under his touch. Stars in your eyes. “Romi?”
“Hmm?” He’s staring at your lips now.
“I think… I might be falling seriously in love with you.” His grin is blinding. Eyes locking on yours with laser focus. “I think I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.” He’s admitting sincerely. Scrambling off his lap your knees hit the carpet with a thud. Hands flying to his zipper… only he grabs your wrists to stop you? “Sweetheart… you don’t have to.”
“Romi, please. I want you.” Your eyes are pleading… and how could he say no? He nods softly, then releases your hands. Letting you reach up to slowly unbutton and slide his zipper down. He lifts his hips to help you shimmy his slacks down his thighs, letting them pool down past his knees. Fingers tracing the band of his boxers.
Snagging and snapping them back into place. Doe eyes leading up at him through thick lashes. You trace your fingers across to his… prominent bulge. Dragging your nails teasingly over his throbbing veins through the fabric. Earning soft, drawn out groans from the man above you the closer you get to his leaky tip. Music to your ears. He sounds so pretty and breathy.
Palm slipping across the soft fabric of his boxers. Slowly palming his bulge earning a few dewy drops of pre. Completely entranced with the sight. His hand comes down to your chin bringing your face up to look at him. And oh. He’s damn near salivating. Eyes blown. Lips parted. And finally after what feels like forever he leans down to press a sloppy kiss against your lips. Mouths parting to taste one another. His tongue poking out to tease your lower lip. Meeting him halfway you slide your tongue over his, tasting him. Eager moans mingling together. Parting from him reluctantly, to return to your earlier task.
Sliding his boxers down his hips to release his cock. Oh and it springs up so angry… pretty pink flushed tip dribbling. His length was one thing, counting 7… 8… maybe even 9 inches… but his girth. He’s just soooo thick from the pudge of his mushroom tip to the… thick circumference of his cock. A prominent vein runs down the underside of his length, begging for attention. Trembling fingers reach out to teasingly draaaaagggg a nail along that pulsing vein. His cock jumps at the contact. Your thighs press together, only now noticing the slick collecting at your center.
Lightly circling your fingers around to trace a thumb over his leaking tip. Bringing your face down, lips connecting with his tip. A needy sound erupts from him at the sight. Eyes following your every move. Looking up deep into his eyes beginning to leave small kisses over his tip. Smearing another drop of pre over them… creating the perfect sticky gloss. His mouth hangs when your tongue licks a fat stripe up; following along his prominent vein all the way up to his engorged tip, closing your mouth around it and sucking gently. His hand flies to the back of your head, caressing. Head thrown back with loud drawn out groans escaping him. “Fuck, baby. That feels so good… don’t stop.”
Hanging your maw open tongue lolling out over his tip, letting hot saliva spill down over him. Your left hand goes to his thigh, the right gripping his base and squeezing your fingers. Then moving to slowly pump him, coating him in your saliva. Wrist twisting closer to his tip, fingers meeting tighter at his base, setting a steady pace. Making sure to give his leaking tip ample attention. Between flicks of your wrist you leave an array of filthy kisses and soft sucks. His moans are downright filthy. His eyes glazed over, vision moving erratically between your pretty face and your increasing pumps of his cock. His jaw just hangs open letting his groans spill out freely, only spurring you on. It’s then he notices the movement of your hips below him. Rolling back and forth over nothing but air, thighs squeezed tight desperately seeking some friction.
You’re in a world of your own absolutely drunk on the taste of him, head bobbing shallowly over his angry tip. Tongue tracing sultry lines up and down his sensitive slit. Eagerly swallowing every drop of pre you can get your greedy tastebuds on. A particularly harsh suck from you has him groaning out unashamedly, “F-fuck, baby. You should stop soon or I’m gonna cum- oh my god!” Right as he says that your left hand comes down to softly cup and roooollll his tightening balls between your clammy fingers. Giving them a firm squeeze. And that does it. He’s bowing forward completely boneless. Mouth dropping soundlessly. Hips jerking with every spurt of cum shooting up into your awaiting maw. Pumping thick ropes onto your tongue to slide down the back of your throat. You greedily suck down every drop, pumps slowing down to ease him through his high. Easing off to gently suck on his twitchy tip. Until the stimulation becomes too much and he has to pull you off of him. Chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat coating his hairline. Heavy pants leaving him as he takes you in. Swollen, glossy, cum soaked lips. Eyes swirling with lust, drool coating your chin, cheeks flushed so pretty. Watching you loll your tongue out to show him the mess you made of him before swallowing the rest of it alllll down.
Pulling you up to him for a heated kiss, groaning out between licks into your mouth. Tasting the salty remnants of his spent on you, “Fuck. Sweetheart. That was incredible…” when you pull back you give him the biggest toothy grin you can muster right now. “Romi… that was so hot. Was that okay?” He splutters.
“Okay?? That was probably the best head I’ve ever had.”, yeah way to boost a girl's ego alright. Fingers curling around your arms he’s dragging you up to stand. Hands splaying over your hips, gently rubbing up and down, eyeing the embarrassingly obvious wet patch on the front of your shorts. Big fingers moving down to trace your mound over those tiny shorts, dipping down to lightly caress your folds through the slick material. Your hips twitch at the lingering touch. So close to where you need it. He guides your hands to grip his shoulders. Leaving a soft kiss to your wrist before his hands trail back down. Fingers itching at your waistband. Downturned gaze flicking up to ask permission that you eagerly grant; head nodding enthusiastically.
Fingers dipping into the hem of your sticky shorts, sliding them down your soft legs. Promoting you with a light tap to your calf to lift your feet out of them. They’re flung somewhere across the room. Now he’s eye level with your sticky panties. Which leave nothing to the imagination with the way your slick has them sticking to every nook, cranny and fold. He groans lowly at the sight. Palms molding to your legs as he slides them up, up, up. Cupping the underside of your ass appreciatively. Pulling you closer to his face. And just… pressing his nose into the front of your mound inhaling your sweet scent. Pulling a lewd moan from somewhere deep in your chest.
He’s dropping to his knees in front of you. Not caring for the sickening crack against the floor. Eyes locked on your soaked panty covered center. His hands slide over your hips to grip the waistband, your hands flying up to grip his hair threading your fingers through the silky locks at his nape. He’s pressing lingering kisses on what’s already exposed; lower stomach, across to your right hip, the left… to the very top of your mound. Then he’s pulling your panties off of you slowly, eyes locked on the way they stick and unstick from your dribbling folds. The warm puffs of breath leaving his nose zap your folds, he chuckles low at the shiver you let out. Chocolate gaze swirling over every exposed inch. “She’s so pretty, baby.” He’s mouthing into your thighs. Leaving slow, lingering kisses to each… dangerously close to your center. His left hand draggggging up from your calf to the back on your knee, lifting your leg to fit snugly over his shoulder.
Exposing you fully to his hungry gaze. And he just stares. Fingers coming up delicately to graze through your folds, collecting slick as he goes. The lightest touch of his fingertips gently spreading you open to expose your puckering hole in all her glory winking to him. Trailing his fingers up to your pulsing bud at the apex he’s just dying to get his mouth on… he nuzzles in nose first against your slick bud. Nudging it back and forth gently. Pressing harder against it. He’s eliciting soft mewls from you. Your toes curl in anticipation. “Romi… please. Don’t tease.” You plead, sounding so gone already, tone mewling and breathy.
He pulls back to lock eyes with you. A loud whine escapes from you at the loss of contact. That’s when he really dives in. Long tongue darting out to maze between your folds greedily, head knocking into your thighs through his vigor. Tongue flattening out to drag torturously all the way from your winking hole up to your twitchy little clit begging for attention. His lips lock on granting you a few gentle sucks before rolling the slick tip of his tongue round n round in tight circles over your increasingly sensitive nub. Alternating between sharp and soothing sucks, driving you absolutely mad. Tears spring from your eyes, mouth dropping open to mewl out obscenely at the sight of his eyes rolling back from the sharp, sweet taste of you absolutely drenching his face. He’s humming encouragingly whenever sharp moans of his name leave you. Sending filthy vibrations through your clit that reach down into the depths of your heat.
“Romiiiii. Oh my god!” You’re slobbering out the words between sharp gasps. Mind blank. Unable to focus on anything other than the way he’s devouring you. The feel of his fingers digging into your thighs. Reaching around to hold your folds open for him as he trails that vulgar tongue down to maddeningly circle your hole. Nose pressed flush to your sensitive clit, bumping softly with the rolls of your hips over his eager maw. A sharp squeal rips from you when he slides his thick muscle into your hole, swirling it around to open you up. He’s paying extra attention to the gummy spot along the front wall of your heat. Rubbing his tip up and down with the perfect pressure making you see stars. “Shiiiittt. Romi right there, don’t stop.” You’re sobbing out. Feeling the warm pressure building. Blooming from deep within.
Your lithe fingers curl into his hair now tugging harshly… pulling a deeeeeppp groan from his chest. Your legs start shaking from deep within the muscles, head thrown back, eyes reaching the back of your skull. He rips your orgasm from deep within you. Continuing through your high to flick his muscle against that gummy spot inside you. Groaning out as your walls cling desperately to him, nose continuously nuzzling your buzzing clit back and forth. Guiding you softly now through the waves of your high. Until your mewls and whines reach a higher pitch and your poor shaking hands are trying to rip him away. Muscles tensing viciously with over sensitivity.
Conceding he slowly pulls his tongue out of your hole to lick up every drop of your release. Cleaning you softly between your over sensitive jolts against his drenched jaw. Parting with a final feather light kiss to your overworked clit his eyes gleam up at you. He gently sets your leg back on solid ground, hands holding you steady on shaky legs. Leaning down and carefully grabbing hold of his face, you’re leaning in for another filthy kiss. His mouth slick with the taste of you mingling with your combined saliva.
You’re tugging on his rumpled button up urging him to take it off. Bringing you both back up to full height he’s backing you up to your plush pink covered bed, knees hitting the edge you’re falling back with a bounce. Your gaze drags up his torso watching his buttons go one by one. Exposing his broad, tanned chest to you bit by bit. It’s a mouth-watering sight. He’s a lot … thicker? Then you expected. All lean muscle sure but god he was defined. Toned slender stomach… thick arms you just wanted to dig your teeth into.
His boxers go next thrown over his shoulder as he eyes you up, legs spread awaiting the welcomed weight of him. His knees hit the mattress and he’s crawling up over you, thumbs catching the bottom of your tiny shirt eagerly dragging it up and over your head. Tits spilling out deliciously for his greedy gaze. Palms sliding down to cup the underside of them, lifting slightly, pressing them together. Palms splayed wide over the side of your ribs, thumbs roving over your tits to brush over your pert nipples. Ripping a soft moan from you at the delicate touch.
Your legs move to brush against his hips urging him to press his weight fully down onto you. Enticing him to split you open. He’s taking his time. Teasing your sensitive nipples. Your needy little hole is just pulsing, urging him to finally fill it. “Romi please!” Tears filling your eyes, thrashing against the sheets, pure need taking over your fuzzy brain.
“I know baby… you need me bad huh? Needy little cunt can’t wait?” Your brain scrambles, nodding and whimpering up at him. Tears are threatening to fall harder now. With a hum he grabs the base of his cock and drags the tip up and down your soggy folds, bumping into your clit. He taps his tip meanly over your jolting nub before he’s guiding his tip back down, snagging it on your tight ring of muscle.
Pressing his lips to yours tenderly, before he slowly presses his tip past that first tight ring of muscle. Swallowing down your gasps greedily. Forehead pressed to yours, he’s looking down between your bodies. Grunting at the resistance of your tight hole. Reaching down between your bodies to slowly rub his thumb in loving little circles over your clit, peppering kisses down your jaw. Trying to ease you open. Feeling your hole flutter and give, he presses in barely another inch. Continuing to slowly ease you open on his cock, fingers and lips working to distract your mind as the effect it has on your body helps him finally press his pubic bone flush against you. Shared satisfied groans leave you both upon finally feeling every inch of each other. His throbbing length combined with those delicious pulsing veins feel heavenly, a deep sigh leaving you. Your twitching walls greedily sucking his length in. “So fucking tight baby, oh my god.”
“Feels so good, romi… so full.” Reaching down between your bodies pressing your palm against your lower stomach and… feeling him there. Bulging out of you. Pressing down softly. Broken moans leave you both instantly. But when he starts moving… thick pulsing inches pulling back slowly until just the fat tip remains. Then he’s pushing forward torturously slowly dragging himself through your plush walls, you feel everything. Every inch. Every pulsing vein. The light smack of his balls tapping against your skin. It’s maddening. Your walls mould to the shape of him.
He moves his hands to pin your hips down. His thrusts remain slow and deep. Cock filling you tenderly. It’s slow and sensual -loving- but then he starts grinding his hips deeeeep into you. Probing around gently with his tip to find that special spot. Watching every expression crossing your face. Then suddenly he’s angling his hips upwards and pulling the most pornographic sounds out of you. Your hands fly up to clutch his biceps, fingertips digging in to find some purchase while your back arches up into him so sluttily. “Ohhh yeah, right there? That feel good baby?” His tone teasing, eyes locking on the sight of him protruding your lower stomach. Mouth hanging open. Watching the bulge appear and disappear completely entranced. Your walls cling onto him pulling long drawn out groans from his open maw. His hands are moving to grip your legs now, moving them to rest on his shoulders.
Changing the angle when he sits back, leaning on his haunches. His strong grip on your legs when he repositions causes your hips to rise up off the bed. Suspended in his hold. Squealing when his next experimental thrust hits your sweet spot dead on. He’s turning his head to kiss your ankle tenderly. Pulling your focus to him. A charming smile beamed down at you.
Repositioning his arms to wrap securely around your knees pressing the backs of your legs flush against his chest. “Ready?” He’s asking softly between more peppered kisses against your ankle. “… yes?” With the leverage of his position he starts pounding into you. Hips swaying back and forth easily in his position, able to angle his hips to thrust deep up into your sweet spot. Your hands scramble to claw at the comforter below you needing something to ground. Hiromi alternates between deep thrusts into your sweet spot and burying himself to the hilt grinding into you, trim hairs at his public bone rubbing deliciously into your neglected clit. The bed creaks lewdly below you… surely alerting others of your early morning activities. Not that either of you are trying to be quiet.
His pace starts to increase, sweat coating your bodies now, the stench of sex so strong it’s heady. Intoxicating. You can feel your body exploding with heat, starting deep in your core and spreading rapidly. You start grabbing at his wrists needing to feel him close. Mewling out. Pleading with your eyes. He seems to get the message when he lets you drag him down toward your face. Legs stuck between you folding you in half as you get your greedy paws on his face, bringing him down for a needy kiss. Jaw hanging open around your moans, his cock is pressing so tight into every nook and cranny from this angle. Lathering him with filthy open mouth kisses and he folds you further into a mean mating press. He’s hitting into you so deep now you can feel him kissing your womb with every hard knock of his gooey tip.
You’re gasping into him now. Meeting his eyes, brows curved up in pleasure, eyes glassy. His hands are splayed out beside your head, hips curving into your heat swiftly, breathing erratic. He can feel your gummy walls pulsing faster, vice grip threatening to trap his swollen cock any second. Reaching between you he starts strumming expertly on your clit, groaning out as he feels how much it’s fluttering under his fingertips. His hips are starting to stutter thrusts becoming erratic, veins throbbing against your walls rapidly now. And you’re crying out. “Romiii! I’m so close... Gonna cum!” With a few more tight circles against your clit and perfectly aimed thrusts to your sweet spot. You’re convulsing around him.
Tight cunt locking around his cock so hard he can barely move, hips thrashing under him violently. Your eyes disappear into your skull, and the highest pitch squeal erupts out of you. He coaxes you through it, littering kisses across your face. Hands rubbing your hips soothingly. Hips rolling softly through each wave of your high. Until your breaths start to flow out less sporadic and your eyes find him again. “You did so good, sweetheart.” He’s cooing down at you, his voice cracking in time with his stuttering hips.
“You gonna cum romi?” He doesn’t need to answer, his cock is jumping inside you. “Wan’ it in me. Please romi… want you to cum in me.” You're slurring out. “Oh, fuck!” He’s croaking out, giving a few final thrusts before he’s pressing flush against you. Spurting his gooey cum deep in you. Coating your walls in him. His stomach twitching with the intensity of his orgasm, thrusting shallowly until his tip is dribbling. Legs wrapped tightly around him, letting him come down buried in you. He collapses onto you, hefty weight welcomed. Melting into each other finally spent. You meet for another soft kiss.
.
.
.
“You’re fired. I have new representation.” Callahan guffaws at Brooke. “Who?” Turning to find… you. “Excuse you, you’re in my way.”
“She’s a law student. She can’t defend you.” Clearing your throat , cue David reading; Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court ruling 3.03.
“See? Thank you, David.”
“Counselors, approach the bench…” turning, Callahan tries to stop you. “You’re not going up there.”
“Oh, yes, I am.”
“Y/n Woods, your honour. Rule 3.03 of the Supreme Judicial Court states that a law student may appear on behalf of a defendant in criminal proceedings.” Callahan ever the party pooper cuts in, “I’m not allowing it.”
Turning so sweetly to him, “But you agreed last night… in your office when we discussed my career.” Sweet smile gracing your lips.
“The ruling also states that you need a licensed attorney to supervise you. Mr. Callahan?”
“That I won’t agree to.”
Hiromi interjects, “Uh, I’ll supervise, your honour.” And with that it’s settled. You will be defending Brooke. The first person to be cross examined by you would be… the deceased’s daughter. Miss Windham.
“Miss. Woods, you may begin questioning.”
Wow there’s a lot of people here… and Brooke is now depending on you, the nerves set in instantly. “Um, first of all I would like to point out that there is no proof in this case, but there is a complete lack of mens rea which by definition tells us there can be no crime without a viscous will.”
“I am aware of the meaning of mens rea. What I’m unaware of is why you’re giving me a vocabulary lesson when you should be questioning your witness.”
“Yes, your honour, um… Miss Windham, when you arrived back at the house, was your father there?”
“Not that I saw, but like I said, I went upstairs to take a shower.” She looks so smug.
“And when you came downstairs, what happened?”
“I saw Brooke standing over his body, drenched in his blood.”
“But Mrs. Windham didn’t have a gun?”
Leaning in smirking she speaks clearly into the mic. “No. She’d stashed it by then.”
Hiromi interjects, “move to strike that from the record, your honour. It’s speculation.”
“So stricken.” Turning to Hiromi with an anxious look on your face, he nods, urging you to go on.
“Miss Windham, did you hear a shot fired?”
“No. I was in the shower.”
“Okay, so, some time in the 20 minutes that you were in the shower, your father was shot.” Trying to piece together a story that just doesn’t fit.
“I guess.”
“Your father was shot while you were in the shower, but you didn’t hear the shot because… because you were in the shower?” Why does that seem wrong…
Scoffing, she leans in, “Yes. I was washing my hair.”
“Where is she going with this?” Hiromi’s second chair asks,
“Have a little faith, Gerard.”
Looking back at the papers available, “Um, Miss Windham, what had you done earlier in the day?”
She answers dryly, “I got up, got a latte, went to the gym, got a perm, and came home.”
Bingo. Turning back to her approaching slowly, “Where you got in the shower?”
“I believe the witness has made it clear that she was in the shower.” Laughs erupt around the courtroom. “Yes, your honour. Um, Miss Windham, had you ever gotten a perm before?”
“Yes…?”
“How many would you say?”
“Two a year since I was 12. You do the math.”
Continuing, “You know, a girl in my sorority, Tracy got a perm once? We all tried to talk her out of it. Curls weren’t a good look for her, she didn’t have your bone structure. But, thankfully, that same day, she entered the Beta Delta Pi wet t-shirt contest, where she was drenched head to toe.”
“Objection! Why is this relevant?”
Turning to the judge pleadingly, “I have a point. I promise.”
“Then make it.”
“Yes, ma’am. Um, Miss Windham, why is it that Tracy’s curls were ruined when she got her hair wet?”
“Because they got wet?” She bristles slightly.
“Exactly. Because isn’t it the first cardinal rule of perm maintenance that you’re forbidden from getting your hair wet for at least 24 hours after getting a perm at the risk of deactivating the ammonium thioglycolate?” Her eyes widened visibly. “Y-yes.”
“And wouldn’t somebody who’s had, say, 30 perms in their life be well aware of this rule? And if in fact you weren’t washing your hair as I suspect you weren’t, because your curls are still intact, wouldn’t you have heard the gunshot? And if in fact you had heard the gunshot, Brooke Windham wouldn’t have had enough time to hide the gun downstairs before you got there, which would mean you would have had to have found Mrs. Windham with a gun in her hand to make your story plausible. Isn’t that right?” Hand propped up on your cocked hip, staring her down. And she just breaks…
She bursts out. “She’s my age! Did she tell you that? How would you feel if your father married someone your age?”
“You, however, had time to hide the gun, didn’t you Miss Windham? After you shot your father.”
“I didn’t mean to shoot him. I thought it was you walking through the door!” She’s posing straight at Brooke, tears staining her face, the court erupts in gasps. ‘Order! Order! Order!”
“Oh my god.” Turning to Hiromi dazed, you approach the defence table slowly. Distantly you can hear the judge ordering the daughters' immediate detainment. When you reach Hiromi he’s beaming, reaching out to shake your hand in congratulations. “Well done. I knew you could do it.”
“I’m the matter of the state vs. Brooke Windham, the case is dismissed. Mrs. Windham, you are free to go.” Cheers fill your ears.
“Miss. Woods, how did you know Miss Windham was guilty?”
“The rules of haircare are simple and finite. Any cosmo girl would’ve known.” With that you’re walking through the courtroom doors head held high. Until… someone starts calling out for you. Naoya. “What?”
“I just wanted to say that you were brilliant in there. And that I was wrong. And you’re the girl for me.” Deadpan, “Really?”
“Yes. Pooh bear… I love you.” He tries to kiss your hand. “Oh, Naoya. I waited so long to hear you say that… but if I’m going to be a partner at a law firm before I’m 30, I need a boyfriend who’s not such a complete bonehead.” In cuts Hiromi offering his hand out to you, which you take gladly squeezing gently.
Walking out of the courthouse together…
a/n okay I hope this isn’t completely horrible. if I keep editing I’ll go crazy and change the whole thing. feedback is welcome! also I haven’t seen this movie in ages so I hope this makes sense 😭
synopsis ꩜ the cute emo boy from your college is completely enamored with you and your pretty outfits, so when he hears you and your shitty boyfriend finally broke up, he wastes no time in planning how to make you his.
pairing ˎˊ˗ emo! choso x girly! reader
warning / tags ⟢ fem! reader, MDNI 18+, this will be a bit angsty, yuki is ooc here, cheating, miscommunication, friends to lovers, inappropriate use of drum sticks, blowjobs, pussy eating, hair pulling, subby choso, yes he will whimper, fluff, tba…
synopsis: geto suguru is out to get you and while you know he wants you to stay away from his best friend, his efforts to deter you only drive you forward. naturally, that doesn't sit well with him.
contains: MDNI, unedited, cussing, weed, alcohol, dry humping, slight smut, frat parties and clubbing, reader is a maneater and a bitch, satoru is lovesick, suguru is done, cockblocking, shenanigans, misunderstandings
words: 14.5k (whoa now)
note: art credits to k05062688 and _SinnerV on x
Geto Suguru has a heart of gold and is a joy to be around. Just ask anyone and they would confirm this with a fond smile. He's the guy that everyone wants to befriend rather than just be with or become.
He had a way of guiding people with an air of security and providing a judgment-free zone for close friends and strangers to confide in him like he was a father at a confessional, intently listening on the sins followers committed and teaching them how to repent without ridicule.
Gojo came to him as an arrogant, obnoxious rich kid with no consideration of those around him. He never had to pay mind to anyone given his sheltered life and silver spoon in his mouth. After the raven-haired man put him in his place by responding to his snarky remarks in kind, Satoru finally had a friend who didn't walk on eggshells around him that he could be vulnerable with and learn from.
Suguru took him under his wing, helped him adjust to the real world outside of his extravagant, overconsumption lifestyle. As much as Satoru was an asshole, he was just as lost if not more as an adolescent, still a kid and naive at that. Through Suguru, he learned how to carry himself and win people over with his authenticity rather than the snob his family expected him to be—socialising with others from various backgrounds without insulting them or seeming out of touch because he didn't comprehend their struggles.
He was quick to defend the starry-eyed, silver-haired man when he made mistakes—taking on a protector role in their dynamic. Not that Satoru was a special case or anything as he'd do the same for Shoko, Nanami, Haibara and any of their other friends.
While Satoru is outgoing and fond of many now, he's still worlds away from others in a way he can't change given the family he was born into. Suguru on the other hand is down to earth. The unattainable was enigmatic to humans since the dawn of time so it's no wonder why girls would sought after his charismatic best friend. Satoru was a flirt but oh could he fall. Plummet actually. Quite like Icarus did and you think Shoko's comparison is fitting as all the pretty man was missing were pearlescent wings to look like an angel. It was why he couldn't stay away from his ex-girlfriend, Ari, for too long. She was his first everything and Suguru's convinced they'll grow old and die hand in hand if Satoru had anything to say about it.
For now, Ari seemingly wanted nothing to do with him and it would have been something he overlooked had she not ignored his calls and texts for weeks rather than days like she used to. She was as weak as Satoru when it came to opening her heart to him again and again. Needless to say, his lovesickness deterred many admirers and they'd flock to Suguru instead, adding to his own ever-growing list of admirers. Whispers about what girls wanted him to do to them and reminiscing about what he had done were prevalent on campus
Not one to follow the crowd, Satoru was the half of the pair that snagged your attention. Across the room at a bustling party where he nursed his drink, slumped against the wall while his best friend had a hand on his shoulder, eyes narrowed like he was giving him a serious pep talk about getting over the girl that broke his heart. Again.
He may have been here in body but not in spirit or mind, the lights flashing over his face like the memories he's undoubtedly sulking over. What a cute thing. As a kid, you'd lose interest in toys that everyone else wanted or had. The unique, rare things enchanted you. That could be the reason you gift people personalized presents and melt when they return the favor. Of course, the demand for Gojo Satoru wasn't low but you'd say he invoked a fear of missing out within you for the first time.
It's why you found yourself slinking through the stuffy crowd of partygoers cramping up the frat house and sauntering over to the two men. The ivory haired man caught sight of you first, the lights in the house bleeding from blue to pink as he faced you, ending his friend's lecture as he noticed Satoru was no longer listening. Under their dual attention, you graced them with your kindest smile.
Satoru's lips, reddened from him nibbling on them, parts as he takes you in, the somber look in his gaze from earlier fluttering away. Good. You liked when his eyes resembled the beach on a warm summer day rather than a stormy sea. Introducing yourself, you pat yourself on the back when you pulled what you guessed was his first genuine grin of the night, judging by his silent friend's cocked brow as he looked from Satoru to you.
You weren't rude by any means so you did acknowledge Suguru as well. You'd heard good things about him from Shoko too, how nice he was. But there was no trace of that when his eyes assessed you, lids lowering until they were suspicious slits. You thought nothing of it. Not when Satoru and you were laughing and clutching your stomachs just seconds later, clicking like lost pieces of a puzzle that had been found.
Suguru was mildly miffed at how a stranger was able to achieve what he'd tried to do for days—get Satoru back to that bright, beckoning light everyone knew him to be. And as his best friend, he was the shadows that touched everything surrounding that beam, acting as a repellent to scare off people undeserving of having Satoru shine on them.
He was yet to find out which category you fell into. Your arm on Satoru's biceps and smile morphing into a lascivious smirk answered that for him soon enough.
Satoru lightens up even more when a song he loves blasting while driving starts playing through the speakers, his head already nodding along. You noticed because of course you did. Suguru's certain your eyes haven't left his best friend for more than a minute in the half an hour you've been talking to him. Time flies when Satoru starts yapping.
“Would you like to dance?” you ask Satoru, nodding to the makeshift dance floor. Acquainting yourself with him didn't dim your interest like it usually did with men. If anything, you wanted to get to know him more, sink beneath his skin and witness the blood pumping through the veins of this handsome man. For now, you'd settle for the touches that came with dancing.
Satoru's grin widens and he's about to agree when Suguru shakes his head. You'd almost forgot he was still here, leaning against the wall and watching you both intently.
“Actually, Satoru's a bit out of it tonight. If he over does it, he'll be a pain to wake up for classes tomorrow,” his best friend's smooth voice cuts in like sinking into hot water after a cold day.
Bummer, you think as you nod in understanding. The reminder from Suguru sobers Satoru up, his inner turmoil crashing down on him once more as he gives you a bashful, apologetic smile.
“I’d hate to end the fun early but Professor Yaga will have my head on a stick if I miss another one of his classes,” the young man cringes at the thought, “Can I take a raincheck on that dance?”
He's too sweet to be upset with so you smile and agree. “Sure, we'll continue another time.”
Delighted, Satoru pulls you into a side hug that warms your shoulder and torso before pulling away all too quickly with a wave as he disappears in the direction of the front door. Suguru wasn't quick to follow, violet gaze on you like he's trying to figure out what your deal is. You merely tilt your head in question, blinking innocently. He doesn't fall for the act, the dark brows that were nearly straight lines above his hooded eyes lowering.
“See you next time,” he greeted, following his best friend's path right as Satoru calls out to him from somewhere outside, voice loud and boisterous enough to be heard over the booming bass.
There's butterflies swarming your tummy. Though that could just be the cups of punch you'd drank earlier sloshing around in there. Either way, you're looking forward to Satoru making good on his promise.
Though Suguru stomps on the flapping creatures in your stomach, crushing them beneath his combat boots like they were nothing more than filthy insects when he finds ways to intervene in your attempts to get closer to his soft-hearted best friend. He knows your type. The kind that goes after what they can't have to prove a point and do away with the person they treated as a quest once they got the gratification they set out for.
At first, you think you're seeing things and getting defensive because you like Satoru. Just a little. A puppy crush. Still, it was certainly odd how Suguru inserted himself in every possible way when you were trying to talk to Satoru alone. When you sat too close to Satoru on the lumpy couches at parties, he'd squeeze into the sliver of space between you as if it was shaped for him to. When you'd act all curious about the drink Satoru had in hand and he'd hold it out for you, seconds away from sharing an indirect kiss, another hand would appear, holding a sweating bottle of said drink just for you. When you'd disguise your flirting as jokes, Suguru would add on and Satoru would be beside himself with laughter as if the long-haired man was a comedian. You'd eye him and he'd just smile, giving no hints that he was aware of what he was doing.
Hence, you let it slide, brushing it off as your imagination. There were countless other methods to get Satoru's attention. You'd gathered them from your trusty books and the tips never failed you before—physical contact and forced proximity.
You'd brush up against Satoru when you studied with him in the library and he didn't move away which had you smiling to yourself behind your notebook. Suguru then yawned loudly, stretching his arms over his head, much to the librarian's chagrin as he glanced around, eyes landing on you and Satoru with a glint.
“It's quite crowded in here today, huh? Wanna go grab some lunch and stretch our legs?” He suggested, mentioning the café that had his best friend's favorite mochi. As he expected, Satoru sprung up, packing away his stuff and agreeing. You mourned the loss of his strong shoulder pressed to yours just as Suguru looked back at you and gestured for you to come along.
That was fine. The problem started with your next attempt when you'd complained about how chilly the air was while your group walked back from the park you'd found after having dinner at a nearby restaurant. Everyone else knew to bring their coats and jackets, having seen the weather forecast but you “just so happened to forget yours.”
Satoru was the first to react, tugging off his jacket since he had a hoodie under anyway and hope sparked in your chest, chasing away the wind nipping at your cheeks.
Or maybe it was the black coat that draped over your shoulders from behind. Suguru was there, striking his lighter, the warm glow illuminating his tan skin as if he were your saving grace. Exhaling a plume of smoke into the air above your head, he jut his chin at you.
“That better?” he asked around the stick, standing there and smoking his cigarette without a care in the world, the cherry red at the end of it burning bright orange as he took another puff, eyes squinted. The breeze licked at his ponytail, toying with that rebellious section of his bangs that always fell over his forehead as if it liked being on his face.
Unlike you who was pretending to shiver, he was perfectly content in his black Henley, sleeves rolled up to reveal his toned forearms and the veins that lined them. You didn't want to slide your arms into the sleeves of his pleasantly scented coat so you ducked your head into the collar to hide your embarrassment (that you got the wrong guy's chivalry).
Forcing a nod, you look away. “Yeah, thanks.”
Again, to everybody else, it looks like he's just being a compassionate person, good friend, a gentleman even. And yet, the strange sensation in your gut is leading you to believe otherwise. You're not stupid enough to confront him about it without actual incriminating evidence. If you just pointed and yelled at him for being a snake, everyone would look at you crazy for accusing the guy who was far from sinister of being just that and think you had trust issues. Throwing the coat down and trampling it after all the fuss you made would be worse.
Suguru makes his intentions crystal clear one night when you see Satoru heading to the parking lot. Being alone with him in his car was a great way to make a move on him.
“You need a ride home? Sure, can't have a pretty girl like you waiting on a cab this late,” he agreed easily, opening the passenger side door for you with a playful grin, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, making him all the more gorgeous.
Hand clenching around the shoulder strap of your book bag, you take a step forward, not wanting to spring into the car like your heart is within your ribcage. This was playing out so well. You'd charm the socks off him, revel in his melodic laughter and invite him up for coffee and maybe see if he's got white hair everywhere—
A tug on your bag has you halting. Confused, you glance back to see if it got caught on the car mirror beside you like your shirts tend to catch on the doorknob of your room as if the fixture was sentient and didn't want you to leave.
There was no mirror or door in sight but the man standing there was as wide and tall as the latter and his face reflected your deadpan. Satoru greeted his best friend with that cheerful tone he'd offer anyone.
Suguru nodded in acknowledgement, eyes coming back to where you stood, hand dropping from your strap. “You live near the suburbs, right?”
“Yeah, why?” You raise a brow though the sinking feeling in your belly told you exactly where he was going with this. You just wanted to be wrong for once.
“My parents’ place is around there. Satoru's far out in comparison,” he proves you right as Satoru ah's as if he just recalled that fact, “Come on, I'll take you.”
The only person you wanted to take you was currently waving you goodbye and telling you to get home safe as you trailed after Suguru, glaring at the back of his stupid head.
“I know what you're doing,” he told you after being mostly quiet on the drive here, now parked outside your complex.
Unbuckling your seatbelt, you glance over at him. Hands still on the steering wheel, he's clearly ready to say his piece then drive off.
“Do you?” You humor him, opening your bag to make sure your phone and the earphones you tend to misplace are in there.
With a heavy sigh, Suguru looks to the side to meet your gaze, his unamused while yours is dry.
“Hitting on Satoru isn't cute. It's not gonna get you anywhere.”
The absolute tone in his voice has you scoffing. “Oh, really? Well, I won't know unless I try, right?”
Jaw flexing, he gives you a once over, not liking what he's seeing if his curled lip is anything to go by. Uncaring because he's not the one you want looking at you anyway, you wait for him to continue.
“That wouldn't be fair to him or you. I don't think you want the same things that he does and I'd rather prevent anyone getting hurt.” He phrases it like he's doing you a favor.
Praise from others about his people skills evidently inflated his ego to the point that he's sure he knows what's best for you when, mind you, he only met you a few months ago.
Reaching for the door handle, you ready yourself to leave. “Thanks but I think I can make my own decisions.”
Stubborn refusal laces your words even though they come off sounding like you'll consider his advice. He's aware you planned on forgetting this conversation entirely.
Nothing else is said as you exit the car with a quiet thank you and shut the door, retreating into the front gate of your complex, leaving Suguru to stare ahead at the road, your scent that's still here irking him. He rolls down the windows to get rid of it.
He realises that trying to ward you off directly only deepened your determination to defy him. He was like a fool fanning the flames of a wildfire, spreading it until it ate up the surrounding forest and coughed out ashes. Suguru thinks you're that fire and will leave Satoru charred if you succeed in winning him over.
Watching you at parties, mingling with strangers like they were long lost friends and chuckling at their dry humor as well as inquiring about your dating life through Shoko, Suguru found out that his assumptions about you were right. You had one or two boyfriends in the past but you were inclined to having casual flings for the past two years. You'd bed Satoru and head out. His stomach twisted at the thought of his friend feeling used and unworthy of your adoration after you abandon him when your curiosities are satiated.
The cruel thought had him scowling at your form as you tossed a ball into one of the solo cups on the table, the partygoers around you cheering and chanting for you to chug the alcoholic beverage down with enthusiasm. Satoru clapped for you then checked his phone for the umpteenth time. His ex, Ari, hadn't made contact in months and he still held out hope. Suguru blinked and then you were at Satoru's side, lifting his spirits with a pat on his back as you said something that had him smiling again. As if you knew he'd be staring when you glanced his way, you caught his gaze and grinned like the cat who got the cream. If Suguru wanted to act like a dragon guarding its treasure horde then you were the sneaky thief who'd break in to see what was so precious about it.
A shift had occurred though. You took on multitasking. Satoru was bound to be out of reach if Suguru was hovering so you'd get girls to distract him whenever you could, scandalizing them with whispers about how he'd eyed them stealthily all night and wanted them to make the first move. He loved being chased, you had whispered, and boy could his fan girls sprint. Having women all over him, hanging off his every limb was something Suguru couldn't shake easily. Chivalrous at heart, he couldn't turn them down or reject them shortly. The way you'd bite back a smile while sitting way too close to Satoru for his liking made it obvious that this was your doing.
The sky split open in bursts of gold and violet, sparks raining down over the city. You stood shoulder to shoulder with Satoru at the edge of the rooftop, close enough that your sleeves brushed when he laughed at something you said. The fireworks painted his pale hair in flashes of color, reflected bright in your wide, starry eyes as you tipped your head back to watch them bloom and disappear.
Across the roof, Suguru stood beside Ieiri and Kento, hands tucked into his sleeves. He wasn’t watching the sky. He was watching you.
You felt it—his gaze, steady and unreadable—and turned. For a moment, the fireworks flared between you. Then his expression shifted, subtle but sharp. A small shake of his head. Not amused. Not impressed. Disappointed. Like you were being foolish. Like you were being obvious.
Heat crept up your neck, but you turned back to Satoru anyway when he nudged you, pretending you hadn’t seen.
Suguru didn’t look away until the sky went dark.
Satoru almost never slowed down, which made it unsettling when he did. He was slumped on a bench outside the lecture hall, pale, sunglasses crooked, mumbling weak complaints about betrayal and bad cafeteria food.
You crouched in front of him anyway, pressing a cool drink into his hand, brushing his bangs back to check his temperature despite his dramatic protests.
The fever was brewing since this morning so you'd gotten him meds from the nearby pharmacy. Of course, he made faces and gagged at the ones that weren't all sweet and sugary.
“You’re terrible at taking care of yourself,” you muttered, softer than you meant to.
“That’s why I have you,” he shot back faintly.
You pressed a cold bottle of tea to his forehead despite his whining, adjusting his collar when he complained about the heat.
A shadow fell over the two of you.
Suguru.
He took in the scene in one quiet sweep—your hand still near Satoru’s face, Satoru leaning toward you without thinking.
“I’ll take him,” Suguru said evenly.
You stood, suddenly aware of how close you’d been. Suguru slipped an arm around Satoru’s shoulders with practiced ease, steadying him. For a brief second, his eyes met yours.
Not repulsed this time.
Just guarded. Measuring.
Then he turned away, guiding his best friend down the path, leaving you standing there with the faint, unsettling feeling that you’d just stepped into something far more complicated than a crush.
Suguru thinks the same.
Thus, he began keeping Satoru occupied. Complained that they hadn't had a chance to bond, just the two of them in ages. Satoru scoffed since they were housemates and saw each other all the time. Suguru told him that was different. So they started hanging out as a duo more at places you'd only find out they were at days later when one of them posted a story—shooting range, rage room, archery, obstacle course, mountain climbing, zip lining, bungee jumping and running marathons.
Frustration simmered within you but you were also impressed by the lengths Suguru would go to for his best friend's sake. It was respectable in an overly protective way.
He thinks you've learned your lesson now that he's kept Satoru out of the nightlife scene for some weeks. You'd made small talk with Satoru tonight at the club, your friend group reuniting with the best friends after some time so everyone wanted to know what they got up to and wanted to join next time. You maintained your distance which had Suguru proud of his efforts, chest puffed and head high.
What threw him off was you sliding into the seat beside him at the bar, ordering a fruity margarita. Hairs rose at the back of his neck in apprehension at your proximity but you either didn't notice his tense body or didn't care. Probably a mix of both. You stood there long enough to notice him eyeing a pretty girl on the dance floor—big smile, bright eyes and bouncy coils of hair. He wasn't the only set of eyes she caught and you could see why.
“Want me to go put in a good word for you?” you ask, sipping on the deceptively sweet drink that would make your head buzz in a half an hour or so.
Tearing his eyes away from the woman, he blinks and lowers his head to see if he heard you right. The expectant gaze of yours tells him he did.
“You’d do that, why?”
Shrugging a shoulder, you glance around. “Just ‘cause. We're friends, right?”
“Barely.”
Your hand waves in dismissal. “Whatever, I'm trying to be nice since you opened my eyes about Satoru.”
His brows bounce. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
Mulling over your words as his finger circles the rim of his glasses, he glances at the woman and then back to you then repeats.
“Okay, since you wanna play wingwoman,” he concedes. He prefers approaching women himself but seeing as you were attempting to make peace with him, he accepted.
Triumph brightened your gaze as you threw back your cocktail like it was a shot. “Have another ready for me, will you, babe?” You sweet talk the gullible bartender then disappear into the sea of people. To Suguru, you may as well be a shark among smaller fish with how easily his eyes track you. A habit he developed from closely monitoring your interactions with Satoru. It was like he had a radar inside him that would go off and he'd just know you were circling his best friend.
Swaying to the music, you dance your way over to the woman he hopes will go home with him tonight. She welcomes you with ease, your bodies moving in sync to the rhythm of the song playing like you'd practiced the choreography countless times and this wasn't impromptu between strangers. Head ducking, you whisper in her ear and she looks over her shoulder, sparkly eyes finding Suguru's. Whatever you said has her eagerly nodding and you flash her a dazzling smile under the disco lights for it.
Holding out your hand palm up, you wait for her to take it. Suguru straightens up, as he's certain you're about to lead her over to him, complete your wingwoman duties by bringing her over to him so he could finish the job. He takes your magarita from the bartender, wanting to hold onto it for you so he doesn't look like he's impatiently waiting. Admittedly, you'd done the talking quick if she was already agreeing to come chat to him. Though not many women turned him away so he's not that surprised.
What does surprise him though is you using her palm in yours to pull her closer to you, her arms resting on your shoulders as you converse with her. The song changes into something sexier and so do your moves, hips no longer swishing from side to side but rolling forward, meeting hers as she mirrors you. Your hands slide down her sides, definitely not friendly as you grab handfuls of her full hips. She throws her head back and laughs at the mischievous expression on your face.
Suguru can't move from his spot, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene before him. Were you stealing the girl from right under his nose? Had he walked straight into your trap?
Your lips brush the shell of her ear as you whisper something to her and when you pull back to look at her, the sultry grin on your face is blocked from his view.
Because she's kissing you. On the mouth. With tongue.
And you're returning it with the lazy pace she's going at. He thinks that you may have forgotten the plan. That you're more tipsy than you thought and all you could think of doing was flirting. But then your eyes open, locked onto his immediately and the smirk you give him is knowing.
Bristling, Suguru can't do much else other than hold your gaze until you look away first. To have some kind of control or win in this situation. You lose only because you wink at him as you break the kiss. He's stumped when you bid her goodbye and join him at the bar counter again, thumbing away the lipstick smeared on your mouth and taking your cocktail from him.
“Sheesh, I haven't been kissed like that in forever,” you chuckle.
Eyes narrowed, he watches you take a sip of your drink and exhale like you've been refreshed. “Thought you were putting in a good word for me.”
“Oh, I did. Unfortunately for you, she's into women. Though if you change your perspective, it's a win for me so not all is lost,” you inform him cheerfully.
He's not convinced.
You don't protest as you were being truthful. She does like women. Did you maybe, kind of, sort of tell her the “creep” at the bar wouldn't leave you alone so you asked her to pretend to be your girlfriend? Maybe but that part is unnecessary to add so you don't.
Suguru's life doesn't get any easier from there. For some unknown reason, girls on campus are dodging him rather than launching himself in his direction. Some approached him still but mostly to ask if the rumors about him hooking up with others while he had a girlfriend were true. Others didn't care about the rumors as they had no shame. He was outraged and asked them who they heard that from. They said his girlfriend.
And they'd always point at you.
“What's the matter, baby?” you'd asked cutely when he marched up to you that day.
“You think you're funny, huh?” His expression was indifferent but there was a flicker of annoyance in those amethyst irises.
“Fucking hilarious, actually.”
What you didn't anticipate was that he'd use those rumors to his advantage, scaring off guys who showed interest in you so you couldn't go around flirting with every other idiot at parties. You were pissed but he justified it.
“You want to be with Satoru, don't you? He doesn't like girls who make googly eyes at other men,” he explained as if that was reason enough for chasing away innocent people.
“Oh, okay because I was wondering.”
Honestly, you'd gotten so caught up in the games you were playing with Suguru that you had forgotten your original motive for a bit. Now that he reminded you, you were going to double down on getting Satoru out of the friendzone and into your pants.
The best course of action you could come up with was sitting on his rival's lap at a party that any student from all the surrounding universities could come to. Sukuna Ryomen was all muscle, tattoos and mean glares. He was the heir to his family's empire just like Satoru was. They were the biggest competitors in the same market and that gave rise to a lot of animosity between the two men.
You were hoping for jealousy, irritation and maybe even an angry confession. The reaction you did get tugged at your heart. Satoru's pale brows crinkled, nose scrunching slightly in the distinct way it would when he was hurt. Still, he mustered a smile and nodded at you as if saying, “Go get ‘em, girl!” Sukuna's hand on your waist was unbearable now.
That expression hadn't stemmed from hidden feelings or envy. It was betrayal. Seeing his friend in the arms of someone he openly despised had upset him. You couldn't bring yourself to enjoy the party anymore and stepped out onto the balcony to get some fresh air.
An all too familiar presence appears beside you but nothing is said.
“If you're here to say I told you so, save your breath,” you muttered, staring out at the city lights.
“Stop playing games with him or it'll only get worse,” Suguru warns.
“Don't tell me what to do.”
“You're not serious about him.”
He was right. “You don't know that.”
Suguru is convinced he's going to lose his mind and not because of his coursework or expectations of his family but your unrelenting ass. He doesn't like stooping to pettiness but you left him with little else to do.
As for you, you were certain you cared for Satoru. Though you had to admit that your admiration for him was based on curiosity and lust rather than love. Getting a rise out of Suguru was the rush you were aiming for. At some point your crush took the backburner so you could piss off his best friend. Something about his glares, sneers and disdain for you became addicting.
And so you press on. Even if Satoru didn't take interest in you, you were having fun and if he wanted to use you as a rebound, you wouldn't mind.
Feeding into a man's ego always got their attention. So when your group is at the beach, you do just that. Shoko, Suguru, and Satoru are playing volleyball with some strangers, the sun blazing down on their half-dressed bodies as they score another point and high five. Haibara's taking a dip in the tidal pool, waiting for the others to join as the cool, turquoise water laps at his overheated skin. Nanami's lounging on the chair beside yours, glasses low on his nose bridge as he reads a book under the shade of the umbrella.
Your sunglasses are doing nothing to hide how you're ogling Satoru. He's in red shorts, a white tee, glasses shielding his sensitive eyes from the blazing sun, creamy skin tanning a little already. It's not like you're using your shades to be discreet. He'd be hard to look at if they were off with how his silver hair caught the light and might as well have been a piece of the sun on earth. Your eye candy appreciation is ruined when Suguru looks over and catches you staring, now over the rim of your shades. He nudges Satoru and nods towards you. Following his gaze, Satoru spots you as well and your face warms but you wave at him and he lowers his glasses to shoot you a wink before resuming the game.
Tastefully, you flipped Suguru off then decided to cool yourself off by going for a swim. Standing, your hands grab the hem of your cover up t-shirt, pulling it up and over your head. Satoru's gaze is on you again immediately and Suguru is about to tell him to focus on the game when he sees you.
The two-piece swimsuit you wear flatters your figure, your tits filling out the bra cups perfectly and ass looking rounder than it usually does. Fingering the strings to make sure they're not twisted, you ensure that your sunscreen from earlier is still sufficient. The bikini is pretty but it's the colour that has Suguru's eye twitching.
A sapphire blue that made your skin glow. The choice was intentional. Suguru's sure that if Satoru came over and pressed his face against the side of your chest or hip, his eyes would blend right in. He knows it too because he's beaming at the sight of you in his favorite colour. Who are you to deny his vanity when it came to this?
“Hiding a body like that should be illegal, sweetheart,” Satoru calls out to you, voice all flirty and smile evident. “Don't you know blue's my favorite?”
You have the audacity to play coy and look down at your pedicure at his compliment. “Who's to say we can't share a favorite?”
Both of you are smiling stupidly at each other. The ball hurting towards Suguru is launched back to its sender with more force than necessary, hitting Naoya square in the face as he cusses. Suguru isn't quick to apologize after the bastard tried to insult him earlier by saying that he “served like a little girl.”
You won this round, that's for sure. A nasty feeling coils in Suguru's gut as he watches Satoru and you stroll down to the shore to play in the waves. Ever observant, he sees that your bikini top's knot isn't fastened tight enough. One wave will untie it for sure. Someone ought to warn you.
He doesn't. In his defense, you wouldn't believe him anyway, always striving to do the exact opposite of whatever he said.
So when you jumped in the water with Satoru, laughter ringing in the like as you guys readied yourself for the push of the oncoming wave, bobbing up and down as it passed over you, Suguru savored the gasp you let out as you feel your bikini top fall away. Covering your chest, your face was on fire. He didn't get to bask in satisfaction for long though as Satoru peeled off his shirt, giving you an up close and personal view of his efforts at the gym and desirable genetics when he handed it to you and you slipped it on.
There was no use, this point was definitely yours.
Suguru comes to terms with the fact that not every season can be kind to him. He's not talking about personal struggles or anything like that. In that department, his life is sound. Unless you consider him finding you unbearable a personal issue then maybe he does have a problem.
The universe is working in your favor recently. You've gotten more opportunities to get to know Satoru better, spending time with him alone. As his best friend, Suguru hears all about it. How you're scared of horror movies and wanted Satoru to hold your hand for comfort even though you'd chosen to watch the film in theaters. How your car was at the shop so you had to catch a ride with him to campus. How good you were at video games when you helped him clear difficult stages.
He could tell Satoru was starting to like you a lot more. Not in a romantic way, that spot was sealed and secured for Ari. But still enough to make Suguru anxious about how hard he'd take it if you just turned on him once you were rejected or your interest faded. Satoru valued his friendships just as much as his relationship so it would hurt him and he didn't need that on top of his heartbreak.
Musicians that Satoru is a big fan of are in the city for a festival. The information was hidden by gatekeepers so he was bummed that he couldn't get his hands on tickets. You, however, were successful. He was driving you both there a few hours early to beat the traffic when the two liters of water he chugged earlier made a reappearance.
Suguru's parents' house was nearby and you did not look forward to seeing him. But there was a spring in your step that even he couldn't take away. When Satoru pulled up into his driveway, he mentioned that his best friend's folks were out for the weekend so Suguru was house sitting. The garage door was open and Satoru went straight inside to greet his best friend then jogged into the house.
From behind the hood of what looked to be a street racing car, Suguru peeked out. He was less than happy to see you and while you shared the sentiment, you wanted to rub your victory in his face. Shutting the car door after you stepped out, your heels clicked against the gravel as you walked up to the car he was working on.
The bare expanse of your torso appeared in his peripheral vision as he carefully dismantled an old part he was planning to replace. The muscles on his arm flexed with the movements of his dexterous hands, tank top snug against his back and chest while his faded jeans sat low on his hips, a strip of his carved abdomen winking at you. There was a dirty rag in his back pocket which hardly served its purpose given how there were dark smudges and an oil sheen on his forearms, grease splattered on the bottom of his grey tank top.
“Can't say hello, Tinkerbell?” you ask flatly, thinking the name suitable for him given that he was playing mechanic.
Suguru stood up straight, rag in hand as he wiped what he could off his arms, gaze assessing. “You're the one dressed like a fairy yet I'm Tinkerbell?”
He wasn't wrong. The flowy, halter crop top you wore had a pattern that resembled butterfly wings in shades of purple, blue and green. Your denim skirt was short enough that bending would give whoever was around a whole show.
Resting your chin on your shoulder happily, you smiled because you took that as a compliment. “Thank you.”
His unimpressed stare, eyes hooded and lips downturned only made your smile grow. Annoyed by the sight, he sighed and went to his workbench to drop the old part there and take the new one.
“Don't you think dental floss would cover up more?” he questioned in a drawl. That was almost funny. Almost.
“I'll keep that in mind for my next concert with Satoru.” His jaw clenches at your response, his hair gathered away from his face in a bun giving you a clear view of the reaction.
Wanting to annoy him more, you brush past him, hips pressing into his butt as you squeeze your way over to his workbench to inspect what was there like the inquisitive thing you were, delighting in how he stiffened.
“This music is trash,” you complained, making a face at the noise coming out of his speaker on the bench.
“I'm not playing it for you, Tink,” he replied through slightly gritted teeth. Having you in his space, touching all his things was starting to bother him.
Sat atop his bench, you roll your eyes, “You're the one tinkering—”
“Ah, much better,” Satoru sighed as he reappeared, no longer troubled by his aching bladder. “Ready to go—Oh! What happened to your skirt?”
Glancing down, you gasp at the sight of your soiled skirt, the gross greenish-brown stain marring the bedazzled denim hideously.
Fuck, you could not go to the festival like this. It had taken you hours to finally be satisfied with an outfit that didn't look better in your head than it did on you. You almost pulled your hair out in frustration and canceled the whole outing.
However, you were going to have to sit this one out anyway. The patch of who knows what ruined your mood entirely.
So you lie.
“I, um, fell and hurt my ankle. It's sore so I don't think I'll be able to come anymore,” you tell him with your best grimace. Bringing your foot up, you massage the spot that's definitely not aching.
Worried, Satoru's brows bow and his lip juts out ever so slightly. He's so damn cute. “Shit, are you sure? It can't be that bad.” He moves toward you.
“She had a pretty hard fall. Putting weight on her foot would make it worse for all we know,” Suguru adds, making him pause.
The snowy-haired man looks conflicted. He really wants to see his favorite bands as it's rare for them to perform live but he doesn't want to come off as a bad friend by leaving you behind when you're the sole reason he's going in the first place.
Your reassuring smile lessens his guilt though.
“I'll be fine. I have first aid supplies at home that should help. Riko was upset that she couldn't see them, right? Maybe ask if she's free,” you suggest. If anyone was to take your place right now, you'd want it to be her. The younger girl has been stressing over her coursework recently so she deserves the treat.
Gears turn in Satoru's head as he considers your words. You always are so considerate, just like Suguru.
“I'll ask her. But at least let me take you home before I go. I feel really bad,” he tells you.
So do you for lying to him.
“What if you're late? I can't let you do that.” You shake your head.
He waves you off, coming to scoop you up to carry you to the car. “None of that. I'll get there on time. Without speeding,” he promises.
You're ready to be lifted when Suguru holds him back by beating him to it. “I'll do it. You're gonna mess your clothes if you try. Like some clumsy people.”
The comment has your mood souring further as he picks you up bridal style and walks you to the car, Satoru opening the back door so he can put you down gently.
Paying extra attention to make sure your “sprained” ankle isn't harmed, Suguru's hands leave you as he ducks out of the car.
Not before whispering a venomous, “Fucking liar,” in your ear that has you bristling, shiver creeping up your spine.
Lord, he's so mean you almost forget that you're supposed to be grimacing with how your lips twitch up.
He walks away all smug, twirling the wrench he had in his pocket and whistling. That light feeling in his chest at your loss was too intoxicating to give up. He had to get another hit soon.
And of course, he did.
Because when you need help assembling your new desk on Saturday, Satoru just so happens to be the guy you ask. Picturing him pouring over the instructions and hammering nails into place had you kicking your feet and giggling as you typed out the text to him.
Donning a tank top and matching boy shorts you had purchased as lingerie, you're glad that it can pass off as loungewear even with the lace trim and silk bow on the waistband of the bottoms and your neckline. Your hair falls messily today and it adds to the appeal. Your socks and slippers will have to do.
Skipping over to the door when there's a knock, you swing it open with a playful grin which falls into a frown instantly.
Lady Luck isn't shining down on you today.
Dark amusement gleams in the raven-haired man's eyes as he eyes you up and down. “This how you greet all your friends?”
You crane your neck to look behind him for the ivory head of hair you were expecting. “Where's Satoru?”
He pushes past you gently, walking into your apartment like it's his. “Something came up with his family. Now where's this desk?”
As if on autopilot, you led him to the room you had made your study. The one with the window that gave you a perfect scenic view of the botanical garden across the street that you could use to clear your mind after hours of intense focus.
He casually snatched the assembly booklet from your grip, snapping you out of your daydream. A satisfied grin tugged at your lips as he scanned the diagrams. Clearly, he couldn’t manage this without help. And of course you would assist because you didn't want him complaining to Satoru that you made him do all the work.
You would not stand for it.
The absurdly elaborate desk had been your suggestion from the start, mostly because you knew it would trap his best friend—not him—in hours of tedious labor while you would have admired him and passed him the parts and tools he required. But the silver-haired man was unavailable so you were stuck with his all too smug counterpart who was realising he bit off more than he could chew. Served him right.
He settled cross-legged on the hardwood floor, surrounded by scattered boards and plastic bags of hardware, actually taking the time to read each step. That alone was surprising. Dressed in a worn gray tee stretched across his shoulders, dark jeans dusted with sawdust, and scuffed sneakers, he looked the part of an unwilling carpenter. Though his luscious tresses did not match his career—perhaps a model playing a carpenter would be a better description.
A crease formed between his brows as he examined the hammer in his hand, as if the poor tool were to blame for the dents forming in the wood. The real issue, of course, was the excessive force behind every swing. He lessened it as if remembering that this was your desk and not actually you, cutting you a look that had you arching a brow.
His frustration was replaced by his perfectionism.
With a nail gripped between his teeth, he focused intently on lining up the next piece. You let your damp palms fall to your sides, having crossed your arms for too long, fingers tightening into fists while you watched him remove the nail from his mouth and strike it cleanly into place. Each hit echoed sharply through the room.
The project consumed the entire day. You paused midway to eat, then returned to the chaos of half-built shelves and instruction pages. By evening, the desk finally stood assembled. He didn’t stop there, either—he stayed to arrange your textbooks and paperwork neatly into the compartments, transforming the once-empty corner into a functional study area.
“Is the Wicked Witch satisfied?” His barely open eyes and flat expression tells you that he could not give less of a fuck what you thought of his workmanship.
Looking over the desk, the smell of new paint and wood filling the room so you opened the windows, you nod. “Partially.”
The dark-haired man rolls his eyes, slow and exasperated. “Of course.”
“Your efforts are appreciated though,” you say as you have the decency to walk him to the door. But your kindness ends there as your smile drops. “Now leave.”
When he's out of your hair and you listen to make sure he took the elevator and left, you slump against your door with a loud groan, kicking your feet as your fists pound against the floorboards childishly.
Stupid Geto and his stupid sly tricks, you think in utter annoyance.
This whole fucking-up-your-chances thing is getting really old and you're not having fun anymore.
All hope is not lost because Satoru invites you over for movie and game night the next Friday to make up for his absence during the desk assembling. To your utter delight, it's just you two because Suguru is out so Satoru is lonely. Every time you try too hard, your efforts end up falling flat so this time, you just wear an oversized sweater, a skirt and sneakers.
(A cute matching lace set under just in case.)
Giddiness has you smiling like an idiot as you drive to his apartment. Not even the afternoon traffic or the slow truck in front of you can get you down. On a normal day, you'd have a lot of unsavory things to say about the delays but today wasn't one of them. Taking it all in stride, you still managed to arrive at his place just before the time you both agreed on.
Satoru greets you at the door, looking adorably dorky in his boxy glasses that complement his blue Superman tee which he paired with sweatpants and slippers. His wispy white hair is so fluffy and slightly tousled as if he was trying to tame it before you got there. It's as endearing as the smile that kicks up at the sight of you looking equally as comfy.
“Ah, you made it! Hope you're ready to be sick of me as I explain DC Comic lore while we watch the new Superman movie,” he says in that smooth, carefree voice of his that has you smiling too.
“Can't wait,” you reply with a chuckle as you pass him to step inside when he gestures for you to do so.
Oh, you know all about DC Comics, being a big Jason Todd fan yourself but you don't want to spoil his fun by telling him you already know all there is to know about the universe. Besides, you quite enjoy watching people get all excited and gush over their interests so passionately.
The difficult part wouldn't be wanting to complete his sentences for him but resisting the urge to kiss him.
“You brought snacks too? I doubt we're gonna finish all of this,” he tells you as he takes them from you and goes to set them down on the coffee table in the living room.
As far as you can see, the apartment has an open floor plan so you could watch TV from the kitchen that's all low lighting, marble countertops and expensive appliances. The interior is grey mostly but there's splashes of oak and greens that make it more homey.
What makes it obvious that it's lived-in and not something from a house magazine or listing is that there's photos of the pair of best friends that stay here scattered all over the place along with figurines, a video game console and a signed guitar that they got from a concert of a band they both liked.
There's a big, leather L-shaped couch in the living room that Satoru guides you to and he was not kidding about you guys having an abundance of snacks. From chips and dip, popcorn and pizza to an assortment of candy and sweet drinks that are bound to make your teeth hurt, you don't think you can come up with anything that's not here.
Settling down, you both get comfortable, two blankets sprawled over your laps while Satoru clicks away on the remote to bring up the movie. You keep a pillow on your lap to occupy your antsy hands so they don't give into the urge to scoot closer to him, maintaining a respectable distance.
Thankfully, the movie steals your attention and you make comments on funny scenes, snickering at how Clark Kent gets worked up when Lois Lane interviews him. Though it does get a little awkward when they start making out in the kitchen. Satoru's eyes are wide as he turns to you just as you do the same. His cheeks pinken and he looks down, chuckling shyly.
“They're really into it, huh?”
And yes, that would have been the perfect opportunity—the mother of all opportunities—for you to snag and make a move on him.
But as you open your mouth, a smooth line about how you think you could do better, his blasted phone buzzes on the other side of him. Smile falling, he gives you an apologetic look before excusing himself to take the call while you glare at the lovers on screen after hitting pause. A gummy bear faces the brunt of your sour mood as you bite down on it and decapitate the poor thing.
You don't even have to look up when he gets back to know that your plans have been ruined. Having grown accustomed to this, your stomach sinks as your shoulders slump just from the slightest shift in the air and the way he's fidgeting with his phone case.
“Something came up?” you ask preemptively and the smile he gives you is more of a grimace than anything, blue eyes hidden behind the glare from the flat screen.
Blowing out a breath, he nods solemnly. “Yeah, uh, my friend's car broke down in the middle of nowhere. I've got her location and given the time, I'll definitely get there before roadside assistance does.”
That you completely understand but you know damn well that the “her” he's referring to is his ex-girlfriend with how guilty and tense he seems. He's fidgeting because he wants to leave immediately to go to her aid but knows it'd be rude to up and take off without telling you first.
Holding back a sigh, you nod and muster a smile. “Yeah, of course. Wouldn't want her stranded at this hour. Not exactly safe for a woman.”
Satoru seems to feel worse as you're so empathetic not knowing that you're cursing the universe for your luck once again and asking why the fuck there aren't more people to dispatch for roadside assistance to accommodate incidents such as this one.
Exhaling in relief, Satoru slumps. “Thank you. I'll make it up to you when I get back, promise,” you've heard that line from him so many times that he might as well write it on his tombstone.
There's shuffling then a jingle of keys before the door clicks shut, the apartment feeling much bigger and a lot lonelier now. You're grateful for the mass amount of snacks now so have something to munch on and wallow in self pity.
If the gummy bears were sentient they'd be sweating with fear as they're about to be massacred, beheaded by your merciless teeth.
Scrolling through the selection of unappealing movies and series, you don't even register that an hour or two had passed since your crush left until the door opens and shuts.
Perking up, you glance over your shoulder with a grin, ready to say “Welcome back” only to be met with the last person you wanted to see right now. Expression dropping into a flat one, you watch Suguru's brows lower beneath the baseball cap he's got on, darkening his features in shadows.
“Huh, didn't think you'd still be here,” he drawls as if he knew exactly where his best friend was. He did. Of course he did. Satoru probably describes his bowel movements in detail to the guy.
“Why are you back early?”
He snorts at your question, shrugging off his jacket so he's just in a fitted tee and cargo pants as he toes off his boots. “Asking me that in my own home is weird, don't you think?”
The bastard's got a point there so you just face forward and resume flipping through flicks mindlessly, not looking for anything in particular as your mood sours further.
Ignoring the approaching footsteps, you keep your eyes glued to the screen as he plops onto the other side of the couch, whistling lowly at the spread of junk food on the table.
“Damn, you guys had plans, huh? Well, we can't let this go to waste.” The faint scent of him is potent now and you despise that it's a good one. Why couldn't he be one of those jerks who bathe in axe body spray or other kinds of offensive-to-the-nostrils brands?
“We?” You ask as he produces a packet of what looks like dirt and grass but know is weed and starts cleaning it, the living room now smelling a bit earthy.
Shrugging, he nods. “Yeah, would be rude to go to my room and leave you here. I'm not a bad host, you know?”
“Whatever. You won,” you blurt out begrudgingly as you'd rather not have him here, basking in his victory and rubbing it in your face while eating your snacks. “Congratulations.”
It doesn't take him long to understand that you're referring to Satoru. Are his ears deceiving him or are you accepting…defeat?
“Did I?”
Annoyed, you snatch a pack of sour strawberry licorice from the table, tearing open the plastic. “Yes, you did.”
Huffing, he shakes his head.
“Satoru's happy now,” you say after a moment of chewing on the candy to calm yourself. “He's back with her, right? So…there's no point anymore.”
You weren't about to go after a taken man. Believe it or not, you had more dignity than that. While you're not one to forfeit like this, the disappointment is overshadowed by your relief. Relief that whatever feud between you and Suguru might be over because fuck were you tired.
Guilt gnaws at him as he's rolling up his blunt, staring at the paper in deep thought. A long-suffering sigh that comes from low in his lungs exhales from him.
“Look, Satoru has a girlfriend—well, he did. They only broke up a few months ago, and knowing them, it won’t last. So you’ve completely misunderstood the situation,” he starts. “I’m not the villain here. If anything, I was looking out for you as much as him.”
He goes quiet to let you take that in then continues.
“Unless you’re keen on getting caught up in that mess, I’d say I spared you the trouble. And it’s even more complicated than you think. Satoru and Ari have been together for half a decade—she’s like family to me. That kind of history doesn’t just disappear. Even if he doesn’t show it, he’s falling apart over her. It’s always been her for him. I was just trying to keep you out of it so neither of you ended up getting hurt.”
Okay…you were aware that Satoru had just gotten out of a long term relationship but not that it was this bad. The cool and carefree man truly did hide a lot behind those charming smiles and easy laughs.
Slouching against the backrest on the couch, you stare at the wall blankly, reeling from the revelation. “I see,” you mutter.
God, Suguru is in dire need of a smoke now. “You mind if I?” When you shake your head, he sifts out his lighter and strikes it, a cherry glow at the end of the blunt as smoke curls into the air.
Within seconds, the pungent scent of weed has your nose wrinkling. “Eugh, you're going to kill your brain cells with that thing.”
Casting you a dry look, Suguru's lids lower. “You wouldn't be saying that if Satoru was the one doing it.”
That shuts you up. Perhaps he made the joke too soon but you roll your eyes in response so he supposes it's not that bad.
“I wouldn't. That stuff messes with your head. Makes people lazy.” You eye him. “No offense.”
“Some taken,” he says, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “But I get it.”
Your brows raise. “You do?” Since when has he ever agreed with you? Even when you're right, he'll play Devil's Advocate just to antagonise you.
Lifting a shoulder, he shrugs slow and loose. “Not liking being out of control makes sense.”
Tongue stabbing your cheek, you pick up your bottle of fruity cider that was beginning to sweat on the table and take a swig. “God forbid a girl doesn't like not knowing what she's saying or doing.”
A beat passes. He watches your profile. The slope of your nose, the tension you can't really hide and normally he'd poke but tonight he doesn't. Maybe it's the weed. Maybe it's a truce. He doesn't know.
But he doesn't mind it.
Arm stretching between you, he holds out the joint to you, close enough for you to reach but far enough for him to take it back if you refuse.
“You don't have to but if you're curious…one puff won't take away your autonomy.”
Face scrunching in disgust, Suguru can still see the curiosity in your gaze. If you weren't on the fence about it you would've surely bat his hand away even if that would've caused ash to fall.
“Fine,” you concede. “One pull but if I start talking about my childhood dog, it's all your fault.”
His laugh is quiet and easy as he sits up a little straighter. “Take it easy, yeah?”
You pluck the blunt from his fingers, aware of his eyes tracking every movement as you lift it to your mouth. The living room is dim, washed in blue from the television and thin ribbons of moonlight spilling through the blinds. You take a breath in—
Instant regret.
The smoke claws down your throat, and you double over, coughing into the quiet hum of whatever’s playing on the screen. You nearly drop the blunt onto the rug before he leans in and rescues it from your hand, a low laugh rumbling out of him.
“Shit,” you wheeze, blinking away tears.
“I said take it easy,” he murmurs, settling back into the couch like this is all very entertaining.
“Let me try again,” you manage, stubborn even as your lungs protest. If there's one thing you hate, it's doing things wrong.
Mild amusement flickers across Suguru's face, the TV light catching the edge of his smile. He slides the blunt between his lips—slowly, deliberately—and draws in. He tilts his head toward the ceiling, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that curls silver in the moonlight instead of straight at you. You don’t know why that small courtesy unsettles you more.
He hands it back. “Please heed my words this time.”
You try again, gentler. You feel his gaze drop to your mouth as you inhale, heat creeping up your neck despite the cool glow of the room. You hold it for a second before letting the smoke drift out, watching it roll across the sharp lines of his face, illuminated in flickers from the screen.
“That's better,” he says softly.
You pass it to him with a small smile, pretending you don’t notice the way his eyes dip to the glimmer of your lip gloss on the filter. He hesitates. His throat moves as he swallows, jaw tightening just slightly, like he’s debating something ridiculous and losing.
“Wait, let me wipe that off—” You start, reaching for it but he doesn't hand it over.
No, he's already bringing it back to his mouth, pressing his lips to the same place yours had been. The sight sends a strange jolt through you—too intimate for something so small. Your pulse stutters, then races, loud in your ears beneath the steady murmur of the television.
The breeze through the cracked window carries the distant hum of the city, alive and steady. And there you were, sitting together on the couch, sharing a smoke in a room lit only by the moon and a screen neither of you are really watching. You think this is the calmest you two have been in each other's presence.
Slowly, a syrupy, sluggish rush seeps into your bloodstream, leaving you pleasantly lightheaded as your thoughts swim. It's fleeting and you want to feel it again, something similar to spinning in circles until the world twirled around you.
“Can I?” you ask so sweetly that Suguru's eyes narrow into slits, suspicion marring his features.
“Uh-uh, you're liking this, aren't you? Addict. It's hitting, huh?” He mocks, tilting his head, loosening bun flopping to the side, his baseball cap next to him.
Clicking your tongue, you flick your wrist. “Don't be a jerk. You wanted me to try, right? Now you're taking it away when I'm enjoying it?”
He considers, then sighs. “Fine. But not like before.”
Your brow furrows. “What does that mean?”
Instead of answering, he takes a slow drag, cheeks hollowing slightly. The ember glows brighter in the dim room. He pulls it away, caps it with his fingers, and before you can ask what he’s doing, he leans in.
Your breath catches.
Suguru cups a hand lightly at the side of your face—not forceful, just steadying—and brings his mouth close to yours. Close enough that you feel the warmth of him, the faint brush of his knuckles against your jaw as he taps it.
“Open,” he murmurs.
Your eyes flick up to his, suspicious and curious all at once. But you part your lips.
He exhales slowly into your mouth.
It’s warmer than you expect, minty and sweet, the smoke curling between you, shared air and shared space. For a second you forget to breathe it in because you're too aware of how close you are—how his nose grazes yours, how his hand is still hovering near your cheek like he’s not sure he should be touching you at all.
You inhale and the smoke disappears into your lungs.
When he pulls back, it’s barely an inch. You're still there, suspended. Your lips are still parted. His eyes flick down to them and back up again, quick and unguarded.
“Told you,” he says quietly, though his voice has lost its edge. “Safer.”
You swallow, then coughs once, laughing through it. “That was—”
“Smarter?”
“Intimate,” you counter.
He drops his hand like he’s been burned. “It was practical.”
“Sure,” you say, but you don’t move away.
The silence stretches, thicker than the smoke. You're still too close. Close enough that if either of you leaned forward just a fraction—
Instead, you lean back first, a small smirk tugging at your mouth so he knows you're about to spout some nonsense. “If I say I still don’t feel anything, will you do it again?”
His eyes narrow, but there’s a reluctant smile there now. “Nice try, but no.”
“Aw, man,” you lament as if you're really bummed but your amusement sparkles in your glazed over eyes.
The buzz settles in warm and slow, a heavy, gentle weight behind your eyes. Sounds feel rounder, softer. His voice seems closer than usual. It's like you're underwater or trying to talk in a dream, like the world has been wrapped in velvet. Everything feels slower.
High blooming brighter, your glowing smile does too and suddenly everything is so fucking funny from the way the couch cushion falls to Suguru's incredulous look when he startles after you bark out a loud laugh.
“Shit, Satoru's gonna think I got you high,” the man cusses under his breath but then he's giggling with you, the sound boyish and only stirring you on further as he excuses himself then comes back with a glass of orange juice. “Here, this should help your blood sugar.”
To be safe, he'd also stopped after three pulls, not wanting to be on cloud nine with someone who's never experienced it before and may not know how to deal with it.
You're completely fine, other than the languid hum in your veins, this is just another night for you. In fact, you laugh way harder and more maniacal with your friends and siblings, often getting scolded by your endeared parents to keep it down because as much as your joy melts their hearts, you should not be cackling past midnight.
“Thank you,” you sober up and accept the glass of chilled refreshment from him.
At the mention of Satoru, your brows bounce as you honestly forgot about him and hadn't thought about him much at all after Suguru mentioned him getting back with his ex. You'd always been good at getting over people, crushes and fleeting flings. Or maybe somewhere along the line you stopped wanting him and simply persisted to provoke his best friend. Not that you'd admit to that. Never.
The back and forth was too entertaining to stop. Before it became exhausting at least. Now you're seeing Suguru in a different light because he had your best interest in mind too even if he didn't go about it the right way. And he says as much.
He says it casually, staring ahead, not at you:
“I wasn't trying to be a dick to you. At least not at first.”
Rolling your head against the top of the couch, your look at his enviously beautiful side profile.
“You feel bad,” you point out after studying him.
“I do,” he admits with a nod. “I should've handled it better.”
You've never heard an apology from him before so you don't know what to say.
Suguru's eyes stay on the screen. “I really do care about Satoru. He's—” He exhales. “He's my person. And every time I thought I was shutting things down cleanly you pushed back.”
You swallow. “Yeah but I didn't think you'd keep pushing too.”
“I shouldn't have,” he agrees. “I got petty. You made it easy but that's not an excuse.”
Fiddling with your fingers, your voice softens. “I shouldn't have treated it like a competition.”
“It's not like it was one-sided. I played a part too,” he reminds you.
Twin sighs pass both of your lips as if you're both waving the white flags of surrender. Suguru turns his head, your face closer than he expected. Close enough that he can see the tiny crease between your brows and the way your lips part on a breath.
You’d always preferred bright rooms and brighter personalities, so places like this—low lights, drawn curtains, smoke clouding the room faintly—never felt like your scene. And neither did Suguru.
At least, that’s what you’d told yourself.
The living room is washed in baby blue light, shadows softening the edges of everything. Music hummed low from somewhere you couldn’t see. You sit with your legs tucked under you, passing a packet of fruity chews back and forth, trying not to think too hard about the way the haze blurred more than just the room.
Suguru had always annoyed you in ways you couldn’t quite explain. Too calm. Too composed. Too aware. You’d written him off as aloof, maybe even a little smug. But sitting across from him now, watching him pick the red candies you didn't like, you found yourself studying him differently.
His indigo eyes caught the dim light in a way that made them look softer than usual. Warmer. When he smiled at something you said, it wasn’t flashy or attention-grabbing. It was easy. Unforced. The kind of smile that felt like it belonged exactly where it was.
You hated that you noticed.
His long hair fell over his shoulders in dark, glossy waves, a few shorter strands brushing his cheek when he tilted his head to listen to what the neighbors were playing. He tucked them back absentmindedly, the motion so natural it made your chest tighten for no good reason. There was something almost feline about him—like he could stretch out anywhere, claim any space without trying.
Satoru, of course, was Satoru. Loud laugh, bright grin, every word delivered like it deserved a spotlight. He was the kind of handsome that demanded attention, all sharp lines and easy confidence. Lean, striking, impossible to ignore. He filled the room effortlessly.
Suguru didn’t fill the room like he would if he was here.
He settled into it.
And somehow, that was worse.
Whenever they sat side by side, they were nearly the same height, both built in ways that made it obvious they took care of themselves—Satoru more lithe, Suguru broader, solid in a way that only really registered when you were this close. Close enough to notice the quiet strength in his shoulders when he leaned back against the couch. Close enough to catch the clean, subtle scent of him beneath the smoke.
When he spoke directly to you, his voice was lower than you remembered. Smooth. Unhurried. It slid over your skin, softened by the haze, and you had to fight the ridiculous urge to lean in closer just to hear him again.
You’d always said you didn’t get the appeal. That he was overrated. That his whole mysterious thing was overplayed.
But in the dim glow of the living room, with smoke drifting between you and the world feeling far away, you started to understand it.
He wasn’t a neon sign.
He was moonlight.
And you hated how much you were beginning to like the dark.
Shifting, your knee brushes his thigh. He doesn't pull away and neither do you. His heart kicks, once, hard. It would be so easy to lean in and you might not stop him if you're this comfortable with physical contact.
That damn blunt.
Your eyes flick to his mouth.
He feels it then—the almost-confession, pressing against his ribs, heavy on his tongue. The thing he's been refusing to name.
But thankfully you open your mouth and throw him a fucking curve ball.
“Guess we're in the same boat, huh?” You don't even give him a chance to ask what you mean. “We both want Satoru but can't have him.”
Bolting upright. Suguru rears back as if you slapped him, the lethargic haze from the weed evaporating like nail polish remover left unsealed.
Sputtering, he chokes on his spit. “I. Beg. Your. Pardon?”
Concerned, you pat his back both to ease his coughing and soothe him. “I mean, it was obvious! Only someone in love with the guy would fight so hard to chase me away. Classic best friends to lovers “and they were roommates” plot.”
You shake your head as if you're ridiculous for not seeing it sooner while he stares at you in horror. "You do know it's legal now, right?"
“No!” He cries as dramatic as his best friend and you almost jump.
“Huh?”
“I'm not in love with that idiot. Geez, he's pathetic at times! I care for the guy a lot but in a brotherly way.” All the snacks he scarfed down threaten to resurface as he questions his life decisions up until this moment. Did everyone think he was in love with Satoru? Fuck no.
Bursting out laughing at his panic, you throw your head back, the boisterous sound of your amusement echoing in the apartment. Suguru scowls at first but then his lips tremble and he laughs too.
“Oh my gosh, I totally misunderstood. Sorry,” you say through a fit of giggles.
Grabbing your phone, you sneakily cancel the order of a rainbow cake, balloons and a banner that said, "GAY IS OKAY!"
“Don't even think of telling him that,” Suguru warns, knowing it'd go to his best friend's head and he'd never hear the end of it.
You're laughing so hard the room shakes a little. You grab your orange juice to sip—but your hand slips and it spills down your chin and top. You groan, realizing you'd taken off your sweater earlier.
Suguru jumps up, grabbing tissues, and hands them over with a smirk. “Here, try not to drown.”
You snorted, accepting them, juice dripping onto the couch that's fortunately leather. “Thanks. I'm the epitome of grace.”
A strange thought flashes in his mind and he tries to shake it off like a dog would water but it's stubborn and refuses to pass. So he reaches out and stops you before you could wipe yourself.
Confused, your brows knit as you look up at him questioningly. Heavy-lidded, amethyst eyes hold yours and you're entranced as he sits back down, closer than before, body heat warming you despite the cold juice you spilled.
“Can I clean you up?” His voice is so soft and decadent that you wonder if your hearing has gone bad with how low it is.
With the pad of his thumb, he swipes the dribbling sweet drink off your chin, bringing it to his mouth to lick it off. Humming at the taste, he watches you intently, searching for any reluctance.
But you look as into it as he is if your blown pupils are anything to go by. He saw them dilate right now.
The air grows thin and fluffy like cotton candy the longer you stare at him, trying to figure out where he's going with this. However, you know exactly what he means just like the tendrils of attraction you tried to seal away in the back of your mind slither out from under the door you trapped them behind, creeping into your thoughts, the corners of your vision warming as your stomach swirls.
“Oh,” you say dumbly. “Sure, okay.”
He chuckles, watching you fluster. The unacknowledged tension that’s always simmered between you feels warmer, closer, something neither can deny—but it’s all in the shared laughter, the messy chaos, and the accidental closeness.
There's no room for hesitation now, just impulse as he leans in, kissing along your jaw, tongue slipping out then moving lower on your neck, muscle flat against the column of it, warm and wet as he follows the line of dripping juice that's getting sticky now. Lips parting, an unbidden sigh comes out of your mouth.
The spaghetti strap of your tank top is inches away from falling off your shoulder and you're not bothered, not when there's a man lapping away at your skin, the scent of weed, mint and citrus invading your senses as Suguru swirls and glides his tongue across your chest, the tip dipping into your cleavage. He sucks and swipes, lips smacking lightly at times as he replaces all the sticky, tarty sweetness with his saliva that's cooling in the night air. Dreamy sighs flutter from you.
Moments later, you're on his lap, rocking over the stiff bulge in his pants, the fabric rustling with each roll of your hips against his. Big hands splay on your hips to guide you as his tongue dips into your mouth, humming at your buttery, candied taste that's tinged with earthy smoke while you suck on his. His cock kicks under you and your spit-slick lips split into a smile.
Nails digging into his chest, a cute little gasp hitches your breath as your clit catches on something. His tip perhaps. The man below you grins, nipping at your shoulder. He knew you were hitting his piercing, but didn't say anything, that would be a surprise for later.
Sucking hickeys below your collarbone until you're squirming, fingers tangling in his hair to yank him away, Suguru grunts in protest but relents, focusing on you grinding on his lap instead.
Massaging your waist apologetically, his heated expression is anything but sorry as he grabs fistfuls of your ass and drags you back and forth over the length on his throbbing cock, a pleased noise sounding in the back of his throat when he feels the flickering pulse of your clit.
Hips lifting, he bucks them, rolling them up to meet yours, your back arching as you press yourself down on him harder wanting to feel each and every vein and ridge that branches out on his thick shaft. The crotch of his pants is growing darker, damp with your arousal as your panty-clad pussy rubs over his confined cock.
Most of his long hair had fallen out of its bun, slightly bouncing whenever one of you gave a hard thrust. These may be his favorite pair of cargos but fuck, he hated them now for not letting him have his skin on yours. Though he had to admit it was satisfying watching your brows knot in frustration as you hump him, shifting this way and that to try and get closer.
The pace of your hips is sporadic as your pick and choose whatever rhythm that satiates your needy little clit. While he's struggling with the restraint of his bottoms, you're too occupied making yourself feel good to care. Typical. He didn't expect your feelings towards him to change overnight anyway.
So he decides to be a little mean as he swats your ass, making you jerk with a squeak. “This is what you wanted, right? Playing games to win my best friend over, driving me up the fucking wall all because you wanted a turn on his cock?”
Kiss-bitten lips curl into your mouth as your half-lidded eyes fix him with a glare that's not intimidating in the slightest. Not when you're a bunny in heat using him like a pillow.
“Still want it?” You shake your head and his chest puffs. “No? I haven't even started fucking you and you've already changed your mind? Fuck, you're a slut.”
Suguru thinks he's going to love this side of you. Messy hair, flushed, dewy face, mouth watering so much that you have to thin your lips so you don't drool as your brows pinch in concentration.
He can't take it anymore, unwilling to embarrass himself by coming in his pants with barely any friction. So he lifts you and unzip his pants, tugging down just enough so that his fattened clothed cock is free for you to rub down on. You do just that, wasting no time.
Panting breaths and barely hidden whiny noises emanate in the quiet living room. Blood roars in his ears and your heart pounds as you both stare down the line of your bodies, enraptured by the drag of your pussy against his cock, moans pouring from you both. It's slow and lazy then rushed and frantic and then you're coming with sparks behind your eyes.
Burying your face in his neck, you take gulps of his spicy, musky scent, breath condensing on his damp skin, licking over his pulse, sucking in the heartbeats. It's not long before your hips start moving again, eager to get him off as well.
Yet he stops you and you pull back to look at him.
Violet irises darken into something closer to the sky at dawn as he stares back at you. “Fuck, I can't come like this. Want to feel you around me.”
There's a question in his eyes, seeking permission that you're more than willing to give and he cracks a shaky smile. Fumbling with his boxers, he tugs out his cock that looks bigger than it felt and you gawk at how pretty it is as he lines it up with your entrance, coating it in your slick. Proportionate, girthy, slightly curved with a glossy pink tip and is that a bead of precum or a metal bead that the top—
A hard knock sounds on the door, rudely snapping you both out of your lustful dazes that seem to vanish into thin air. A snort and laugh follow, all too familiar as your gaze snaps to Suguru's, eyes just as wide as yours before you're scrambling off his lap and he's pulling his pants up, tucking his erection away. You're hastily tugging on your sweater after tying your hair, head getting stuck as you struggle to find the neck hole.
Cussing under his breath, Suguru reaches over and pulls it over your head and you gasp like you were suffocating. Pressing play on the movie that had paused, you click until it's fifty minutes in as Suguru and you sit on the far ends on the couch like you had when he first got here.
Satoru enters a few seconds after that. He'd forgotten that he took his own keys so didn't need Suguru to unlock the door for him. He scratches the back of his head as he walks over, clothes dotted with droplets of rain you only realise is still falling now, his hair damp.
“Ah, sorry, guys. I'm extremely late. The roads were hectic and I waited for the rain to calm down before trying to drive back,” he explains, looking remorseful.
“It's okay,” Suguru and you say at the same time before exchanging scowls.
Cerulean eyes dart from him to you and back, snowy brows bunching in confusion. “What happened? Why are you both all flushed and breathless?”
“We were fighting over the remote,” his best friend grumbles childishly.
Satoru buys it and laughs, shaking his head. “Gosh, you two are too much. I was worried that I'd come back to a crime scene but I'm glad I didn't.”
“You almost did,” you mutter, earning a glare from the other man while Satoru chuckles.
“Um, alright. Can you guys behave while I go shower? Gotta get out of these wet clothes before I start coughing and sneezing.”
“Sure,” you say with a nod.
That's certainly why he needs to shower, definitely not because the scent of sex clings to him almost as much as his sugary cologne and there's a red hickey winking at you from the neckline of his t-shirt.
Beaming, he heads off, a spring in his step as his damp ivory hair bounces, going to his room, completely smitten with his girlfriend and oblivious to the fact that your panties were pushed to the side moments ago and his best friend's cock was an inch inside you. Damn him for interrupting!
It's pouring outside, a perfect reason for you to stay over and sneak into Satoru's bedroom. That would have been your plans hours ago but now the door across from his seems way more tempting.
After Satoru's appearance, Suguru looks like he wants to bite you for what just happened and not in a hot way. Though you think you'll find it erotic regardless.
To your surprise, he comes to the guestroom later, the moonlight casting the room in a blue glow as your shadows dance across the wall, two bodies becoming one, whispers and sighs of pleasure covered by the showering downpour, the roll of thunder and revealed by the occasional flash of lightning.
note: think this is my longest fic yet. why is it giving twelve-episode romance anime? 😭
this isn't a sukuna fic so do let me know if some of you'd rather not be tagged: @getopilleds @peachygelic @kaagrwl @uncagedwings @sukusdoll @aspinny @thebl00dwyrm @emluvsgetou @poisonnuggies @zenaskull @liliklei @wwasabiiiii @bruleecream @batcatgal @sunabff @icebearcucumber @emluvsgetou @vm4879bb-blog @pjselee
geto suguru is everyone’s first crush. having a crush on him is as hopeless as it is inevitable though your friends quickly disagree that the awe-struck, mouth gaping expression is a strictly you thing, and that he isn't as much of a campus celebrity as you believe he is. regardless, you're determined to put your inability to hold a conversation with him in the past. the solution is simple, you seek out his best friend. if geto suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then gojo satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak.
pairing: frat&icehockey!gojo x reader
content: mdni, idiots in love, oblivious reader, baby’s first kiss + virginity taken by same person (satoru ><), suguru as the wingman, a little angst, mostly fluff + crack !! titjob, a little spitting, p in v, degrading, oral, fingering handjob etc etc 37k+
note: happy belated national arabian horse day! this was meant to come out on the 19th but life got in the way... regardless of the day hit up a friend and start beating a dead horse to celebrate!
Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush.
Your friends insist you’re seeing him through some delusional rose-tinted lens and that he is, in fact, not as much of a campus celebrity as you believe him to be. You reject that notion. One look at him from across the room, other party goers be damned, is all it takes to confirm what you already know.
Geto laughs at something one of his friends says, tipping forward slightly as the alcohol softens his movements. You catch the tail ends of his laughter through the thumping bass, the glint of light reflected off his lip piercings when he smiles wide, his hand running through his untied black hair.
It would be as easy as walking up and saying hi to start a conversation. It would be as easy as smiling for him to turn his head and grace you with a smile of his own.
Oh, what you would give to be bathed in his gaze, for that pretty smile to widen at the sight of you. He’d spot you through the crowd, you’d tuck your hair shyly behind your ear and he’d politely excuse himself from his conversation to walk over to introduce himself to this mysterious beauty from across the room.
Shoko makes a noise like she’s strangling herself but when you turn to save her, she’s staring at your face. “Do you have any idea what you look like right now?”
“What’s wrong? Did I smudge my liner?”
You pull out your phone to check your makeup using the reflection but between the flashing lights and someone’s elbow jutting from your peripheral, you’re only eighty percent sure you don’t look a mess.
Considering you dragged your roommate out to this party last minute, Shoko sips her drink with commendable patience. “Even if you did, that would be the least of your worries. Look, you really don’t have to overthink this. We didn’t just spend all night planning this for you to end up weirding him out with that look in your eye.”
“Shit, that was the rehearsed deer look I was talking about!
“Rehearsed how?
You decisively ignore her. “I just want to do this right.
Her eyes soften slightly. She’s always been weak to your woes. “You will. He’ll love you. If you don’t believe in yourself, believe in me. I promise you I’ve known this guy for years and you’re exactly the type of person he just eats up.”
You think of all your attempts to enter Geto’s world. There's just something mystifying about him, some kind of aura he emits that has you tripping over your tongue and freezing at the worst moments. Your words become stilted, your humour and wit abandoned at every crucial moment, causing you to simultaneously dread talking to him as much as you wished for it.
Shoko turns you to face her, eyes steady in a way yours isn’t. “Are you ready?
You let out a slow breath and attempt to mimic her determination with a single nod.
“Then go find him.”
When you hesitate to even take a single step forward, Shoko gives you a push and then you’re off, legs moving without another thought. The crowd swallows you, bodies brushing past and jolting your shoulders, knocking you here and there. But none of that matters. Not when your heart is already set. Not when determination is the one thing keeping you upright, guiding you closer and closer to the boy who somehow makes a packed, sweaty houseparty fade into background noise
For too long, you’ve let this intoxicating feeling linger, letting it settle deep in your chest, almost convincing yourself that watching from the sidelines was enough. As if anything short of his eyes on you, perhaps even his lips on yours, could quiet the restless longing twisting in your heart. Limerence is what Shoko diagnoses you with, but the word feels too small for the intensity that surges through you every time his name crosses your mind.
Geto appears like a beacon before you, the crowds having finally parted enough for you to catch a good look. The party music transitions to an angelic choir but admitting that is basically affirming Shoko’s concerns that your infatuation is unhealthy, so you quickly refocus. Your heart clenches, pounds against your ribcage, and you only hope the dim lighting will hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks. He’s right there, right within reach. All you have to do is say his name.
All you have to do is make him see you.
You take a step forward, mumble an apology to the girl you bumped shoulders with, take another step towards where he’s laughing with a friend—then veer sharply to the right and slip into the kitchen.
If talking to Geto were really as easy as saying hi, you would have done it months ago.
The kitchen is quieter, the bass reduced to a distant, muffled thump and you can finally breathe as the crowd thins. There’s still chatter though significantly more bearable and your eyes fall onto the small cluster of boys within, standing in the near dark.
Your feet instinctively slow but Shoko’s voice in your head tells you that you’ve done too much to stop now and with a deep breath, you step beyond the threshold.
One by one, the group takes notice of you, their rambunctious laughter quietening into soft chuckles as heads pop up to look. It’s not strange for someone to enter the kitchen at a party so the most you get is a head nod in greeting before they return to their conversation.
You reach for a red cup and then for a jug of some mysterious jungle juice.
Unfortunately, the jug sits behind one of the boys. Even worse, it sits behind who you’re really here at the party looking for.
Leaning lazily against the counter and nursing a red solo cup of something strong no doubt, stands Gojo, Geto’s best friend.
If Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then Gojo Satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak.
You can feel the burn of Gojo’s stare as you get close enough to lift the jug and pour, hands trembling slightly. Before you can help yourself, you steal glances from the side of your eye, landing squarely on his shirt specifically at the crude letting that reads ‘Two Seater’, arrows pointing abashedly toward both his crotch and his face.
You look back up immediately. You don’t want to know.
The punch sloshes into your cup, some of it missing due to your shaky hands and you don’t notice until a sticky trickle runs over your fingers. You hastily stop pouring and lick at the mess.
Before you can figure out how to announce your presence, there’s a rush of footsteps and another frat boy appears. Hikari, you think his name was, stands by the kitchen entrance, hair slightly disheveled from his usual style, loud and demanding as he’s always been.
“Hey!” He calls, scanning the room. “You guys need to come see this.
A chorus of half-drunk “what?” and “see what?” answers him like a herd of seagulls.
“In the living room,” he says. “There's two people on the floor and—” He stops, glancing over his shoulder like the situation might escape him if he looks away for too long. “Just hurry up!
His vague words cause curiousity to spread faster than wildfire. The group of boys begin funnelling out of the kitchen, cups still in hand, voices rising with excitement.
“What is it?
“Is it a fight?
“Please tell me it’s a fight.”
“Did someone break something?”
Hikari doesn’t elaborate, instead turning and leaving the kitchen, confident the herd will follow. One friend, Choso if you remember correctly, looks back at Gojo who remains calmly drinking from his cup, still leaning against the counter beside you
“Aren’t you coming, Satoru?”
Gojo shrugs, tipping back the last of his drink. “Nah. You go on ahead.”
Choso hesitates like he wants to ask why, then seems to think better of it.
“Suit yourself,” he mutters, already backing toward the door as someone behind him shoves past with a whoop.
Within seconds, the kitchen drains of bodies.
You’re deathly aware of the warm presence beside you. You inhale deeply and turn, ready to get this over and done with only to find him shamelessly looking at you.
For a moment, the two of you just stare at each other, his expression unreadable as he looks you over before his face splits into a lazy grin. “Hey.”
“Hi,” you squeak, immediately reprimanding yourself at the awkward sound.
His smile only grows. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you looking for someone? Or maybe you missed the exit? It’s down the hall to your right.”
“That’s rude.” You cross your arms in an attempt to place distance between the two of you and to maintain a confidence you don’t feel. “I attend parties.”
Gojo huffs and you feel slightly offended. He straightens and steps closer, close enough that his cologne hits you—sharp, expensive, and entirely too much. “I don’t know about that. I’ve never seen you at one of these before.” His head tilts, regarding you. “How do you even know Sukuna?
For a moment you blank, wondering why he was asking about Sukuna. It hits you then that this party must be his. “Ah. I came with Shoko.”
He hums. “That makes sense. Shoko always did have a habit of collecting strays.
“Excuse me?”
“Not a stray,” he amends lightly at your glare. “More like her lost puppy.”“Just because you’ve only ever seen me when I’m with Shoko doesn’t mean I’m always with Shoko.”
“I was talking more about how you were holding onto her shirt in the crowds earlier. She didn’t bring a leash for you?
“Don’t project your weird kinks onto me.
“Do you often spend time thinking about what weird kinks I might be into?” Thankfully, Gojo lets the topic go before you really do decide to throw it all away and walk out. “But alright, let’s say I believe you and you’re just here for the party. Why are you here in the kitchen, then?”
“What else do people come to parties for? I’m here to drink. And stuff.” You trail off, clearing your throat.
“Really?” He eyes your untouched cup. “Because that’s just juice. The good stuff’s over here.
He steps into your personal space to reach over you to grab a bottle from the top of the fridge and you’re face to face with the gross words on his top. He retracts his arm, bottle in hand, but doesn’t step back. “Want me to pour you one?”
You think back to the last time you let yourself drink under the unwise judgement of Shoko, and how you can only recall glimpses of light and the vague memory of a toilet bowl “It’s fine, I’ve already had a lot to drink.
“Right,” he says, in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t believe you for a second.
You watch as Gojo pours himself another drink, sipping leisurely, pointedly ignoring the way you’re staring.
Gojo isn’t exactly a stranger, but it’s an overestimation to call him your friend. In truth, he’s Shoko's friend—which means she occasionally drags him back to your shared dorm before disappearing to do whatever it is best friends do. You catch glimpses of him in passing, fleeting and inconsequential, never quite crossing into ‘introduce-yourself’ territory. Why would he? He’s the kind of guy who turns heads without trying, long-limbed, effortlessly confident, wearing the grin of someone who’s never been told no in his life.
Where Geto is soft-spoken and warm, guiding you through conversation with patient smiles and gentle ease, Gojo is loud and vibrant and reckless. There's a challenge in his eyes, a knowing smirk on his lips, like the world is perpetually entertaining and he’s always in on the joke.
You, on the other hand, are about as normal as it gets.
When the silence draws into something a little less casual and far more awkward, you clear your throat. “I’m Y/N by the way.
“I know who you are.”
“You do?”
“Shoko’s roommate, right? We’ve seen each other before. She’s mentioned you too.” He offers a hand, eyes holding yours like he knows you’ll pull away with anything less. “I’m Gojo. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
You go to echo his words, that of course you knew he was the Gojo Satoru but hesitate, settling instead for shaking his hand. His grip is warm and solid, carrying none of the jitteriness you feel. Hell, maybe you should have accepted a drink after all. What is this, a job interview? Why are you shaking his hand?
When you let go, you become painfully aware of how damp your palms are and curse yourself silently.
Gojo picks up on the silence and moves to lean against the counter, mimicking your earlier pose such that his arms are crossed over his chest, only emphasising his biceps in his sleeveless top. “So, Y/N. If you didn’t come in here for a drink, why are you here?”
His words cause you to still. This was it. Every moment in your dorm, huddled around the whiteboard usually reserved for studying, now littered with far less academic plans, Shoko chiming in her own thinkpieces occasionally. It all accumulated to this moment.
“I was looking for you actually. I wanted to talk to you.” Your voice is barely a whisper and humiliation slowly sinks in when he doesn’t answer immediately. Perhaps he didn’t hear you considering you’re speaking to your shoes.
When you finally look up, there’s an unreadable expression on his face. Gojo slowly tracks his eyes up and down your figure. Finally, he straightens, head tilted slightly. “Talk to me? Alone?"
You nod, and his face breaks into a broad grin.
“I wasn’t expecting that. Not that I hate it,” he purrs, voice dropping into something smoother as he steps closer and curls a loose lock of your hair around his finger. “What did you want to talk about, princess?"
Your mind vaguely registers the gesture, feeling the dampness of your palms once again. “I don’t really want to say here."
His fingers still, your hair wrapped around it. “Oh?"
You wonder what that look in his eyes meant. “Could we go upstairs?”
Gojo cocks his head, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His brows knit slightly, but his eyes gleam with amusement as he releases your hair, the strand falling back into place in a soft wave. “You do know I’m Shoko’s friend, right? And you’re her best friend?”
“Why does that matter?”
“Seriously? You don’t think it’ll be awkward?”
Awkward? You blink, trying to make sense of his words. Perhaps Gojo and Shoko had argued recently. Maybe he didn’t want her catching sight of the two of you together else it put you in an awkward position. He’s more considerate than you expected.
“It doesn’t have anything to do with her,” you say carefully. “Whether you or I are friends with Shoko—it doesn’t matter to me. I just want to talk to you.” You smile in satisfaction, relaxing a little at his kindness.
Gojo suddenly laughs, brushing a hand through his hair as he throws his head back like you’ve said the funniest thing. When he looks back down at you, his eyes are shining. “That’s what I’m saying! But every time I joke about it to Shoko, she goes all crazy on me. Looks like we have a lot in common, huh? I guess that makes us compatible.”
You continue to smile, the corners of your lips wavering a little in uncertainty. You’re not entirely sure what he means by that but considering you’re about to ask him for a favour, you appreciate his good mood.
“Well, alright,” he says at last, taking your hand. “I’d love to hear you out. Lead the way.”
Ignoring the little flip of nerves your stomach does as you hold his hand (perhaps he felt too drunk to climb the stairs alone?), you turn and lead him back into the living room and up the stairs to the quieter rooms of the house. The hand holding serves another purpose, you realise, as you weave through the crowds of people and he would surely have lost you had you not held on tighter, practically dragging him onwards.
You feel a tug before your feet can even touch the second floor, like he’s suddenly become immovable. Before you can turn and check on him, you feel the warmth of his chest against your back, his hand slipping from yours to settle at your waist. You’re pulled to a stop, his breath now brushing against your ear, his hair tickling the side of your face. You’re certain he’s leaning over you despite being a step lower, and the faint scent of alcohol and sandalwood fills your senses.
“I didn’t think you’d be so proactive,” he murmurs. You think he might have inhaled, slow and deliberate, but it’s hard to tell over the base vibrating through the floorboards and the frantic pounding of your heart. “What else are you hiding from me, hm?”
He reaches for your hand and turns you slightly so you can watch as he licks your fingers, tasting the sticky residue of your spilt juice. His blue eyes seem to sparkle, mesmerising in a way that makes you freeze. “You taste sweet.”
Your breath hitches and he must have heard because the hand on your waist tightens and pulls you against him, head leaning down to gently nip at your neck. Your stomach does that little flip again, this time accompanied with a hot flush that short-circuits your brain.
“Wait!” He chuckles softly, lips ghosting over a soft spot that makes your knees tremble a little. “Don’t be nervous. You have me right where you want me.”
You freeze, heart hammering, fingers twitching. When his hand slips just barely beneath the hem of your top, the words tumble out of you in a rush.
“I like Geto!”
For a heartbeat, everything goes still, his hand, his lips, his breath. Gojo pauses, lips pulling back from your sweaty neck. In fact, his entire body jerks back, both feet returning to the step beneath you, hand leaving your waist to turn you to face him. His fingers find your chin to tilt your face down, eyes dark as they hold yours.
“What did you just say?”
You swallow, looking him in the eye. “I like Geto.”
He stares at you wordlessly for a few more moments before he frowns, letting go of you completely and stepping down one more step just for good measure. “What the fuck are you doing here with me then?"
You gesture frantically between yourselves, finding the answer quite simple. “To talk? That’s what I said earlier, didn’t I? I wasn’t—I wasn’t insinuating… I wasn’t trying to—you know?”
“You said you wanted to come with me upstairs.”
“Yeah?”
“Alone.”
“Right.”
His frown only deepens at your easy response. “You know how that sounds, right? To get a guy alone upstairs at a party?”
“It sounds like I wanted to talk to you privately?” You try again at his disbelieving expression. “The music was super loud. I didn’t think you’d be able to hear me downstairs and I had to ask you something important so I didn’t want to risk it.”
He lets out a huff, something short and breathy, lips quirked upwards like he finds something amusing, even as his eyes stay locked on you, unmoving. “You’re kidding me, right?”
You hold out your hands as if to say, ‘What can you do?’.
Gojo groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Figures this was too good to be true.” His hand drops from his eyes to cover his mouth as he continues to stare at you. “Nothing about that situation implied you just wanted to talk. And about Suguru, of all things? Seriously, he’s being a cockblock and he isn’t even here.”
“What was that?”
“Forget it.” He drops his hand. “I’m leaving.”
You quickly hold onto his arm before he can completely turn. “Wait!”
Maybe it’s the desperation in your voice, maybe it’s your iron-clad grip on his bicep but he doesn’t attempt to pull away. Instead, he looks back and wrinkles his nose at you, a strangely childish gesture.
“I’m not in the mood to just talk. Not anymore.”
“Come on, please? There’s no one else I can ask!”
“I don’t see how that’s my problem.”
“If you could just please, out of the kindness of your heart, hear me out I would seriously appreciate it!”
He doesn’t budge.
“I won’t tell anyone I rejected you!”
He frowns. “First of all, you didn’t reject me because it was a misunderstanding. Second of all, are you really in a position to blackmail me right now?”
“I won’t tell Shoko you were the reason her favourite candle knocked over and singed a bit of her rug.”
His frown only deepens. Blackmail, you think, is surprisingly effective. “Hold on, how do you even know that?”
“What do you mean? I was literally right there.”
Gojo lets out a deep, long groan. He wriggles out of your hold, sending you a glare. “You know, you really suck at asking for help.”
“You don’t have to agree to helping me just yet. Just at least give me a chance to explain. We’re already here, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, well, I had other plans when we got up here that didn't involve just talking.”
You remind yourself to be patient. Again, you were the one asking for a favour, he’s the only one that can help you with your dilemma, you need him. Don’t call him a disgusting freak and walk away.
Clapping your hands together, you muster your best pleading look and send it his way. “Please, Gojo.”
You’re not really sure what broke through his defenses. For your own ego, you decide it must be because of your puppy dog eyes because he lets out a sigh and gives a reluctant nod.
“Go to the room to the right of the stairs.”
You bite back the instinct to cheer. Halfway through turning around, you look over your shoulder. “You’re coming too, right?”
“Just get up there before I change my mind.”
Wondering if souring his mood like this would backfire on you, you quickly hop up the remaining steps and head to the mentioned room just in case he really does change his mind. It would be beneficial to appease him before you ask for a crazy favour, after all. Therefore, you don’t even try to eavesdrop as Gojo continues to mumble to himself as he follows behind, worrying that somehow he might hear and turn around.
When you both reach the room, he closes the door and leans against it, arms crossed over his chest and expression flat in a way that feels very un-Gojo. You’re suddenly struck by the unfairness of it, of how someone with such a careless, teasing exterior can also appear so unreadable when he wants to.
“Five minutes.”
You clear the irrelevant thoughts from your head. “Excuse me?”
“You have five minutes before I’m going back down.”
You take a deep breath. This is it, no backing out now. “Okay. I need your help.”
He huffs, unamused. “So you’ve said. But with what exactly? Calculus? Because spoiler, I’ve been drinking.”
“With Geto.”
You watch in real time as the connection in his brain is made. He straightens off the door slightly. “Wait. Suguru? You want help with Suguru? What kind of help? Love help? You want love help with Suguru?”
Every word from his mouth is like a bullet to your dignity. Through gritted teeth, you hiss, “Yes. Can you be any louder?”
“I can try,” He says with a hint of humour. The smirk returns to his face and a feeling of foreboding looms over you. “This is what you wanted to get me alone to say?”
“Look, I needed someone who’s close with him and you’re–”
“Close? Please, I’m his best friend. I’m practically his wife.”
“Oh. So that makes us competition?”
He wrinkles his nose and looks you up and down. “You want me to help you get him.”
You nod.
“You want to confess to him.”
“Obviously.”
“Date him?”
“That’s the goal."
“Sleep with him?”
You give him a look so incredulous that he laughs, short and amused. “If you want advice just hit up reddit. If you want him to like you back then an etsy witch has you covered for five dollars. I don’t see why you have to bother me.”
“Because,” You say slowly. “He’s surrounded by people. He doesn’t even know me. I need all of that, the advice, the reciprocation, and I need someone who can get me close enough to him where he can notice me. And I feel like getting an etsy witch to manipulate his dreams to include me would cost more than five dollars. And I’m broke. And I’m kind of bad with guys.”
“So, what? You want me to introduce you to him?”
“Sure. And maybe tell me what he likes?"
Gojo looks you up and down again. He leans back against the door but this time, there’s something smug and arrogant about his posture, eyes lazy as he takes up as much space as he can. “You’re not even his type.”
“That’s fine, I’m flexible.”
“That’s something you say at a job interview, not when you’re trying to get a boyfriend.”
“Just shows that I have an adaptable personality.”
“He just came out of a 2 year relationship,” He shoots back.
“I accept and embrace his past.”
“He has a habit of leaving his jackets on the arm rest of couches.”
“I have hands, I can put them away.”
“Where’s your self-respect?”
“With him. I’ll get it back after I get with him.”
Gojo huffs. “He doesn’t even know you.”
“That’s why I’m asking you for help.”
“You know, I think I liked you better when you were just a shy little thing stumbling over your words.”
Again, you can only shrug.
When he only frowns, you decide to use your hidden ace. Before he can open his mouth and surely reject you, you beat him to it, voice overlapping his.
“I’ll tutor you!”
His eyes narrow and when he doesn’t say anything else, you push on.
“I know you’re aiming for that sports scholarship to study abroad next year.”
“How do you even know about that?” He catches on quick with a groan. “Shoko.”
You nod. “And I know that you’re looking for someone to tutor you because you need to get good grades to get accepted. If you help me with this, I promise I can definitely bring your grades up. We both benefit!”
Gojo stares at you like you’ve just grown a second head and you think you’ve lost him when his lips twitch. Then, almost traitorously, one corner lifts higher.
“You,” he says slowly, pointing at you like he’s identifying a rare species, “Are trying to bribe me. You’re trying to bribe me because you can’t get game by yourself.”
“It's not a bribe,” you say stiffly. “I'm just saying there’s something in it for the both of us.”
“It’s a bribe,” he repeats, delighted now. “Holy shit, Shoko's roommate is bribing me. How desperate can you get?”
“I’m offering to give you academic support!”
“With strings attached.”
“Yes,” you sigh. "That's usually how deals work.”
He grins, wide and boyish and every bit infuriating as you’ve ever known him. “You think I can't get a tutor without helping you bag my best friend?”
“Well, you haven’t yet.”
“That's because I don't need one.”
“Right. So I should just forget all the times Shoko has ranted to me about how you keep asking her for help?”
“You know, this conversation has really enlightened me on who my real friends are.” His gaze slides back to you, assessing. “And you’re confident you can help me?”
You straighten your shoulders and give a solemn nod. “I’ve fixed worse than you.”
He studies you, eyes tracking your features down to your shoes and you fight the urge to squirm self consciously. He seems to be recalibrating you, seeing you not as Shoko’s tagalong but as an actual person making a very earnest, albeit very ridiculous, request.
Finally, he sighs, long and dramatic.
“Well, at least you have one thing going for you. Suguru eats this kind of stuff up, hardworking, stubborn, a little pathetic—”
“Hey.”
“—in a cute pet way,” he amends smoothly. “Relax.”
You glare at him anyway but the rational part of your brain reminds you that you need this. He grins back, entirely unrepentant.
“Fine,” he continues, raising a finger, “If I do this, we’re doing it my way. That means we need rules.”
You fight the urge to jump up and down in joy. “I was going to suggest that anyway! How about this, we—”
“Rule one,” he says, face settling into something serious. “You can’t fall in love with me.”
Unable to help yourself, you burst out laughing. “Trust me, that’s not going to be an issue. You're definitely not my type.”
At your laugh he smiles though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Rule two, no complaining. Keep that mouth in check, sweets.”
You giggle. “What's wrong, fragile ego?”
He raises an eyebrow and you mumble irritated curses under your breath. “Sorry.”
“Rule three, if Suguru ends up falling head over heels for you, you owe me big.”
“How big?”
His eyes flick down to your mouth again, then back up, smirk slow and dangerous. “I’ll decide later.”
You catch the movement and swallow, feeling none of the humour from earlier. “Okay, deal. Then, rule four, you take your studying seriously. I don't tutor people who don’t care.”
“I think between the two of us, I want to succeed the most so that’s a given. Any more rules, sweets?”
When you shake your head, he nods. “Then, we’ll start tomorrow.”
“Not today? I mean he’s literally right here,” You quickly clarify. “Not a complaint, just a question!”
“I came here to get drunk and have a good time. I’m going to need at least three drinks to get me back there so be a good girl and wait. I’ll text you tomorrow if you really can’t be patient. Unless, you want to back out already?”
You straighten your shoulders, trying to match his confidence. “I’m not backing out! I just want to make sure you’re not going to ditch me. This isn’t really a normal request.”
“Oh, so you know?”
You roll your eyes at him but have the decency to at least look bashful.
“Tomorrow,” he repeats then jerks his chin toward the door. “Go on, sweets. Before I sober up and regain some self-respect.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“A complaint?”
You bite your lip. “A suggestion.”
“Here’s a real suggestion,” he starts, turning around to open the door. Standing in the doorframe, he gives you one last look. “Next time you ask a guy to go upstairs with you at a party, maybe start with the part about not wanting to make out.”
Your face gets hot instantly, mouth opening to splutter, “I didn’t mean anything by it!”
But he doesn’t stay to hear the end of it, rejoining the masses downstairs without another word. He lifts his hand once as a goodbye and then he’s gone, leaving you alone in the room, half mortified, half exhilarated. Unwilling to give him any sense of victory with his last words, you head back downstairs and find Shoko to tell her the results of the first step of your plan.
It’s a struggle pushing through the thick waves of people but you finally find your roommate off to the side, musing herself in a conversation with someone you don’t recognise.
Instinctively, your eyes search for Geto if only to recall what you’re doing this for. Standing beside him, arm swung over his shoulder is Gojo, already sipping from a cup and laughing into the conversation with a natural ease that reminds you of the gap between who you were and who he is. As if sensing your gaze, he looks over and you flinch as if burnt. Something stirs in your gut and you wonder if your little plan to get with Geto has taken a slightly unpredictable turn.
“You okay?” Shoko asks, noticing your fluster.
You nod, looking away quickly. “Of course. All going to plan, you know?”
“Then I guess you’re up to step two.”
“Right,” Your eyes drift back to Gojo and find him looking at you over the rim of his cup. The feeling in your stomach lurches. “Step two.”
Step two begins with Gojo texting you at the ass crack of dawn. You blink the sleep from your eyes, squinting at the bright light of your screen in mild disbelief and annoyance as he tells you to pull up to his 9am lecture. Despite the lingering feeling that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, you understand that this is necessary.
You know for a fact that you have no classes today and therefore no reason to make the trek to university. a whole day,just gone and tasked with the impossible task of putting up with that infuriating player.
No, you reprimand yourself as you text back your agreement. No complaining. Do it for him, do it for Geto. With those words repeating in your head like a mantra, you pull yourself together and out of bed to get to campus.
It would be helpful, after all, to see where his studies were at if you were going to take this tutoring business seriously.
You get a coffee at the station to combat your sleepiness and the chill of a winter morning before hesitating and getting another. With two coffees, one in each hand, you wait outside his lecture room until the doors swing open.
Spotting him wouldn’t be too hard, you muse, considering Gojo is impossible to miss.
And then, you see him.
His unmistakable frame, hair a messy white halo catching the late morning sun, strides into view. He's mid conversation as he steps out, animated, half-grinning, and you find yourself understanding why so many girls lose their minds over him.
“Gojo!” You call out, voice slightly drowned out by the chatter all around.
You’re about to give him a piece of your mind, him having been the reason why you kept to your phone all of last night like a wife anticipating the return of her war husband, when you freeze. Because when Gojo turns, your mind barely registering the amused look he gives you, the person he was talking to comes into view.
Because of course, where there’s Gojo there is Geto, the yin to his yang.
You weren’t ready for both of them.
Noticing your sudden stiffness, Gojo looks beside him and scoffs. Unimpressed, he starts walking over. You panic, attempting to smooth out your clothes and fix up your appearance though your hands are full of coffee so you end up doing an awkward wiggle.
“Look at you,” Gojo starts when he’s close enough. “Loitering outside my class like a fan. Maybe this is more urgent than I thought, not because you like Suguru but because you really need your self-respect back.”
You open your mouth to respond, to clarify, to deny, to just say something, but Geto catches up beside him and suddenly every possible word tangles up in your throat.
“Oh. Hey,” Geto says, recognition flickering across his face. “You’re Y/N, right?”
You blink, knees feeling weak and mind in shambles that he even knew your name let alone match it to your face. “Uh, yeah! That’s me!”
He smiles, soft and easy, all the charm you’ve seen him use on others now directed to you. “I thought so. You’re in one of Shoko’s tutorials, no? I think I remember her mentioning you.”
“I’m her roommate, actually.” You try for a smile and pray it doesn’t give off the extent of your adoration towards him.
“Right, that would be it. I’m Geto.”
You nod mutely, wishing your brain would reboot to say something, anything that doesn’t make you sound like you’ve never spoken to a human before. Geto, he says, like you didn’t already know his name, like he wasn’t one of the most known people on campus. Still, the fact that he so humbly introduced himself only proves his humility and your heart gives a quiver.
This moment was everything you’ve ever fantasied. His eyes on you, giving you that pretty smile you’ve only seen directed at others. You could have stood there and basked in his attention until the end of time if Gojo didn’t suddenly clap Geto’s shoulder and butt in.
“Great, so glad you’re both acquainted,” he says, ignoring your glare and throwing an arm around your shoulder to pull you into his side. “But as much as I’d love to keep standing here and soak in this riveting small talk, I think my very dedicated super fan here needs me for something.”
You shoot him a look. “I am not your super fan.”
“No? And is that not my coffee?”
You look down at your hands as if only remembering now what you were holding. Biting back a remark, you thrust out a coffee. “It is.”
He grins, taking it and letting his fingers brush against yours. “Thought so.”
Geto looks between the two of you. “Oh, I see how it is."
Your eyes fling back to him at the same time Gojo exclaims, “What?”
“Woah, did I touch a nerve there or something?” Geto’s smile quickly turns smug. He returns Gojo’s earlier gesture and thumps him hard on the back twice. “I get it. I’ll get out of your hair then. Be gentle with him, Y/N. He’s actually a pretty sensitive guy.”
It takes you a while to process his words so Gojo reacts first.
“Dude, I’m telling you it’s not like that.”
“Sure,” Geto says in a tone that very much suggests he isn’t convinced at all. “Guess I’ll see you around, yeah? Later, Satoru.”
You only realise seconds after he leaves that you hadn’t said goodbye. In fact, after Gojo’s interruption, you hadn’t managed to say anything more to Geto.
“Huh,” Gojo muses, breaking the silence. “You get like that around him?”
You groan and find the lump in your throat gone. “I stood there like an idiot!”
“You did.”
“He probably thinks I’m a freak!”
“Probably.”
“And you!” You look up to glare at him. “You didn’t have to make it sound so weird!”
“So now it’s suddenly my fault?”
“You caught me off guard by calling me your super fan!”
“Right, like that was the weirdest part of the conversation,” he shoots back, lips curled in dry amusement. “That, and not the super sour face you were making at him. Like a grimace.” He mimics your expression and you properly grimace this time, hoping against all odds that that was not the face you had been making at the person you were actually a super fan for.
Deciding you will only lose if you continue to defend yourself, you choose to change the subject. “You should have told me he’d be here.”
“You never asked. Besides, is it my fault if you didn’t prepare for that to happen?”
You sulkingly mumble a yes and he wags his finger at you, tutting disapprovingly.
“No complaining, remember? Come on, let’s go. We have things to talk about.”
You sigh though relent to fall into step beside him, fingers curling around your own coffee as the crowd thins around you. Now that Geto is gone, the world feels marginally more comfortable, less bright, less sharp, but also less mortifying.
You remember your stuttering self a few minutes ago.
Still a little mortifying but now bearable.
Gojo takes a long sip of his coffee, then glances sideways at you over the rim. “For future reference, I don't like coffee.”
You dig your elbow into his side and he winces but doesn’t remove his arm around your shoulder.
“Where are we going? I was thinking we could go to the library and look over your courses. That way I can pinpoint your weakness and where to target first. We only have a few months into graduation so we’re in a bit of a time crunch but I'm positive I can raise your grades from whatever they may be to… what?”
You trail off when you find Gojo looking down at you in disbelief. He shrugs when your eyes meet and shrugs, though the gesture is a little awkward with his arm over your shoulders.
“I just didn’t think you were serious about the whole tutoring thing.”
“I keep to my promises, Gojo,” you pause. “And I hope you will too.”
He reaches over with his free hand to ruffle your hair, ignoring your squeak. “Desperation isn’t a good look on you, sweets. Relax, relax, I'll get you two together. Trust me.”
You grumble but don’t voice your suspicions, instead letting him drag you in a certain direction. You perk up when you don’t immediately recognise your surroundings.
“Where are we going?”
“I get it, you want to check me out. I'm just taking us somewhere where that can happen.”
“Your studies, not you,” you clarify.
“Yeah, and my studies are mine so you’re checking me out.”
You grimace and he chuckles, turning you around a corner. “The library is too quiet so we’re going back to my place.”
You stop abruptly.
“Your place?”
“Yeah.”
“Your place?”
Gojo cocks his head as if listening to something in the distance. “Did you just hear that echo too?”
“Forgetting the fact that we should clearly just go to the library or somewhere on campus at least, I thought you lived in Sig Kap?”
“Right you are. Wow, I'm really starting to see why you’re the perfect choice as a tutor.”
“But you just said we’re going to your place.”
“Nothing gets past you.”
“Your place as in the Sig Kap house.”
“Look at you go.”
You stare at his side profile, waiting for a punchline that won’t come.
“Gojo.”
“Yeah?”
“I am not going to your frat house.”
“What happened to not complaining? That was the first rule and you’re already breaking it, sweets. I'm starting to dread this whole arrangement,” he continues to tease, looking ever so peaceful.
“I'm sorry, I don't know what you think I'm about but I wouldn't willingly walk into a den full of men named things like Chad. Do you even have furniture?”
“I only had a cot for the majority of first year but now I've upgraded to a mattress on the floor.”
“Great. Let's end this here.”
Gojo hooks his finger in your belt hoop before you can walk away. “First of all, we don’t have a Chad. We do have a Kyle though.”
“You're not doing yourself any favours.”
“Second,” he continues on, pulling you back towards him with his finger. “It’s ten in the morning. Half of them are in class and the other half are probably legally dead.”
You stand your ground. “Library.”
“Sig Kap.”
“Library.”
“Sig Kap.”
“Gojo.”
He leans in suddenly, close enough that you can see the faint crease at the corner of his eyes from squinting in the sun.
“You want Suguru, right?”
Your breath catches and despite yourself, you hear him out. “So? How is that relevant?”
“Because,” he says mildly like he’s talking to a little kid. “Sig Kap is where Suguru hangs out. He's my best friend, you know he’s my best friend that’s why you came to me. Why wouldn’t he be over at mine all the time? If you can’t handle coming over now how are you ever going to fuck him?”
“I am not—” you choke, voice pitching before forcefully lowering your voice when you notice people looking at you. “That is not— I haven't even—”
Gojo hums, watching you with a victorious grin. “So you don’t want to sleep with him?”
You make a startled noise and start walking in a random direction, eager to leave him behind. Life, however, is full of disappointments considering he follows, his arm draping over your shoulder once more.
“So where are we going?”
You give in. “Sig Kap.”
“Wrong way, sweets.”
You groan but follow as he steers you in the opposite direction.
Gojo chatters in your ear the entire walk to where the frat houses are situated on campus, about how his least favourite professor is out to get him, about someone in his frat who set off the fire alarm this morning, about the latest philosophical debate holding the frat hostage: whether cereal is a soup or not. It's a steady stream of nonsense, ridiculous but unbroken because at least he wasn’t talking to you so much as at you.
At some point, you stop responding entirely.
Somehow, his mere presence is enough to change your opinion and you actually feel relief when you finally see the house before you. Sig Kap stands broad and sunlit, paint only mildly chipped, windows open to let in the winter air. There's a couple bikes leaning against the porch railing and there’s an abandoned hoodie on the outdoor chairs.
“Oh thank god,” you mumble under your breath when he finally stops talking.
He lets you go to jog up the steps, opening the door to what you’re positive is about to be an overstimulating nightmare.
Warm air hits you first, carrying the scene of coffee and something oily. Sunlight stretches across worn hardboard floors until Gojo closes the door behind you and the hallway dims. A TV murmurs somewhere deeper into the house and there’s a loud conversation happening upstairs.
“You said everyone would be either in class or dead!” You hiss.
“It was an exaggeration,” he says lightly. "Don't worry, everyone’s harmless. But if you’re worried, you can just stick close to me.”
You ignore his cocky grin and shove him to get him walking. Unfortunately, getting to the stairs meant walking past the living room and you know things won’t be as harmless as he says when a voice calls out.
“Yo!”
Gojo pauses and steps back to poke his head into the living room. “Morning.”
You awkwardly step back to let him, pushing you into view too.
Two heads snap toward you at once. One of them is sprawled across the couch, blanket half-tangled around his legs and a bowl of popcorn balances on his stomach. The other is slouched in an armchair, controller in hand, eyes bloodshot and face pale as if he was still hungover. Considering the state of the party last night, you don’t doubt that he might be. Speaking of the party, you recognise the one on the left as Hikari.
“You’re bringing a girl back in broad daylight?” The controller guy says, no tact whatsoever.
Hikari snaps his fingers in recognition. “Hey, you’re the girl at the party.”
“Damn, back for more?”
Hikari shoves controller guy’s head down at the crude comment.
“She's here to save my GPA,” Gojo explains. “So keep it down, yeah?”
“That's what we should be saying to you,” controller guy smirks.
Unfortunately, Gojo smirks back. “You know they can’t help it. I'm just too good.”
He guides you back towards the stairs as the boys in the living room chuckle, and when you finally think of something to say you’re already standing in the middle of his room. By then, there’s another something to take up your mind and computing power.
Despite the relatively large floor plan, Gojo has decided to use none of it. True to his words, there’s a mattress lying on the floor against one wall, blanket a mess and a single pillow sitting flat at the top. A stack of old textbooks make up a bedside table where there’s a cute small lamp. On the other side sits a couch and a giant flat screen in front of it at a distance that would make optometrists frown.
Maybe that’s why Gojo is sometimes seen wearing sunglasses indoors. Maybe they’re prescription.
“This is what you bring girls back to?”
Gojo drops his bag on the floor and flops down onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him. “Come sit.”
You eye the seat in disdain.
“What's with the look?”
“Is that even sanitary?”
He snorts. “Worried you’ll get cooties or something? Relax, I rarely bring anyone back. Usually I go to the girls’ place for that kind of stuff. Fucking on a mattress is pretty harsh on the back, you know. You’re the first girl I've brought back in a while. Lucky you, right?”
You grimace but sit down gingerly. “Can you tell me what courses you’re doing?”
“What's the rush? Let's get to know each other better,” he says but he still reaches over to grab his laptop from his bag, opening it on his lap.
You can picture it so clearly, Gojo coming back from a long day of (skipping) classes to do his assignments and homework like this, slumped over his laptop on this surprisingly comfortable couch. The bare mattress on the floor might be a big contributing factor to his back pain, but you have no doubts that this routine wasn’t doing him any favours. “Here,” he places his laptop on your knees and leans back, pulling out his phone from his pocket. “You look.”
Considering his complete disregard of safety is not your issue, you don’t protest and quickly type in the college website. As if sensing this is not the right time, a prompt pops up to log in again.
“Password?” you ask, tilting the screen to him.
He barely looks up from his phone, one arm behind his head, the other typing away. “Sixeyes69 question mark exclamation mark.”
You pause and type it in. It goes through.
“What's the number?” He asks, disinterested.
You look on the screen. “67.”
He chuckles. “Nice.”
“Are you seriously okay with telling me your password like that?”
He shrugs, screenshotting the multi authenticator screen before hitting enter. The website in front of you loads and opens to his details.
“Tt’s not like there’s anything you can do with that. Are you planning to sneak in and do my assignments for me?”
Finding no fault in his words, you accept it and click through the tabs. Your brows quickly knit together as you read the contents.
“Gojo.”
“Mhm?”
“You’re missing three assignments in this class, you have a midterm for another in two weeks and you’re barely passing first year statistics.”
Gojo looks up at the ceiling in deep concentration before looking down with a smile. “Yeah, that sounds about right, why?”
“This is insane! I'm not a miracle worker!”
“Better find a lamp that grants wishes soon because your love life is on the line,” he points out. “That was the deal, you find a way to get me into that scholarship and I get you and my best friend together. It's not my fault you were weirdly confident and didn’t check to see where I was at before proposing that.”
Flabberghasted, you can only open and close your mouth like a fish. “Look, the midterm in two weeks, I can probably help with. The three assignments? You failing statistics?”
“Pretty sure I passed that last quiz. Maybe check again?”
“51 is just barely passing which is basically a fail.”
“Oh no, it seems like you can’t do this after all. Looks like the deal is over. Hey, by the way, since you’re already here, why don't we—” Gojo sits up and leans in, one hand on your thigh above his laptop.
“I demand another favour.”
He freezes. “You can’t just do that.”
“I can,” you square your shoulders and meet his eyes. “I did this statistics class during my first year so I still have my notes. I can easily alter them and give them to you and if you have any questions, we can meet up and I'll go through the questions with you. There's no way you can submit two of the three missed assessments as late but I can help you write the one that was due last week. There will be a mark reduction but I'll make sure it’s as good as can be. And, like I said, studying for the midterm is possible in two weeks.”
Gojo stares at you as if seeing you for the first time. When he finally moves, it’s only to remove his hand from your knee and slump back into his leather couch. “You’re insane.”
You wonder if he’s sulking.
“But,” you continue on. “If I help you with this then I can add to my condition. Besides, I made it too vague earlier and you’ve helped me see that. So thank you.”
He rolls his eyes. “Just tell me.”
You bite your lip. “Go on a practice date with me.”
He blinks at you, giving you that same incredulous look before bursting into a fit of laughter that does wonders for your ego.
“Hey.”
He keeps laughing, one hand resting on his chest.
“Hey!” You hit his arm and he finally cracks an eye open to look at you.
“You’re kidding,” he chuckles, struggling to catch his breath. “Gojo Satoru doesn’t do dates.”
“Don't refer to yourself in third person.” You smack his bicep one more time for good measure and because he’s weirdly solid under your touch. “It won’t actually be a date. I just need to know how dates work. I can't just go from zero to not-zero without practice!”
His laughter trails off though the smile remains on his face. He tilts his head to the side. “You’re at zero?”
You freeze, feeling like you’ve walked into a trap.
“Define zero.”
“Have you kissed anyone?”
You look away. “Define kissed.”
He laughs again, though mercifully shorter. “That's crazy. Next thing you know, you’re going to ask me to teach you how to—”
“Please!” You say quickly. “It won't be anything serious. I just need to know the mechanics, you know, how dates actually work. What you’re supposed to say, how you sit, when you pay, whether eye contact should be continuous or intermittent—”
“Jesus,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re actually a lost cause.”
“Well I've never done one before!” You clamp your mouth shut after, mortified at how loud you just got.
Gojo watches you for a long moment, the amusement still there though dimmed now by something closer to curiousity. Maybe even concern if you squint.
Silence stretches between you, warm sunlight pooling across the floor, distant house noise muffled beyond the door. He looks down at his laptop on your lap then back up to your face.
“...okay.”
Your heart stumbles and you inhale sharply. “Okay?”
“I’ll do it.”
“Really?” Relief overwhelms your system and your shoulders relax.
“Gojo Satoru doesn’t go back on his promises.” He straightens and places a hand over his heart, a mock solemn expression on his face. Before you can poke fun of his use of third person again, he continues. “Besides, I need to figure out where you stand. Let's go on a date tomorrow.”
“Eager much?”
He shrugs. “Rip the bandaid off. Besides, I have no other time this week, I have practice all of this week for the upcoming game.”
Though you were ready to disagree, you find yourself nodding. “Okay, tomorrow.”
“It's a date,” he says sweetly before clapping his hands together once loudly. “So, does that mean I'm off the hook for today? Steam is having this massive sale and I have money to spend.”
You snort. “What makes you think you’re free to go?”
“You got what you wanted,” he points out reasonably. “Practice date secured so mission accomplished, right? Seems like a natural stopping point and the Steam store is calling me.”
He reaches lazily toward the laptop. You smack his hand away without hesitation.
“Well hang up because you’re failing statistics and the submission box for that technical report is waiting for you. I'm afraid you’re going to have to reschedule.”
“You're kidding. I dragged you here and gave you nothing to prepare with, there’s no way you'll have anything to tutor me with.”
You stretch out your arms, fingers interlaced, and listen to the satisfying pop of your joints. “Watch me.”
Night has long since settled by the time you return to your dorm. Despite his perennial sulking throughout the entire tutoring session, lips jutted out when he isn’t whining, eyes drifting from the screen when you’re not giving him your full attention, he still offers to walk you back to the opposite side of the campus where the dorm houses are. Guiding him through the writing assignment was somewhat akin to extracting teeth from a little kid, but he’s surprisingly quiet when you’re talking and only chooses to complain when you’ve stopped.
And by the end of it, you’re proud to announce that he has 500 words on a once empty doc that was almost ready for submission.
Hey, you did mention before that you can’t create miracles.
Still, there’s something bright in his eyes when he reads through his own work, mumbling the words under his breath. So then, when you had reached down to pick up your tote bag and call it a day, he’s on his feet almost instantly, laptop snapping shut as he follows.“I’ll walk you,” he says, like it’s not even a suggestion.
The campus at night feels different, all those late nights in the library had taught you that. It’s quieter, softened at the edges and maybe it's placebo, maybe it isn’t, but the air feels fresher and time seems to slow. Streetlamps cast warm pools of light along the pathways, the winter air crisp enough to bite at your cheeks. Your breath fogs slightly as you walk, footsteps echoing in companionable rhythm.
For once, Gojo isn’t talking.
He makes the occasional comment, something about how dead campus feels after dark, how he hates early morning practices, how someone keeps taking his chocolate milk from the fridge, but for some reason you don’t find it so tolerable. Maybe it’s the way he’s saying it, slower and calm, nothing like before.
You steal a glance at him.
His hands are shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed, expression softer than you’re used to seeing. Without the performative grin and constant chatter he looks less like the campus celebrity Everyone knows and more like he’s just some guy. Albeit, very attractive but you digress.
“You didn’t have to walk me,” you say into the silence that he hadn’t immediately rushed to fill after his last anecdote.
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
He shrugs. “Just felt weird not to. Besides, it’s late out and your dorm is half a century away. I need you alive to fix my grades, remember?”
You give him a faint chuckle and look forward again.
A few more steps pass in silence, broken only by the shuffle of feet.
“Hey,” he says suddenly.
You look up, watching the light scatter over his side profile.
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For today.” He kicks at a pebble on the path, watching as it skitters ahead. “For not giving up on me after the first five minutes.”
You huff softly. “I said I'd help. And Y/N never goes back on her promises.”
He looks over at you and you both share a smile before his expression turns thoughtful. “Yeah, but people say stuff all the time.”
You study him. “Do they?”
He hums and doesn’t elaborate.
The dorm building comes into view ahead, lights glowing warmly through the windows. There's still a couple students drifting in and out, bundled in hoodies and coats and wearing slides, soft laughter spilling into the night.
You slow, suddenly aware that the walk is almost over. You turn to him so you can look at each other.
“You know, you’re not as hopeless as you think,” you say quietly. “I think you’ve just never pushed yourself to seriously try.”
He snorts. “Thanks, real inspirational.”
“I’m serious,” you protest but the corners of your lips quirk up.
He looks at you then, properly looks, eyes searching your face with a small frown. When he can’t find whatever he’s looking for, his brows relax.
“You really think I can pass?”
“Yes.”
Something in his shoulders loosens, tension easing away.
“Okay,” he breathes out. “Then, my grades are in your hands, teacher.”
You make a face. “I think I prefer sweets.”
He laughs and you turn to walk up to the entrance. The automatic doors remain stubbornly closed until you step into the sensor’s range, humming softly as they slide open. Warm air spills out, smelling faintly of old carpet and air freshener.
For some reason your feet slow.
“Hey, Y/N.”
You turn, looking at him as he stands just outside the warm lobby light, hands in his pocket, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold.
“Yeah?”
He hesitates.
“See you tomorrow."
You bite your lip and nod, repeating his words softly. Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn and walk into the building. The doors close with a soft thud, sealing you inside.
Through the glass, you watch him turn and head down the path, white hair catching the glow of the streetlights. And of course, he doesn’t look back.
Your reflection stares back at you instead, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes a little too bright, heart still beating faster than it should.
Tomorrow, apparently, you’re going on a date, practice or not.
For some reason, Geto pops up in your mind and you tighten your hold on your tote bag, making your way up the stairs. The soft curve of his smile earlier this morning, the way he had said your name like it belonged in his mouth, or maybe that was just wistful thinking. But the warmth in his eyes that had nearly short-circuited your brain was most definitely real and you cling to the image.
Right, this is for him.
Your phone buzzes a little after you settle into bed that night, making you jolt. you roll onto your side and reach for your phone, pulling it free from your charger as you read through your notifications.
gojo: i made it back safe in case you were wondering ><
You get comfortable, tucking your doona under your chin as you type back, your phone the only light source in your dark room.
you: trust i wasn’t worried but thanks ig
gojo: who said anything about being worried?
also don’t flake on me tomorrow
i’m taking this mentorship very seriously so u better asw you: i won’t flake ik i’m already asking sm of u
gojo: oh u know do u?
so ure going to pay for our date tmrw?
you: it’s not a date
gojo: sure it isn’t
you: it’s just practice
gojo: i didn’t say it wasn’t
but if you admitted it was a real date i’d pay yk
you: please
like i’d actually want you to pay for my coffee
not a date, not real, don’t need u to pay for my drinks
gojo: ure a hard girl to please
you: if its from someone like you, its gonna be harder than just hard
try impossible
gojo: harder than hard?
you: ?
gojo: something feels wrong about that sentence for some reason
anyway
is the campus close for you or should we meet up in the city
you: the campus works for me
gojo: ure not just saying that to avoid the date allegations are you
you: no way
gojo: sure sweets i believe u
don’t wear anything boring
first impressions matter yk
you: oh my god stop pushing the date allegations
its just practice !!!!
gojo: okay and you can practice dressing up for me
for suguru
like for practice
you: ?
i know what u meant
but sure
as long as u do too theres no way im embarrassing myself by showing up overdressed if u show up in sweats and a hoodie
gojo: wouldn’t dream of it
see u saturday sweets
You stare at the nickname longer than you should.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before moving.
you: goodnight gojo
The reply bubble appears then disappears before appearing again. Nothing comes of it as it disappears one more time and stays gone.
You swipe off the app and place your phone back on your bedside table, ignoring the pleasant buzz running through you.
You show up early like a super fan.
You’ve been sitting at the little corner table situated at the back of your favourite campus cafe for the past ten minutes now, stirring your drink just to look busy. The cafe hums around you with soft chatter, clinking spoons against teacups and ceramic against ceramic, a mellow playlist faintly playing in the background, but your nerves drown most of it out.
You’ve already gone through three mental checklists as you sit there, waiting. Your fingers curl around your empty cup, feeling the beads of water drip down your fingers and you really hope you won’t need to make an awkward break for the bathroom anytime soon considering he should be here about now.
You tell yourself you’re not nervous but you catch yourself glancing at the door every other second, heart jumping each time it swings open.
The bell chimes again and you look up with a start, eyes immediately locking onto Gojo as he saunters in, lifting his sunglasses so they rest on his head. He’s dressed casually, a white and blue jersey over a pair of blue baggy jeans, but his good looks mold the outfit into something appropriate for a date.
Gojo spots you at his first look around and grins, sliding into the seat across.
“Morning,” he greets, a wide smile on his face. His eyes flicker down once at your empty cup. “Did you wait long?”
“No, not at all!” You remember who you’re talking to and relax a little. “Actually, I got here fifteen minutes early. I guess I got a little anxious.”
“Well, you don’t need to be. You look nice,” he says, tone light. His eyes look you over once to make his words comprehensible and then one more time purely for the love of the game. “Trying to impress me?”
You scoff, trying to recover. “You told me to dress nice.”
“C’mon, sweets. Play along. We’re on a date, you know. Your next lines should be something like,” he suddenly tucks his elbow in, body curving to the side slightly, hand half closed and held delicately over his lips and chin. His eyelashes flutter over his cheek as he looks down and to the side, a faux shyness that makes you want to laugh. “‘Thank you, you look good too’.”
You let yourself laugh, shoulders relaxing. “What the fuck?”
“You give it a try. It always works in anime.”
“No way in hell,” you continue, laughing fading into occasional giggles as his gesture replays in your mind. “Besides, this is a practice date. I'll save that technique for the real deal, thank you very much.”
“And for practice, we’re going to pretend this is a real date.” He leans back into his seat, legs stretching out and bracketing yours under the table. His feet bump against yours lightly. “Let's give it another try. Did I make you wait long?”
You stir the straw inside your drink, pretending to be nonchalant, though your fingers twitch slightly against the glass. “Not long… I guess.” You try a mysterious act, hearing that guys like a woman with secrets. At least, that’s what Shoko told you though a small part of you wonders if you should be taking “how to seduce a guy 101” from a lesbian.
“‘I guess’?” he echoes, tilting his head. “That’s the best you can do? You’re supposed to be charming me, remember? At least try to make it look like I'm not coercing you here.”
“I don’t care if I charm you or not,” you say quickly, cheeks warming. “I’m here to learn and you’re here to teach me.”
He laughs, a low, easy sound that makes your chest tighten. “You know, I'm not exactly made of time. Do you know how many girls and guys would kill to be in your position right now?”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes though don’t stop yourself from making your voice dry. “Oh sure, let’s spend this entire date talking about all the competition I have.”
“We would need at least four more dates to cover it all.”
“I didn’t know getting into a relationship with you would be such an investment.” You snort. “If all five of our dates are just going to be you listing my competition, I'd rather stand you up now and save myself the time. And the money.”
“I did offer to pay for your drinks.” He grins at the back and forth, the sides of his shoes bumping into your ankles lightly. “That’s it, you’re getting into it.”
“For practice.”
“Sure, sweets. Practice. Speaking of,” he says, leaning forward just enough that the sunlight catches his hair. “You should call me Satoru. We’re on a date, remember? I can’t tell if you’re on a date with me or my dad if you call me Gojo.”
You grimace. “Calling you by your first name makes it too real.”
“It is real. That’s what you should tell yourself to get into this.” He juts out his lower lip, drawing his eyebrows inward. “Come on, sweets, let me hear you say my name.”
“When you say it like that, it makes me want to throw a drink in your face.”
“Just once, Y/N.”
You huff and roll your eyes. “Satoru.”
“Oh my god, a girl called me by my first name!” He squeals.
You almost stand to get out of here if it means preventing people from associating you with him. He grabs your hand and drags you back down into your seat before you can properly escape, much to your dismay. “Relax, I’m just playing.”
“Are you here to mess around or help me?”
“Well, you need to tell me so I can help you. What do you even know about him?”
“About Geto?”
“Yeah, unless there’s someone else you want to know more about?” He grins, easy and confident.
You ignore his comment. “Well, I know he… likes books. music. He's kind… thoughtful. Plays the guitar. Ah, specifically electric."
“Are you listing off what’s on his dating profile right now?”
“Shut up,” you snap, but it comes out weaker than intended.
“He isn’t actively on any dating app right now, just for your information.”
“And how would you know this? What are you doing on there?”
“I’m not on hinge, unfortunate for the female population, I know. We just tell each other everything,” he says, leaning back, one elbow resting on the armrest of his chair as he studies you from across the table. “I’m helping you, you know? First rule, don’t just parrot his interests. Though maybe I don't have to worry about that since you’re clearly struggling to even remember them.”
“I wasn’t going to parrot him.”
“I know you were,” he interrupts, wagging a finger. “Last time I checked, liking exactly what he likes does not make you compatible. It makes you predictable. And desperate.”
“Okay, harsh.”
“It's all tough love, sweets.”
You fold your arms, slumping back in your seat, letting gravity do half the work of your sulk. “Fine then, oh wise love guru. What should i say instead? Like, let’s say he asks me what I'm into and my mind goes blank like last time. What then?”
“You're asking like it’s that difficult. Just be honest, tell him what you like regardless if it matches his interests. Do you want to be a groupie or be something more than a friend?”
“I want to be someone he likes.”
“So you're going to play the role of Suguru’s perfect girlfriend? And what after that, genius? Are you just going to pretend forever?”
Gojo looks over to the front counter and smiles at some waitresses standing there already looking in his direction. He turns back as they start giggling and playfully arguing over who should come over to take his order.
“Don’t force yourself to perform for him or curate yourself to be digestible. If the two of you are meant to be then he should want you.”
You look away, picking at nothing on your glass. “That's easy for you to say.”
“It's actually incredibly tiring being this emotionally intelligent all the time,” he says, face neutral.
You snort despite yourself and he looks satisfied.
“And what if I tell him and he doesn’t like it?”
Gojo shrugs, slow and deliberate. “Then he’s not for you.”
You frown. “Wow, you’re terrible at pep talks.”
One of the waitresses finally makes it to your table, an eager smile on her face and a determined look in her eyes. Behind her, you catch the rest of the staff shooting encouraging looks. She clutches her notepad a little too tightly, taking in a deep breath before talking. “Hello, are you, um, both ready to order?”
“Yeah,” Gojo says easily, flashing her a smile. “I’ll just grab a hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”
The woman quickly scribbles his order down. “Of course! one hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”
“And whatever she wants,” he adds, nodding toward you.
You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I already ordered earlier. I'm fine for now, thanks.”
The waitress spares you a glance, eyes flickering briefly over you before returning to Gojo like a magnet snapping back into place. “Not a problem. Is there anything else I can get you started with today?”
“We're good, thank you.”
Her face falls. She nods, but lingers a moment too long, clearly hoping for something, another question, a joke, anything to keep the interaction going.
Gojo’s grin grows just a little bit wider as he obliges.
“Busy today?” He asks casually, tone warm and interested.
Her face lights up and she quickly steps forward again. “A little! It's usually busy in the mornings what with the morning rush and all. Honestly, it’s like nonstop until at least 1pm.”
“That’s brutal,” he sympathises, leaning back in his chair, posture loose and open. “At least you’ve got good coffee to survive on.”
She laughs, a bright and breathy sound that makes it clear she’s not just laughing at the coffee comment alone. “Perks of the job, I suppose. Do you come here often?”
Gojo tilts his head as if the question deserved genuine thought and wasn’t just a throwaway pick up line.
“Not as often as I should,” he decides easily. “But I might start if the service is this friendly.”
Her smile widens, pink creeping into her cheeks. “We try our best.”
“I was talking about you, sweetheart.”
You’ve been listening and watching with apt attention, taking mental notes on the right time to smile, when to tilt your head just so, when to tuck your hair behind your ears and when to employ the double tuck, when his last words make you frown.
You clear your throat, eyes fluttering away when both Gojo and waitress look over at you.
“Well,” the waitress starts suddenly, glancing down at her notepad like she needs to remind herself she’s on the clock, "I'll bring your drink out as soon as it’s ready.”
“Looking forward to it,” Gojo replies, though he hasn’t looked away from you yet.
She lingers half a beat longer, then turns and walks away, shoulders a little straighter than before.
“Done staring?” He teases.
“I was not staring. Don't you have the tact to not flirt with someone else when you’re on a date?”
“Oh, so now it’s a date? Only when it’s convenient for you, huh?”
You reach over for a napkin and crumble it up to throw it at him. It barely makes it halfway across the table before it starts fluttering down.
“It’s only manners,” you insist, cheeks warm. “I didn't know what to do when the two of you were talking.”
He snorts. “You could’ve joined the conversation.”
“And said what? "Hello, I'm also present and this jerk’s date for the day?”
“Hey, I like the sound of that,” he muses.
Your next crumpled up napkin doesn’t get any further than its predecessor. You glare at him, something about that conversation rubbing you the wrong way, echoing unpleasantly in your head in a way that makes you want to peel your skin off.
You clear your throat again.
“You're here to teach me like I taught you statistics, right? Even though one is clearly harder than the other.”
“Right. Getting you to date ready is much more difficult.”
You ignore him to save the life of one napkin. “So, how do I do that? Flirt so effortlessly and not make it cringe?”
“You want to use what I just said with the waitress on Suguru?” He actually laughs out loud. “Do not, he’s going to see right through you. You should have met his last ex. The two of them were absolutely disgusting and— oh wait, should I not talk about that?”
“Yeah, let’s not.”
He hums and changes the subject. “Anyway, just let it happen. Be natural. You talk to me just fine.”
“Yeah, but you’re you. frivolous, class clown, never takes anything seriously, probably never commits to anything,” you start listing, counting them on your fingers.
“I feel like the first thing and the last thing mean the same thing. Put one finger down.”
You refuse, still holding up four fingers. “Sleeps on a mattress on the ground.”
“So does half of Sig Kap. But relax, I get it. So you suck at flirting. Shouldn’t you be happy I gave you a live demonstration of how it’s done?”
That gets you frowning again.
“Do you always call everyone something?”
“What does that even mean?”
“You called her sweetheart.”
“I don't know her name. I wasn't about to call her ‘woman’, that sounds very sexist and I'm a feminist at heart. Thoughts on banning periods?”
“She has a name tag.”
“I don’t look at that area on a woman on the first date,” he pledges.
You continue without thinking.“How is anyone supposed to know when you actually mean it when you give everyone similar nicknames?”
He goes quiet, eyes narrowing slightly. “What?”
Before you can elaborate, or maybe divert and make him look away so you can dig yourself out of the hole you just created, the waitress returns with his drink. She leans over him, placing it down carefully.
“Here you go!”
“Thanks,” he says, polite but no longer quite as engaged. In fact, he hasn’t looked away from you, still giving you that same disbelieving look.
You fiddle with your own drink. Maybe you should have ordered something else if it meant spicing up the number of objects you have in your possession to pass awkward silence with.
The waitress lingers a moment before hesitantly leaving when it’s clear there’s no encore performance.
“I just meant it’s confusing for anyone, hypothetically,” you say in a rush, beating him. “Anyway! Flirting techniques, let’s talk about them!”
He watches you for a moment longer before dropping his head and ruffling his hair. You grimace, eyeing how close his head is to his open drink. When he looks back up, whatever conflict on his face has disappeared.
“Fine, okay. Let's talk. First of all, it’s important where the date takes place. There's unspoken etiquette for every typical date location.”
“Like how you go on a coffee date, you shouldn’t flirt with the waitress.”
Gojo cracks a grin. “You’re getting it. Look, Suguru is kind of an artsy guy. He'd probably take you to an art museum or like a jazz bar for your first date.”
You narrow your eyes. “How do you know that?”
“I told you, he tells me everything. Focus.” He dismisses your look. “He’s kind of an enjoy-the-moment kind of guy. Probably won’t talk too much while you’re both admiring something together and saves all the talking until after when he leads you to some underground totally underrated dinner spot.”
You wince. “Shit. I kind of like making little jokes in the moment.”
He snaps his fingers, face brightening. “Right? Like when you’re watching a movie in the cinemas!”
“Okay, that is a bit tricky. It depends.”
“Don't Genshin theorycraft me.”
“You're lucky I got that reference.”
Gojo shrugs. “Well, Suguru enjoys just existing with his special someone. Don't get me wrong, he definitely talks when you get him started but I think he’s kinda cool for being able to sit in silence with someone.”
You chew the inside of your cheek. “I’m kind of bad with silences. I end up embarrassing myself just to fill them. Do you think it’s fixable? Should I just not talk?”
“Woah, slow down. It’s fine, he has enough social awareness to fill in the gaps if you’re uncomfortable. But i’m just telling you what he likes,” he studies you. “He doesn’t like petnames, by the way.”
Heat creeps up your neck. “That’s fine, it’s not a dealbreaker,” you mumble.
“I'm just saying. He's a real fan of using your first name. When you two get on that basis, of course.”
“Anything else, Geto expert?”
Gojo hums, taking a long sip of his latte, eyes tracking up. “He likes meaningful stuff like art with a story behind it, long conversations about philosophy. Like yeah he still likes doing things just for fun but there’s a difference between like and love.”
You wince. “But love is meant to be silly, meaningless stuff. Like sending pictures of dogs cuddling because it reminded you of us or whether you’d still love each other if you turned into worms. Like taking the longer way back home just to spend more time together. Or, I don't know, building blanket forts as adults.”
Gojo’s mouth twitches.
You stop, suddenly aware you sound like you’ve been storing these thoughts and they’ve suddenly all gotten loose.
“Stuff that doesn’t matter,” you finish weakly.
He rests his chin on his palm. “Like going to the arcade and getting plushies for each other at the claw machines?”
You laugh, shoulders relaxing. “I'd obviously do better. You look like you have no hand eye coordination.”
“Did you forget I literally play ice hockey?”
“Right, your role as the benchwarmer?”
“My ass has never once graced those benches.”
“I don't know, I swear I remember seeing you on the sidelines.”
“You’ve come to watch me play before?” He grins, cheek slightly smushed from his position.
“Because Shoko went.”
He juts his lower lip out. “Harsh.”
There's a few seconds of silence as the conversation replays and you feel a sudden rush of embarrassment. You look up to see if he clocked your earlier slip up but he only tilts his head more into his hand.
“What?”
“Nothing.” You clear your throat and look down at your drink. It's left behind a ring of water around its base. “How are you two best friends when you’re so different?”
“Because he slows me down,” Gojo says like it’s simple. “And I drag him out of his head. But he doesn’t need another person to do that for him so don’t even think of taking my spot.”
You both share a laugh and it lingers a little longer than the joke deserves, warm and easy, until it naturally tapers off into something softer.
“Why do you even like him?” He suddenly asks, voice soft against the murmur of the cafe.
You slowly slide your gaze out the window as if reliving the moment. You can almost feel the rain on your skin, the warmth of a hoodie not your own, and the residual laughter at the back of your throat that makes you smile.
“Last semester when it was pouring rain, he saw me waiting outside a building without an umbrella and we ended up running through the storm. It’s stupid but it was fun and meaningless and definitely what I needed after my finals.”
Your words make him frown, finger tracing a random shape on the wet surface of his glass absentmindedly. “That doesn’t sound like him.”
“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought?” You offer.
“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s my other half.”
“Again, should I be concerned right now?”
“Are you homophobic?”
“No?”
“Then you’re fine.”
“Wait…”
Gojo glances down at his phone and sighs. “It's getting late, sweets. I'd love to stay longer but I promised the boys we’d go do this carwashing event.”
He pauses and looks up.
“Did you want to come?” he quickly adds on, “You don’t have to come alone, you could bring Shoko along or something.”
You wrinkle your nose. “No thanks. You can imagine that she’s not keen on seeing a bunch of shirtless boys.”
He grins. “Suit yourself. I'll walk you out. It's the least I can do on this date.”
You roll your eyes but stand and follow him out anyway, ducking under his arm as he holds the door open for you. Stepping out, you’re almost blinded by the bright sun and you have to cover your eyes to look up, squinting even with the shade provided by your palm.
He moves to stand in front of you. “Well, I'll see you around.”
Next tutoring session,” you remind him, letting your arm drop to your side. "Don't forget to watch the online lectures before then. And remember to do the weekly quizzes this time. And—”
He reaches over to ruffle your hair fiercely, laughing when your words turn into a startled squeak.
“Yes, yes, I got it,”
He lets you go and watches with a toothy grin as you start fixing your hair, glaring up at him and his audacity to smirk. His face quickly softens.
“Sorry I can’t walk you back to your dorms. I'm already running kind of late.”
“Don't worry about it,” you say when you feel like you look presentable enough. “Um, get there safe?”
“I will,” he starts stepping back. “Text me if you need anything.”
“Okay, make sure to—”
“Relax, sweets, I got it,” He says with a chuckle and a wave, before he turns and starts walking off in your opposite direction.
You watch him go for a little longer before heading back to your dorm.You stare up at your ceiling. your ceiling stares back down at you. You've been staring at your popcorn ceiling for so long that you’ve begun to discern shapes and different shades of what you had previously considered to be beige, plain and simple, but was now warping into the image of Gojo.
Something he had done yesterday clung to you even hours after the date. The ease in which he allowed the waitress’ fingers to brush his as he handed her the menus, the way he easily held onto your hand at the party, the lack of concern as he stood close to you on the walk back. You lift up your hands and slowly interlace your fingers. It's comfortable, familiar. until you start wondering one hand as someone else's.
Before you can doubt yourself, you pull yourself up and gather your phone and keys, heading to the door without another thought. On the way through the dorms, you send a quick text.
you: u free? im coming over
You stand outside Gojo’s door and knock. There's a muffled, incoherent reply before the door is pulled open, revealing Gojo. His hair is slightly damp with stubborn strands clinging to his forehead and he’s brushing his teeth. He's not wearing a shirt.
You stare at his chest.
“One second,” he says around the foam in his mouth. He holds the door open a little wider and ushers you in, letting the door fall to a gentle click behind you. “Sit on the couch.”
Wordlessly, you do, watching his bare back as he heads into his bathroom. The sound of water muffles your racing thoughts until he reappears, still shirtless but at least he’s not brushing his teeth anymore.
“Hey,” he says, irritatingly casual. “I saw your text. You didn’t even wait to see if I was free or not. For the record I am but imagine I wasn't. That would have been an awkward situation and between you and her, I would have picked her.”
You blink away your surprise and look up at him. “Her?”
“It’s a Friday night, Y/N. You’re lucky I don't have someone over.”
You frown a little at that and he continues, heading to his kitchenette to open his fridge, pulling out two beers. He hands you one, pushing it towards you once more when you don’t immediately take up his offer.
“So, what are you doing here?”
“Are you going to put on a shirt?”
He blinks before a wide grin splits across his face. “I was wondering what you were looking at so deep in thought. I didn't want to assume again after you made a fool of me at the party but I guess you do have working eyes after all. Do you want me to put on a shirt?”
You blush, finally looking away. “Obviously.”
He chuckles and places his beer down on the coffee table before going on a hunt to find a clean shirt. “But from the way you were eyeing me it really wasn’t that obvious. Besides, you’re telling me to put on a shirt in my own home?”
“It's common sense when you have a guest over.”
His voice carries over from his room. “You’re not really a guest, more like a pest. A guest implies I invited you over, no?”
“But yesterday you said I could come to you for anything.”
“Right. What was I thinking?” Gojo comes back out and flops next to you, the couch dipping under his sudden weight. He takes the beer from your hands and cracks it open before handing it back and doing the same to his. “So, you finally going to tell me what’s up or are you just here to leech off my dwindling beer supply?”
“I don’t even drink,” you mumble, watching as the water beads down your fingers.
“No, but I do have some manners for my guest.”
“You just said…” you trail off, recognising that you’ll only go round and round in circles if you keep up this conversation. you place the beer on the floor and turn to him. “Forget it. I'm here because I need your help.”
“Figures.” He holds the beer to his lips and takes a deep swig. “What can I do for you today?”
You bite your lip before turning to him. “Can I kiss you?”
Gojo chokes, pulling the beer from his lips with a hack, liquid spitting out onto his no longer clean shirt and sweatpants. He finally manages to get his mouthful of beer down, but he only coughs and hits at his chest. Hesitantly, you reach over and pat his back lightly.
He shrugs your touch away, looking at you in disbelief. “What did you just say?”
“I was wondering if you’d let me kiss you?”
“Just because you’re saying it politer now doesn’t take away how crazy you sound.” He stares at you incredulously. “Look, I know we went on a date yesterday but I thought you of all people knew it was a practice date. I'm sorry but I don't feel the same way. Gojo Satoru doesn’t do relationships.”
You groan, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t suddenly develop a crush on you, Gojo.”
“Satoru,” he corrects you despite his shock.
“Satoru,” you emphasise. “I don’t like you.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Yesterday just got me thinking. You’re so natural with touching and stuff and I realised that I have literally no experience whatsoever. I know Geto isn’t the type of person to care about whether I'm a virgin or not but I care. I care because I know I'll freeze up if we ever get to that part.”
He stares at you. “When i asked you a few days ago about whether or not you wanted to sleep with him, you told me to shut up.”
“That was a few days ago.” You shuffle closer to him on the couch and watch as his eyes drop to your thighs inching closer, then back up, something like fear on his face. “I know this is a big favour but I thought since you’ve kissed so many girls before and they’ve never meant anything that you might be okay with this? I mean you thought we were going to kiss that time at the party. So is this really that crazy to ask?”
“Yes,” he says immediately. “It is. because you like Suguru and I'm his best friend.”
“But this is practice.”
“You can’t just echo what I've said in the past.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking off in the distance before coming back to you. “Suguru isn’t the type of person to rush to things like that. You'd be in good hands.”
“I know but this is for me. So I know what to expect.”
His face is contorted in a way you’ve never seen before. You decide to give another push.
“Just think of me as one of your hookups.”
He exhales softly, eyes staring into yours. “Are you sure? Have you even thought this through?”
“Yes, I have,” you lie. “I mean, there aren’t any cons. I'll lose my first kiss, get experience, and it’s all under practice anyway so it won’t mean anything. And you get a hookup for the night. It's a win win!”
His face only seems to pale more at your words. “You haven’t had your first kiss yet? Fuck, that’s a lot of pressure. And I feel like you have the wrong idea about what a hookup entails.”
You shrug. “Kissing? Making out?”
“Sex.”
You pause. “Well, we won’t go that far. Maybe.”
“Maybe?” He exclaims and you quickly deflect because he’s looking more and more shocked.
“We can start with kissing.” You shift closer, your thigh pressing against his. “Come on, it doesn’t have to mean anything.”
Gojo looks at you, really looks at you, from the encouraging look in your eyes to the determined line of your lips. He huffs, running another hand through his hair at the absurd change to his Friday night plans. Sure, kissing someone wasn’t a big deal for him, not when he’s tasted the lips of many before, but there was something different about taking someone’s first kiss.
Finally, he sighs, long and hard. “Just a kiss.”
You beam, face lighting up. “Of course!”
He hesitates, cursing under his breath something long but incoherent, before gently reaching out to tilt your chin up. “Tell me if you change your mind. Just shove me away, okay?”
You nod enthusiastically. “What do I have to do?”
“Just let me take the lead for now. And if you feel confident enough to kiss back, go for it.” Again, Gojo mumbles something under his breath, the absurdity of the situation still not lost to him. He leans forward as if to seal the deal before pausing, moving his hand up to caress your cheek tenderly.
Your breath hitches, eyes wide as you curse your own touch-starved form.
“You okay?” He asks, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. “Changed your mind?”
You shake your head slightly.
Gojo huffs and you feel the puff of air against your lips.
When his lips finally press against yours, fitting against yours in a way you’ve only ever seen in movies, you feel… nothing. You squeeze your eyes tighter, trying to dig through the sensations and pick out the one that’s meant to set off fireworks and melt your stomach into goo. Instead, it just feels like there’s someone’s lips touching yours.
Sensing your discomfort, Gojo pulls back, eyes fluttering open to meet your unsure ones. His nose scrunches up a little as he studies your expression.
“Hey,” he starts, voice low. “You're hurting my ego.”
You lick your lips, trying to return your lips to their usual sensation. “It just wasn’t what I was expecting.”
“What were you expecting?”
“Butterflies?”
He chuckles, hand still caressing your cheek. “You're kissing me without any feeling. It’s not my fault you’re as stiff as a board. Relax. Imagine Suguru or something.”
Now it’s your turn to make a face. "Wouldn't that hurt your ego more?”
“Just relax,” he repeats and you make the conscious effort to focus on the way he’s stroking your face soothingly. “That’s it. Good girl.”
“Don't call me that, I cringed.”
He laughs, leaning in. “Abandon the part of you that cringes not the part of you that is cringe.”
With that, he brushes his lips against your again, letting you feel the slow movement and determine the pace.
It’s not exactly rocket science, this kissing business, and you start to mimic the motion of parting your lips against his. It takes a few tries for him to hum in approval and deepen the kiss, his free hand sliding up to cup your neck and gently pull you closer to him. You let out a soft squeak and quickly pick up from the momentary break in rhythm on your end.
When his tongue slides against the seam of your lips, you blanch and pull back.
“Okay,” he starts. “That really hurt my feelings.”
“What was that?” You cover your mouth with your hands, the slimy sensation replaying in your mind.
“That was my tongue.”
“Why didn’t it feel good?”
He rolls his eyes at your complaint and slides an arm around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re half on his lap. “Because you’re thinking too hard.”
“I was not thinking at all, actually,” you say, scandalised. “I didn't know I was going to be ambushed.”
“Okay, my bad, I should have given you a heads up.” He pauses and announces solemnly, "I'm going to start using my tongue.”
You make a face and he huffs out a laugh, forehead dropping briefly against yours. Up close like this, you can feel the vibration of it in his chest, the way his grip tightens just a little like he doesn’t want you getting any bright ideas about you escaping.
“You're doing fine,” he says more softly, thumb brushing slow circles at your waist.
You think briefly that this must be the allure to him that has girls fawning for his attention. You're not immune either, and you sub consciously melt under his touch, relaxing again. Once you’ve done it once, given into his temptation, it’s easy to fall back again.
“Fine doesn’t seem like outstanding status,” you mumble, trying to maintain some resistance.
“For your first time, it wasn’t so bad.” His nose nudges yours, playfully and coaxing and you’re in his web again. “C’mere.”
Gojo doesn’t pull you this time. Instead, he just waits, one arm warm and steady around your hips, hand stroking your hair as he waits for you to come to him. It's a sign of consideration that has you feeling jittery and warm, though there’s a lazy smirk on his lips that suggests he has other ulterior motives that makes it as infuriating as it is attractive.
Your gaze flicks to his mouth then back to his eyes. His lashes lower just slightly, watching you watch him, and something in your stomach flips over completely. Probably your common sense.
“Just… slower,” you mumble.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Slower.”
He still doesn’t move first which is deeply unfair, because now you have to be the brave one.
You lean in. It's clumsy at first, more of a gentle bump of noses and a too-soft press of lips than anything smooth or cinematic like he had kissed you earlier. You almost pull back in embarrassment, ready to admit that maybe he was a better kisser than you had given him credit for if it’ll mean this pathetic peck of yours can end and he can make it good again, when his hand tightens on your hip and he takes over.
His mouth settles properly over yours, angle shifting until the awkwardness disappears, until it stops being baby’s first kiss and starts becoming a warm, steady pressure that has your toes curling. Yhe faint brush of his breath against your cheek, the subtle tilt of his head that fits your mouth together and when he nips at your bottom lip, a soft startled sound escapes before you can stop it.
He swallows it down without hesitation.
His hand tightens reflexively and slides down, cupping your ass as he leans back and guides you onto him, fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes to keep you there, not that you had any plans of moving. One moment your body is twisted awkwardly to meet him and the next you’re seated full on his lap, his warmth solid beneath you.
His breath fans across your cheek in uneven bursts, warm and damp, and the faint scrape of his teeth lingers as a tingling awareness.
You realise, distantly, that you’re no longer stiff.
Your hands, which had been braced awkwardly against his shoulders, loosen without permission. One slides up into his hair as you lean into him, damp strands cool at the ends, warm near the scalp, and the sensation grounds you in a way nothing else does. His mouth opens at the sensation and when his tongue sweeps along your lower lip again, you don’t pull away. It isn’t slimy or invasive like last time, in fact you welcome it, mimicking his openness and the kiss deepens.
Your breath mingles, movements syncing up and under the guidance of his lips and tongue, you start getting bolder.
You shift closer, just a fraction, your head moving up and face tilting down to angle yourself deeper when a low sound slips out of him.
Your eyes fly open and you pull away. “Was that—”
“Nope,” he says immediately, eyes darker than when you last checked. He's panting beneath your palms, a slightly warm tint to his face as he stares at you.
You swallow. “You just—”
“I didn’t,” he insists, far too quickly.
When he’s so adamant like that, it’s a little hard to say anything more. Besides, while it’s almost fun to poke the bear, the memory of his mouth on yours has you thinking about something else entirely.
You don’t move from his lap and he doesn’t push you off.
“Think you’re getting it?” he asks, watching you with something unreadable lurking in his eyes.
You don’t hesitate. “No.”
You stare at each other, catching a much needed breath.
“Alright,” he says, voice rough. “One more. and then we have to stop.”
You lean in and he lets out a soft sigh like a man doomed before meeting you halfway.
Gojo doesn’t start slow this time, maybe because he knows if he does, he won’t be able to control himself.
His hand slides more firmly to the back of your neck, guiding you towards him with a kind of impatience, mouth finding yours with confidence, your chest tightening at the gesture. Your fingers clutch at his shirt instinctively and he makes a low noise at the back of his throat, deepening the kiss until you slide your fingers up and into his hair.
A low exhale slips through his nose, almost shaky and he tilts his head in response to your faint tugs.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your lips.
Emboldened, you tilt your head and slide your tongue into his mouth to taste him. He tastes like beer and minty and something addictive that has you repeating the movement over and over. When he reciprocates, your stomach swoops instead of recoiling.
You shift, suddenly desperate to get closer and settle over his bulge.
Wow.
You both jerk away from each other quickly, your hands leaving his hair and his arm retracting from your waist. The break feels violent in its suddenness, like surfacing too fast in deep water.
Cold air rushes between you where there had only been warmth seconds ago. Your lips tingle, oversensitive, parted as you drag in a shaky breath. Gojo’s chest rises and falls sharply, eyes wide in a way you’ve never seen before, pupils blow dark. For once, there is no smirk, no teasing glint, just a raw, stunned awareness, like he’s trying to process several things at once and failing at all of them.
You become acutely aware of exactly where you’re sitting.
Heat floods your face and to the tips of your ears. you scramble backward, knees slipping against the couch cushions, putting space between your bodies even as the loss of his warmth makes your skin prickle.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, horrified. “I didn’t—I mean, I wasn't trying to—”
“Don’t,” he groans, slumping back, covering his flushed face with his arm. His other hand reaches down to adjust himself though he doesn’t seem to have any ideas of covering himself so you watch unabashedly. “Just don’t say anything for a second.”
You clamp your mouth shut obediently.
The room feels too small, too quiet, every little sound like the rustle of fabric or the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchenette, even your own uneven breathing, suddenly feels magnified.
Eventually, Gojo pulls himself up, fixing dark eyes on your figure.
“I’m sorry.” You rush to say, though you’re not sure what you’re apologising for.
“It’s fine, it’s not your fault. It wasn't because of you, I guess I've just been pent up,” he runs his hand through his hair and you watch as he pauses, something passing over his face before he abruptly pulls his hand away. “Anyway, it’s normal.”
You nod too fast. “Right, yes. Totally fine. Super normal, nothing weird happened.”
“Right,” he says. “Nothing weird.”
Your shoulders sag a little, tension leaking out now that that’s been cleared up. The adrenaline leaves behind a strange floaty sensation and you try, and fail, to push down the sudden desire to continue, to explore even further.
“We’re definitely stopping the practice today,” he says, crushing your dreams.
You nod again, somewhat grateful that a decision has been made for you considering the conflict thoughts warring in your head. “Okay.”
He suddenly ruffles his hair all messy and stands up with an exaggerated groan that makes you jump. “Okay! That's over. You did good by the way. You’re gonna be trouble when you actually start dating someone.”
You frown. “Why?”
“It's a compliment, sweets, learn to recognise them, yeah?” He starts walking over to his kitchenette. “Want an actual drink?”
Your brain is still somewhere back in that last kiss, struggling to catch up. “Sure. Just water, right?”
He snorts. “I’m not a creep.”
When you lean back against the couch and close your eyes to recenter yourself, he steals a glance and lets out a long exhale. He closes his eyes for a moment like he’s deeply exhausted.
When he opens his eyes again and makes his way to you, his signature smirk is back.
If anyone saw how nervous you look about to text Gojo, they might think you had a crush on him. Which is absurd because you clearly have a crush on Geto.
Your thumb hovers over the send button, chewing the inside of your cheeks as you debate whether this is a good idea or not.
It’s been a week since you first asked Gojo for advice and though his methods weren’t orthodox nor was he incredible help, you still had to give him his merits. Talking to him was relaxing in a way, the constant back and forth familiar and even his judgement didn’t seem to come from a bad place. The physical stuff was a whole other story and did not influence your thoughts on how you felt about him whatsoever.
In summary, Gojo has given you determination that you couldn’t have achieved on your own.
Using this newfound confidence, you take a deep breath and finally hit send.
you: hey are you in class today?
Not even a full minute later, his reply buzzes.
gojo: yeah i am
stalking me, super fan?
you: god this is exactly why i hate texting u
gojo: :(
why whats up though
ur class doesn’t finish until 2 right?
you: yeah how did u know that?
u sure ure not my super fan?
gojo: guilty!
i just know dont ask what u cant handle
so u gonna leave me in suspense or are u gonna tell me
you: well you have class with geto right
The inside of your cheeks starts getting a little tender as you continue to gnaw and bite at the flesh, anxiously waiting as Gojo’s typing bubbles appear and disappear.
gojo: yeah i do
you: can i come see you?
gojo: what
you: like ill come to your class but can you leave after so its just me and him
u were talking about creating these situations on saturday right
so like
wouldnt this be perfect?
gojo: god this conversation isn’t good for my heart
you: ?
gojo: our class ends later than urs
you: that’s fine i can wait !!
gojo: nah i dont feel like it
you: ?????
man what the hell you said you’d help me
gojo: and i did
on saturday
what if i want suguru all to myself today?
you: come on please???
gojo: what if i dont want to see u
you: well i wont be bothering u this time
i just need an excuse to see him
i think whatever magic u casted over me on sat worked im feeling like scarily confident
i want to talk to him before the feeling goes away
like i feel like i can really do it this time you know?
please satoru?
gojo: god u have no idea how evil u are
fine
ill get us to go to the library
you: THANK YOU@!!!!!!
gojo: u owe me
you: YES DEFINITELY
gojo: another date this friday then
you: OKAY!!!
wait what
Waiting at the library is agonising. you attempt to complete some smaller tasks for your courses that you’ve left in lieu of thinking about, well, boys. But just like every time before, your thoughts stray and settle on him. His pretty effortless smiles, his soft laughter, that sparkling glint in his eyes when he looks at you and it’s like the world quietens just to listen too. his long fingers, the mole on his earlobe, his white—
When your phone buzzes again an hour later, you jump up from your seat to find the location of the photo Gojo sent.
You slip into the fifth library floor as quietly as possible, scanning the endless rows of students for the familiar top of someone’s head. It doesn't take long for your eyes to settle on him.
Gojo is impossible to miss, slouched low in a study booth, hood up and drooping over his hair and the bottom pulled up to cover his mouth. His arms are crossed over his chest as he stares at his laptop screen.
And of course, Geto sits across from him.
Taking in a deep breath, you slow your pace into something that might pass as a casual stroll as if you had randomly come upon them by chance and stop by their booth.
“Oh, hi Satoru!”
He doesn’t look up. “Hey.”
Then, after a manual moment, you turn to Geto. “Oh my god! Geto? Wow.” Your voice comes out pitched a little too loud. “What a coincidence!”
Geto looks up with a smile. “Hey, Y/N. What are the chances we ran into each other?”
Gojo snorts and you don’t miss how pointed it is. You take the chance to glare at the side of his face but he only sinks into his hoodie with a grumble. You continue to stare, even narrowing your eyes as if it’ll sharpen your gaze and he finally lets out a loud groan, flipping the hood down to ruffle his hair and sit up.
“Oh no,” he announces into the silence, loud enough to draw a few irritated glances, not that he cares. He checks his phone, staring at his empty notification list. “It looks like my best friend accidentally locked himself out of his dorm.”
Geto pauses. “I'm your best friend.”
You purse your lips, watching as Gojo begins to slowly pack up his things. Granted, he only needed to close his laptop and shove it into his tote bag, without a case mind you. He refuses to look up despite your efforts to catch his gaze.
“Sorry man, duty calls. I can’t help that i’m such a good friend.” He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. When he passes by, his arm brushing against yours despite the empty space all around, he leans down to whisper, “Good luck.”
You don’t have the time to decipher if it’s sincerity or sarcasm that you detect because he leaves, his lingering cologne the only sign that he was ever there.
You turn back to Geto, offering a small, awkward smile, wondering if he’s caught on.
“What was that about?” You laugh.
Geto chuckles softly. “Sorry about him. You know how he can be sometimes.”
He looks up at you patiently.
“Well, an empty spot has opened up. Are you staying to study?”
You fight the urge to celebrate. You happily erase thoughts of Gojo from your mind, leaving the gruelling task of decoding his strange behaviour for another day. Gojo’s seat is still warm when you take it, pulling out your laptop just for the act. There was no way you were wasting this golden opportunity with actually studying, don’t be silly.
“So,” you begin, picking at the corner of your sleeve. “Any plans this weekend?”
“You didn’t hear? Satoru is having a game this weekend. It’s just a preliminary but he’s been hyped for it. I'm sure he’d love it if you rocked up.”
You almost laugh out loud. “No way. He'd hate that.”
Geto’s brows lift, amused. “Why would he hate it?”
“Because,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “We're not really friends. More like we have a symbiotic relationship. If we didn’t have that, I doubt we’d even talk to each other.”
“I don't think so,” Geto smiles at you but instead of giving you the butterflies, it leaves you feeling unsure. “But you should come. Not by yourself, of course, I'm sure Shoko would come along.”
“If she was going to go, she’d just take Utahime.” You shift in your seat, throwing the idea around in your head. “Even if I wanted to, I don't think I know anyone else who’d want to come with.”
“Do you want to go with me?”
Your brain blanks.
“What?”
“I was planning on going anyway,” he says, tone casual and all your senses tunnel-vision on him. “Besides, I've been curious about the girl who’s been taking up so much of Satoru’s time.”
Your answer is obvious.
“I’d love to!”
It comes out a little too fast, a little too bright, but you can’t quite bring yourself to care. Relief, excitement, disbelief, it all tangles together in your chest until the only discernable thing left is a giddy sort of lightness.
Geto’s smile widens, clearly pleased and you beam back. He hands you his phone.
“Can I have your Insta then?So I can text you the details later.”
Your hands shake as you take it, thumbs clumsy as you type in your username, backspacing more times than you’d like to admit. You’re suddenly hyperaware of everything, the way he’s close enough to see your screen, the warmth of his hand where it had just been, the ridiculous desire to go through your own profile but through his eyes settling on your mind. Later, you can already imagine stalking your own profile, scrutinising every photo, every caption, trying to imagine what it would look like to be him scrolling through for the first time.
When he takes his phone back, he doesn’t immediately pocket it. Instead, he actually looks, thumb scrolling down, humming.
Oh god, he’s looking right now.
"Where's that quote from your bio from?” He asks, glancing up briefly. “It sounds familiar.”
“Oh, um. It’s from my favourite novel.” Your eyes flutter across his face as you tell him the title, sneaking in a quick description to try to sell it.
“I’ll have to check it out then,” Geto says, putting his phone away. “Do you read often?”
“Not as much as I want to. You know how it is, with school and everything. Not to mention books are crazy expensive nowadays.”
He nods sympathetically. “There's this small bookshop tucked away near the city. It's actually close by the rink where Satoru’s game is. I could show you after his game on Saturday.”
Your breath catches.
“After the game?” You repeat, trying very hard to sound normal and not out-of-breath.
Geto nods, completely at ease.
“If you’re not in a rush to get back after,” he adds, considerate as ever. “It says open pretty late.”
You stare at him for a second, thoughts scrambling over each other.
He’s inviting you out after a game. That meant walking together, talking more, being alone without the buffer of a crowd screaming over a bunch of men slamming into each other and hitting with their sticks.
You realise you’re meant to give an answer and quickly hurry.
“Yeah, that sounds perfect actually!” You say, a touch too fast, then wince and try again, softer. “I mean—yeah. That sounds really nice.”
“Good,” he says simply, smile deepening. “It's a cozy place. You could get lost in there for hours.”
“That sounds dangerous. I already have a book-buying problem."
“Secondhand prices,” he reminds you. “It's much safer.”
You hum. “That's debateable. Lower prices just means I have to buy more.”
You can’t believe your luck. Not only had Geto basically invited you on a date to Gojo’s game, he’s also asked you to go book shopping together afterward. And somehow, you had just finished a perfectly normal conversation with him without embarrassing yourself beyond recovery.
Could things possibly get any better?
“You know,” he starts up again and you lean in. “Satoru’s doing suspiciously good in his classes recently. Any clue why?”
You freeze, temporarily thrown off guard. “He better be. I don't tutor him for nothing.”
“I knew it was you. Why are you tutoring him? If he’s blackmailing you, I can help,” he says with a straight face.
“No, no! nothing like that!” You rush to explain.
He cracks a smile. “I’m just joking. He's not actually as bad as his reputation makes him out to be. It's all bad rep, you know?”
While you’ve known Gojo through his reputation for as long as you can remember, you’ve never once stopped to consider that might not be everything about him.
“What do you mean?”
“Sig Kap had a frat sweetheart two years ago,” Geto explains, folding his hands loosely on his laptop. “She was nice, really sweet but some of the older guys treated her like shit. When Satoru called some of the boys out for messing with her they weren’t too happy.”
Your brows lift. “So did they kick him out or something?”
“Not that there’s much they could have done considering his family.”
“What about them?”
He glances at you surprised. “You don’t know?”
You shake your head.
“Huh.” His expression softens into something gentler. “Yeah. A lot of people approach him because they want something, connections, favours, you know the deal. He absolutely hates it. Ironically, that influence is also what kept the older guys from pushing back too hard and they couldn’t exactly scare him off so he’s there to stay.”
“And some people still don’t like him?”
“Some still don’t,” Geto confirms. “So they spread all those stupid rumours instead. Probably easier that way since it’s not exactly traceable.”
Your stomach tightens. “What kind of rumours?”
He hesitates, then shrugs. “Stuff about him sleeping around. that he’s messed with every girl on campus, that kind of thing. You don’t have to look so devastated, it doesn’t bother him much. If anything, it gets him more game. But it’s far from the truth. I mean you’re a girl on campus and he hasn’t messed with you.”
Something about the way he says it, calm and matter-of-fact, makes your chest ache.
“He did earn a lot of respect back,” Geto continues, oblivious to your growing distress. “Especially from the younger guys. But some of the older ones never really got over it.”
He falls silent, studying you with that gentle, searching look that makes you feel like you’re under a microscope and the spotlight is shining down on you. Whatever he sees under the lens makes him smile.
“It’s nice,” he says softly. “That you’re so genuine with him. He doesn’t get that very often.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Couldn't he have used a word other than ‘genuine’? Because you aren’t genuine, far from it, and that realisation makes your stomach drop, nausea blooming sharp and sudden and upheaving the contents.
You approached Gojo with a plan just like all those who have approached him with ulterior motives in the past. And you’ve used him for his friendship and his willingness to help, to get closer to the person right in front of you.
You are no better than the people Geto just described. Worse, even.
Heat rushes to your face, then drains away just as quickly, leaving you cold.
You push your chair back abruptly, the legs scraping loudly against the floor.
“Where did Gojo go?” you ask, wincing internally.
Geto blinks up at you, startled by the sudden shift. “Oh, uh.” He gestures vaguely toward the exit. “He said he had to help me—that is, his friend unlock his door. He's probably back in his room now though.”
You nod too quickly, already stuffing your laptop into your bag with fumbling hands, cables tangling as if they’re conspiring against you.
“Are you going after him?” Geto asks gently.
You freeze for a split second.
Are you?Here you are, sitting across from the person you supposedly like, the person you engineered this entire situation to get closer to, and you’re about to abandon the conversation to chase after his best friend. This is your chance, the perfect golden opportunity, and you’re throwing it away. and yet, you can’t bring yourself to completely doubt yourself.
“Yeah,” you say, half a smile hovering on your lips. “I’m so sorry. There’s just something I need to say to him.”
You bite your lip.
“See you at the match though?"
Geto’s surprise melts into an easy grin. "Don't worry about it. Good luck. And Y/N, seriously, take care of him, okay?”
The words prick at your skin with a faint sense of deja vu, but you don’t stop to examine it. Instead, you give Geto one last shaky smile, sling your bag over your shoulder, and hurry toward the exit. Your heart pounds so loudly it drowns everything else.
You knock at what you believe is his door if memory serves correct.
“Go away, I'm jerking it.”
You can’t decide if he’s being serious or just scaring unwanted guests away. Regardless, you clear your throat and talk.
“Sorry for interrupting? Look, it’s me, it’s Y/N. Can I come in?”
No sooner had you said your name, the door flies open, Gojo standing right behind, eyes wide and face flushed.
“Y/N? What are you—I mean, I thought you had that date with Suguru?” He goes to run a hand through his hair but pauses, switching to his other hand.
“Yeah well, clearly I left him to come see you.” You sigh deeply and brush past him into his room. “There’s something I need to say to you and it’s really eating up at me for some reason.”
“No sure, go ahead. Walk right in,” he mumbles but doesn’t try to stop you, instead closing the door gently. “What are you doing here? Because if you’re here to gloat or have a girl talk, Shoko is the one for you.”
You flop onto his couch, staring up at his ceiling. He pauses before following, the couch cushions dipping under his weight as he drops down beside you.
“Gojo, I’m really sorry,” you say, turning to him.
He stares back unamused. “I told you to call me Satoru.”
You blink, momentarily caught off guard before correcting yourself. “Satoru. I'm really sorry.”
“Okay.” His frown lifts and he leans back to look at you. “About what?”
You open your mouth, then close it again, suddenly unsure where to even start.
“About everything?” You try weakly.
He raises a brow. “That narrows it down.”
You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Okay, specifically I feel like I've been using you and being annoying and dragging you into my mess. And also I abandoned you in the library which was rude and I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn't and I'm really sorry.”
Gojo blinks at you and you hold your breath for the verdict.
“...that’s it?”
“That’s not ‘it’, that’s a lot,” you argue, pushing yourself up. “You've been helping me this whole time and I'm just barging into your life, asking for unreasonable favors and taking up your time.”
He watches you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, surprise, confusion, maybe even something softer that he quickly buries under a flippant expression.
“That's it?” he repeats, slower this time.
You nod, twisting in your fingers together in your lap, the fight leaving your body as quick as it came. “I mean, it's not nothing. I know I've been a lot. And you didn’t have to help me at all, with any of it, but you did and I…” Your voice falters. “I don't want you to think I was just… using you.”
Silence settles between you, thick but not entirely uncomfortable. The hum of his mini fridge in the corner fills the gaps. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams and laughter echoes faintly before fading.
Gojo exhales through his nose and leans back, head tipping against the couch cushion as he stares up at the ceiling.
“You’re terrible,” he mutters.
He turns his head to look at you properly, blue eyes sharp in a way that makes your chest tighten. Up close like this, without the buffer of banter or crowds or motion, it’s impossible to ignore how intense he can be when he isn’t performing for anyone. You've had the privilege to see this side of him a few times, and the thought that he’s let you in and you’ve only gone and used him fills you with more guilt.
“You didn’t abandon me in the library,” he continues. “I left on my own free will, remember?”
“Yeah but—”
“And you’re not using me,” he adds, voice flattening slightly. “If you were, then you aren’t using me to my full potential.”
You huff a weak laugh. “Thanks?”
“I mean it,” he says, not smiling. “People who use others don’t show up at their door looking like they’re going to throw up from guilt.”
Heat creeps up your neck. “I did not look like that.”
“You did,” he says easily. “Still kind of do.”
You shove his shoulder lightly. He barely moves, solid as ever, but the corner of his mouth lifts and the tension in your chest loosens at the sight.
“So… you’re not mad?” You ask carefully.
He considers that more seriously than you expected. “I was.”
The worry comes back tenfold.
“But not for the reason you think. So stop looking like you’ve aged ten years, sweets, it’s not a good look on you.”
You wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t.
You sigh, unable to keep up with the emotional whiplash and opt to instead throw it all away.
“Okay, well that’s cryptic," you mutter.
He shrugs. “I'm a mysterious guy. It’s all part of the irresistable, untouchable charm.”
“I don’t see how you can be mysterious when you’re so loud.”
“I open up to you and this is what I get?”
“You did not open up.”
He turns his head back toward the ceiling. “And now I'm closing back down.”
You roll your eyes, but the knot in your chest has loosened enough that you can breathe again, you almost miss this back and forth and it seems he does too because he relaxes fully into his couch. Without thinking, you mimic him, shoulder brushing his. This time, neither of you moves away.
The proximity feels different than before. You've been closer to him than this, and you randomly recall being on his lap for some reason unrelated to this specific moment and the charged, quiet atmosphere.
After a moment, he speaks again, softer.
“Did you at least get what you wanted?”
You hesitate, the question knocking you out of orbit. “I think so. I mean he asked me to go to the game with him. and then a bookstore after.”
Gojo goes still beside you.
“My game?” He shakes his head with a scoff. “Figures. Well, good for you.”
You twist the fabric of your sleeve between your fingers, suddenly unsure why that answer feels so unsatisfying.
“Yeah,” you say anyway, forcing brightness into your voice. “It is good.”
He hums noncommittally, eyes still fixed somewhere on the ceiling. For someone who never shuts up, his silence feels louder than anything he could say. You sneak glances at him from the corner of your eye, observing the strong curve of his nose, the harsh bob of his Adam's apple, the rise and fall of his chest and his big hands you’ve had the opportunity to feel on your ass.
The quiet stretches, though it is far from quiet inside your head.
Then, before you can stop yourself, you’re already opening your mouth.
“Can I ask you something?”
His gaze slides to you instantly, sharp and attentive as if he was waiting for you to break the silence first. “Not to be that guy but you just did.”
“A real question.” You roll your eyes though his somewhat predictable rage bait helps ease some tension. Still, you hesitate, throat tight. If you say it out loud, it becomes real and no longer a suppressed fantasy. But if you don’t say anything, this feeling in your chest might never go away, tainting every future you might have with Geto.
“How do you know what you’re doing?” You ask.
One white brow lifts. “In what context? I'm good at a lot of things. You're gonna have to narrow it down, sweets.”
You groan softly. “With girls. With… touching. And stuff. Etcetera.”
Understanding dawns slowly, then all at once. You don’t catch the shift in experience because you stare stubbornly at your hands clasp in your lap, heat flooding your face.
“Oh.”
“I just don’t know,” you admit, voice small. “I don't know what I'm doing at all and it’s embarrassing.”
He sits up a little, attention sharpening in a way that makes your skin prickle.
“Y/N.”
You press on before he can interrupt. “I mean, I know theoretically, obviously. That's what bio class is for right? But I know in practice I’ll just freeze. Or overthink or do nothing. And if things ever go further with Geto, I don't want to be useless. You mentioned he’s had exes before, right? But I haven't. And that kind of sucks to think about.”
Then softly. “You're probably the closest thing to experience I have.”
“Useless,” he starts. “Is not the right word I'd use. Suguru would never think that. He’s not a dick.”
You finally look at him. “I don’t want him to regret it. Or think I'm awkward. or that I don't want him.”
He studies you for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes searching your face like he’s looking for something he hopes not to find. “And you’re telling me this because…?”
You scoff. “You're not stupid. I mean sure, you almost failed baby’s first statistics but you’re not dumb.”
“No, I guess I'm not, thanks,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “But I was kind of hoping maybe I'm still fantasising.”
“You were fantasising before?”
“Let's not go there.”
“It’s a Friday,” you say slowly. "Shouldn't you have a hook up right about now?”
He pouts, looking oddly down. “I wasn't feeling like it.”
“So you had to use your hand.”
“I wasn't jerking off, Y/N.”
Neither of you believe that statement. Here you are, sitting on the couch of campus heartthrob Gojo Satoru, joking around about the lack of a female body against him while you’re upset about being a virgin. Even Gojo, who isn’t admittedly the best at math, shouldn’t struggle with putting two and two together.
“Right, I believe you.” You bite your lip, opening your eyes wider as you plead. “I just hate feeling unprepared. You’ve seen just how bad I freeze. Can’t you help me?”
He chews on his lips aggressively before finally groaning, running a hand down his face. “You have the worst ideas known to man. Fine. I'll help you. But we're stopping if it gets weird.”
“Obviously.”
“Do you even remember how to kiss?”
“Find out for yourself.”
You grab his collar and tug him towards you, smacking your lips against his the second he’s in range. It's not the graceful, fireworks-exploding moment from rom-coms, more like two magnets clashing awkwardly, teeth bumping before you recall the right angle. Gojo chuckles into the kiss, the vibration tickling your mouth, and you pull back just enough to glare at him.
“It hurts that you don’t remember my lessons, sweets,” Gojo purrs, clearly enjoying your fluster.
“Shut up and kiss me properly,” you mutter, snarky even as your cheeks burn.
You dive back in, and this time it clicks, most likely due to his more active participation. Your lips move in sync, his tongue slipping past your teeth. It's surprisingly nice, all heat and shared air, making your stomach flip in a way that’s equal parts nerves and excitement. You didn’t realise how much you were craving this since the last time.
Gojo’s hands stay loose on your waist, respectful but firm, until he deepens the kiss with a low hum. You feel him shift under you, his body reacting before his brain catches up. When you break apart for air, his eyes are darker, pupils blown wide. He adjusts his hips, and there’s no missing the semi-hard bulge straining against his jeans because it nudges insistently against your inner thigh.
You both look down.
“Uh, yeah,” he says, voice a little rough, something like accusation in his eyes as he glares down at Gojo junior. “Guess that means you do remember lesson one after all. Mind if I lose the pants?”
You snort, trying to play it cool despite the heat pooling in your gut. “Not so reluctant now, huh?”
“Game is game.”
He grins, all cock swagger, and pops the buttons off his jeans. They slide down his legs in a heap, leaving him in snug black boxers that do nothing to hide his growing interest. Gojo’s leaner than you’d pegged him for, abs carved from lazy gym sessions, waist dipping in before flaring to solid shoulders. But your eyes zero in lower, where his cock twitches half-hard against the fabric, outlining a decent length that’s got you curiously intrigued rather than intimidated.
When he sits back down, he leans back on his palms and smirks. “You can touch me, you know. I bet it’s better than just looking.”
“Anywhere?”
“I'm practically offering myself up to you on a platter. Yes, Y/N. Everywhere’s fair game.”
You eye him for a little longer. He's not as big as he carried himself around to be.
As if sensing your unspoken realisation, he hurriedly explains, "I'm not completely hard yet.”
You nod, sympathetically. “Right, no I get it.”
“I’m serious, Y/N, stop looking at me like that.”
He grabs your hand and places it on his abs, ignoring your sudden squeak.
“You’re going to have to work to get me there.” He watches as you hesitate, his heartbeat quickening slightly under your touch.
“This seems less like teaching and more like you just wanting someone to get you off.”
“You’re learning.” Despite his teasing tone, he eases you closer to him. “Look, it’s not exactly rocket science and what I tell you probably won’t apply to everyone. But most guys are animals so if you can make them feel good then that’s all that matters. What's meta for most guys though is probably their neck and lower stomach. But you can start anywhere.”
His smirk falters just a tad when you explore, tentatively at first, palms sliding over his ribs and thumbs brushing his nipples until they pebble under your touch. Gojo’s breath hitches, but he keeps it together, murmuring encouragement. “I guess you could try there too. Fuck, this is kind of embarrassing. Can’t you be normal and go at my neck or something?”
“Your neck?” Your fingers slide up to touch him there but he laughs and gently brushes your hand away.
“Okay, don’t strangle me. When I say touch, I don't just mean with your fingers. You can touch your lips too, can’t you?”
You bite your lips and nod, wetting them quickly with your tongue. You lean in closer, your lips finding the pulse point of his neck. It's a quick peck at first, testing, and he just arches a brow, unimpressed.
Fine, challenge accepted.
You brace yourself on his shoulders and lick a slow stripe up the tendon, tasting salt and faint cologne which isn’t the best tasting thing in the world, so you nibble the skin. Gojo hums, head tilting to give you better access, and you dive in, sucking lightly, alternating with kisses that leave faint marks.
It’s heady, this rush of control. His bare chest radiates warmth against your arm, heavy breaths ghosting your ear as he lets you lead.
“Hungry, are you?” Gojo finds his footing against the absurd situation because if there’s one thing he knows, it’s receiving attention from pretty women. If he closes his eyes like so, focusing only on the cute licks against his neck, he can almost ignore the fact that it’s coming from you. “I'd be careful not to leave any marks. Girls get jealous easily, you know?”
You roll your eyes at his very unsexy comment. He's underestimating you, you’re sure he is, and you’re even more determined to prove him wrong.
You kiss down his neck, licking at the column of his neck, and when you find this soft patch of skin, pale under your lips and glimmering with a thin layer of sweat, you do what your instincts roar at you to do and bite him as he’s mid yapping.
“I never really let girls kiss me like this, so be grateful that I—ohfuck!”
Gojo’s reaction is immediate as a downright sinful moan escapes his pretty lips unchecked. His hands tighten in your hips, head dropping forward, panting as he catches his breath from the sudden sharp inhale.
You let go, licking at the mark left behind. “Oh, sorry. You don’t do marks, right?”
“That was…” He trails off, eyes dark as he holds you in his gaze. “Jesus, sweets, where did you even learn that kind of stuff?”
You shrug, letting him hold you back and feeling a little bit like a rabid animal. “It was just something I wanted to do. Was it bad? Did it hurt?”
“No, it was fine. Keep going just… use your hands a bit more too,” he hurries to add on, clearing his throat and loosening his hold on you. “It feels better if you use both your mouth and hands at the same time. Keep going, but don’t forget the rest of me.”
Finding no error in his words, you enthusiastically go back to kissing and sucking on his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat. Meanwhile, you slide your hands down his chest, marveling at how smooth he feels despite his muscle.
When you graze your finger tips between the medial line of his abs, you feel him shiver and you detach your lips from his neck to watch his eyes track your every move, hungry and unblinking.
“Atta girl,” he rasps, abs flexing under your palm and he shivers as you slide even further down, hand hovering his stomach. His cock visibly thickens in his boxers as you trace the ridges of his abs.“That’s it. Take your time, sweets. I'm not going anywhere.”
You never considered that Gojo would be so vocal during sex, not that this even counted as sex yet. If anything, that made you even more curious, wondering if he himself knew how much he was talking and how little any of it even meant. In case he didn’t, you didn’t dare talk in case it would break the spell.
Your fingers skim the waistband of his boxers and he sucks in a breath, voice dropping an octave.
“Fuck, yeah. That’s the spot.” The fabric tents fully now, his cock hard and straining, the tip outlined clearly. It's thicker than you expected, pulsing with need, and the sight sends a thrill straight to your core.
Gojo’s eyes flick between your hand and your face, flushed and focused. “See? told you it’d wake up. want to see all of it?”
You nod, eyes trained on his bulge.
He grins, taking your hands to hook your thumbs into the sides of his boxers. He helps you slightly though he lets you do most of the work. Emboldened, you tug the boxers down just enough to free his cock, watching it spring up, thicker now, veins prominent along the shaft, the head flushed and glistening with a bead of precum.
Your first words are, of course, very sexy.
“Oh damn.”
Gojo laughs breathlessly. For my own ego, I'm going to take that as a good thing.”
“It just doesn’t look how I expected it to.”
That makes him frown. He ducks his head to meet your gaze. “Hey. She has feelings too, you know. Don’t imply that she’s ugly, she’ll sag.”
“She?” It's so ridiculous you snort, the nervousness running away to let curiousity fuel your movements once again, fingers curling around his hot, velvety length. He's rock hard under your soft touch, precum slicking your palm as you pump him experimentally. Gojo groans low in his throat, head falling back against the couch.
“Shit, just like—ngh—that,” he grits out, voice wrecked. The sound hits you like a spark, raw and primal, making your thighs clench. “My—my dick has she/her pronouns. It’s 2026 now, get woke.”
Still looking at you, he takes your hand again, wrapping it around his shaft.
“Hold it properly. Feel how hot it is.”
He groans softly as you hold him, guiding your hand up and down in a slow stroke, pressing down where he’s sensitive just the way he likes it. “Squeeze gently and twist your wrist as you move.”
He demonstrates the twist motion, his large hand enveloping yours, precum beading at his tip from both the sight and feel of you.
He lets you go, leaning back on his elbows, enjoying the view of you jacking him off. “You’re a natural, keep going, just like that.”
His breathing becomes heavier, his abdomen tensing. He can’t help but buck slightly into your hand.
Despite his unattractive dirty talk, it doesn’t drive away the power you feel and it doesn’t take away from the sounds, the way his body trembles under your control. It's all so intoxicating, way better than any awkward fumble you’ve imagined with Geto late at night with your hands down your pants.
To shut him up, you squeeze a little tighter and he hisses, pulling you away.
“Slow down,” he pants, catching his breath. He closes his eyes for a moment before locking you in a fierce gaze. “Do you usually shove your finger inside when you’re dry?”
“What?”
“This is why lube exists, woman. God, my poor lady,” He looks up at you, eyes trailing down from your eyes to your lips.
“Please don’t refer to your dick as a lady.”
“I’ve gotten no complaints so far.” Gojo reaches up, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb, dragging it down slightly. “Have you ever spat on anyone?”
“Excuse me?” You look down at him as if he’s grown another head.
He lets out a strangled groan, hips bucking up under you. “Yeah, keep looking at me like that and spit on my dick. Give her the good old hawk tuah.”
Your grimace only grows and he bites his lip, the corners quirking up. “Please,” he whispers and you’ve lost.
The word hangs between you like a dare, his blue eyes locked on yours, all wide and pleading in a way that clashes hilariously with his usual attitude if the unsure quiver to his lips didn’t wreck you.
Gojo’s cock throbs in your loose grip, the head leaking more precum that drips down the shaft, making your fingers slick without even trying. You hesitate, face heating up at the sheer audacity, but the way his abs tense, the subtle roll of his hips begging for more, chips away at your resistance.
“Fine,” you mutter, rolling your eyes to mask the flutter in your stomach and you must have imagined the way he groans. “But just know I’m judging you the entire time.”
“Even better,” he moans.
You lean over him, one hand steadying on his thick thighs, firm muscle under smooth skin, and purse your lips as you spit on him. It’s awkward as hell, the glop of spit landing off-centre on the underside of his shaft, but you smear it around with your palm.
The glide turns smoother instantly, wet and filthy, your strokes picking up speed as his cock slicks up fully.
Gojo’s reaction is immediate, a deep, rumbling moan spills from his chest, his head knocking back against the couch with a thud, not that he notices. “Fuuuck, yes—that’s it, just like that.”
His hands fist the fabric of the couch on either side of his hips, knuckles white, like he’s fighting not to grab you and take over. But he doesn’t, he lets you work him, hips jerking up in shallow thrusts to meet your rhythm, the tip bumping your palm on every upstroke.
“Keep going, tighter… shit, you’re killing me here.”
The power rush hits you harder now, watching him come undone under your touch. His cock feels massive in your hand, thick and veined, pulsing hotly as you pump from base to tip, thumb swiping over the slit to collect more precum and spread it down. You can feel every ridge, every twitch, and it’s nothing like the vague fantasies you’d spun about Geto. This is real, messy, and way more intense. Your own arousal builds, thighs pressing together as you grind subtly against nothing, the heat between your legs turning insistent.
“Does it… feel good?” You ask, voice breathy and you slow your strokes just to tease, squeezing the base and watching in awe as a fresh bead of precum pearl at the head.
He cracks one eye open, gaze hazy and dark, lips parted in a pant. “Good? Sweets, don’t sell yourself short.”
A grin tugs at his mouth but it falters into a groan when you resume, faster now, the wet schlick of your hand echoing in the room causing you to squirm.
“Don’t stop,” he all but whines. “Gonna cum if you keep this up. Want me to, sweets? Want me to paint your hand or what?”
The crudeness should turn you off, but it doesn’t, it only amps up the thrill, making you bold. You nod, biting your lip as you lean closer, free hand bracing on his chest to feel his heart hammering.
“Yeah, do it. cum for me.”
Gojo’s control snaps like a rubber band. his moans pitch higher, body arching as his cock swells in your grip, veins bulging. “Fuck—fuck, can’t help it, I’m gonna—”
He bucks hard once, twice, and then he’s erupting, thick spurts of cum shooting from the tip to splatter your fingers, his stomach, even a streak across his abs. It's hot, sticky, rope after rope as you milk him through it, not knowing what else to do. You slow your strokes until he’s spent, twitching sensitively in your palm.
He slumps back, chest rising and falling like he ran a marathon, a lazy, disbelieving laugh bubbling out. He runs a hand down his face, groaning softly.
“I am…” He lets out another breathless laugh, head dropping back against the armrest of the couch. “So fucking washed. What the hell was that, sweets?”
You blink, a little dazed yourself. Your hand is still loosely wrapped around him, slick and messy, and only when his eyes flick down do you jolt and snatch your hand back like you’ve been burnt.
“I—I don’t know,” you mumble, gratefully accepting the tissue he hands you, awkwardly deciding to dab at his stomach and abs too, anywhere your eyes can safely land that isn’t his softening cock. “That was… hey, wait a minute. Shouldn’t i be asking you? What the hell was that spitting thing?”
He shrugs, your body moving with the motion as you remain on his lap. “I told you, there’s some things some guys like and some don’t. As a note of reference, maybe don’t spit on Suguru. You’ll kill his ego.”
He has the audacity to smirk at the thought considering the state of him, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, mouth pink and kiss-swollen from all the swearing and groaning.
“You're disgusting,” you accuse weakly, trying not to think about how he’d looked under you a few seconds ago, jaw slack, eyes glazed, like you’d wrung the soul out of him.
“Mmm.” His gaze drags over your face, down the line of your throat, lingering a beat too long at your chest before he drags it back up. “So, how are you feeling after all that?”
“Embarrassed,” you say immediately.
“But kinda turned on, too?” he guesses, just as fast.
Your mouth drops open. “I did not say that.”
“Don’t have to,” he says, maddening. “You’re still sitting on me, you know.”
You freeze. You're still straddling his lap, knees planted on either side of his thighs on the couch, hips pressed to his, fingers bunched at his stomach. You'd be so focused on that scrunched up look on his face when he came that you kind of forgot to be mortified about the position.
Now you remember.
“I was busy,” you mutter, shifting like you’re about to climb off.
His hands come up automatically, one at your waist, one braced at your hip, holding you there without quite pulling you back down. “Hey, hey. I didn't say you had to move.”
“But you’re all…” you wave a hand vaguely at his lap, face burning. “Post-nut clarity or whatever. You should be resting or something.”
“That’s hilarious, do you think I’m an old man?” He huffs a laugh. “If my stamina lasted one puny handjob I would never show my face anywhere. Hey, don’t glare at me like that. you know what that does to me. you glaring at me and spitting on my cock while you jerk me off—fuck.”
“Don't say it like that,” you hiss, heat flooding your chest. “You literally told me to.”
“And you did so good,” he croons. “Look at you, all flustered now. You were seconds away from calling me pathetic, you know.”
“How are you turning this on me? You’re the one that liked it,” you shoot back, shoulder tensing.
His fingers flex at your waist, like he’s remembering it. “Yeah. I really, really did.”
The way he says it sends a tiny shiver through you. You feel ridiculously aware of yourself suddenly, of your damp palms on his chest, of the way your thighs are pressed around him, of the restless thrum under your skin you’ve been trying not to notice since he first groaned for you.
You shift again, intending to put some space between you, and hiss as the movement drags you a little too firmly against him, sparking through the ache low in your belly.
You go very still and so does he.
His eyes flicker, dropping for a fraction of a second to the point where your hips meet his. You can feel the change in him, no longer wrecked and loose-limbed, but sharpened like he’s honing in on every tiny flinch.
“Oh,” he says softly. “Feeling something, sweets?”
“Don’t start,” you warn, feeling every urge to catapult yourself off his lap. His hand tightens on your waist, thumbs rubbing absent circles, maddeningly casual. “Can you let me go already?”
“But it’s not over yet, are you sure you want to miss the best part? If I said I wanted to make it your turn, would you say no?”
The question hangs between you, heavier than his usual teasing.
“This isn’t… about that.”
“Sure it is,” he whispers, lips curved into a wicked grin. “You wanna learn how to make a guy feel good right? Then you also need to know what you like. If you know what works for you, it’s easier to tell him what works for him.”
Has Gojo always been so reasonable?
“Besides,” he continues when you’re not rushing to sign up to his touch. “I’m being selfless here. You can’t seriously think I'd let you walk out of here without repaying the favour first, right?”
“Way to sound like a douche.” You swat at his chest, a weak attempt to appear levelheaded.
“How else am I supposed to say it?” He laughs softly, catching your wrist but not pushing it away, thumb stroking over your pulse. “I want to touch you. properly. Can I?”
Your stomach swoops.
“Just to know what it feels like?”
“Exactly.” His smile goes crooked at the edges. “Now you’re getting it.”
You stare at him, breathing shallow. Your heart is thudding way too fast. you’re hyperaware of your own body again, of the way your panties stick uncomfortably, of the restless ache that’s only been getting worse, of how easy it would be to fall into his tempting embrace.
“Hey, come back to me,” Gojo murmurs. “We don't have to do anything you don’t want. I promise I'm not a dick. So? What do you want, sweets?”
You look down at where his hands rest, big and warm on your hips, fingers flexing like he’s trying very hard to stay put.
You could say no, you know that. He'd let you hop off, probably make a dumb joke to break the tension, and the both of you can go back to pretending the constant physical touch is driving you up the wall. But you also know your legs are still a little unsteady, and that every time you shift you have to bite back a sound you really don’t want him to hear.
You swallow, hard.
“You have to listen,” you say finally. “If I say stop, you stop. and none of your stupid comments either.”
His expression sobers instantly, hands jumping a little at your hips. “Promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”
“I’m telling you, when you say shit like that, everything goes back inside.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you want me quiet. So can I touch you or are you going to keep torturing us both?”
“You deserve the torture,” you grumble, then quieter, “But, yeah. okay.”
He hums. “Not good enough. Say it again?”
You bite back a complaint. “I want you to…touch me.”
It comes out barely more than a whisper, but it hits him like a truck. His eyes darken, lashes lowering as he sucks in a breath. One moment you’re straddling him, the next he’s sat up and turned you around so your back leans against his chest, his breath tickling your neck.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans, hands sliding down to your stomach. His fingers play with the hem, nails barely grazing your bare skin. “Can I?”
You shiver, looking down to watch his hands with anticipation. Swallowing, you brace yourself and nod.
“Good girl,” he breathes.
His hand trails under your shirt, fingertips tracing nonsense shapes on your skin. He doesn’t go straight where you know you’re aching for him to go. Instead, he takes his time, mapping out the sensitive spots he finds, where your muscles jump when he squeezes, lowering his hand to where your breath stutters when he drags his knuckles along the inside of your thigh.
“You're wound so tight,” he murmurs, half to himself. “Relax for me, Y/N.”
“Shut up and stop teasing,” you hiss, and then gasp when his hand finally slips higher, brushing over the edge of your waistband.
“Is that a no?” He asks instantly, stilling.
]You want to throttle him. “I’m just… nervous.”
“Of course you are,” he says, voice going stupidly soft in your ear, hands playing with the fabric. “The first time’s always weird. But it doesn’t have to be bad-weird.”
He slowly slips his hand under the band, feeling you go still.
“Hey.” He presses his lips to your hair, mumbling soft words of praise. “You're okay, you’re doing good. Just breathe for me.”
You do, albeit shakily, his fingertips brushing the damp centre of your panties.
“You’re already… Jesus," he says quickly. “I really did a number on you, huh? And without even touching you, too.”
“If you don’t shut up, I'm leaving,” you threaten weakly.
He chuckles, guiding your attention away. Gojo slides your shorts down so you can see exactly where his fingers press against, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks at the sight of his thick fingers prodding against the backdrop of the panties you chose out this morning. If you knew something like this would happen, you would have worn something else.
Gojo thankfully doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he slowly explores, no sudden movements, no overwhelming pressure, just the occasional slide against your clit.
“Okay?” he asks, and you realise you’ve gone silent, holding your breath again.
“Yeah,” you gasp. “Just feel different than—nevermind.”
“Different good?” He prompts, thumb pressing down on your clit and you jolt, an audible inhale escaping you.
You feel his arms tighten around you.
“Oh, there we go,” he mutters, sounding ridiculously pleased with himself. “That got you.”
You don’t dignify that with an answer, not that you have the capacity to because the next moment, he’s moving his fingers with practiced purpose. His thumb circles your swollen clit through the damp fabric, the barrier muffling any sharp pleasure though it helps you wrap your head around the sensation.
When you start lifting your hips to meet his touch, he knows he has you where he wants you.
With his other fingers, he slowly slides your panties to the sides and touches you directly. The effect is immediate, your eyes snap down to watch, body tensing, want like you’ve never known it before shocking you.
The sight of your own arousal makes you wetter and he abandons his touch to touch you directly.
“Look at that,” he coos in your ear, voice breathy with awe and smug satisfaction. “Here you were acting like you wanted to leave when you’re this wet. Thought I wouldn't know, sweets? That I couldn't see you eye my dick all hungry like that?”
He emphasises his words with a harsh pinch of your clit and your head falls back to rest on his shoulders with a filthy moan ripped from your throat, raw and unprocessed.
Gojo takes the chance to kiss your neck.
You should hit him for his words, you really should. But instead, your hand flies up to his forearm, nails digging in when he slides a finger to circle your entrance and the world briefly whites out.
He groans quietly, like your reaction is doing something to him. “That’s—fuck, you’re so cute. Do that again.”
“Don’t tease,” you say again, voice barely there and brain too mushy to think of something original.
And like he knows, Gojo slowly slides a finger into your pussy and the pressure temporarily pushes out all of the pleasure. But then his free hand is playing with your clit and he’s telling you how good you are and how pretty you sound, and it comes back.
He thrusts that finger in and out slowly, letting you adjust to the intrusion and when you’re sighing soft moans and broken demands again, he curls it and doesn’t stop moving. He could easily overpower you, could pin you down and take, take, take, but he doesn’t. Every time you tense like you might pull away, he backs off just enough, murmuring at your ear, though by the time you’re close you haven’t panicked in a while.
He’s the one breathing hard when you start to chase your peak, like he’s the one being touched.
You’re writhing now, his arms having to tighten around you to keep you still as he slides another finger inside.
“That’s it,” he whispers, panting when your thighs clamp around his hand, head tipped back on his shoulders and eyes starting to roll back. “There you go. I've got you. Let go for me, yeah? Doing so good for me, sweets.”
“S-Satoru,” you choke out, the name ripped from somewhere deep.
His whole body jolts behind you and you feel a twitch near your ass.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, like you’ve done something filthy. “Say my name like that again, I swear to god—”
You don’t because suddenly, you’re gone.
His fingers pressed against the spongy spot inside, his thumb circling your clit, and suddenly everything tightens then snaps and you’re tumbling, shaking around the steady anchor of his hand and his arm and his voice in your ear. He doesn’t speed up, letting you ride your orgasm on his hand, mumbling sweet nothings against your sweaty neck.
It’s messy and overwhelming and a little scary for a second, then his palm is flat over your lower stomach, grounding you as waves of sensation roll through your body. His other hand finally gentles and you can breathe again.
When you finally slump back against him boneless, the room feels dimmer. your chest heaves, skin prickling with aftershocks that he guides you through.
He eases his hand away and wipes it on his pants, keeping you steady on his lap.
“Hey,” he says softly, lips brushing your hairline. “You still with me?”
You nod, or at least you try to. “I think so.”
“Yeah?” He presses, smiling against your skin.
“Yeah.”
“Good.” he exhales like he’s been holding his breath with you. “You did amazing, sweets.”
“You're making me sound like a dog.”
“Well, you were very obedient,” he says lightly, then winces. “Okay, that sounded kinda bad.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest where you’re still half-leaning against him. One of his hands comes up, hovering for a second like he isn’t sure if touching you again is allowed, then settles gently at your side.
You catch your breath, stealing a glance. His hair is a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes still blown wide but there’s something softer around the edges, so different from his usual cocky composure that it does something strange to your chest.
“You're the worst,” you mumble, just to say something.
“Oh?” his brows lift. “You seemed pretty satisfied with the lesson.”
You keep your mouth shut because there is absolutely no winning that argument.
Silence falls, not heavy nor awkward, but certainly unfamiliar. Without the distraction of movement or adrenaline, your mind starts spinning into the consequences of your actions.
And the fact that you’re still sitting between his thighs.
You stiffen and he notices immediately.
“Uh. Do you… want to—”
“Yes,” you say at the exact same time he says, “We should probably—”
You both stop, voice overlapping as you tell each other to continue then stop again. It’s funny if not awkward and you laugh, startled and breathless.
“Okay,” he says, hands lifting slightly in surrender. “You first.”
“No, you go,” you insist, scrambling upright a little too fast. The room tilts for half a second and you grab his thigh to steady yourself.
His hands hover again, then settle at your waist just in case.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re still a little… y’know?”
You straighten and stand away from the couch, legs wobbling in a way you pretend not to notice. The cool air hits your skin and reality comes rushing back in a tidal wave of embarrassment.
Your skirt rests on your thighs but they’re crumpled, and your hair is surely a mess.
Gojo watches, biting his lip hard enough to leave teeth marks. He stands too, running a hand through his hair, suddenly looking almost shy as he grabs his discarded shirt and pulls it back on.
For a moment, neither of you know where to look.
You fixate on a crack in the wall and he studies the floor.
“Do you, uh… want me to walk you back?”
The normalcy of the question feels surreal.
“I’m fine with walking,” you say quickly. “The weather’s nice so.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Fresh air. Definitely.”
You grab your bag with fumbling hands, nearly knocking it off the couch in the process. He catches it before it hits the floor, fingers brushing yours again as he hands it over.
Neither of you pull away immediately. Then, you both do at the same time.
“Right,” you say.
“Right,” he echoes.
He opens the door for you, peeking into the hallway first before gesturing.
“You sure you don’t want me to walk you back?”
You almost cry at the visual of a way out. “No, no, I'm fine. It’s not too far anyway.”
Gojo studies your face like he’s trying to decide whether to argue or not. For once, he doesn’t look like he’s in on some big secret. He just looks uncertain.
“If you say so,” he mutters, stepping aside.
You slip past him into the hallway, letting out a big sigh of relief when you hear the door close gently behind you with a soft click. Looking over your shoulder, you see Gojo follow you out anyway.
Your feet slow. “You don’t have to, I'm really okay.”
“I’m not,” he says quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m just heading in the same direction. That's all. What a coincidence?”
“Uh-huh.”
The staircase is only a few doors down, but the short walk stretches, each step heavy with things unsaid. You can hear voices downstairs, life continuing on, oblivious.
At the top of the stairwell, you stop.
“Are we still going the same way?”
He shakes his head.
“I’ll see you around,” you settle on when the silence stretches.
“See you, Y/N.”
You take one step down, then another. After a third, you glance back.
Gojo is still there, watching. your chest does something uncomfortable as he waits.
“Goodnight, Satoru,” you say softly.
He blinks, like the name catches him off guard every time. Then he smiles, small but warm.
“Night, sweets.”
When you reach the bottom and push out into the night air, it feels shockingly cool against your overheated skin. The campus is quiet, streetlights painting everything gold and shadowed, the distant sound of traffic humming like white noise.
You walk faster than necessary because if you slow down, the thoughts will quickly flood in. And if you start thinking, you might realise that somewhere between asking him for help and leaving his room tonight, something has gone very, very wrong.
You’re not sure why you care so much.
You tell yourself it’s because Geto will be there, because this is a chance to make a real impression, because this is what all of it has been building toward. But as you stand in front of your mirror, turning this way and that, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, adjusting your hair for the third time, checking your reflection from angles no one in real life would ever see, you realise this isn’t normal.
You’ve never put this much thought into a “casual” outing before.
Not the outfit, carefully balanced between cute and effortless, like you didn’t spend forty minutes deciding between two nearly identical tops just for the jersey to cover it anyway. Not the makeup, soft enough to look natural, deliberate enough to feel like armor. Not the way your stomach flips every time you picture stepping into the arena.
You know deep down this isn’t about Geto. That thought alone makes your chest feel tight.
You grab your purse before you can overthink it further and leave.
When you walk into the arena, the roar of the crowd hits you like a physical force, loud and electric, buzzing with anticipation and cheer. It bleeds through the concrete walls, through your bones, and through the floor beneath your shoes.
The game hasn’t officially started yet, you made sure to come before then, but the energy is already at a fever pitch.
Your eyes sweep the rink automatically, searching. And you spot him immediately.
Gojo, in his navy and white jersey, skates across the ice like it belongs to him, like the rink exists solely to accommodate his momentum. It doesn't seem to matter that his helmet obscures most of his face, you’d recognise him anywhere. the easy confidence in the way he moves, the loose, effortless posture, the casual speed that looks like he isn’t even trying—it’s unmistakable.
His hair, damp under his helmet, peeks out in soft white tufts. His cheeks are slightly flushed from exertion, breath fogging faintly in the cold air as he glides past teammates, exchanging easy shoves and taps of sticks. He's the easiest person in the world to look at and the hardest to look away from.
He glances up towards the stands during warm-ups, scanning lazily, and your heart stutters. You freeze, suddenly aware of yourself, of the crowd, of how ridiculous it is to hope he’ll notice you among hundreds of people wearing the same colours.
I mean, all these people? All wearing the team jersey? And you wouldn’t call yourself beautiful, not in the kind of way that makes someone stand out across a packed arena, and certainly not in a way that draws eyes automatically, not—
Gojo turns a little more. and then his eyes meet yours.
The jolt is instantaneous, sharp and electric, like touching a live wire. Your breath catches, lungs forgetting their purpose entirely as a stupid, bright grin spreads across his face.
A strange warmth floods your chest, blooming outward until it feels too big to contain. You bite your lip, trying and failing, to suppress your own giddy smile as you tug lightly at the hem of your jersey, lifting it just enough to show the number at the front and point at it.
06.
If it's even possible, his grin widens. He spins around without hesitation, and easily mind you, skating backward for a few seconds just to show off the back of his own jersey, jabbing a glove thumb at the matching number with pride.
Heat rushes to your face.
It's ridiculous, childish even, but your heart is pounding and the warmth in your chest swells until it’s almost overwhelming.
When warm-ups end, he lifts his stick in your direction in one last, unmistakable acknowledgement before skating toward the bench, where his teammates swarm him instantly. One of them hooks an arm around his neck, dragging him down while another plays bongos on his helmet, elbows digging into his ribs.
From this distance you can’t hear what they’re saying, but you don’t need to. His expression gives everything away, the wide grin and mock protests, and the way he shoves them back half-heartedly while still laughing.
Someone whistles, another bumps his shoulder and one even points toward the stands, toward you. Your stomach flips.
“Y/N?”
You start, tearing your eyes away as if caught doing something incriminating. Geto stands beside you, already holding two drinks, his expression warm and easy.
“Hey,” he says, offering you one. “You made it. I found seats over here, it’s a pretty good view, if I don’t say so myself. We should head over before the game starts.”
You take the cup automatically, fingers brushing his. “Thanks!”
He smiles, guiding you through the rows of people with gentle awareness, making space and steadying you when someone brushes past too close. It's thoughtful and careful and exactly the kind of thing that made you fall for him in the first place.
Once seated, conversation comes easily to him. It’s all polite small talk and soft jokes, quiet observations about the team and season. He fills in the silence like Gojo had predicted, never letting it become uncomfortable. He does all the right things that you could almost tick them off a list. He laughs at your comments like they’re genuinely funny and asks questions that make it clear he’s paying attention.
It should be perfect, it should be everything you’ve ever wanted.
And yet, your eyes drift back to the rink, to the flashes of navy and white.
To the tall figure leaning against the boards, helmet off now, shaking his hair as he listens to a coach, nodding absentmindedly while his gaze flicks upward.
Your pulse jumps when his eyes land on you again. Except this time he doesn’t grin. It might be your imagination but he seemingly looks to Geto beside you, then back, just watching.
You force yourself to look back at Geto, nodding at something he just said, hoping your smile looks natural and not strained.
BUZZWORD
The game starts fast.
Faster than you expected, faster than anything you’ve watched on TV, faster than seems physically possible for men balancing on thin blades over frozen water. The pluck drops and suddenly the rink explodes with motion, bodies colliding, sticks clashing, skates carving violent crescents into the ice.
You lost track of the puck almost immediately.
Geto leans closer, voice raised just enough to carry over the roar of the crowd. “Watch Satoru, he plays center so he’ll usually be in there.”
Your eyes find him easily.
He moves differently from everyone else, you see, loose, flashier, or maybe that’s just you. No, you reject that notion as he accelerates in bursts, gliding between players with impossible precision, stick tapping the ice impatiently when he doesn’t have the puck.
Every time he skates past your side of the rink, your chest tightens and your throat hurts a little more as you try to cheer louder.
The first goal goes to the other team.
Your side of the arena groans as one, a wave of disappointment that rattles through the stands. You feel it too, a sinking drop in your stomach, though you don’t fully understand the play that led to it.
Gojo slams his stick once against the ice in frustration, then shoves off hard, jaw set.
Geto doesn’t seem worried. “They’ll bounce back. Satoru is the best they have, after all.”
Just like he predicted, they do. Midway through the second period, one of Gojo’s teammates manages to slip the puck past the goalie, and the building detonates. People surge to their feet to cheer and you find yourself in that crowd, cheering without thinking, adrenaline crackling through your veins like you personally contributed.
On the ice, Gojo grabs the scorer by the shoulders and shakes him, helmet bumping into helmet, grin blinding even through the cage.
It’s a tie game until it’s not. Another goal to the opposing side which Gojo’s team equalising moments after. Again and again, a tense back and forth that even has Geto inhaling sharply at moments.
By the third period, your nails are dug into the flimsy paper cup in your hand, ice long melted into a yucky watered down version of whatever was in the drink. You barely notice when Geto takes it from you and sets it aside so you don’t crush it completely.
The scoreboard reads 3-3 and the clock tells you there’s two minutes left.
The noise is deafening now, frantic and desperate, every movement on the ice met with gasps or shouts.
Gojo has long since lost the playful edge from earlier. He circles near centre ice, knees bent, weight forward, eyes tracking the puck like it’s the only thing that exists in the world. A defender tries to box him out and he shrugs him off with a brutal shoulder check that makes the crowd howl.
The puck slides loose along the boards, ricocheting off a tangle of skates and sticks like it has a mind of its own. Someone on Gojo’s team snatches it first and fires it forward, a risky pass that slides clean across open ice, and towards him.
Gojo receives it in stride, blade cushioning the impact with effortless control. He doesn’t even glance down. his head is already up, scanning his way forward. A defender lunges for him and he slips past with a sharp pivot, hips twisting, edges biting deep into the ice.
You’re on your feet before you realise you’ve moved.
“Go—!” you scream and like a domino effect, people around you start to cheer.
Gojo fakes a left. The goalie commits.
He snaps right, dragging the puck across his body in one powerful motion, forcing the goalie to witness the outplay. And then he flicks his wrist and a sharp crack echoes across the rink.
The puck lifts, a black blur slicing through air, threading the narrowest gap between glove and shoulder, and slams into the back of the net.
For half a heartbeat, there is silence. Then the buzzer screams and the crowd erupts.
Sound crashes over you in a tidal wave, screaming, stomping, clapping, the metallic rattle of the stands shaking under hundreds of pounding feet. You’re shouting too, throat tearing with it, hands flying to your mouth before dropping again because you need them free to clap and wave, anything to release all this energy exploding out of you.
Down on the ice, Gojo throws his head back and roars, pure exhilaration bursting out of him. His teammates collide with him seconds later, swarming him in a pile of navy and white, shoving his helmet and grabbing his shoulders, almost knocking him over in their celebration.
He's laughing.
Even through the cage, from the distance, you can see it, the wild brightness in his eyes and the way his chest heaves with adrenaline.
They won.
They actually won.
You’re bouncing on your toes without realising, hands clasped in front of your mouth.
Gojo breaks free from the pile just enough to turn and look up into the stands. It's easier finding you this time around when he knows where to look.
His whole face lights up, grin splitting wide and unrestrained, so bright it feels like it could blind you, he lifts his stick and points it straight at you then thumps it once against the ice in a triumphant salute.
Your stomach swoops violently.
You laugh, breathless and giddy, lifting both hands to wave back like an idiot. Your body is already leaning forward, feet shifting as instinct screams for you to move. To go down there, to be closer, to meet him at the glass while he’s still glowing with victory looking as beautiful as you’ve ever seen him, so alive that it radiates off him in waves.
You want to throw your arms around his neck.
You want to tell him that was incredible.
You want—
“Y/N?”
Geto’s voice cuts gently through the chaos, close to your ear.
You blink, tearing your gaze away from the ice to find him watching you with a small, amused smile.
“That was intense,” he says, laughter in his voice. “I forgot how crazy these games get at the end. Makes you glad you came, right?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, though it comes out shaky and raw from all the cheering. “Yeah it was. Definitely.”
Your eyes flick down despite yourself and find Gojo still looking up, smile dimmed.
Geto gestures toward the aisle. “If we leave now, we can beat the post-game crowd. The bookstore’s only a short walk away anyway. We can find Satoru after he comes out.”
The words land heavy in your chest. How could you forget? There was a plan in action, the reason why you came, the person you’re supposed to be focusing on.
“Right,” you say, though your voice sounds far away even to your own ears.
On the ice, Gojo’s teammates are tugging him toward the bench, shouting in his ear and shoving him here and there. He goes easily enough, though not without one last glance at you. He tilts his chin, a silent question in your eyes, clear despite the distance.
Are you going?
Your fingers curl into fists at your side.
“Ready?” Geto asks softly.
You swallow. “... yeah.”
But as you turn to follow him up the aisle, the roar of the arena swelling behind you, you can’t shake that you’ve made the wrong decision. You feel it, that strange, electric thread stretching thinner and thinner behind you as the tunnel swallows Gojo whole.
BUZZWORD
It should be fun.
Geto is easy to talk to, he’s polite, thoughtful and gentle, and all the right things. You trail behind him between the shelves as he talks about a book he likes, or some theory he discovered that explains so much and makes so much sense.
You try, you really do. You nod your head and attempt to store that information away.
But everything just doesn’t feel right. It's hard to store that information away when your head is full of that look Gojo had given you, the way his white hair had stuck out from under his helmet, damp from the effort and glory of winning, eyes sparkling under the stadium lights, the way he had lifted his stick to point at you.
Geto is kind. But your tastes don’t match. Your jokes land in different places. He's nice, and you do enjoy his conversation. But not in the same way you had enjoyed Gojo’s company that day in the cafe.
You don’t feel nervous. You don’t feel excited. Honestly, you just feel like pretending.
And as if the universe is screaming at you about something just beyond your grasp, when you reach for the same book, your fingers don’t brush. And you don’t want them to.
Geto’s phone buzzes when he’s in the middle of explaining some theories from this guy called Slavoj Zizek? He winces at whatever he reads.
“Sorry,” he starts, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I need to head out. But hey, here–” He pulls a paperback off the shelf and hands it to you. “This is the one I was talking about. I think you’ll like it.”
you accept it automatically. “Thanks,” you say, and then he’s waving and gone the next moment, door swinging behind him.
For a while, you wander the bookstore in an attempt to rationalise the complex emotions warring inside you. Geto is your crush. You know this. And yet, it all feels so superficial. Gojo had been right, there was nothing personal about the things you liked about him to explain the crush.
You stand in the quiet of the aisle, holding a book you frankly don’t care about, surrounded by a silence that feels like the wrong choice made tangible long after the last customer walks out. Heavy rain falls outside, pelting against the roof of the store, a steady white noise that backgrounds your thoughts.
When the bookstore begins to close, you’re ushered outside. You swear as you’re suddenly caught in the harsh weather and through the heavy sheets of rain, there looks to be no other store open. Hastily, you run out in the rain to find some place where you can get cover over your head. Finally, you see a small awning from a closed shop.
You run under the awning, hugging your arms to your chest as you wait out the storm, feeling stupidly alone and stupidly unsure why you’re this upset. This is what you wanted right? But the part of your heart that has always known the truth traitorously voices the thoughts you’ve been pushing down all this time.
Gojo.
Through the sheets of heavy rain, someone is running towards you. Tall, white hair, still in his jersey, his hair now damp (read: soaked) with rain water rather than sweat.
He skids under the awning, breathless, terribly drenched, an unopened umbrella in one hand.
“What the hell,” he says immediately, voice sharp with concern and frustration. “Are you trying to get pneumonia? Why didn’t you go home? Didn’t you check the weather? It clearly said it was going to rain today!”
You blink, gaping at his sudden presence. “What are you, no, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”
He snorts. “Yeah, I was. Until Suguru texted. Said he left you at the bookstore and for me to pick you up. Seriously, you didn’t even bring an umbrella?”
The situation finally catches up to you and you frantically gesture to his own umbrella. “How can you lecture me when you just ran out all the way here without opening your umbrella? it’s literally in your hands, all you had to do was open it!”
“Like i had the time to! My legs are literally burning from the game and you made me run all this way out to save you!”
“I never asked you to!”
“Well, I had to!” He steps closer, finally freeing himself from the rain completely. His presence fills up the cramped space under the awning and you catch a whiff of cedar and sweat. “I couldn’t just let you die out here in the cold!”
Speechless, you open and close your mouth like an idiot. Finally, you manage to ask, “How did you even know I was out here?”
“Weren’t you listening? I told you Suguru told me he ditched you!”
At Geto’s name, your face falls. Ah, right. your little moral dilemma about Geto.
Gojo also calms down a little, his chest heaving a little slower as he uses the silence to catch his breath. his eyes scan your expression, picking up on the way you bite your lip, eyes looking away.
“Hey,” he says, voice soft though still strained. “You okay?”
Your throat tightens. “I guess? I don't know. Look, sorry. I appreciate you coming.”
“Don't give me that. Just don’t. You’ve told me every embarrassing thing about yourself when you outed that you, you know, like Suguru. Don’t hide something from me now. Are you upset that he left?” His hand comes out to wipe water off your cheek. “Don't cry.”
You scrunch up your face in mild disgust. “I’m not? That's literally just rain water.”
“Oh. So you're okay?”
You inhale and let it out slowly. Were you okay? You shouldn’t be, not if Geto was your crush and he just ditched you. And yet, under Satoru’s shadow as he stands in front of you, blocking the rain, brows furrowed and lips pressed tight as he looks you over in concern, you find yourself feeling okay. More than okay.
“Why do you even like him?” He asks, quietly, a question that would have easily been lost to the rain if you weren’t hanging off his every word.
“I told you,” you start, just as quiet. “He saved me that one time.”
“Yeah?” He opens the umbrella with one hand, and holds your hand in the other, gently guiding you out from under the awning. Rain hits heavy against the fabric and he holds you close to keep you out from the storm, your chest grazing his. “He saved you that day in the rain, did he?”
You swallow. “Yeah.”
“Just like this?”
Mutely, you nod. In his arms, you barely notice the slight chill.
Gojo searches your eyes for something. He exhales, long and uneven, like he’s been holding this in for longer than he’s willing to admit. And yet, he doesn’t shy away, doesn’t tear his gaze away from yours, just keeps holding the umbrella over your head, tilted ever so slightly in your direction such that you’re completely covered.
“That day,” he says, quiet but steady, “When you got caught in the rain after that stupid orientation thing? Suguru wasn’t on campus. He went back home for a month before the semester started and didn’t come back until the second week. I was the one that found you.”
Your breath falters. “What? But he… he gave me his hoodie. His name was on the tag.”
“Yeah,” Satoru laughs, a single disbelieving puff. “I was wearing his hoodie. He wasn’t at the dorms so I stole some of his clothes to wear. It’s whatever, he steals some of mine sometimes. The point is, I was the one that helped you.”
For a moment, you stop breathing entirely. The rain pours around the two of you, a curtain of noise, but it’s silent under the umbrella.
You’ve never seen Gojo so nervous. Definitely not before the big game earlier, not on any of the practice dates, never when he talks to a group of people. Between the two of you, nervousness came more naturally to you. And yet, standing before you vulnerable, wet lashes stuck together, cheeks flushed from running and is that a faint bruise forming on his jaw? He looks nervous and it’s a sight that sends warmth all over your face.
His eyes are unbearably soft as he waits for your verdict.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice sounds too small.
“Because you thought it was Suguru. Because you liked him. And back then, I didn't realise that I wanted you to know it was me.”
Your heart thuds, something a little more daring saying the next few words for you. “And now?”
This moment was perfect. The two of you had been slowly closing that small gap of distance, eyes seeing nothing but each other and suddenly all those rom coms and kdramas come to mind. All those scenes of first kisses (forgetting the practices because those didn’t include real romance), all those late night conversations with Shoko about what it’s like, they all come and leave your brain.
But instead of leaning in and sealing the deal, Gojo’s entire body suddenly stiffens. His arm around you loosens, placing more distance between the two of you.
What the hell?
His gaze drops a little further before coming back up with a discipline that can only come from reciting the digimon opening theme over and over in his head. “Now I'm trying really, really hard not to stare at you.”
Curious, you look down to your soaked shirt where the fabric clings painfully close, embarrassingly sheer. It only serves to emphasise the lines of your bra and though you can’t really see anything, Gojo’s face is flushed pink not just from exertion, and his jaw is tight.
“Satoru–”
“my place,” he blurts. “we should, uh, get you warmed up. Your shirt is literally see-through and if I have to keep pretending I don't notice, I'm going to walk myself right into traffic.”
“That is so dramatic.” The beginnings of a smile causes the corner of your lips to quiver upwards at his flustered state.
“i’m dramatic,” he insists, voice strained, still not looking. “now come on. I still don’t want you catching pneumonia out here and Sig Kap is literally right near the gate. We can keep talking there when you don’t look like a puppy left out in the rain.”
“Says you.” You eye his white hair plastered to his forehead and smile, reaching up to move a few clinging strands from his eyes. “But okay. I’d like that a lot.”
Unfortunately, the gesture makes him look back down at you, inevitably making him catch an eyeful of your chest. He closes his eyes. “Let's just go before I give you this umbrella and walk onto the road.”
You laugh a little. “Geez, you really are dramatic.”
He walks you to Sig Kap, refusing to stand fully under the umbrella. When you try to grab his arm and pull him under, he only launches into a talk about being a feminist and how chivalry isn’t dead and how much he hates periods and loves matcha. You laugh and he smiles down at you before looking away. Seriously, he needs to get over that.
At the door outside the house, Gojo stops you.
“Here.” he hands you the umbrella, fingers brushing yours, before reaching down to take his jersey off. You instinctively blush and look away, but considering your state of undress it would only be fair if you stole a glance. So you peek at him from the corner of your eyes.
You only manage to look just below his abs when something warm and slightly damp flops over your head.
“Hey!”
He takes the umbrella back from you, standing in front of you and covering your back with the umbrella.. “Put that on before we head inside. Take your wet jersey off, hurry.”
Feeling warm despite the rain, you hastily pull off your soaked top, making sure he’s looking politely away, and throw his jersey on. It’s still damp but not as drenched as your own. Looking down, it falls past your skirt and just above your knees.
“You’re going to walk in shirtless?”
“Better than you walking in looking like that.” He doesn’t give you a moment to think about his words. “Come on, you’re going to catch a cold.”
He leads you to the now familiar front door and when it opens before Gojo can even touch the doorknob, you understand the reasoning of his actions.
“Dude!” Hikari cheers, wrapping an arm round Gojo’s shoulders and eagerly pulling him in despite his grunt of protest. “Congrats on the win, man!”
Hikari quickly notices your presence.
“Oh. So you’re already celebrating, huh?”
Gojo brushes past him, his hand holding tours to guide a path through the sweaty frat boys. “Shut it, Hikari. Is Sukuna in?”
“Nah. The whole floor’s gone.” Hikari answers, raising his voice as Gojo quickly places distance between him and you.
When the door of his room closes behind you both, he turns and pulls you in, his hand falling down on your hips, pulling you close. You both look like wet dogs but you couldn’t care less.
“Sorry about them,” he mumbles against your hair.
“It’s fine,” you pause. “Who's sukuna?”
“The guy in the room next to mine.”
“Oh.”
He hesitates, searching your eyes in the dark of his room. The storm rages on beyond his window, rain entering through a slightly ajar window, but neither of you make the responsible move to close it. Instead, you find yourself pressing up against him, hoping for more.
“Sweets,” he says, his voice low. “Please don’t tell me this is still practice.”
“It’s not.”
He takes a deep breath in. “You piss me off. You’re annoying, and insistent, and you always get what you want.”
You frown a little. “Hold on, I thought this was going a different way.”
He shushes you by placing a finger against your lips. “You never listen to me and you never act how I think you will. You’re definitely not normal and your thoughts are all weird and messed up. But you’re always in my head and you have the prettiest smile and the softest voice and when you tell me to shut up I want to drop to my knees and lick your feet.”
“Okay, it’s definitely getting weird now.”
“I think I’m seriously doomed,” he whispers despite your protests. “Because I bought that coffee you gave me months ago and I still drank it even though I hated how it tasted. And I haven’t been able to get it up without thinking about you and those pretty lips.”
“Now I see why you don’t do relationships.”
Gojo chuckles, eyes unbearingly soft. “I think I’m in love with you, Y/N. You’re all I can think about.”
You let out a slow exhale.
This was not how you imagined any of this. That day when you sat down with Shoko to plan a devious scheme to get with Geto, you naturally assumed it would end with him by your side, or with a crippling inability to reassimilate with society.
Never in a million years did you think you’d be here, in Gojo’s enormous room inside a frat house, him hanging off your every word.
But thinking on it now, there’s nothing you want to change in your plan.
“I think I’m in love with you too.” You say just as quietly, a smile playing on your lips.
“Really?” If he had dog ears, they would have surely perked up. “Because I was lying, I definitely don’t just think that.”
“Woah, let’s calm down a little.”
He chuckles, breath misting your face.
His thumbs rub circles and you shiver at the faint sensation.
“Cold?”
You bite the lip and nod. Now that you’ve confessed, the forbidden desire building up in your core no longer feels like something you need to hide. Instead, you embrace it, and you let Gojo see the change in your eyes.
He nods back, looking down at his jersey on you.
“You should probably take this off or you’ll get sick.”
You grab the bottom of his shirt and pull it over your head, leaving you in just your bra. You mentally fist bump your past self for overthinking your attire earlier that morning and throwing on a matching set.
His pupils dilate as he looks at you, eyes lingering on the delicate lace.
“Am I moving too fast?” He whispers, breath misting your ear as he leans in.
You rapidly shake your head, heart pounding in your chest. The air between you crackles with tension, the rain pattering against the window like a distant drumbeat.
He sighs, a low, relieved sound that vibrates through his chest. “Good. C’mere.”
He backs you up against the door, the wood cool against your bare back. His hands slide up your sides as he traps you. The guise of getting you out of wet clothes feels like a thin excuse now, but you don’t mind, your own hands already tugging at his waistband, eager to feel more of him.
Gojo’s lips crash into yours, hungry and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim your mouth. You kiss back just as fiercely, fingers digging into his shoulders as you push against him, guiding him backward step by step. He stumbles slightly, surprised by your assertiveness, but a smirk tugs at his lips against yours.
He falls onto the couch with a soft thud, pulling you down on top of him. You straddle his lap, only because it’s the only position you’ve had experience with thus far, and the friction of his hardening cock against your core sends sparks through your body. Your mouths meet again in a heated makeout, tongues tangling, breaths mingling in short, desperate gasps.
His hands roam your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away. You arch into him, pressing your bare breasts against his chest, nipples hardening from the contact.
“Fuck, you’re so hot like this,” he growls, nipping at your lower lip. “Where were you hiding all of this, hm?”
You shiver, fingers digging into his shirt. “You like it when I tell you what to do, don’t you? Big bad frat boy, already so hard because a girl’s got you pinned.”
He groans, hands gripping your ass to grind you against him. “Keep talking like that, and I'll show you who’s really in control.”
But you don’t stop. Instead, you push him back further into the cushions and trail your lips down his jaw, his neck, biting lightly to mark him. He lets you, for now, his breath hitching.
His eyes look down your body, hands feeling the softness of your skin before resting at the waistband of your cute, little skirt. He smirks and before you know it, you’re torn from his neck because he flips you onto your back in one swift move, pinning your wrists above your head.
“My turn,” he purrs, voice rough.
You try to wriggle free. “What are you doing?”
“You've always had a thing against my tongue, haven’t you?”
“That was weeks ago, I don't—wait a minute!” Your hands find his head, trying to push him back up but he refuses, settling properly between your legs and lowering.
“Relax.” He turns his head and kisses your palm, eyes on yours. “I'll make you feel good. I always do, don't I?”
You hesitate, your arms losing their strength as the tension eases from your body. He watches you carefully, his gaze soft yet intense, making sure you’re okay before he moves. With a gentle nod from you, he lifts the edge of your skirt and flips it up onto your stomach, groaning low at the sight of the damp spot on your panties.
“So cute,” he hums, his free hand sliding between your legs to rub at the numb poking out through the fabric. “This little clit’s begging for attention.”
You let out a startled gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily at the sudden touch. It’s all still so new, the sparks of pleasure shooting through you like electricity.
“You want my mouth on this pretty pussy, don’t you?” He murmurs, lowering to mouth against your panties.
His warm breath seeps through the thin material, and the flat of his tongue presses against you, exploring with teasing pressure that’s not quite enough to satisfy the ache building inside.
You jolt again, the sensation overwhelming, back bowing slightly as if to instinctively pull away. He doesn’t let you go far, his hand on your thigh tightening to pull you back against his mouth.
“I know, I know,” he coos against you. “It's too much, isn’t it?”
You whimper, looking down and feeling a fresh surge of heat when you meet eyes with him.
“That’s it, just feel it,” he encourages, his thumb stroking your thigh in slow circles.
Finally, he draws your panties to the side and doesn’t waste another second.
Gojo’s mouth descends on your pussy, tongue flicking out to lap at your clit.
You gasp sharply, hips bucking up as he sucks the sensitive nub between his lips, rolling it gently. His hands hold your thighs apart, fingers digging into your skin to keep you open for him. He eats you out like he’s starved, tongue delving inside you, tasting your wetness then circling back to your clit with firm, insistent strokes.
“Oh god,” you choke out, the words tumbling from your lips in a breathless rush. “Fuck, it’s too—fuck it’s so good!”
With your hands free, you curl your fingers in his soft white hair, guiding him exactly where the pleasure feels strongest. It's your first time feeling anything like this, and the intensity builds fast, a coiling heat that’s overwhelming but addictive.
He hums against you, the vibrations making you whine as his tongue thrusts in and out, mimicking what’s to come, stretching you open with wet, probing motions.
“Mmm, taste so fucking sweet,” he growls between licks, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your folds. “You’re clenching so hard already—gonna finger fuck you open so you can take my cock later.”
He adds a finger, sliding it inside your slick heat slowly, curling it to brush against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “That's it baby, feel how wet you are for me? so tight around my finger, imagine how you’ll squeeze my dick when I'm buried deep.”
You nod frantically, the haze of pleasure making it hard to form words.
He senses your building release, slipping a second finger inside to stretch you further, scissoring them gently to prepare you while his mouth latches back on your clit, sucking harder. “Come on, cum for me—wanna taste you so fucking bad, sweets. I want to feel you shake.”
The orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over your body without warning. you cry out, back arching off the surface beneath you as your pussy clenches around his fingers, pulsing with release. He doesn’t stop, lapping at you through it, drawing out every shudder until you’re boneless and gasping for air, his tongue coaxing every last tremor from your oversensitive folds.
Gojo pulls back slowly, a string of saliva still connecting to you until he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he crawls up your body.
“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he murmurs, leaning in for a deep kiss and letting you taste yourself on his lips.
You kiss back weakly making him chuckle, and he pulls back with a wet chu.
“You okay?”
You nod weakly. One moment you’re catching your breath on the couch, the next he’s lifting you over his shoulder and laying you down on his bed.
You yelp, feeling gravity turn on its head until you’re safely on his mattress.
Watching as he eagerly strips, you say, “You got a bedframe.”
He grins widely, shimmying down his boxers to join his sweatpants on the floor. “Yeah, I did. Do you like it?”
You huff. “Yeah. About time, Satoru.”
Gojo’s smile is oddly bright as he gets on the bed and hovers over you. He shifts, propping himself up on his elbows, his blue eyes darkening as they fixate on your chest. Without a word, he moves down, his mouth hovering just above your skin before he presses his face into the soft valley of your tits, inhaling deeply as if savouring your scent.
“God, I love these things.” he groans, voice muffled, his lips brushing the sensitive underside. “So goddamn perfect. Feel how hard you make me just staring at them?”
You squirm, indeed feeling his cock throb against your leg. “You’re such an animal.”
“I can't help it. Been thinking about these ever since last time.” He peeks up at you though he’s still hesitant to part with them completely. “Can i fuck them?”
Your nod is all the consent he craves. He straddles your waist carefully and guides his thick length to rest in the plush channel you’ve created by pressing your breasts together. The first slide is torturously slow, the velvety skin enveloping him as he rocks forward, the tip emerging shiny with precum near your collarbone.
“Shit, yes,” he hisses, hips snapping in a shallow rhythm. “So soft, so fucking warm around me. Look at that, sweets. Your tits are hugging my dick like they were made for it.”
His voice drops lower, rough with building pleasure, each word punctuated by the slick glide of skin on skin.
You watch him, mesmerised by the concentration etching his features, brow furrowed, lips parted as he pants. Sweat beads on his forehead and trickles down his temples as his abs flex with every controlled push. The friction builds between your tits, his precum smearing across your skin, making the slide even smoother and more obscene.
He glances down to watch his cock disappear and poke out from your cleavage. “Open your mouth for me, baby.”
“Sweets,” you remind him.
He lets out a stifled groan, hips jerking forward. “Sweets, please. Let me see your pretty tongue. Want it on my tip when i come through so fucking bad.”
The nickname sends a thrill through you, and you part your lips obediently, flattening your tongue in invitation. He groans at the sight, hips stuttering as he angles higher, the flushed head of his cock brushing your waiting mouth on the next thrust.
“Fuck, just like that,” he rasps. “Your tongue feels so good lapping at me like that. Swirl it around, taste how much I want you. God, sweets, you’re killing me.”
You do, tracing the sensitive underside when he pushes forward, the salty tang of him flooding your senses. His reaction is immediate, a deep, guttural moan escapes him, his rhythm faltering as he jerks deeper, chasing the wet heat of your mouth.
“Can't get enough,” he growls, drawing back only to thrust again, his tip kissing your tongue with deliberate precision and drawing back a sticky string of his precum and your saliva. “Gonna fuck your mouth next, stuff it full of my cock until you’re choking on it. You'd take it so well, wouldn’t you? Suck me down like the greedy little thing you are.”
Saliva pools on your tongue and drips down to mix with the mess on your chest. He watches it all with hooded eyes, rutting faster now, the slap of his hips against your breasts echoing softly in the room.
“Fuck, sweets—gonna cum,” he warns through gritted teeth, his forehead creasing in that pretty, desperate way. “Can’t hold back with you squeezing me like this. Shit, i’m gonna paint you, mark every inch of these pretty tits.”
He lurches forward suddenly, back bowing as he towers over you, one hand bracing beside your head while the other strokes his base to control his release. The first hot spurt lands across your neck, thick and warm, followed by another that arches toward your open mouth. He aims with a focused groan, pressing down on the head to guide it, ropes of cum landing on your tongue, filling your senses with his taste.
“Take it, that’s a good girl,” he pants, voice breaking on a final, shuddering thrust. “Look at you, covered in me. So fucking hot, dripping with my cum on your face and tits.”
His body quakes through the aftershocks, eyes never leaving yours, drinking in your reaction as he milks every drop onto you.
When he’s spent, he collapses forward slightly, catching himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you and leans down.
Your lips meet his in a deep, unhurried kiss, tongues tangling slow and sweet at first, then hungrier as you melt into it. The taste of him, salty from earlier, mixed with the faint tang of your own arousal, ignites you, and you tug him down, hands roaming his shoulders, feeling the flex of muscle under sweat damp skin. A soft moan escapes you, and he swallows it, his grip tightening just a fraction.
He pulls back and pants against your lips, half laughing.
“Sorry, I should have warned you. Kind of not the most virgin friendly thing to do, huh?” He sits up and reaches for some tissue to clean you. “Should of saved this for inside you, sweets.”
You clench, squeezing your thighs together. “I’ve never…”
His eyes soften, wiping the last of his cum. “I know, sweets. We can wait if you need to, there’s no rush.”
But curiousity and want is a dangerous cocktail and you find yourself shaking your head. “I want to.”
Gojo lets out a shuddering breath and nods, sliding off your chest, his cock glistening and heavy against his thigh. “Let me get you warmed up again.”
He doesn't find much difficulty with that because one hand against your slit and his eyebrows are rising, feeling your wetness despite the lack of attention.
You blush, feeling caught. “What? Don’t look at me like that, it’s embarrassing.”
“What’s got you so wet, hm?”
You squirm, feeling the lingering pleasure flare up. “It’s not my fault you’re so vocal.”
“Dirty girl. You like hearing how good you make me feel?” His thumb smears your entrance, picking up and spreading the fresh arousal that gathers there and it’s as good as any verbal answer. “Feel that? So worked up with nowhere to go.”
His fingers part you gently, circling your entrance with feather-light strokes that make you gasp.
“Let me warm you up again, sweets. You’re so swollen here, feels like you’ve been waiting for more. Gonna make sure you’re nice and ready for me.”
He plays with the mess between your legs, his own expression a mix of hunger and restraint, breaths coming in measured pulls as he fights the urge to rush. One finger dips inside you shallowly, then two, curling just right to brush that spot that sends sparks up your spine.
The stretch is easier now, your body remembering the pleasure, and he coos softly at your soft whimper, thumb finding your clit to rub in slow, firm circles.
“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans quietly, voice rough around the edges. “So warm and wet, it’s killing me not to slide in right now. But we’re taking our time, yeah? Making this perfect for you.”
Your hips rock instinctively into his hand, the coil of heat tightening low in your belly, and he grins, leaning in to pepper kisses along your jaw.
“Look at you, getting into it. My sweet girl, so responsive.”
You whine, the pleasure having reached a plateau and when you buck up for more, he withdraws his hand. The loss makes you whine but he hushes you with a gentle kiss to your forehead, reaching over to the nightstand and searching through his messy drawers for a condom.
The foil crinkles under his fingers as he tears it open and positions himself at your entrance. You're still slick, he’s made sure of that, but the anticipation makes you clench, nerves building up. He notices your sharp inhale and lets his tip nudge your slick folds, parting them teasingly though he pauses there to let you feel the pressure without pushing in.
“Hey, eyes on me, sweets,” he murmurs, voice steady despite the way his chest heaves, his cock twitching against you. “You still okay? Tell me if it’s too much, I’ll stop, I promise. But fuck, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be inside you.”
“I’m okay,” you whisper breathlessly, fingers curling into the sheets below. “Just… go slow?”
He notices and slides a hand down to interlace your fingers, bringing your hand up to his lips and placing a soft kiss to your palm. “Of course. Whatever you want.”
The stretch is immediate, a slow burn as he guides himself in, sinking bit by bit. His cock is much thicker than his fingers but the warmth of him, the way he watches every flicker of your expression with that twitch in his jaw, makes it bearable.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” he rasps, eyes shutting briefly. “Gripping me so good already. Easy, sweets, just relax into it.”
His voice cracks a little on the end, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds himself still once he’s halfway in.
It aches, but the fullness is intoxicating, waves of pleasure chasing the discomfort as your body yields. You gasp, squeezing his hand and he coos softly, stroking you with his thumb.
“Can I keep going?”
You nod and even before your next breath, he’s already sliding in and bottoming out with a shared gasp, hips flushed against yours. His forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling in the humid air.
"How's that feel? Too much?” He asks softly.
“Full… so full,” you whimper, rocking experimentally and he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up just a fraction before he catches himself.
“Fuck, want me to move, sweets?” He shifts beneath you, guiding your hips in a gentle circle to grind against you, his praises making the movement slick.
“Please,” you gasp out as the fullness sparks pleasure deep inside and he rewards your honest words with a slow roll of his hips.
“Good girl,” he praises, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as he starts to move, shallow thrusts that build a steady friction. Each slide in and out drags against your inner walls, drawing out filthy whimpers and sighs as he hits that sweet spot with precision born of his experience.
Soon, your toes are curling and your back bows off his mattress, desperate to meet his thrusts.
“Listen to those sounds you’re making,” he coos, emphasising his words with a deep thrust. “You’re taking me so well, sweets. makes me want to stay buried in your forever.”
The pace gradually quickens, his control fraying at the edges as your moans encourage him. He shifts the angle, one leg hooking over his shoulder to deepen the penetration, and the new position has you crying out, pleasure coiling tight in your core.
Sweat beads on his skin, dropping onto your chest and he leans down to capture a nipple between his lips, sucking gently as he thrusts harder, the wet slap of skin echoing softly.
“That’s it, let go for me,” he urges against your tits, teeth grazing the peak before soothing it with his tongue. “I can feel you squeezing, you close for me already? Come on, sweets, chase it.”
His words weave through the haze, dirty and devoted, spurring you higher as his freehand slips between you to circle your clit in time with his hips. The dual sensations overwhelm, building to a peak that has you trembling beneath him.
When it hits, it’s blinding, your orgasm crashing over you in waves, walls clenching rhythmically around him and pulling him deeper. He groans your name like a prayer, thrusts stuttering as rides it out with you, prolonging the bliss with expert rolls of his hips.
Only when you slump, sweaty and panting, does he let himself follow, a filthy groan escaping his lips as he buries himself deep one last time and spills into the condom, body shuddering as he struggles to hover over you.
He doesn’t pull away immediately, instead pressing his hips closer to ensure you’ve gotten everything before collapsing half on top of you, peppering lazy kisses along your neck.
“You’re amazing,” he whispers. “My perfect girl, did so good for us.”
You whimper against the ticklish sensation. “You're too heavy.”
He chuckles and rolls off you, slowly pulling out to pull the condom off and discard it. you watch him with sleepy eyes, eagerly nuzzling into his arms when he settles back beside you.
“Need anything? Water? Cuddles?”
You hum, feeling the satisfaction morph into a drowsiness that has you melting into his arms, only feeling his warmth.
“You?”
He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I’m so glad I stole you away. You’re so fucking perfect for me.”
You lean into his side, feeling a sense of indescribable completeness that fills you with certainty.
Geto Suguru may have been everyone’s first love but Gojo Satoru is the one you choose.
And judging by the way his arm tightens around you, the way his grin softens when he looks down at you, he knows it too.
Geto Suguru is everyone’s first love.
Even to this day, your friends will roll their eyes and insist that can’t possibly be true. But from experience, that was exactly who he was, someone to admire from afar like a painting behind glass. Beautiful and alluring, and just out of reach.
You see him now up, sitting on the couches at the house party driving the murmur of conversation with ease, a red cup used to gesture. Laughter ripples outward in waves, people leaning closer, drawn in.
You smile out of solidarity, resting against the wall with content misplaced at a busy place like this.
“Did you wait long?”
You turn your head to find your boyfriend weaving through bodies with the casual confidence of someone who assumes space will make itself around him. Two drinks in hand, hair messy under his cat, grin already forming because he’s caught you staring.
You push off the wall, reaching automatically for whichever cup is closer but he pulls back to sniff both before handing you the opposite one.
You take it gratefully and when you take a sip, you realise it’s your favourite juice.
“Wait time longer than the lines at Universal,” you tease.
He grins, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Next time I'll get us the priority pass. Not that it looked like you minded the wait. Don’t think I didn't see you eyeing Suguru like that. Do I have competition again?”
You shove him playfully. “Please, like I'm the one who’s been draping themselves over him for the past hour.”
Across the room, Geto laughs again, someone hanging off his shoulder while he tries to keep the liquid in his cup from spilling. He catches your eye briefly and lifts his cup in greeting. You return it with a smile.
Next to you, Gojo sighs dramatically.
“Wow,” he says flatly. “Right in front of me too. Why can’t I see any remorse in your eyes?”
“Because there isn’t any there,” you snort. “You're the one who told him to come tonight.”
“Where there’s Satoru, there’s Suguru.”
“I learnt that the hard way.”
He hums, arm sliding around your waist to pull you flush against his side. His thumb starts tracing lazy circles just above your hip, absentminded and affectionate, a touch so familiar you barely notice as you lean into him in return.
“Still,” he murmurs, quieter now, his breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t have to keep looking at him like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking about what you could have had.”
You tilt your head to look up at him. His expression isn’t jealous, not completely, just searching, softer than the bravado he usually wears.
“I'm not,” you promise gently. “It was always superficial. You know that better than anyone. I guess now, looking at him is like looking at a relic of a different version of me.”
He hums. “He would have liked that sentence.”
You roll your eyes, ever so familiar with his dramatics. “You have nothing to worry about, baby. I promise.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You reach up and adjust the brim of his cap slightly, smoothing down a piece of hair that refuses to stay put. “Besides, I think I traded up.”
“Keep talking like that and I'm going to start thinking you actually like me,” he grins, voice lowering.
You smack his chest but your other hand lingers in his hair, fingers slipping into the soft hair at his nape. "Don't get cocky.”
Too late. He's already smiling wide, not the loud, flashy grin everyone else gets, but something softer and almost boyish reserved just for you.
Gojo leans down and finds your lips. The kiss is slow and unhurried, deeper than something meant for a crowded room but not quite indecent, like he’s forgotten where you are or just doesn’t care.
He pulls back just enough to talk. “Hey, I have an idea that’ll solve this three way jealousy.”
“What?
“Why don’t we just have a threesome?”
a/n: i had to repost this because i realised i could fit everything into one post but holy hell reformating everything made me wanna die so please smash that like button hit subscribe and don't forget to turn on that notification bell ++ shoutout to flatline and happy pokemon day to those who celebrate
OMG!!?!!! this is tewww good :0 i ate this up. the humour is perfect and omg i was swooning they are too cute :(( ALSO the ending 😭😭 was not expecting that LMAOOO
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.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
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.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
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.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
“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.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
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.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
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.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
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”
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
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.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
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.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
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.
⋆˚꩜。𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. 𐙚 ˚
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.
Synopsis. Dearest gentle reader, it’s a royal affair! This social season we answer the age-long question: can a knight truly love a princess? For amidst the celebrations and pomp of your royal betrothal, rumors circulate that a certain handsome knight, Choso Kamo, already has his eyes (and hands) on you. Is forbidden romance in the air?
Pairing. Choso Kamo x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, knight!Choso, Bridgerton AU, princess x knight, best-friends-to-Iovers, regency AU, YEARNING, letters, secret admirers, betrothals, poIiticaI alliances, unrequited Iove (or is it?), the Ton, Lady Whistledown’s, papers, scandaIs, balls, pússydrúnk Choso, oraI (fem rec.), fíngering, spítting, he’s a MUNCH, face-ríding, sneaking off, service d, he’s FÉRAL, ríding him, using him, fírst times, manhandIing, making it fit, cervíx smooches, begging to be yours, rough s babbIing, DÚMBlFICATlON, making you work for it, creampíes, pushing it back in, cúmpIay, slight overstím, confessions, HAPPY ENDING, coronations, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 12.9k
A/N. Heard there was a new Bridgerton season so I just had to <33
The letter is short.
“It’s you.
My dearest princess, surely, you must know that it can only ever be you.
I have battled fruitlessly this greatest conflict of my life—those of the soul—and I cannot bear it any longer. I have fraught, and choked, and swallowed my words in the hope that, perhaps, one day they shall cessate along with this traitorous heart of mine. It is what it deserves. Diverted from its duties to the body, my heart exists solely to count the beats of time that I am beside you.
It aches the greatest ache, as my affection remains unchanged. And the words yest escape me onto this page, my dearest princess.
Thus, I beg that you forgive this lowly admirer for his treason.
For, it’s you. It’s you. It’s you.
It shall at last and forevermore be you.”
Unsigned and unclaimed. Left on the gilded surface of your nightstand, as it had been every morning for the past four years.
Your bashful secret admirer.
Now, the first time had been rather a shock—to both you and the flutter of attendants who’d happened upon the parchment. You certainly didn’t have any close acquaintances nor prospects entertained whom were so dedicated to deliver a letter at the splinter of daybreak (and a brief interrogation of your personal ladies-in-waiting showed that they’d seen nothing of who’d been slipping you notes at night).
It had to be someone from the palace, however - if they managed to deliver these letters so frequently and so easily.
Though most nobles sent their correspondences upon dishes of pure silver, with an attendant from their court that would recount every detail of your reaction to them later. But this one had no staff attached to it, no emblem, no name. No identity in the very least.
Nothing but slanted, slightly trembling words as if the writer’s hand had been caught in an inescapable tremor the entire time. And the flower.
Every morning, once you excitedly unfurled the little pink ribbon that tied the letter up, a small yellow daffodil would fall from inside. As if a piece of the early morning sunlight, plucked from the skies, placed in your hands, you’d roll the stem between your fingers as you read through the letter.
Each word more tantalizing than the last.
You’d tried to spend the night awake on several occasions, of course, to catch this romantic culprit in the act. But the only thing that served you was a few hours of sleep, and a thoroughly cranky elocution teacher once you kept nodding off during class - and no admirer, evidently. And yet you’d still awoken to the neatly tied-up parchment in the morning.
Like a phantom in the night.
The letter was the first sign of daybreak itself.
When that scheme had found itself utterly useless, you’d taken to warning your personal knights stationed outside your royal chamber - certainly not to get your admirer caught, rather to find out just a morsel of information about them. A morsel.
Yuji and Nobara had been rightfully horrified, though you’d insisted that whoever this was meant no harm!
You suspected that your admirer snuck into your room in the few minutes between the knights changing their stations: Yuji and Nobara would be set firmly outside until midnight, and any dark hours past that would have your doorstep occupied by knights Choso and Yaga. Two of the most trusted knights in all the kingdom, with all the accolades to prove it.
And it certainly helped that Choso had been your personal knight for the past two years - though you’d been friends for far longer than that. Always at your side, always staring down nobles that overstepped, always offering his hand out to you when a step was too steep.
He was your rock. He is.
He’d been one of the court advisor’s sons, your age. You remember being a young royal unaware (or perhaps uncaring) of the duties that loomed for you in the horizon; spending summer mornings playing tag with Choso and a few of the other children in the palace, and winter nights breezing through books and time like sand—just the two of you in that grandiose library. His father resided in a modest estate not too far off from the palace, and Choso cried every time he had to say goodbye to you. Every single day.
You grew the most close with Choso.
And once he had come of age, he’d promptly signed up to become a knight.
Through training and nutrition plans, and battles and scars, Choso had climbed up the ranks faster than any other you’ve ever seen. Though he was still as tender-hearted as you remembered him - he’d shed a few tears the day he was assigned to a brief battle on the outskirts of the kingdom. Away from you.
But you’d simply wiped away his tears and cooed in a low voice that your elocution lessons hadn’t taught you to—come back to me soon, Cho.
And he had.
The battle with the Zenins had ended, and Choso Kamo had returned as the kingdom’s most celebrated warrior. It’s whispered to this day amongst the palace staff how he’d kicked off his saddle in town, run past all the bubbling celebrations- straight to the royal palace where he’d waded past the congratulating courts and straight to you—
All in platonic friendship, of course.
Of course.
But you suppose it didn’t help quell the rumors when Choso rejected your father, the King’s, offers of estates and riches. Of lifetimes of luxury. He’d stood before the royal court and bowed his head, having only one request of the monarch: to be your personal knight. Forevermore until he breathes.
And how could one say no to the turning point of the battle?
And thus, he’d become your knight. Yours.
You suppose it was around this time that the letters had started, too…
You clutch this morning’s letter to your chest and breathe in the smell of fresh ink, leather, and the faintest hint of summer vanilla that dripped off of the page. It was always this scent that followed your admirer’s ardent declarations, and soon enough every time you passed the gardens or poked at a vanilla dessert, you couldn’t help but think of him.
A knock interrupts your thoughts and you startle.
Pushing the letter carefully underneath your pillow, “Come in.”
The towering double doors of your bedroom had small gilded swirls on it, which, if you stepped back, melded together to form an image that looked like the clouds above. Frothing and tumbling and swirling. Heaven itself. How oddly poetic that through these gates of heaven would walk in Choso Kamo, his knight’s armor catching the rays of morning sunlight.
His visor was pushed up to reveal his face.
His features were sharp and handsome.
His doe-like brown eyes were the envy of the courts.
He looks at you in your thin nightgown and flushes- “Y-your Highness—!”
Choso’s armor clanks and clutters as he hurries to turn away from you, and soon enough you find yourself staring at the knight’s broad back. Chiselled after so many years of training. Bringing a hand up to your lips you have to stifle a giggle at the sheer contrast- “My dearest knight, does it disgust you to gaze upon me like so?”
“Th-the furthest thing from it, Your Highness.” He sputters, and you swear you catch the back of his neck - just the slightest slit you could see between his armor plates - burning bright red. Blushing.
“Do you believe me of unsound character, then?” You challenge, “Do you believe me a harl-”
“Bear not the thought!”
“Then turn.”
He does—barely. Just enough degrees that you can see his handsome side profile, and he can stare at you through his peripheral vision- though that, too, is largely obscured by his helmet. “Forgive me…” Choso gulps. “-but the mere sight of you is not suited to be gazed upon by this lowly knight, my princess.”
“You have been within ames-ace of Yaga for far too long.” You tut.
But you’re still reaching for the gold-laced robe draped over the edge of your bed - your attendants had placed it there last night. Choso was always the first to greet you in the morning.
And it’s only once he’s completely sure that the robe now covered the beautiful angles and curves of your body, that is obscured from him what is Eve’s most beautiful apple, does he turn to face you. Only to find that he had spent so long mustering up the courage, that you’d already dipped underneath your pillow and pulled out-
“Yet another letter, Your Highness?” Choso queries, and you nod.
It was requisite that such an occurrence must be shared with your personal knight - most of all, your friend. And you didn’t feel the need to hide it from Choso as you did with your parents—perhaps because you knew his duty was to you, above all. You above the crown. “Oh, you shan’t believe it- today they wrote the most romantic line about how their heart beats simply to count their time beside me—”
Choso gives a jerky nod, “And the flower?”
“As always.” You’re pinching the little flower where it had been laid safely on top of your decadent pillow, showing it to him.
Your best friend takes one look at it and breaks out into an almost…relieved smile. “I see- he really is a stubborn old fool, isn’t he?”
“Oh, don’t call him a fool.” You huff. Turning away with your flower, “I think he’s just lovely.”
“Suppose he is a fool?” Choso probes, “Suppose he isn’t of great wits- would you still think he’s lovely?”
You furrow your brows at him, “But, of course. Intelligence cannot be measured by how many dusty books you read. Despite that, I believe that one would be of rather sound wits should they wish to compose letters this beautiful.”
There’s a pause. “Then suppose he isn’t rather pleasant to look at?”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” You counter stubbornly. “I think that I should find them quite beautiful either way.”
“Then suppose he’s a commoner?”
“That is the last thing I would fuss about-”
“But what if he’s a…” Choso starts- and as you wait for him to finish—he shakes his head. Giving you a light bow, “I apologize for getting carried by the conversation, Your Highness. I have just been reminded of my orders to urge you into prompt preparation to receive some very special guests today. I have summoned your ladies-in-waiting, they are stationed at the third royal baths.”
“Guests?” You ask. The palace always did have a constant flow of royals and nobles and merchants and people of the public going in and out, and rarely did you have to make a personal accompaniment with them. “What special guests may we—”
It’s then that you look at your calendar of quarter days: social days and tutoring days, and a day circled in rouge.
Today.
“Ah…”
.
.
.
Dearest gentle reader,
Royal gossip has always been the lifeblood of the Ton—particularly this year, with the debut of our Royal Highness, the princess, this social season. Rumors have been a-swirling for quite some time now, speculation about just which eligible gentleman will be lucky enough to win over the beautiful royal’s hand in marriage: perhaps a fair noble, perhaps the richest merchant of the land, perhaps a prince from a far-away land. The possibilities are endless!
Our dignified royal family has always been rather private about such matters regarding their princess, but today this humble writer is here to put these whispers to rest, my dear reader.
My most trust-worthy sources inform me of a royal fleet that has docked in our harbor early in the morrow—a fleet with none other than the Zenin family insignia upon its flag!
Now, before you fear another military skirmish with the ever-ruthless Zenin family, gentle reader, let me assure you that my insiders state this royal visitation to not be an act of warfare. Rather…of romance.
Some claim an age-long betrothal, some claim a political marriage in the works.
The cauldron of curiosity bubbles even further once you learn that the Zenin family, including His Highness Naoya Zenin, shall be paying a royal visit to the palace today! And some members of the royal knights claim they shall take extra precaution, and that Her Highness’s personal guard - a handsome young knight by the name of Choso Kamo - is to be with her at all times. Ooo la la!
It will certainly make it difficult for either Prince Naoya nor any other…admirer to get close to the princess (the palace walls talk, gentle reader, and some of my sources claim the presence of a second interest in Her Highness’s life—secret letters being hand-delivered every single night!)
But that is neither here nor there, and your writer is certainly not planning a visit to the royal dungeons in the near future!
Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown.
.
.
.
“—such a beautiful garden-” Naoya’s lip curls as he looks out of the tall, sun-lit window at the rolling field below. Your parents barely have enough time to open their mouths in response before he continues, “-but of course, ours is much larger. Second only to our stables and the incredible militia grounds that we have-”
Everyone in the meeting hall closes their mouth, quenches their hope for speaking at least for the next twenty-five minutes.
You learn within the first few moments of meeting him that Naoya Zenin liked hearing his own voice, and any time he wasn’t, he was replaying his own voice over and over inside his head. You also learn that you don’t like him in the slightest.
Which makes being betrothed to him all the more difficult.
It had been a political alliance- or so your father had briefed you one night several months ago. Calling you into his office, holding your hand, he had let you cry on his shoulder for the first time in years that night.
To unite two people who had been locked in a bloody border war for far too long - that was your duty.
And this marriage was the key.
It had been long enough to let the finality of it sink in, and not nearly as long enough for it not to sting. Still. It hurt like a hot iron embedded in your heart once you had to curtsey for the prince.
He had barely bowed back.
And now the two royal families - as well as several esteemed members of your council - were spread out in the grand meeting hall. Watching as the blond-haired royal turned his nose up at the plate of intricate desserts offered to him by a male attendant—he flicks his hand at the boy and orders the woman standing beside him to do it.
The woman being no one else but the most talented healer in all the land.
Shoko Ieri looks ready to stab him with her scalpel.
“Compensating.” A low whisper sounds from behind you.
You don’t have to turn to know that it’s Choso- but you do anyway. And your heart flutters just a little as you spy his warm brown eyes through the gaps of his visor, “Pardon?”
He repeats, “Compensating.” Nodding towards Naoya who had now roped your mother into a spiel about his armory.
“—we boast the largest swords in the entire world, you see.” Naoya was bragging in his grating tone, and your poor mother could only nod. “The best- the biggest. Any old cod can claim that size doesn’t matter and yet our biggest swords are-”
You can’t help it - you catch Choso’s eye and you both have to force yourselves from bursting into a fit of chuckles.
Both turning into each other.
Your hand clutching Choso’s arm for support.
Choso’s gentle hum of laughter breezing the top of your head.
Only too late do you realize that everyone in the room had their eyes turned to you - each in varying degrees of horror at the proximity between a princess and her knight. Except for Shoko who had gone from glowering at the prince to looking somewhat…knowing.
Damn you, Shoko—you’re half-heartedly cursing her out in your head as you straighten up. Trying not to flinch as Choso follows and takes a step backwards to stand behind you.
As a knight is told to be.
You can’t see the expression on Choso’s face nor his demeanour, but what you do know is the familiar creaking of metal as your best friend sags in on himself. Almost shielding himself from the world underneath all that armor.
Perhaps from it.
You notice that he always did so whenever someone in court made his place known: whenever they flickered their eyes between the two of you, whenever they pushed their noble sons to greet you, whenever they questioned just why a knight was allowed to even look at the princess like so.
He took it all to heart. Crumpled it up inside, and in doing so he crumpled that beating thing as well.
You wanted to say something—but you knew you couldn’t.
And, of course, it’s Naoya who speaks first. “Hmm, once we are wed then I shall have to make sure that such a thing is not repeated.”
“There is no such thing to speak of.” You speak through a grit smile.
“So you say—” He takes a bite of a puff pastry and places it back on the golden plating, “-but as your husband, it is I who shall have the final say.”
Yell strangled in your throat, you take a step forward-
Only for your father to sense the growing tension and ease his way in, “So is that to say a royal wedding might be on the horizon?”
Naoya takes his sweet time answering, “Well…” Looking straight at you as he contemplates, he wipes off a bit of leftover vanilla cream from the edge of his lip and flicks it. “That is what I’m saying, Your Majesty.”
Your father claps his hands heartily, “Send for the wedding preparations right away—! Oh, and draft the announcement for the-”
But you don’t hear a single word.
It feels numb.
It feels like something’s buzzing inside of your head.
You’re unsteady on your feet until a cold metallic hand reaches out and clasps hold of you.
You know it’s Choso and you do not let go.
.
.
.
Your heart aches at the letter you receive on the morning afterwards: the morning of the official announcement.
“My dearest princess, cry not.
Cry not—for a single drop of your tears is worth more than all the raindrops in heaven, all the rays of sunlight kissing the Earth, and all the beats of my heart.
It has been running rattle-brained, foolishly wild, these past few hours as I stagger upon the thought that I may lose you. Not that this lowly admirer had you in the first place, my dearest princess, you must forgive me for my presumption. But in every little way in which you are mine, I gain to lose you still.
Cry not for a man that should not cry for you, my dearest princess. Cry not for a man that cries for you still.
And I…above all I am a selfish man. I am a selfish man—utterly selfish—and should all the world’s laws be up to me, then you and I, should you wish it, would have been married four summers past.
Alas, I am overruled.”
You’re dressed for the public.
And once you’re escorted to the royal balcony where all palace announcements are conducted, you look up from the ground just in time to see Yuji catch Choso’s eye. The long-haired man behind you shakes his head.
Though you’re not quite sure what it means, it somehow makes you feel all the more worse.
.
.
.
Dearest gentle reader,
Though it is not in good manners for a lady to gasconade, allow this writer here to tell you that I had proclaimed so—a royal wedding is forthcoming!
You have read that right, dear reader!
Don your best silks and gather your best florals, for soon her Royal Highness, the princess, shall be wed to Prince Naoya Zenin. According to what was proclaimed at the most recent palace announcement, a grand wedding is to take place in a week’s time, immediate after the Royal Diamond Ball, to celebrate the union. Though experts speculate that this marriage is likely of political origins rather than the heart-fluttering romance that some think, one thing is for certan—His Highness, Naoya Zenin, certainly seemed to take the affair in stride.
Witnesses to the official announcement claim that the prince simply couldn’t keep the smile off of his face at the thought of his beautiful new bride (though others claim that it’s due to his imminent rise to the throne thereafter, as he isn’t the first heir to the Zenin Family—however, you didn’t hear that from me, dear reader!)
Others at the site were more entranced by none other than the princess’s trusty personal knight - Choso Kamo was expectedly standing guard beside Her Highness. But what caught the attention of eagle-eyed onlookers was rather the…expression upon his handsome face.
You could not pay me to name a more heart-broken man, dear reader! You could not!
Perhaps this is an omen of how the wedding preparations are being handled behind the curtains? Perhaps this is an omen of…something more?
This writer has a personal inkling about the reasons as to why knight Choso might have looked at Her Highness with nothing less than sorrow (did somebody say tears in his eyes?)
And amongst this roulette of wishful men I know you’re asking me—but Lady Whistledown, what of the princess’s secret admirer?
Well—you’ll be happy to know that I come with reliable insight that the secret delivery of love letters has yet to cease! Yes, gentle reader, this particular admirer seems quite passionate in their affections. Even going so far as to send one just after the announcement. Should the letters have yet to halt now, one can only imagine whether they shall stop even after the royal wedding.
The prince. The admirer. The knight (perhaps?) How can one choose?!
Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown.
.
.
.
“Big brother-”
“No-”
“Big brother, I simply state that-”
“Quiet, Yuji.”
Choso’s tone comes out harder than he’d intended, and his chest clenches at the wounded look in the younger boy’s eyes. Without wasting a single second, and without looking to see if anyone was nearby, he’s lunging forwards and embracing the boy into his arms.
Holding him just as he had when they were children and the pink-haired one would fall and bruise himself- though the only one that feels bruised right now is Choso.
It had been a week since the wedding announcement.
And all preparations had been in full swing: enough so that between all the dress-fittings, and the flower-pickings, and the guest-greetings, Choso hadn’t even had the time to exchange a proper conversation with you. Not that he was in the place to - especially not anymore.
Tonight was the Royal Diamond Ball of the season, where one Diamond shall be picked, always taking place inside the palace.
Except, this time, it had doubled in both extravagance and guest-list due to the simple fact that tonight was also the grand ball before your wedding. Tomorrow morning you would walk down the aisle in a dress of white.
Tomorrow morning you will be another’s wife.
He hugs his younger brother tight, “Yuji, I apologize for my brash words-”
“You have nothing to apologize for.” Yuji finally breaks the hug, “I was simply careless with my own words.”
“You were not-”
“I just don’t understand why you can’t be happy- why both of you can’t be happy. Together.” He looks away, eyes filling with tears he knows wouldn’t encompass even the tiniest fraction of what his brother has shed over this very reason. “It’s just not fair.”
“Some things…some things are meant to be the way they are.” Choso stares ahead at the gilded hallway spread out before him, “We must simply persist.”
Yuji looks as though he wants to say something more- but at that very moment, the doors to your royal chamber are opening. The two knights had been stationed there until you were fussed-over and all dolled-up for the Royal Diamond Ball tonight - the last as an unwed princess. The last before you were bound to Naoya Zenin.
And looking at you now, Choso thinks that it would’ve been worth it to cut down the wedding and all its procession for you.
Because there wasn’t a word to describe you.
The soft champagne of the taffeta draped over your shoulders and puffed up fashionably at your arms, cascading down in a waterfall of expensive silks up to your ankles. Following were glistening pearls that only brought out the beauty of the dress - your beauty - wrung at the edges of your hem and necklines. Delicate bracelets where your hands were gloved. A singular diamond hanging from your neck. And of course—your tiara.
It weighed heavily on your head.
Your ladies-in-waiting had dabbed on a bit of glittering rouge on your lips.
It was all that Choso could stare at.
You weren’t just bound to be the Diamond of the season, you were a diamond from the night sky. And he’s still trying to find a word to describe you that he knows wouldn’t come close, not even in a hundred of his l—
“Choso?” You cock your head gently at him. Trying not to bite down on your lower lip in nervousness and smear your attendants’ hard work, “Is something the matter-”
“Enchanting.” He blurts out- but that wasn’t enough. Would never be enough.
You look at him with slightly widened eyes, and he wouldn’t take the word back anyway. He looks at you and says in a more firm tone, “You look enchanting, my princess.”
You try - and fail - to bite back a smile—and ultimately end up swatting him on his armored chest. “Enchanting? Do not think that flattery shall stop me from forcing you into a dance tonight.”
“Ah—foiled again!” He dramatically looks to the skies.
“Fool.” You joking strike him again - Choso had dressed up for the occasion as well. His armor had been polished until it shined like a mirror, reflecting your own two ogling eyes back at you. Even the hilt of his blade looked deathly sharp.
He’d pushed his visor up and that gave you a glimpse of those two doe-like eyes, chestnut brown and warm. He was staring at you in a way that made you squirm.
Though Lady Whistledown’s society papers tended to use pretty prose, what they hadn’t lied about was this. Just how handsome he was.
“P-perhaps we ought to make our entrance.” You say.
And he nods in understanding, “We ought to—” But, what Choso realizes, is that he doesn’t understand at all.
And his breath hitches as you clutch onto his right arm with both hands. Attaching yourself against his side- how he wished he could feel the warmth of your body through his armor-
“These shoes are far too tall.” You fail to meet his eyes, “Forgive me, but if I could use a bit of support until-”
“Anything you want, my princess.” He breathes.
Your actual entrance into the grand ball is a blur - you’ve attended far too many of these in far too short a time before. It’s the crunch of velvet carpet underneath your too-tall shoes, and the strangely burning sensation of all eyes being directed at you.
At the way you were still holding onto Choso.
You distance yourself from him silently, and he falls in step behind you. The master of ceremonies announces your name even though everyone here already knows it. The staircase is never-ending and unrelenting, each step louder than the thundering of your heartbeat, a staccato of what feels like your own unravelling.
You’re slightly off-kilter as you reach the end- before a hand shoots out to help you.
You grasp onto the man’s calloused hand gratefully, looking up to realize that it was Yaga.
“Watch your step, Your Highness.” He helps you stand and wade through the crowd. As the head knight, Yaga had the freedom to forgo the armor tonight. It was a strong navy blue, nearly the entire chest of it covered in numerous medals and colors - warning off keen-eyed nobles from nearing.
You catch sight of Naoya surrounded by ladies-in-wait by the feast-
Yaga’s voice breaks through, “What is it that’s on your mind, Your Highness?”
“Nothing.” You answer instantly, “It’s just- it must be pre-wedding jitters.”
“I see…” He looks at you intensely, and you feel as though he can see right through you. Know right through what you’re really feeling. “Then in that case, all is well, correct?”
“Correct.”
He almost smiles, “And you are ready to be wed to His Highness Naoya, correct?”
“C-correct.”
“And you shall be thinking of a certain knight- or a certain admirer on the altar, correct?”
“Correct-” You falter, “Excuse me?”
“Ah—it seems the orchestra is commencing.” Yaga looks into the distance where the violin players had started easing in soft trills, as if music itself had waited for your arrival. “Now, my back is certainly too weathered for such dances- but I shall hold you with me no longer, Your Highness.” He turns to you and gives you a gentle smile, “Go—have your first dance.”
You almost plead, “But with who?” Naoya was still…occupied with all the court ladies- not that you would ever in a million years want to dance with Naoya Zenin in the first place-
“Whoever your heart may desire.” Yaga interrupts your thoughts, letting go of your hand- though not before pressing in something delicate and flat into it. He looks somewhere behind you—“A letter, asked of me to hand to you. I only implore that you stay as true to your heart, as he is to you.”
As Yaga disappears into the crowd starting to twirl in their tulle skirts—you open that little piece of paper up.
A short message.
“My dearest princess,
Steps behind you, a vision I do not deserve to see.
The most enchanting girl in the world to me.”
Enchanting.
The paper nearly falls out of your hand, and you can only look behind you - to where Choso Kamo was refusing to meet your eyes. His metallic visor was down and you couldn’t help but step closer.
Uncaring what they say as you’re reaching out and fastening it upwards- “Is this your penmanship, my dearest knight?”
He does not answer.
“Do you think I look enchanting, my dearest knight?”
He does not answer.
“Does your heart beat solely for me, my dearest knight?”
He does not answer.
“Do you not wish for me to be married—” At that, he flinches like a wounded animal. And you already know that he most certainly won’t be answering that question. Which is why you’re answering instead, “For I feel much the same towards you.”
He snaps his head up, glittering brown eyes pleading down at you. He breathes…“Of which sentiment?”
You smile, “All of it.”
“A-and the marriage-” Choso takes a jerky step towards you, his armor creaking like the weight of dungeon chains. “The alliance-”
“May I have this first dance?” You simply reach your hand out.
And as the music crescendos, he takes your hand and presses a kiss to the back of your head. Letting you lead into a golden floor.
Gasps deafen the ballroom music.
.
.
.
The Ton was a-flutter and a-ripe with scandal as you spent your first dance at the Royal Diamond ball with your knight instead of your betrothed. At least, that’s what you imagine - the truth is that you’d been too entranced with Choso Kamo to even pay attention.
He’d held you gently - so gently - as though his large hands could break you at any given moment.
And Choso had never let his eyes stray from your figure as he twirled you around the ballroom. He would have cared about the whispered- he should have…but how could he when he had the most enchanting girl in the world in his arms?
Too soon- your dance was cut short by an arm on Choso’s shoulder. Stopping him.
You’d both turned to face Naoya Zenin, furious spit lining the edges of his lips. He had barked out a formal order for the knight to step aside and hand him your dance- and though Choso’s hand had gone to his sword…
You’d shaken your head at him.
It was a half-dance with Naoya (of which you’d excused yourself feigning networking duties) and a hastened walk to the edge of the ballroom. Right where Choso Kamo was attempting to blend into the gilded ballroom.
You’d nodded discreetly at him and he already knew—
With Yaga suddenly causing a commotion- accidentally spilling his red wine on Lady Mei Mei’s dress, no one had noticed the two of you slipping out after the second dance. Before the Diamond was announced.
He followed you silently, two steps behind as a knight should, all the way up to your royal bedroom.
It was only once you’d reached your towering double doors that you took Choso by hand- all but dragging the handsome knight inside. And though he’d squawked in surprise, you’d merely looked at your best friend with determined eyes.
“Take me, Choso.”
He gasps. His shudders.
He was going to ruin the princess.
CLANK!
CLANK!
CLANK!
CLANK!
Choso’s heavy armor fell to the ground—
CLANK!
The last of it before the knight scoops his strong arms underneath your legs and hoists you up into that princess carry you’ve read about in every fairy tale. Choso walks you gently over to the expansive bed, before setting you down and laying you all flat—
“Why’re you by the foot of the bed, Cho?” You’re huffing down at the man who was now pressed against the mahogany bedframe. He had his knees down on the soft carpet, kneeled at your feet. Grabbing onto one of Choso’s toned arms - still in a gauzy white poet’s shirt that had been worn underneath his armor - you attempt futilely to pull him upwards. “Come lay with me.”
Looking away with a blush. “Why…have you really not the faintest idea, my dearest princess?” Hearing those words from his mouth sends shivers down your spine.
He looks at you with dark, half-lidded eyes. Hands spreading your thighs apart and sliding down the sides of your legs. Beneath those customary layers of silk. Choso’s hands keep roaming, and there’s a sudden rush of heat pulsing down to your core once you register his fingertips scraping the edge of your undergarments.
Mouth falling slightly agape.
“I-It’s only customary to give the lady a kiss before the dance—”
You’re gasping as your brain registers the innuendo- but not before Choso dips his mouth down and gives your cunt a looooong kiss through your sodden panties. Open-mouthed and hot.
He draaaaags the tip of his tongue down your slit n’ tastes you for the first time. Letting a single droplet of your syrupy slick end up splashin’ on his tongue- and he fucking moans. Loud.
Just so husky and attractive that it makes your body buck up into him without even realizing.
And it’s all that Choso needs to let go of his inhibitions. It’s all that he needs to hold both your wrangling thighs down and press himself even deeper against your aroused cunt. Nose-deep. Chest heaving in such guttural puffs.
It’s as if the knight didn’t even need to breathe as long as he could reach deeper against your sopping slit. So wet that he’s feeling your puffy pussylips through the fabric of your underwear- he slashes his tongue between your folds and makes you rut-
“Wh-what is this feeling…ngh.” Unable to help but pipe up in a shrill tone, you struggle to keep your hand pressed against your noisy mouth.
And he doesn’t even answer.
He can’t.
He’s lurching his mouth back and forth at a frenzied pace—crazed. Licking his tongue all over the inches of your cunt he could reach, rubbin’ his ridged tastebuds up and down the swollen outer part of your pussy.
You were just so damn soaked that it almost felt as if there was no barrier between your pussy and his ravenous mouth at all. Gaping even wider open and heavily kissing your pussy, he was almost thrusting his face against your sensitive cunt-
“Choso-” You gasp, your breaths all dampened. Hands weaving through his long brown hair for dear life. “Choso oh heavens—”
It was just too enchanting how your voice broke on the very last syllable of your sentence. And Choso can’t deny that it makes something carnal deep inside him twitch- “My dearest princess.”
“O-oh…” And you certainly didn’t expect his murmuring tone to send vibrations running up your spine like that.
Breathy. “Is that good, my dearest princess?” Choso’s mouth waters at the way his words only seem to make you splosh out in even more slick—gushing. It trickles greedily down either side of his mouth like two slick rivulates. And you can’t help but snap your head down and think that he looked utterly drunk - gaze half-lidded, lips puffy and red, forehead beading with sweat from his movements. Kissing. “My dearest princess.” Heaving. “My dearest princess.”
“P—please—” You’re trilling out, your head falling into the pillows behind you. “Choso, heavens, I beg of you to c-catch your breath-”
“And yet does it feel good, princess?”
That broken lil’ sentence of his punctuated by the most sloppy slash between your pussylips- smearin’ them apart and accurately pinpointing your clit. With the flexible tip of his tongue he presses inwards against that soft spot and makes you see stars.
Sends your hips rutting furiously against his pretty face, and your moans roaring. “Damn—fuck.” His cock throbs at the way he’d made such a poised, perfect princess break her demeanor. Swear- shit, he really was ruining you. “Fuck, yes- mmm, it feels so good.”
“Feels so good…what?” He’s rasping out.
And you have to blink through your film of tears down at him- “What?” He was now creating a rhythmic mwah of his lips down upon your clit - just lick upon lingering liiiiiick to drive you absolutely wild.
“It feels so good—” He’s groaning out straight into your cunt, already knowing that you’d be left all tender with his voice And just then you feel two pointed canines snag against your throbbing nub and almost…bite. “-who?”
“Choso—” So that was what he wanted all along? To have you hiccup and squeal his name as he draaaagged his lips from corner to corner of your leaky crevice and lapped up every ounce you gave? To have you absolutely shattered- “Choso-”
“Yeeees?” Alternating between snagging his honed canines down your clit n’ suckling on it.
Like his most favorite candy from the feast downstairs- and yet, you’d be the sweetest dessert out of them all. He was making out with your pussy just like it, too. “Choso- fuck, Choso I didn’t have the daftest idea that you could ever—mmm, it just feels too good.”
“Feels good?” He’s gutturally gasping, teeth scraping through your panties and creating little tears. Wrapping his pink lips ‘round your clit and hollowing his cheeks out of sheer force- “This feels good?”
“Yes-”
Nibblin’ his pearly whites down on your undergarments and tearing it down your slit. Swipin’ his tongue back and forth- “This feels—good-”
“Yes.” You gurgle out. It’s more and more.
It’s just the pinkish tip of his tongue that was proddin’ at your bundle of nerves. He slips it into a tiny hole town through your silken undergarments- and it’s enough to make your hips cleanly arch off the mattress. “Ch-Chosoooo—”
Choso’s darkened eyes flap wider open- “Suppose that feels even better, my dearest princess?”
And all he really wanted to do was make you numb with pleasure.
All he really wanted to do was slobber his mouth across that sweetened cunt of yours until he couldn’t even breathe- he’d be satisfied by the fact.
And Choso isn’t even thinking twice before he’s weighing down on one of the tears in your panties - something that he’d done with his very own mouth. Now his crowned fingertips were pushing against the delicate fabric and making it rip-rip-riiiiiiiiiip—!
Not even all the way through.
Just enough for two of Choso’s rightly thick fingers to seep through your undergarments and kiss your hole dead-on.
You flinch as he’s spreading your entrance with the most lecherous slurp! The knobbled ends of his digits pushing aside both your pussylips and simply aiming for that cutely leaking hole- how in heavens were you this wet? This tantalizing?
Tasty.
Choso reaches his slick-gazed fingers out of your cunt and raises it up to his vision - glimmering in the pale moonlight with all your candied liquids - he doesn’t hesitate before plopping them straight into his mouth. His eyes roll to the back of his skull and Choso moans as he tastes you-
“S-shoooo good—”
Fuck, was he slurring his words?
You’re raising up onto your elbows to question him, “Choso, did you just-”
But Choso doesn’t seem to hear- Choso doesn’t even seem to have anything running through his mind right now except for you and your pretty pussy. You and your pretty pussy.
You and your pretty pussy that gapes just as he pumps a few inches of his fingers inside - cunt getting glossed in your clingy slick once he squeezes his way inside. He’s feeling for the way your sopping wet walls glue to him like adhesive- stopping him briefly in his tracks before Choso’s stickin’ a thumb on top of your clit and making you take him.
“C’mon-” He hisses between clenched canines, brows furrowing down in concentration. “C’mon c’mon—it feels good. Doesn’t it, princess?”
“It does-” Hiccuping - trying and failing to buck your hips up for more. But the only thing you’re doing is succeeding in having Choso slip a hand up to grab your waist, pinning your body down to the squeaky mattress with such ease.
Your knight’s keeping your body on a damn leash while he fucks out a slooooow and sensual tempo between your legs. Just the fatness of each finger roverin’ deeper spots inside your walls, you swear you can feel out every single stretch. “Easy there, princess.” He knew his princess’s body better, it seems. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”
“It does but—fuck.” And just then Choso’s hooking his fingers in an incredible way that leaves your legs weak. Plumply pushing against one bunch of your nerves and sending shockwaves up to your brain. “Fuck, I want more, Choso.”
“Patience, Your Highness.” Choso spits out- literally. A dangling ribbon of saliva that clings onto your pussylips n’ makes it easier for the first inch or two of his digits to slip inside.
“But Choso—”
“Patience.” He hums, low vibrations. The space between your legs lets out the most lecherous loud squelches as he’s probin’ in and out. Watching as your swollen pussylips stretch out aaaaaaaall wide open-
He curls his lengthy digits against the velvety roof of your cunt. Making you just twitch, he’s grinning his slick-lipped grin. “I know you’re all needy right now, princess. But you need to learn to take it loooong and slow—” Emphasizing it by dragging his puffy digits along your walls and scissoring them multiple times. “-like that, see? That feels good, hm?”
“It does, but…” You pout.
Choso’s long lashes quiver, eyes widening slightly. “But?” Slightly crazed.
“But I want- hck!” Further pushing your slobberin’ cunt against his features, you’re dragging your most sensitive bits along his faces and shivering as it grazes his prominent nose. Desperately yowling, “But I want more-”
“Then command it.”
You snap your eyes open, “P-pardon?”
“Then command it.” But it still doesn’t sound real in your ears- ringing with pressure from his fingers slipping in and out. Hitting almost every spot you wanted him to—almost. He latches his mouth ‘round your clit once more and- he doesn’t suck. No.
Choso’s sinking his teeth into that perfect lil’ nub and draaaaagging it right out a centimeter or two until you scream. Fluttering his pretty lashes, “Aren’t you the princess, my dear?” Barely even waiting for your answer before your cunt squelches with a third one of his fingers- “Aren’t I your knight? Go on—command me.”
“P-please-” And Choso gnaws his teeth down even more meanly to stop you from using your royal manners. Until all you can do is bend your spine into the perfect curvature and puuush- grabbing onto his sweaty locks with absolutely no mercy. “Choso, I order you to go harder.”
His cock has never been harder.
He’s not even giving you a warning before thwacking! a strike with three globular fingertips, all the way at the very gooey bottom of your pussy. Rasping. “Harder?”
“Faster.” You barely gasp. “Choso, I-I order you-”
“Faster?” As if the only thing he can do when he’s so focused on fucking your pussy in harsh, thumpin’ hammers is that mantra of your words. “What else? What else, my liege?”
“Leige…” Bouncing your hips up, up, up—you might be too gone on his perfectly girthy fingers to realize the way you were swervin’ your waist to and fro. Just letting his lengthy fingers navigate the slick maze inside of you, plump fingertips spearheading inside like a spotlight and curving against every spot.
But Choso notices.
Of course, he notices.
He’s noticed every single thing about you, silent and stoic at your footsteps, for years. Always looking. Always admiring from afar—and he knows when you want something. “What else do you wish for, my princess? What else makes your pussy- hngh, feel good?”
“I want you to h-hit that one spot-” You’re blubbering through your constant tears. Moving your hips just to the side so that his curvaceous fingers were nearing where you wanted him the most. “So close—oh.”
“Never tell me to do anything twice, Your Highness.” He mutters, tone shot. “I’m always at your service.”
And he was.
And he was shovin’ his fingers - almost thickened with how long they’d been inside you - straight against that bundle of your nerves. Against that crevice you’d heard dubbed as your g-spot from that scandalous literature hidden away at the back of the library…
And when Choso had found that particular spot, he was hitting it like a madman—
Once. Twice. Thrice.
The way he’d memorized just where it was and mapped out every single inch of space inside you was dizzying. The way he’d leave a few sultry split-seconds to twirl his bulbous fingertips against your g-spot before reeling back and thud-thud-thudding. “It feels good, right?”
He was back to that familiar mantra and it was sending zaps of power down your spine to realize just how breathy he sounded. Just how smoky. Just how shattered.
Choso was eating you out like he was going crazy with every lick up your weepin’ pussy crevice. Uuuuup and down and fightin’ against his very own fingers to stick the edge of his tongue inside your quivering hole. “It feels so-” You’re gripping onto the strands of his hair stupidly, “So good-” Tears freely flowing down your cheek with just how many times he was mercilessly forcing his way against your sweetest spots. Your most favorite. “So good- so good- sooo good—”
You smack your hips up in a sloppy drag down Choso’s face and he moans.
“Choso, you’re just the best—”
And that? Those particular words are just about enough to make his red-hot, achingly hard erection pulse once. Twice.
Beading out a silky trickle of cum that darkens his thick pants.
Before he’s frankly quite sure that he might be on the verge of cumming- and such a valiant knight could never cum before his lovely princess, now, could he? Not daring to be so selfish, Choso heightens the pleasure and pressure until his tongue looked like nothing but a strawberry-pink blur lickin’ into every nook and cranny of yours. Slap-slap-slapping down on your clit.
And his fingers were fucking into you so hard- so ruthlessly. Viciously banging your g-spot like a constant bullseye and Choso was an expert at archery. Didn’t you know?
He doesn’t slow down - doesn’t dare to - even once your drenched walls start convulsing around him in a staccato. Even once you open your mouth in a soundless scream.
Even once you start to cum—
And Choso had never smiled wider in his entire life than he does right now with his lips glued to your pussy. Salivating. Tongue strokin’ your clit through every peak of your high- “C-cumming, Choso.” You pant out tearily. “And I can’t seem to stop…”
“You don’t have to.” Right on cue he bangs a roughened thrust just against your g-spot. Leaving you throbbing and aching for more.
And everything ‘more’ that you want - Choso’s more than happy to give.
Your loyal knight elongating your wave of bliss with his slick fingers. The perfect amount of thickness to stretch your walls but also leave you keening at his rapid pace- he pinpoints each tender point of your orgasm and thrashes against your nerves right at that exact moment.
Again.
And again and again.
And again—until your high makes you see white-hot stars behind your closed eyelids. Planting sloppy drags down his face right in synchronization, “Any longer and I don’t believe I shall cum any more, Choso.”
“As long as it feels goooood, princess.” He gurgles out, “Heh, so good that your body can’t cum anymore.”
“I-I don’t believe it works like- fuck.” Lips soiled with tears and saliva. Glazed. Doesn’t matter how much you’re running your voicebox ragged, because Choso doesn’t even slow down- not even when he’s fucked you through your orgasm and letting it taper out into mere tingles.
Shots of power. Vulgar strokes barely even starting to falter as you begin to feel so utterly raw n’ overstimulated. “But Choso, I want…”
“Hmmmm?”
He sounds so gone on your pussy that you know merely asking nicely won’t make Choso latch off. Experimentally, you’re tugging on his sweat-drenched bangs and he doesn’t even budge-
“Choso Kamo.” You’re starting out, struggling to keep your voice steady. And yet at the tone of your voice, Choso flinches as though he already knows- “As your princess, I order you to just fuck me already.”
He takes a few seconds to detach from your pussy.
Pulling away his sticky slick-glazed lips with a superior squeeelch! And Choso stares up at you with dark, half-lidded eyes. “As you wish, Your Highness.”
His ruined voice sends shivers across every inch of your body.
A body that he’s now plastering his hands onto and all but tearing through your soft layers- like butter underneath his strong hands. He’s ripping your silken gown straight through the middle, “I shall summon the tailor first thing tomorrow morning.” Choso grunts, already reading that expression on your face. “Worry not- your next dress shall be white, my princess.”
“Wh-white…” You breathe out, feeling light-headed at the implication.
Before you know it, all Choso has unhooked your half-corset and left you all exposed for him. For him to ravenously sweep his eyes down. For him to gaze upon every inch of you and gulp- was his mouth watering just at the sight of you naked?
But you’re not left too long to ponder upon the thought before Choso starts shrugging off his gauzy shirt and trousers. He’s letting the buttons pop open—pop! pop! pop! And displaying such a firm chest chiselled with prominent pecs, further down along were naturally ripped abs and the most sensual happy trail.
All dark and slightly unruly where it dips juuuust below his pants hemline.
Choso flattens his thumb against those golden buttons and lets himself spring free- and oh.
Oh.
You have to bite back a gasp out of sheer manners, though it should be rather obvious that you were ogling him. All about seven or eight inches of him- maybe more. Definitely more.
The cutest blushin’ pink at his tip, growing slightly more pale towards the base.
Glistening shaft. Heavy balls. He’s decorated with more veins than you might’ve imagined from him, and he’s so hard that each time they twitch his erection flinches in mid air. Fuck…Choso’s just so long and rock-hard that his puckered pink tip jumps upwards and smears a swipe of glistening sap across his abs. It glares at you like a smirk, and Choso sleazes out a smile right back.
Letting his head fall backwards once he gives his long cock a good pump.
“Oh…” He’s swearing underneath his breath, edging in closer on two capped knees. Those meaty thighs of his were just irresistible - all meaty and milky and flexing.
The slight muscles in his legs twitch as he inches closer to you on the bed. Cornering you against the headboard, Chose wields his swollen tip cloooose between your legs- kissin’ your puffy pussylips. Just a single swipe. “Fuck.”
And that’s all it takes for Choso Kamo to break on your pussy.
Head hanging downwards. Long locks covering his face. The entirety of his body fucking lurching- he’s messily creaming down your slit with copious amounts of cum.
Scorchin’ hot and sticking to you like adhesive.
It dribbless between your folds and enters your hole just the sliiiightest bit - already enough to start sploshin’ inside you and make you feel stuffed to the brim. You’re squirming at the unfamiliar sensation—and what does Choso do?
He’s reeling his hips back and rutting against you like a damn animal.
Unable to control himself. Merely pushing his fat cockhead between your pussylips and shoving- he groans at the way he couldn’t even fit the honed point of his very honed tip inside.
Just sliding lecherously past your pussylips and rubbin’ his veiny shaft down your front.
The only thing that that’s doing is grazing your clit and driving the man on top of you absolutely wild. He’s huffing through a pout as he looks down, “I want- ngh, I want to make it feel good for you, my princess. But it just won’t seem to fit.” Without much warning, he’s slithering his right hand down and scissoring open your snug hole. “Does this pretty pussy need me to s-stretch her out even more?”
“Oh—maybe.” You blubber out, looking at him through a heady gaze. “Choso…it’s my first time.”
And he knows he should expect it- fuck, he’s been at your side through every second of every day after you’ve come of age. He should already know by now.
His lips part, “Oh.”
“And I suspect it’s your first time, too?”
“It is…” Choso looks away bashfully, “My apologies, Your Highness, that I’m not experienced enough to perhaps give you the pleasure that you deserve-”
“Cho?”
He immediately shuts himself up, “Mhm?”
But instead of answering- you’re grabbing ahold of one of Choso’s muscular deltoids. It was just so plush and flexed as you moved him beneath you - flipping your positions over until his back hit the decadent mattress. And you’re clamoring on top of his slender hips, only slightly wobbly with the aftermath of your previous high.
All of Choso’s ivory sap dripped down your inner thighs and tried to glue them together. It was a treacly sheen that slid down his rock-hard abs.
And you’re gliding on top of him- draaaagging your swollen pussylips down his veiny shaft. A whimper lets out of your lips as his flared silt catches on your folds, “F-fuck—Cho, the court ladies told me about this particular position called, ahem- riding.”
He’s looking up at you with wide, heart-shaped eyes.
And your veins bubbled with molten embarrassment and need, “I’m going to ride you now, alright?”
“Yes-”
“Yes…what?”
Choso breaks out into the most sinful grin you think you’ve ever seen on him- “Yes, my liege.”
And that’s all it takes for you to perk your hips up just a lil’ bit and let Choso’s round orifice trace the outer rim of your hole. Just getting your body trained to the size - and even that is enough to make the man beneath you squirm.
To make him blush. To make him gasp.
To make him reach both quivering hands up and dig them into the globes of your ass- he’s jolting as though fighting with himself over letting you take your agonizing pace or humpin’ up into you like an animal.
Crying out—“Please. I need you so f-fucking bad.”
And you can pinpoint the exact moment that Choso’s husky voice breaks - all because you’re swerving your hips down and taking a gooood three or so inches of his fattened cock. Red-hot. Throbbing all the way deep inside of you.
The stretch was just so incredible that you’re seeing pure white- a primal moan ripping from your throat at the way he molded to your walls. Almost as if he was made for you.
He’s giving his first spurt of milky precum against your velvety channel, it drips down to your entrance and makes you twitch at the sensation.
Choso Kamo was ruining you from the inside and he wasn’t even trying yet.
Yet you’re still gasping- clawing onto his shoulders and then eventually down to his cushion-like pecs. Providing a firm hold for you as you’re trying to keep yourself balanced. Your mind muddled-
“Does- does it feel good yet, my princess?” Almost in the distance, you can hear Choso’s words echoing. They seem to rattle inside your emptied brain right now. “Does- does it- fuuuck—because it feels like heaven to me.”
“Shit, it feels so…” Your jaw drops agape, running out of words. Having him intruding at your innards like this wasn’t necessarily unpleasant- in fact, when he slightly rutted and rubbed against a few particular spots it almost felt unreal…
You’re keeping a firm grip on him and lightly bouncing your hips down - short, sloppy thrusts that give off a slurp! every time.
And Choso was giving off the prettiest little whimper every time you swallowed his solid tip. Just about two or three inches. “F-feels good?” He’s begging. Tears crinkle on the edges of his eyelids, and his lips wobble ever-so-slightly. “Feels good, right? Am I making my princess feel good?”
“So good.” You manage to gasp out. “Shit, I have yet to feel such pleasure with my fingers…”
“Being held at a degree higher than the fingers of my princess—?” He couldn’t believe it himself. And almost as though to confirm, Choso’s reaching over and lifting your dominant hand off of his pectoral. He brings it up to his mouth and gives it a long kiss, “Y-you cannot be serious.” Breathing in, as if to breathe in your essence. “The hands of my princess…”
Your jaw drops as his own does - opening wide enough to slip as few of your fingers inside and suck. “You’re more of a lecher than your innocent demeanour- ngh, lets on.”
“Only for you, Your Highness.”
And with your never-ending vulgar strokes, you’d managed to bully about half of Choso’s erection inside of you. It was a girth thick enough to stretch out hidden nooks n’ crannies inside you that you didn’t even know you had, and the perfect length to already be throbbin’ away by your g-spot…
You swivel your hips lightly enough to let his tip graze your most favorite spot- and you can’t help but fucking shake at the burst of sensations.
He’s hissing at the way you clench, “Oh, please-” Head falling backwards into the pillow in a dizzy haze. “D-does that little…squeeze mean it feels good?”
“Yes-” You gasp, “And it also means I ache for you more.”
Your best friend gulps, “Where?”
And it doesn’t take long for you to maneuver one of his calloused palms off of your hips and down to your stomach. Where it felt like he was so big that you could feel him from the outside—Choso presses down as he sinks in. “Here.”
That was almost enough to make him cum.
But Choso had already cum earlier - and it wasn’t a matter of not being able to stuff your pussy full all over again. He’s sure he could cream himself dry on your pussy. It was more so the fact that, in order to make up for it, he needed to make you cum at least twice more before finally finishing off himself.
One taste of your cunt clenchin’ around him and he’s feeling a tear slip down his cheek.
Almost subconsciously - body moving before mind - Choso arches off the comforter to probe his blushin’ tip deep inside you. “Shit- you just reached so deep, Cho.”
“Would you like me to take over, Your Highness?” Oh—how he loved the way that title rolled off of his tongue when he fucked you. His lowly body marking out your insides-
And he’d known you for so long by now.
He knew everything about you: every like, every dislike, every tell about your body. And he already knows from the hazy look in your peripherals that you’d been growing tired, thighs twitching any time you tried to messily bounce down on his cock.
Which is why one of Choso’s large hands cup your ass and start to help you fuck back into him- his muscules flexing mouth-wateringly every time he did so. Deeper and deeper. “Come on, my princess.” The hand on your stomach lifts off and glides down your pussy’s slit. Perfectly finding and pressing down on your knobbly clit - so sensitive. “Come on- fuck, let this loyal knight of yours make you feel good.”
“But the thing is…” You whimper out, head dropping down to look at the space between your legs. Like this, the size difference between your puckered hole and Choso’s thick cock. Growing even thicker before your very eyes. “-you’re just so damn big, Choso. Will it even fit?”
“I can make it fit.” He answers readily, as though the answer had already been on the tip of his tongue. For years, actually - all those long nights since becoming your personal knight. With only his hand and the image of you. He knows he’s fucking pathetic.
But he can’t bring himself to regret a single moment anyway. Because it’s only with that imaginary practice that he’s swervin’ his hips up to yours in slightly circular motions. “I can do anything for you.”
“Anything?”
He gasps out, “Anything for you, Your Highness.”
With his tongue stuck between his teeth, he’s crossing his brows and focusing on simply sensually fitting his cock inside. Uuuup with that big stretch.
Your head knocks backwards, “Ch-Choso—” Never been stretched like this before.
And then again with those rovering pushes.
“Choso.”
And again.
“Fuck-”
Choso wasn’t even answering any more - just couldn’t. He had his mind focused solely on one thing, and that was to pump all his generous inches inside you, which might be easier said than done considering how the longer he spent in contact with your pussy…the more pussydrunk he seemed to be becoming.
Until he was all but babbling—gasping, tearing up, fighting against the carnal resistance, holding onto you hard enough to leave nail marks all down your body. He was shovelling his ruddied cockhead with a thwack! against the very bottom of your pussy.
Bottomed-out.
You collapse down onto his chiselled chest with a strangled scream, feeling the metaphorical pop! of both your cherries. As well as the squirt of precum emptied out against your cervix-
The last thing you’re feeling before Choso’s leaving your entrance all sore.
Before he’s drilling up into you like a crazed man.
Fucking up into you with honed, deep thrusts - all the way from the globular edge of his shaft and then doooown until your clit scratches on the tufts of black hair at his base. He’s whacking your g-spot and then skidding right down until his puckered tip meets your womb. Rapid. Ravenous.
The bed creaks from the sheer pace of his movements, mingling with the shrill noises that you were letting out yourself. “So this is what it feels like- oh.”
Choso drags his right thumb down your pussy’s slit- that dewy spot of your clit being the perfect target for him to press down on. “This is what it feels like—” There’s such a dreamy quality to his words, languid and slightly slurred. “It feels like absolute heaven j-just-”
“Just?” You look up at your knight when he trails off.
Not expecting him to break out into the most sleazy smile. “Just having my innocence taken by the princess.” He says it in a way that sends shives down your spine - firm and possessive.
And even more possessive was the way that Choso thereafter clings a hold onto your waist and pulls you down to him. His abs shifting underneath you as he presses a kiss to your bitten lips—as he spits a wad of his saliva between them. “Taking the princess’s innocence- the whole kingdom should know that I r-ruined their perfectly innocent princess.” He’s gasping out, lost in the feeling of his entire engorged inches being suctioned by your walls. “That I made her- hah, pussy mine.”
“Choso—” Your eyes blow wide in shock and pleasure.
Because just then the hand teasin’ at your clit decides to jump straight to pinching right there.
It makes you twitch on top of him.
The pit of your stomach fizzling with something that feels good-
“Oh, but fear not, Your Highness.” He continues as if he isn’t just driving you wild. Ruining your insides with the constant, rhythmic squelching of his large cockhed—pushing and pushing. And pushing.
Choso stares up at you with a half-lidded gaze - direct eye contact even when he’s craning upwards to bite down on your left nipple. Dark lashes fluttering, “For every part of me is likewise yours.”
“Every part?” You shudder.
“Every part.” In emphasis, his cock throbs furiously inside you.
Succeeding in swervin’ in each glittering droplet of precum and slick and seed back in. He groans, “And you know you can ride this lowly knight as much as you want- as hard as you want.”
“I…” Your mouth feels as parched as a desert, “I would like that, my knight.”
Leaning slightly back on the bed, he’s letting you take more control. “Ride me- ride me dry, princess.” Just so achingly needy for you that you could almost taste it.
His salted-caramel taste sizzling at the back of your throat- his vanilla scent filling up your every other sense. You could now fit the pace to whatever you liked, “Sh-shit-” To whatever massaging rubs against your bundled nerves. “Shit—it’s almost t-too much. Impossible to believe.”
“Yeah? Feels good, doesn’t it?” Choso’s on board with his hand planted underneath your ass. Using a singular hand, he’s manhandling your hips up and down—up and down. Jerking you almost like a ragdoll down his incredible size, he lets every drop of his drivelling precum get sucked dry by your cute cunt. “Feels good riding your m-most loyal knight? Feels good making such a mess of me—oh?”
“It does.” You’re so stupid on his cock by now that you simply have to confess. “I—fuck, I must be true- it does.”
“Good.” Spittle drools down one edge of his lips. Choso Kamo wanted to be used.
He wasn’t letting you even bounce your hips away for a mere millisecond- always chasing the back of your pussy with his cockhead. He hisses, “Feels good just- fuck, being fucked by the very man sworn to protect you, hm? Feels good knowing that all those years I’ve wanted this- all this time, I’ve imagined it like some pervert—” Choso casts a glance around the grand room, “All the nights I was here. All the days I spent watching you. Feels good knowing that I would’ve died just for a taste of your sweet cunt, huh?”
Thumb faster n’ faster on your clit.
“Feels good knowing that I shan’t ever in this life, nor any others, even so much as look at another?”
And another one of his rugged hands lifts up from your thighs to cup your cheek - he lets you hold your own chasing your high. Slurping and swallowing his fat cock between your legs intensely, as Choso wipes away a stray tear cascading down your cheek.
“Feels good knowing that you have bewitched me—you and this damn- pretty pussy.”
“Yes-” You’re whimpering out loud enough for it to echo across these four gilded walls. Your mind being a complete mess. “Yes, yes, yes—and I’m gonna…”
“Fuck.”
He’s feeling it before you do once you finally crash into your high.
It’s your second of the night, and just because you’re slightly overstimulated from it doesn’t mean that Choso’s about to slow down. Instead, he’s drilling into you with achingly needy strikes - all vicious pumps against the spot of your nerves, and then nicely sliding down the back of your cervix. Over and over.
A long overarching wave of your orgasm- “Ch-Choso.” One that leaves your body limp and helpless to the way he crushes you against his beating chest. “Need you to cum inside, Choso.”
You’re pleasing up at him in a way that’s irresistible.
“Let your climax at least settle, impatient princess.” He’s lightly chuckling. Increasing his ministrations on your poor clit - only elongating your zaps of pleasure.
Until he seemed to be numbing your body completely with so many sensations, all bubbling through your veins and pouring out in the form of your sweetened slick. “But I want it.” You huff. “What if that was an order?”
“Oh, you really are my spoiled princess. Even after I’ve already given you m-my cock and two orgasms…and my heart.” He’s echoing out in a parched tone. Increasing and increasing the sheer amount of pleasure he was giving you - until it you’re been fucked considerably past the twinges of your high.
Straight into another.
And it seemed to be exactly what Choso was waiting for- before he’s throwing his head back and cumming right in unison with you. “Fuuuuck- take it all.” Words trembling. “Take it all, my dearest princess, take it all from your knight.”
And you can feel him empty it out inside you.
His heavy balls twitching with the looong stripes of sap he was flooding out, they splosh against each of your crevices. Pumped deeper inside with every thrust. The smell of his arousal just twitches something dark and carnal within you- and you’re pushing your face into the crook of his neck. Inhaling that soft vanilla accent.
So in contrast with the pelvis slamming against yours, hard enough that his skin starts to redden. The sheer force of it is enough to make you flinch back - and enough for him to hold onto your body in any way he can and pin you down to his front.
Unable to escape, you can only whine at the way he fucks you through his high. “Oh my…” Your mouth starts to water. No novel or scandal sheet had ever described this before. “Ch-Choso you’re the best.”
And you swear that only makes him cum harder.
So much of it that it begins to trickle out of your hole almost immediately- something that Choso certainly couldn’t have.
So he swipes his thumb down from your clit and starts swabbin’ those wads back inside.
“I ache for you.” He’s whimpering out, big bulbous tears glimmering on the edges of his lashes. His pink lips jut out into what almost looks like a pout, “My dearest princess, I ache for you-” Followed by the sharp inhale of breath once he grazes over your clit once more. “-so much so that it’s leaking out.”
“I ache for you, too, Choso. So much.”
“Hah…not as much as I do for you.” As if the petering out of his ribbony white cum had ultimately brought back an inkling of his rationality again. “Though for a lowly knight to be so forward-”
You’re leaning down and wiping away the tears from his handsome cheeks. “Choso…you would never be undeserving of me.” It’s the firm tone that makes him freeze, snapping his head to you with sheeny eyes. “In fact, I could argue that it is I who does not deserve y-”
Choso doesn’t let you finish that sentence.
He’s kissing you long and sound.
And as he smiles against your lips, you decide that you have a long conversation to be had with your father at daybreak.
As heir to the throne.
.
.
.
There is a celebration in the bejeweled chapel that morning.
Though not of a wedding, rather…a coronation.
With the promise of a wedding.
And as you sit upon your velvet throne, the crown jewels balanced heavily on your head and your hands, you feel the folded-up piece of paper tucked away in your locket. Humming.
You catch Choso’s eye, closest amongst the row of knights at attention.
You wink.
He smiles.
Yuji shoots you a thumbs up.
Yaga watches the scene and smiles a slight smile.
Shoko could not have looked more smug.
And Naoya? Though the Zenin family was happy to attend, one such prince was pointedly not invited. Nor would he be claiming any thrones any time soon.
As the ceremony continues, the letter pulses with delight-
“My dearest princess,
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Your dearest knight.”
.
.
.
Dearest gentle reader,
Church bells are a-toll—though not for a royal wedding (though be patient, and we shall see the very same soon)—for it’s a royal coronation!
Her Highness, the princess, both shocked and scandalized the Ton at the Royal Diamond Ball last night by attending to her first dance with none other than…her personal knight. Yes, Sir Choso Kamo was chosen personally by the daring royal to be the gentleman that sweeps her off of her feet (on the dance floor).
And query any ogling noble at the ball that night, and should they find the time between plucking the flies out of their mouth, then all shall confirm that the young couple was rather…scandalously close. Though keeping to his hands confined to places the Ton would approve of, it was rather evident that the way the princess and her knight looked at each other was ripped straight from a fairy tale. The romance!
And just as any good fairy tale should have an obvious villain, this writer’s insiders claim that Prince Naoya Zenin was certainly not happy with the incident.
Though you must forgive this dear writer if my memory of such dudgeon royal guests is far from perfect. For I was far too occupied with the later…disappearance of Her Highness.
And most conveniently, her knight, as well.
The princess was most certainly not present as she was dubbed the Diamond of the season, nor would she have been able to keep her eyes (or hand) away from Sir Choso long enough to notice. You read that right, dear reader, the Ton has positively been fanning themselves all morning at the juicy details being whispered down palace halls.
My trusted sources claim that the princess and her knight had been locked up in her royal bed chambers…all night. And though the contents of what they may have gotten up to inside this chamber is all speculation, late-night patrol down the palace halls claim they heard the most…peculiar noises emanating from the princess’s bedroom.
All. Night. Long.
Though, of course, Her Highness’s ultimate return to the ball long past the Diamond announcement is a source of many rumors—this eagle-eyed writer would like to point out something else entirely.
Bite marks. Unsteady gait.
Glowing.
Perhaps all coincidence, of course, that Sir Choso Kamo had donned his knight’s armor and hidden any of his own marks from view. It is undeniable that the princess had been carrying evidence of a knight—my apologies, I meant night well-spent!
And perhaps most damning of all might be the fact that - after a terse discussion with His Majesty, the King, as my sources say - an announcement was made at the very cusp end of the ball.
Of the princess’s coronation as Queen tomorrow, and of Sir Choso Kamo’s induction as King Consort. He shall henceforth and forevermore be known as King Consort Choso Kamo, Duke of Kamo Estate.
And lastly, of a summer wedding, due on the horizon. (Sources also claim something else due…a bundle of joy perhaps between the young couple.)
But that is enough of speculation—oh, what was that?
I can hear your cries, gentle reader, I can hear them! Worry not, this writer is yet to forget a single detail of the most succulent gossip from the Ton - I already foresee your queries about what happened to Her Majesty’s secret admirer then.
I believe you shall be delighted to know that my insider tells me that…the very secret admirer you speak of is now King Consort. What a romantic twist to the tale!
Now as Prince Naoya fumes and my readers rejoice, excuse me while I dry my tears and pick out my best summer arrangements for this royal wedding—for you know that this writer must always be on the scene!
We wish the happy royal couple all the best with their preparations!
Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown.
A/N. Any guesses on who Lady Whistledown might just be??
The desert is cold at night. The West Bank of the Nile deadly silent, with a sand gripping your lifeless body. But you shall not fear death, as your mother would say. You shall not, because he will come and guide you to the afterlife. Anubis, God of the Dead, Lord of the Duat, Protector of the Desert, Jackal-Headed Lord, your – oh.
part of the Gods, Heroes, Warriors collection!
content/warnings: ancient Egypt AU, Egyptian gods, Anubis!Geto Suguru x F!Reader, he's a God OMG, oral (fem rec.), fingering, spitting, heavy breeding kink, Suguru is massive, tummy bulges, mating press, manhandling, happy ending, swearing, reader is in the afterlife lol.
WC: 7k
a/n: I'm a history girlie, so ofc I have a crush on Anubis since I saw him in an elementary school textbook. Also, Ennead may or may not be my favourite manhwa.
divider by @saradika-graphics
art by Lemon Emlyn (@lemon_emlyn) on X
Nights in Egypt came in two ways.
The East Bank of the Nile bathed in lights, quietly dimmed by the heavy darkness. The river breathed its last time, cities slowly going quiet, with the last whispers creeping up the streets. The sun rose in the East – it gave life to its people and bestowed the Godly presence. The East was a vitality, essence in itself, where life bloomed under the warmth of the sun, and prayers were listened to in the corners of the stone temples.
The West Bank of the Nile was the land of Osiris. That's where the sun set, with merciless and cold nights haunting the adventurers. The West came only with the smell of death and a journey to the underworld. When the sun set over the horizon, a vast field of unknown power was quiet under the stars. Dangerously so, grains of sand racing one another, sinking under heavy bodies of daredevils who stepped on a cursed path. There were no city walls there, only the low howling of jackals and growling wind grazing cold tombstones.
Egyptians believed in Godly presence.
The East Bank basked in life-giving force and blessed sun, the birthed children and flowing water, fertile land and boundless love. The Gods endowed their land and its people with the sun and life.
On the West Bank, cold wind followed buried bodies and heavy steps of jackals. The Gods were there – hidden under the grave sand, welcoming the realm of the dead and blessing the buried.
For Egyptians, the desert meant death.
Its merciless hands never tying anything down. The bodies barely buried before being taken away by animals under the cruel stare of the moon. Jackals could open the grave just with their paws, sinking teeth into the body on its journey to the underworld.
The Egyptians feared them.
Their yellow eyes dangerously set on the dead, claws scratching the heavy surface of sand. Jackals were masters of the night, when eerie quietness haunted the high mountains of sand and vast land going way farther than one could ever imagine.
So, they decided to turn their fear into a blessing, the Godly presence which would protect their buried bodies and guide them to the underworld. To tame fear meant turning it into a God, and pray to that God not in dread but in fortune, to guide the desert and edge of life. As the first presence welcoming you in the afterlife and weighing your life on a scale, allowing you a journey to the land of the dead.
Your journey started a few minutes ago, with cold sand hugging your exhausted body and the immense power of the desert slowly taking you away.
The moon was hanging high and low howling of jackals was somewhere there. Above the dancing wind and massive hills, where your eyes couldn't reach, already too tired to keep your eyelids open.
You remembered your mother's stories of God meeting you after death, of his yellow eyes and jackal's head, which you shouldn't fear, child. For when the time comes, he will be your guide into the underworld, where Mother Desert will embrace your body again and bury you with your people. As he protects the desert and the ones long passed, as the fair judge of the afterlife, whose kindness and power are inestimable.
You wondered whether your mother passed the test of weighing heart. You wondered whether you would pass it, with a soul burdened by the life in poverty and dreadfulness, the horrible deeds you needed to do just to keep your siblings safe.
And you never meant to get lost in the West Bank of the Nile, where no man in his right mind would wander under the heavy stare of the night and desert welcoming you with eeriness, its claws so sharp you could feel your body slowly being covered by its cold hands.
Lying on your back, with a foggy head and barely opened eyes, you heard the heavy footsteps. Paws, running your way and loose tongues drooling at the sight of your lifeless body.
The smell of death floated in the air, so pungent you wondered whether it was your sinful heart, just waiting to be taken on a scale.
The jackals were fast, and you could see them before the moon bestowed you last glance, and the ethereal coldness of the desert slipped between your fingers, almost inviting you on a new journey in the unknown.
And the darkness came together with heavy paws.
No, not only paws.
There was someone else walking behind the envoys of death. Decisive footsteps, but almost too light to hear, and low howling of jackals accompanying the stranger.
Wet noses touched your buried body – left sinfully, desecrated under the open sky, blameless in the eyes of the God of Death. The heaviness left your soul, eyes once again opening lightly towards the endless bounds of the night, but a body still too heavy to even move.
You managed to turn your head to the side, seeing the yellow eyes staring at your soul. The lulled tongues and bared teeth, spit disappearing in the sand.
Jackals weren't big, but they always travelled in a pack, and the feeling of their footsteps circling your lifeless body was enough to make your eyes close tightly.
You weren't sure what state you currently remained in – the world closed on you just a minute before, but now, the night desert sky welcomed your soul back, coldness not as unbearable as it was, sand feeling almost pleasant under your skin.
The moment you breathed, however, there was no visible puff of a small cloud floating around you as it used to.
There seemed to be no heartbeat either, just a heavy organ sitting quietly under your skin.
You felt a wet tongue on your cheek and another jakal sniffing your legs.
It was a whole herd, the wolf-like animals circling you with a peaked curiosity, as if just waiting for the order to devour your body.
But this order never came, just a quiet, almost inaudible whisper.
"Shhh, don't bother her."
And then you noticed a figure, far in the dunes. Looking almost unreal, like an oasis for a dying man, a feeling you wanted to cling to, without knowing what it was you yearned for.
When the figure came closer, you saw his long legs and muscular body. Hips, tightly wrapped in yellow–black robes, with a gold chain hanging loosely above his pelvis. His chest was bare, with only a heavy, gold necklace and a droplet-shaped Ankh spread on his chest, moving slightly with his every step. His fingers clenched around a long Was Scepter, slightly curled at the end. A heavy mask rested on his head, of a black jackal with pointed ears and yellow eyes, covering his face and ears, grazing his shoulder lightly. And long hair was black as the sky, with its ends just above the hips, scattered slightly by the West wind, howling with death and fear.
He looked like a God.
He was a God.
The man came closer, Jackal's head looking over your body, though you couldn't see his gaze. With a long Was Scapter, he chased away the wolf-like creatures, who ran away towards the boundless borders of the desert.
And then he extended his hand towards you, with gold bracelets rattling quietly as they moved.
"Come on," he whispered, with a voice warmly colling your mind. "It's time to go."
It was difficult to move a moment ago, but now, after his command, your body moved as if by itself, with your palm slowly grasping his.
When you stood, the world moved around you, but his hand never left yours, squeezing it tightly.
You could look at him closer, just now seeing how massive he was, with muscles bulging under his sun-kissed skin and a thin, gold chain spread on his chest. To meet the gaze of his Jackal's head, you needed to throw head up, till your neck went stiff, looking at the man twice taller than you. His God-deserved body turning slowly towards the unknown, directing you by the hand through the desert.
Sand pleasantly sank under your feet when you followed his heavy footsteps, and Was Scapter pushed into it with his every step.
And so you walked in a quiet, with stars following your long path to the unknown, shimmering lustrously as if whispering about your fate and his warm fingers wrapped strongly around yours. It felt so intimate, yet normal, almost like his touch lingered before on your skin, long forgotten in a dusty corner of your memory.
Raven hair flowed down his muscular back, swaying with his every step. You wished to see his face, but no God was showing their full appearance to the dead, acting only as their guides and protectors.
You wanted to ask questions, but it felt so out of place, with the silence between you two almost pleasant in its heaviness. You could enjoy this moment just for a while, before he puts you through a final trial of weighing your heart on a scale. You were the most afraid of this process, almost sure that all your doings would be heavier than a feather.
And what happens when your heart outweighs the feather?
What happens when you can no longer enter paradise?
What happens when your soul gets devoured by the monsters and stops its existence?
You looked back, but your body was long left behind, hidden somewhere in the desert's cradling arms.
"Don't worry, I will be sure to prepare it for burial," you heard a whisper, low tone disappearing somewhere between the gusts of wind.
He said it, as if reading your mind.
"My God, my family wouldn't be able to mummify it, they..."
He clearly tensed at the way you addressed him.
"I know," he stopped your explanation. "I'll be the one responsible for it."
And the only thing you could say, through your tightened throat, was a weak:
"Thank you."
Jackal's head moved slightly, as if wanting to turn back to you, but he continued to walk.
And suddenly you noticed, a large temple rising in its might in front of you, as if before covered by the night blanket and a sand dust, floating around you in slow circles.
It was massive, with candle flames dancing in the air to guide your way through slowly appearing single palms and a stone path, leading right to the entrance. It spread across the desert, and you couldn't see the end of it.
You heard heavy steps of jackals running around and saw two statues of wolf-like creatures sitting calmly in front of the temple, almost like guarding it from strangers. Their pointed ears listened to your footsteps and hitched breath, although Anubis was guiding you confidently through the unknown path towards the temple.
Its pillars high as mountains, coated in colourful paintings of jackal-headed God, his life and history. Myths you've heard as a child, and his long figure, steady guiding lost souls through the underworld.
Underworld, which in paintings seemed different. Not just paintings, the stories you've heard, too. Duat was a vast land filled with danger, untamed monsters and demons, needing to navigate it with spells and Anubis's guidance. Before facing the final judgment of the weighted heart, every soul, together with pharaohs, needed to pass Duat. So you naturally also prepared yourself for the dangerous journey, the spells from the Book of the Dead already pinned somewhere in your memory, back from the early teenage years.
So why weren't you there?
Why were you standing in front of Anubis's temple, warm and safe, with the only danger you could think of in the form of Jackals?
But you were already dead, so even these creatures wouldn't be interested in hurting your soul.
You turned, seeing him standing right next to you in silence, following your every glance.
He was still holding your hand, his warm touch never leaving your skin.
You were tempted to finally ask, although it was difficult to assess his temper, covered under the heavy mask, down to his shoulders.
"My God, why–" you started, but your voice suddenly stuck in throat. So you tried once again. "Why am I here? Aren't we supposed to go through Duat?"
He stared at you silently, his mask making you feel as if you were talking to yourself.
For a moment, he didn't react at all, just standing close enough for you to feel the heat of his body. But then he turned around and followed inside the temple.
"I–"
"Do you want to go to Duat?" he interrupted you.
He guided you inside, right to the massive chamber, with walls filled with his portraits and stories up and down. Multiple candles lighted your path, reflecting the gold elements inside, making the place deserved of the Godly presence.
"I thought we must–" you started, but he interrupted you once again, this time more sharply.
"Do you want to go to Duat?"
Was it already a trial?
Was there a wrong answer to this question?
Of course, you didn't want to wander around the unbounded land filled with dangers, but if this is what you needed to do, to get into paradise, then–
"No," you whispered, looking down at your bare feet.
He knew the temple like the palm of his hand, guiding you through its long corridors and chambers. All of them flowing with gold and riches, one room more lavish than another, inviting you with their soft cushions and plush carpets, hugging cold, stone walls.
But then, you finally stopped, a chamber skimmed in darkness, with just a few candles scattered here and there. The biggest difference, however, was the massive bed, with a canopy made of flowing material, delicate as silk, covering it lightly from the prying eyes. The cushions decorated the floor, with a window, or rather just a lack of a wall, with a view of the borderless desert under the night sky.
You didn't know which floor you were on; however, you've never seen the desert from this height, so beautiful in its cruelty, you almost wanted to gladly give yourself to its hands.
The chamber was, nevertheless, warm, with a small fire sizzling shyly in the corner. Though you were dead already, and no mortal problems such as coldness could touch you no more.
The man turned to you once again, his massive figure covering the moonlight creeping inside the chamber.
"My God, why am I here?" you asked him warmly, feeling how his hand tightened on yours. "I should go through the judg–"
"You don't have to," he answered quickly, almost on one breath.
You looked at him in silence, with your chest tightening. Confusion bloomed on your face, and wind light as a feather crept inside the chamber, moving his hair slightly.
"My God, what do you–"
But his body tensed. Warm hands embraced yours, rubbing your knuckles in small circles, as his yellow eyes fixed on your face.
"Don't call me that," he whispered, almost painfully, dropping his head. "Do you not recognise me, my love?"
Your soft lips suddenly parted, a pink blush covering your burning cheeks, when you heard the way he addressed you.
He took a step closer, looking down at you as if in expectancy. An answer that would satisfy him the most, but one which you did not possess.
"My God, I'm sorry, but–"
You noticed he had a habit of not listening to you fully, too impatient to let you prolong this tension.
So his next request startled you even more.
"Take it off," he asked, kneeling in front of you.
Never in your dreams would you even think of a God kneeling in front of a mortal.
His presence alone was overwhelming, as if knocking the breath out of you and straining the nervous system in every wrong way.
Golden hoops were almost bursting on his muscular arms, slowly embracing your body. You gasped when he looped his arms around your hips, bringing you closer. This time, jackal's head looked at you from below, black ears almost touching your chin and yellow eyes just waiting for your next move.
Chill run through your spine, seeing a God himself in such an innocent, almost humiliating position, for a simple woman.
"Please, take it off, my love," he repeated, and the only thing you could do was to grant his wish.
The mask was smooth under your skin and lighter than it looked. You took it off slowly, careful of the long, gold earrings hanging from his ears and a few strands of hair, getting tangled in a black veil, covering both sides of the mask.
And then.
Oh.
And then your knees almost went weak. A weird part of your memory, closed a long time ago, suddenly opened, all dusty and forgotten, but nevertheless there.
So precious, you couldn't believe you still remembered it after your death.
As before, while your heart was still pumping with warmth, when you could still hear the laughter of your siblings and your mother's nagging voice, the feel of the heavenly Nile on your skin and the sun blessing your skin with long kisses, he was there.
And he was yours.
He was yours since you remembered.
Since you were a child, wandering alone near the river banks, with the waters so calm they didn't pose any danger. Some boats were floating quietly, the sizzling heat mercilessly warming your skin, although your legs dipped in water gave you a bit of pleasure.
You hid among the long grasses, in the corner only you knew of, quiet and peaceful, with a bustling city left far behind you.
You were lonely as a child, with your siblings still too small to keep you company, and your mother always too busy with them. Your father was somewhere there, always working, seldom home, barely keeping poverty from haunting your doorstep.
And when your mother would send you to fetch water and do some small errands, you would come here.
Alone.
Well, maybe not entirely.
You would look at him, casting shy glances at the boy nearby, with his servants carefully overseeing his body dipped in water.
Not just a boy.
A Pharaoh's son – a prince himself.
And it didn't matter how secretive you thought you were, gazing at him from the long canes, fully covering your little body. It didn't matter how hard you tried to hide yourself, look at him greedily from far away – at his sad, lonely eyes, staring somewhere above the vast desert, with his beautifully smooth skin touched by goldness.
He knew you were there.
And he would wait for you in the warm evenings, when he could quietly leave the palace and meet you at the West Bank.
He was telling you about his childhood in a palace, and you would listen attentively, with glittering eyes and ears perked up to all the luxury he was swimming in.
There wasn't much to talk about as children, but you liked each other's company.
You were there for each other, two lonely souls, living in two different worlds, but somehow finding comfort in your own presence.
So it was sweet while you were children.
But then you started to grow up, and he too, with both of you glancing your way with more curiosity that made your stomach flutter, and cheeks burn under the moon.
He grew taller, broader in shoulders, his laughter deep like a Nile, raven hair right under his collarbones. Gold collars replaced the simple beds he once wore, and the weight of kohl-lined eyes carried something heavier than childhood loneliness now.
And you–
You grew sharper from hunger and labour. Your hands roughened from grinding grain, from washing linen in river water that bit at your skin. Yet when you met him in the evenings, when the sun bled red into the sand, and the whole world softened into amber, none of that mattered.
He would bring you figs wrapped in cloth, bread still warm, sometimes little trinkets stolen from lessons – an amulet chipped at the edge, a bead fallen from a noblewoman's necklace.
"For protection," he would say, putting it into your palm with a grin.
You knew it was risky. Everyone did.
A prince did not belong on the West Bank.
A prince did not sit in the dust beside a girl with no name worth carving into stone.
But he did, week after week.
And then the rumours began to spread through the city – about unrest, blood spilt in the dark corners of streets, about Pharaoh growing crueller with age.
And the prince grew quieter. His eyes wandered more often towards the unknown arms of the West Bank desert. Towards the death and low howlings, somewhere far away, above the dunes.
"I wish to take you away," he confessed once, voice barely louder than the evening wind. "Somewhere where I'm not watched. Where we could be together."
You smiled softly, the sadness creeping up your spine. It was such an innocent, teenage wish, both of you knowing never meant to come true. But nevertheless, you said:
"We are, here."
That night, he kissed your forehead, reverent, trembling. As if praying.
Not long after, the meetings stopped.
The palace gates closed tighter. Servants whispered. Soldiers marched.
And one morning, the city woke to mourning cries ripping through the air like a torn linen.
The prince was dead.
Some said it was an illness. Some, that it was the Gods. They said many things, but you know the truth lived somewhere between the boy who wanted love and a world that allowed him none.
You stood among mourners as his body was carried through the city. Wrapped in white, crowned in gold. And when your knees gave out in the dust, no one noticed. You were simply invisible to everyone else. Just not him.
So now, with the jackal's head still in your hands, you felt it again. This flame, which you thought extinguished a long time ago, together with him.
With your prince.
Your Suguru.
His eyes looked at you from below with such a deep yearning and loneliness, your skin shivered. Dark, long locks surrounded his handsome face, carved just perfectly for a God, with deep kohl lines around his almond eyes, making the deep purplish irises stand out. You put a shaking palm on his cheek, his long earrings swinging when he nestled into it with a deep breath. His skin was as soft as you remembered, with one gold ring adorning his lower lip.
"Suguru?" you whispered, your voice trembling with emotions and tears prickling in the corners of your eyes. "Is it really–"
He placed a kiss on your palm, breathing the smell of your skin.
"I waited so long, my love," he said deeply, with arms locking you in an even tighter embrace. "I was counting the suns like a madman, waiting for our meeting."
You still couldn't believe it, caressing his beautiful face, running your fingers over his straight brows and plump lips, high cheekbones, pushing them into raven hair, softly dipping under your touch.
He looked so fulfilled, as if your touch alone was satisfying all his desires. Dark eyes drinking you in as if he feared you might vanish again.
They tracked every movement of your hand, looking at your soft lips and listening gentle voice, with an intensity that made your chest ache. There was hunger in him, yes – but not the crude kind. It was the longing of centuries, of devotion stretched thin across the spheres of life and death.
"I learned patience in Duat," he murmured, his forehead resting against your chest. "I learned restraint while my heart weighed. While I watched over every soul but not you."
"How did you end up like that?" you asked, gently tracing dark corners of his eyes.
"I begged Osiris to grant me this role. He cursed me forever with life among the dead, never able to see the sun again," he confessed softly, voice breaking at the edges. "But none of this mattered, as long as I could see you again."
"And Osiris, the God of the Dead, he's–"
"Dead now."
You went silent, eyes suddenly widening with loss for words.
"Suguru, w-what do you mean? You killed... you killed a God?"
He slowly stood up, once again towering over you like a beast, with muscles bulging under the tight embrace of gold hoops.
He pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes burning with heaviness that knocked breath out of you.
"He tricked me. Never wanted me to take you back," his finger traced your slightly parted lips, thumb pressing them softly. "I didn't have any other choice. But now, I am the God of the Dead. And I decide where you spend your eternal afterlife."
You gasped, glancing between his eyes and lips, feeling a sudden surge of strange warmth between your thighs.
"And you'll stay here. As my Goddess."
𓋹 𓋹 𓋹
You couldn't quite remember how you ended up in this situation. How quickly it escalated, after Suguru swiftly lifted you up and lay on a soft bed, a baldachin surrounding your burning bodies, as your lips clashed. He kissed you hungrily, with a deep frown and quite moans escaping his lips. The kiss was wet, messy, with your hands deep in his long locks, and his massive body hanging right above you, fingers slowly untying your robes and going straight for your breasts.
"Sugu–" you moaned, feeling him pinching your nipples, exposed to his gentle touch.
A harsh contrast to the wetness building fast between your thighs, so intense you curled your fingers in his locks, instinctively pushing him down on you.
"What's the rush, love?" he grinned devilishly, looking devastatingly beautiful above you. His voice like honey to your ears.
"Please," you begged, opening your legs wide like a good girl, looking at him with teary eyes.
And, oh, something must've snapped, because the next second he ripped the robes off you, leaving you bare under the moonlight. The inside of your thighs already covered in juices, opened wide just for his touch. He pushed your bent knees right to your chest, rubbing his clothed, aching cock against your sloppy pussy.
"Never in my lifetime have I felt such hunger," he closed his eyes with a deep groan, dark robe hugging his thighs, suddenly becoming wet with droplets of his precum. He looked down between your legs and slid a thumb between your pussylips, collecting even more juices gathered in your entrance. "Dear God, I can't wait to fill you full. We're gonna create the next generation of Gods."
Before you could answer, he lowered down, and the last thing you heard, before pleasure exploded in front of your eyes, was a loud slurp of Suguru's tongue running over your folds. It was drenched in his saliva, absolutely devouring your leaking pussy, spreading your folds with his two fingers.
"Mhmmm Sugu!" the moan that escaped your lips was obscenely loud, your eyes already rolling back.
Suguru groaned, sending tremors through your folds. His tongue was filling you just right, lips sucking hard on your clit till your hips jittered, wriggling on the bed sheets.
"Ah, ah," he put his heavy hand on your stomach, just where he planned to put his heir, pushing you harder against the mattress. "Stop moving, let me enjoy my meal."
He licked everything – every spot, every fold, twisting his tongue around your clit and pushing it inside, finally putting one finger in, to scoop up even more of your juices.
"Love, y-you taste so, oh God."
He slowly rubbed his hips against the mattress, stimulating his painfully hard cock while he devoured the sweetest dessert even the palace's kitchen couldn't serve.
And when he pushed his finger fully inside, your back lifted up in a delicious arch, spreading your thighs even wider, ready and desperate to feel something else aside from his fingers.
With his nose deep in your pussy, Suguru added a second one, praising you all the way long, imagining how your tight pussy will squeeze his cock.
"A-ah Suguuu, right there!"
Your eyes crossed when his fingers hit the sweet pot, driving you absolutely mad. Pushing one hand into his locks, you started to grind your hips against his tongue, madly, desperately and disgustingly filthy, trying to reach your high, using him as your personal toy. And he couldn't enjoy it more, his hips rubbing harder against the sheets, when he felt your small hands pulling his hair lightly.
And as much as he wanted to immediately cum inside your sweet pussy, the sheer view of your bouncing tits and slightly parted lips, eyes absolutely lost in pleasure and sweet, juicy folds tasting like pure ambrosia on his tongue, made him think that he won't last long.
It was so pathetic – to see a God in such a weak state, looking at you from below with teary eyes and pure desire, with tongue plastered to your folds and brows furrowed in pleasure. His long hair stuck to his wet forehead, looking devilishly good with nose deep in your folds.
"S-Suguru, stop, b-breath," you groaned, seeing how utterly lost he was.
Oh, his face was obscenely wet with your juices, while he pumped, pumped, pumped his fingers inside you, already feeling cramps in your lower belly. You were close, and he meant to walk you right through it.
"Don't need it, I'm a fucking God," he snapped, this time putting not just a hand, but a whole meaty arm on your belly to bring you even closer. "Come on, love. Cum for me."
His fingers were abusing your spot, lips sucking the clit, brushing it with teeth and shovelling his tongue even further inside your pink hole, fluttering for him so prettily he couldn't stop looking at it, overflowing with the syrup so good he wished it was the one which poisoned his mortal body. His long fingers as if reaching for your womb, going down your fluttering walls, stroking your sweet bundle of nerves, just to get you over the edge.
You started grinding harder, blubbering under your nose and moaning like a cat in heat, with his fingers stretching your tight pussy.
"Sugu, Sugu, Sugu, here, hereee."
And it was your final moan, before a watery gush escaped your sweet pussy, drenching his face in your heavenly juices.
"That's it, go on, my good girl," he talked you through it, while your thighs wrapped tightly around his head.
And if he wasn't a massive God, manhandling you with his pure weight of muscles, maybe you would worry about accidentally strangling him. "You're doing so good, you taste so fucking good, my good fucking girl."
He held you in an absolute chokehold, with thumb and index finger pinching your clit until you squirted even more, over his lowered chest and hair, until your thighs trembled and back lifted in delicious arch.
Suguru moaned lowly, pushing his arm on your belly and with one last grind cumming right in his robes, the sole taste of your pussy making him tremble in pleasure.
"Did you just–"
But you never finished, when he once again crashed against your lips in a hungry, messy kiss, this time tasting like your cum.
"Don't worry, there's still enough to knock you up before sunrise," he whispered, and you answered with a moan, sucking on his tongue, and feeling yourself get wet once again.
You droolled when he pulled back, gazing at you with parted lips and pupils so dilated, you started to worry whether he's mind was still here with you.
And he was right, because the moment he pulled back, you saw his massive cock hard again, leaking with a precum, with wite droplets dripping smoothly down his veiny shaft. His red tip ferociously sliding up and down your plump folds, so desperately you weren't sure whether you could take him!
"Oh," you gasped when he put both of his big hands under your thighs and pushed you into a very, very mean mating press.
He looked so beautiful, truly Goldy, with bulging forearms keeping you submissively in a place, and small droplets of sweat, dripping down from his temple, through his sharp jaw and down the muscular chest, glistening under the faint flame of the fireplace.
"My God, I don't think I can–"
And this time, this name pushed him over the edge, weakening truly beastly ferocity inside him. Maybe he had something from a jackal, after all, looking hungrily at your teary eyes and winy lips, swollen from his sharp kisses, still wet from his saliva. He slowly glanced down at your bare breast and hard nipples, looking so tastefully, he couldn't wait till they would grow with milk, filling the robes he especially made for you with their plump heaviness. Your belly was breathing heavily, and the fat on your hips was making him truly crazy.
He cupped the heavy swell of your ass, pulling your puffy lips closer to his cock. He could feel your hole fluttering around nothing, and his cock just twitching at this sheer thought.
"You can, my love. I'll make it fit," he slapped his cock against your pussylips, before his head caught on your entrance. "I'm a God, there's nothing I cannot do."
And before you could fight, he pushed your thighs closer to your chest, ass almost in the air, while he sank his pulsing cock inside, so big and heavy, almost ripping you apart.
You moaned loudly, with stars already fluttering in front of your eyes.
But Suguru stayed quiet.
Too quiet.
And when you looked closer, you saw this mountain of muscles trembling slightly, his lips parted in an o, and brows furrowed, face flushed, as if he was restraining himself. As if your walls were clamping on him so hard, so raw, he needed a minute to not cum immediately deep into your warm womb.
"Mhgm Sugu–"
But when he opened his eyes, you shut up.
Oh.
Oh, well, you weren't going to make it out alive today.
Because he suddenly pushed, hard, raw, so obscenely rough the breath was knocked out of your chest. He moulded your hole to his size, pink walls catching on him almost like a glue and never allowing him to leave your sweet pussy, pumping, pumping, pumping his heavy shaft with pure passion.
"M-my love, oh God," he threw his head back, allowing you to lurk at his glistening neck and collarbones, hugged with a heavy gold necklace. "Your pussy's so greedy, mmm, makes me wanna make you a Goddess right here and there."
But you could just nod stupidly, with eyes rolling back and soft gasps leaving your parted lips. You could feel your cheeks getting wet with tears, when he placed his hand on your lower belly.
"Do you feel it, my love?" he asked, pushing his cock even rougher, fuller, his balls touching your ass. He pressed his hand around your tummy, bulging with his cock. "I've always dreamed of it, my love. You have no idea, ahhh, how often I imagined ravishing your sweet pussy."
He bent over, slowly licking tears from your flushed cheeks and then kissing you hungrily. He was devouring all the gasps escaping your lips, before he licked your lower lips, and the chin, cheeks, small curve of the nose, and your ears, groaning when you squeezed around him.
He was truly like a jackal, like a dog in a heat, licking and panting, filling every corner of your pussy up till your womb, up till your lower belly looked almost pregnant, so full of his heavy, leaking cock.
Gold earrings swayed with his every move, golden bracelets on his wrists clacking softly, when he pushed your thighs even closer to your chest, crushing you with a heavy mass of his muscles.
"Sugu, yes yes yes yes," you mawled, curling your toes, his cock making your head spin. "I-I'm almost, ngh, I can't, why you're so biiiiiig."
You rolled your eyes when he laughed with audacity and kissed your cervix with the head of his cock. He pulled back, only to look down at your hottishly, pink pussy, gripping his cock, as if waiting for him to breed her fully. He opened your pussy lips with two fingers, spitting on your clit with a devilish grin.
"She's not complaining," he chuckled, but the next second, you clenched on him so hard, his breath came out almost ragged. "M-my love, d-don't, ngh–"
And you felt so satisfied, seeing how easy to tame he was.
A God of the Dead himself, fucking you raw like a madman, manhandling in the meanest ways, only to glance at you with teary eyes the moment he felt your gummy walls clamping down on his cock.
"It feels so good, my love, so fucking good," he groaned, deciding to continue the abuse of your cervix, kissing, scratching and pushing it back with his reddened tip, until you felt a tingle in your womb. "I've never thought it would be like this. How many children do you want, hm?" he bent down again, catching your wet cheeks with his hand. "How many, my love? Six, seven? I'll be filling this pretty pussy till you wish."
But the only thing you can do is to cry out his name, feeling him growing feral, rougher, watching you madly in love, the way you arched your back and looked at him beggingly.
"Sugu, mhmmmm, as many as you want, as many as you want, j-just p-please let me–"
"I'll make you Goddess of the Sun, fuck–I'll kill that, ngh, fucker–I'll make you next Goddess of Egypt," he groaned right to your ear, but you couldn't do anything aside from feeling your legs shake, his hips slamming with each thrust.
His massive body pressed you once again, as if he knew how much pleasure you took from this, his veiny forearms crushing your thighs, pushing you in a stable mating press, not even a droplet of your juice escaping from your pussy, with his cock blocking the entrance as if glued to your walls.
"Tell me how you feel, love, go on," his hips rolling faster, rougher, feeling you getting closer and closer, with belly coiling with warmth.
"So gooood, so good, good–God!"
And then you gave him last, hard sweeze, your final warning before a broken moan spilt from your lips, with pussy trying to milk him dry, clenching and squirting all over his abomend and pulsing cock.
"S-shit–my love–take it, mhmmm, you'll be dripping with my cum, ah," his voice broke, when he slammed harder, one last time, his head bullying its way right through your clenching walls, spilling thick, hot ropes right into your womb. "I can't fucking–fuck–please m-marry me, please please please."
He ripped your pussy raw, pulsing inside you till you felt his warm cum coiling in your belly. He moaned so pitifully, licking, biting and peppering your face with kisses, his mind far too gone, just drowning in the pleasure of your sweet, clenching walls.
And then, he finally kissed your wet forehead, and put his mass carefully on your tired body, crushing you slightly, while he hid his face in your neck. His cock was still inside, rutting small, weak thrusts, just to keep the cum inside.
After a second, when you managed to control your ragged breath and trembling legs, you ran your fingers through his tangled hair, long cascades spilling all over your breast. And placed a weak kiss on his forehead, humming quietly until you felt his shallow breath.
"I don't want to be a Sun God," you whispered, feeling his body slightly move. "I just want to stay with you, here. I don't mind the darkness and the desert. I only wish to follow my God."
He raised his head. With a gaze full of love, he cupped your face, kissing you slowly, gently, with a pure, pure devotion.
"And he shall grant your wish."
That was something, I hope you liked it! Julius Cesar Gojo next LMAO
edit: since so many of you liked it, tag list is open! <3
𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒. fem!Reader, bastard!Sukuna, historial AU - regency era, somewhat enemies to lovers, banter, ballroom dancing, eventual smut [MDNI], dubcon, table séx, exhibitiönism, semi-public séx, nīpple play, fīngering, loss of vīrginity, jealousy, carriage séx, riding, pörn w/ plot
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. nearly 16k (yikes)
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. sighhhhhh, this took way too long, but im a nerd for jane austen novels and the regency period, so im going to make you a nerd for it, too. available on ao3
“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.” — Pride & Prejudice
Whether you liked it or not—or, well, that didn’t matter, really; you had no choice—you had connections. Plenty of them.
You were the firstborn and only child to a renowned lawyer and his wife—whom you called your parents. Your birth was one of necessity, not out of love and want. Most of your mother and father’s siblings constantly pressured them into conceiving—in order to extend the bloodline, they explained—and so they were coerced into a sense of rushing and urgency. This, however, didn’t diminish any of their affection towards you; you were, after all, their only child, their eldest child, and their most beloved child.
“Wealthy” was quite the understatement when it came to describing your family tree. You were rich in prosperity and success, physically and mentally. Your parents cherished you as their only offspring, gave you only the finest governess, and treated you as more of an equal than a baby. That proved not a problem—seeing as how vast your then and current knowledge was compared to those of average salary.
Being an only child may have been quite out of the ordinary in the present times, but the number of relatives you had was abundant enough that you often felt it was really the opposite.
Your grandparents seemed to have a lot of fun back then, because, each of your parents had at least five siblings, which resulted in a little more than ten aunts and uncles when grouped together. This was, however, not as jolly as it may seem. Your aunts and uncles were all old, had even more children than your grandparents, and loved, loved, loved, critiquing others. They tipped their hats at you when greeting, kissed your cheeks and the backs of your hands, but, regardless, they never failed to mention at least one of your faults and flaws.
In addition to this, you had cousins galore. On your mother’s side was a bit fewer than thirty, while your father’s side consisted of two and twenty. It may be a given, it may be not, but you weren’t as close with your cousins as most would normally be. Sending and receiving letters was seldom exchanged, and meeting at balls and dinners was probably the only times you ever conversed with a cousin or two. Well, except for Charlotte and Helena.
Where could you even begin when describing those two? you often laughed.
They were twins, and would look exactly the same if it wasn’t for the fact that Charlotte had blonde curls that she frequently let down, while Helena often wore a brunette updo atop her head. Since birth, they had been inseparable, and most people usually referred to them as a pair, saying things such as Where are the girls? or Are the girls attending? It was great, really. In truth—concise, and full truth—you loved the girls just as if they were your own sisters; and, sometimes it seemed that way.
You three always read together when the men went shooting birds, gossiped about the townspeople, and often matched your dresses, ribbons, and gloves to each other at balls and other gatherings of the like. Maybe it was due to your compatibility, but if you had to call anyone your best friend, it would have to be the girls.
They were both two years your juniors, but it was a commonly known fact that Charlotte was as intelligent as someone ten years your senior. She pored over literature all day, bent over desks examining records, and was always the one to come to when in need of rational advice. Helena, on the other hand, was a bright girl, but she certainly wasn’t a scholar; her strong suit was her humor and charm. She made acquaintances like no other, and had an almost endless amount of suitors and beaus asking for her hand.
But, if that wasn’t the case, she would definitely still have an equal amount of friends. Maybe even the whole population of Wadsworth, if Helena wanted. But, really, that would not be much wanted.
The men and women of Wadsworth were numerous, but they were all prickly in their own ways. You often liked to joke that the countryside of Wadsworth was really just one big rose bush; most people were thorns in the sides, while, if you looked deep, there were plenty of roses, as well. Now, you didn’t hate attending balls, per se, but, the main reason keeping you away was that the men knew not how to dance at all, tripped over others’ feet and shoes, and their vocabulary—oh, lord, their vocabulary. It would be much pleasanter if you didn’t even begin on that topic.
Wadsworth was not small—big enough to fit everyone without being too congested—and it laid up north, where the weather was nice all of twelve-month. The grass was always green, and healthy, and the hefty trees provided shade that was more than needed. It was beautiful, absolutely beautiful, and if it wasn’t the people that lured in tourists, it would have to be the scenery and landscaping.
Aside from the actual land, the properties, the estates, and the manors were all also a sight to behold. Wealthy were your neighbors, and your aunts, and your uncles, and the other ladies and the other sirs. Abodes were more grand than not—all at least two stories—had beautiful shrubbery and quite talented gardeners, large windows, and ornate carriages.
The people who filled these properties all had a profuse liking to dancing, and balls were held most frequently. Sometimes at Stratford House—where the girls resided, sometimes at Grantley Hall—the home of another aunt you had, and sometimes somewhere else. You, however, resided in Blackwood Park with your mother and father. It was a luxurious abode; your governess was as knowledgeable as can be, and the staff were all as kind-hearted as to be expected. You had bookshelves all to yourself, and read to your heart’s content whenever you felt the need to decline an invitation to a social gathering.
Prosperous—was your life.
In the middle of drinking tea—another activity you took up with your cousins—a commotion started up in the streets outside.
All ladies of the town were absolutely, or, at least, nearly under a spell, as they all scrambled to their windows at the sound of hooves and neighing; they went to great lengths such as even peeking behind shutters and curtains, just to attempt even merely a glimpse at the two wealthy—and, if you did say yourself, dashingly dressed—gentlemen that had arrived on their grand steeds; of all their grandeur were individual breeds of andalusian and shire.
It was, without a doubt, quite the sight to behold on a previously seemingly ordinary Tuesday morning. And, you weren’t at all surprised at the idea of any of your family screaming at the chance of possible suitors for either you or their children.
“Oh my!” gasped Helena, as she set down her tea cup, and hurried to look through the windows of Blackwood. “Pray, do you think the gentlemen are married?”
“I would think so,” sighed Charlotte; “any person who looks like that ought to have ladies lining up at his door, wouldn’t you agree it is so?”
The blonde turned to you with an expectant look on her face, and you hesitated for an answer. “If they are as handsome as they are dressed, then, maybe. I have not a good look at their faces from this angle.”
“Oh, dear cousin!” cried the girls simultaneously. They were—if you could even call it that way—heavily dejected at the sound of your declaration. It was rational, though, and that’s why they were so clearly affected; if the men were both handsome and wealthy, it was highly plausible that they were with wives, and any possibility of either of the girls being able to flirt with the gentlemen was thus thrown out of the window.
Laughing, you tried your best to console the girls, and patted each of them on the head, before making your way towards the nearest window. This change gave you a way better opportunity to see the men than you had previously thought. Yes, there were two of them, and yes, they were both as handsome as they were dressed—though you would never admit such a thing aloud.
Because they were both on their horses, you could not see who was taller, but you knew that the distinction between them both was crystal clear; their heads were both full of unnaturally colored hair.
There was one gentleman with hair white as snow, and eyes blue as the vast sea; he wore expensive, lavish clothing, and held himself up with confident poise—much like a prince would. The other gentleman had pink, rosy hair, that was of a ruly style—maybe it was unbrushed, you thought. But the first thing you noticed about him was the evident scowl on his face; he looked like the embodiment of a thunderstorm. Beautiful, but formidable.
Subconsciously, throughout your admiring of the wealthy men, you had been pushing the curtains back inch by inch, until, the white-haired man had seemingly taken notice of your observing, and looked up at your figure with an amused expression, before turning to his friend and pointing at you. With a surprised squeak, you pulled back the curtains and hid yourself before the gentlemen could get another look at you (or so you hoped).
“Why on earth did you close the curtains?” the girls cried, again, after noticing—through their misery—that the sight of the men was gone. “Just because they may be possibly married does not mean we cannot admire them all the same.”
“You think so?” you laughed.
“Well, certainly!” nodded Helena, profusely. “We could always just stand in corners of rooms, silently admiring their countenances. Aren’t I correct, sister?”
Charlotte turned to you with an optimistic smile. “Why, yes, you are! You must know, cousin, we are perfectly capable of keeping our mouths shut of flirtatious compliments when we are near married men. You must know.”
“What a nice thing to know, Lottie. But, we have yet to confirm whether the gentlemen are married or not—”
“Oh! bless me! I truly must’ve forgotten that part,” Helena said, as she squealed and kicked her legs back and forth. She was over the moon at hearing the—still unconfirmed—possibility that the men might be single. “Charlotte, sister, can you believe it? Either one or the both of us may be married by next spring!”
“Oh, cousin,” cried Charlotte, as she took your hands into her own, “this is such a wonderful Tuesday morning—”
In the middle of her exclamations of joy, Charlotte was interrupted by the calling of your maid-servant, who announced there was company at the door. Now, you were just seconds away from being informed of who it was, but the girls just couldn’t contain their anticipation, and before your maid-servant could get but another word out, the twins were flying down the stairs with high and hopeful spirits—the tea party completely forgotten.
“Who, in heaven’s name, could it be?” wondered Helena, as she took you by the arm and dragged the both of you downstairs.
“It must, indubitably, be the fine gentlemen,” declared Charlotte. “How could it not?”
But, upon opening the doors, it was indubitably not the fine gentlemen.
Your aunt—Lady Annesley; not to be mistaken as the mother of the girls—was standing outside Blackwood Park. She was widowed six or seven years ago, you couldn’t exactly recall the date; and she resided in a quite grand abode, called the Grantley Hall. She appeared with an anxious look on her face; but after seeing you open the doors, she hurried herself inside with a jolly, merry laugh.
“Oh, girls! All three of you! I have such wonderful news, such wonderful news, indeed.” She kissed each and every one of you on the cheek, and gathered you all into a tight hug; because she was a touchy person like that, but also because she had not seen one of your faces since her temporary departure to Brighton.
“Oh, Lady Annesley!” exclaimed Helena. “Do tell us about your vacation and trip. Did you see any officers and soldiers there?”
“How about the views? Were the waters and beaches pristine?” Charlotte chipped in.
“Oh, yes!” Lady Annesley simultaneously laughed and nodded like a mad woman. “Yes, yes, yes! My word, it was absolutely lovely, and the weather was just extraordinary; I shall certainly take you all there one day, but . . . that is not important in the present time. You know, Helena, I did make some rather pleasant acquaintances with some Admirals and Lieutenants while at the seashore, and I’ve come with some extra company.”
You raised a brow, intrigued. “Are you to remarry?”
Gasps erupted from the lady and the blonde.
“Nonsense. Why, in heaven’s name, would I do that? No, no, the company is not that. You see, girls, the soldiers and officers that I had such a miraculous opportunity to befriend in Brighton have come back with me. Their military regiment is temporarily stationed here in Wadsworth! Can you believe that? When I was informed by Admiral Dawson, I was rendered speechless for a few minutes, you must know. But, ah, that is long forgotten now.
“There must be a ball hosted soon. It shall be at Grantley, I suppose, but a few arrangements will have to be taken care of before then.” Lady Annesley began to quietly murmur to herself afterwards, droning on about plans required to host a proper ball for so many residents of Wadsworth in addition to the many officers and soldiers.
The girls turned to face you with ecstatic expressions as your aunt fell into a subconscious silence.
“Isn’t this just a wonderful Tuesday morning?” asked Helena. “So many possibly unmarried men to gawk at and admire. How do you reckon, cousin, do you think men hardened by weather and work will be more handsome than gentlemen? I am quite curious, I must say.”
Charlotte answered for you. “I’m not even sure we would know. Here in Wadsworth, we’ve never seen any men of rank and occupation as of theirs, have we?”
The three of you shook your heads, shrugged, and wondered—any thought of the wealthy gentlemen was gone, and forgotten about, as Helena walked off to prepare a dress and fan for the ball, Charlotte stayed behind with Lady Annesley to speak about the scenery during her vacation, and you strode off to drink from your previously abandoned tea cup and continue eating the little French biscuits that the girls had brought along.
It was a pleasantly spent Tuesday morning, indeed. However, not much of the same could be said about the next.
You had not been an hour awake until your cousins had barged into your bedroom, and squealed and giggled as they jumped and danced around your room, exclaiming words and nonsense that your morning fog prevented understanding of.
“Oh, cousin! Do you not know? Today will perhaps be the most amazing night of our lives! Just picture it,” Helena began, pulling you out of bed and forcing you to dance with her, “a whole regiment of soldiers and officers will soon be filling Grantley Hall. The chances of any one of us being able to dance with them is highly likely, is it not? Oh! this is wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!”
“Helena, just—just wait a minute,” you said, pausing before Helena could waltz with you any more, “I have not even gotten dressed for breakfast. And the ball isn’t until evening. What are you and Charlotte so excited for? Many hours to come before the ‘most amazing night’ of our lives, you know.”
“Sister,” sighed Helena, as she turned to Charlotte, “you must certainly explain to our dearest cousin.”
Charlotte nodded. “Many hours to come are many hours to prepare. We must prepare our gowns, fans, bonnets, gloves. And, Helena, before I forget, what are we here for in the first place? to practice dancing, of course. Cousin, I’ll have you know, there is absolutely no chance I am letting you stay huddled at the pianoforte the whole night.
“Although your playing is much beloved, and appreciated, I am almost certain there will be others providing their services at the instrument. Whether you like it or not, I am forcing you to dance. If you do not waltz with any men, you will waltz with me or Helena or Lady Annesley.
“At your age of six and twenty, people worry you will end up celibate, you know.”
You hid a faint smile behind your hand. “Is this your way of looking out for me, then?”
The girls laughed, full of cheer.
Fortunately for the twins—who did not leave your side once throughout—both the morning and the afternoon had passed by with a considerable amount of speed. You three had acquired sufficient gowns for the coming evening, and had spent some time finishing up hair and obtaining jewelry and other essential cosmetics.
It had taken the strength and power of both the girls—with the additional help of Lady Annesley—to be able to force you out the doors of Blackwood Park, and consequently, shove you into the carriage parked outside.
In all honesty, you weren’t in the particular mood to go to a ball, but when your aunt has her mind set on making acquaintances, she will not let go. She often said, Oh, dear niece, think of the men you can meet! or, So many handsome men of great fortunes, or, Rough, calloused, tall; is there anything better? and other similar sayings. It certainly did not help, at all, that Charlotte and Helena only encouraged your aunt.
A husband was never one of your top priorities; dying a single woman was not as unfortunate for you as it would be for other women. You had money, you had wealth, you had prosperity. Some people wed simply for gaining rank and title, carriages and clothes, and estates and property. But you had absolutely no need for any of that. And that’s why, as you walked into Grantley Hall—after what was perhaps the longest, most boring carriage ride of your life—you did not look to see who was handsome, or agreeable, or most rich.
Instead, you looked for a chance to sit down, or, even, scurry away—from your companions, before they could force you to converse with some puny men, or rekindle your relationships with your many, many aunts and uncles.
Despite yourself, you couldn’t help your eye wandering about the property; and only then, did you notice just how many new people were in Wadsworth at this time of year. Just as your aunt had said; there were officers, soldiers, other members of militia, captains, and men of ranks you could not and did not care to recognize.
Although you weren’t as crazy as Helena and Charlotte—whom you assumed were probably in some corner, certainly already flirting with the single men they managed to find, and blushing and obsessing as wildly as lunatics—you also weren’t as prejudiced to say everyone was of absolutely terrible breeding. You saw some handsome faces, you saw some . . . not handsome faces, but, even with all this, you weren’t intrigued. No, not even in the slightest bit.
In an act of rebellion against your “kidnappers,” you were en route to the pianoforte, when you heard a voice call for you, and saw a figure stop in the middle of your way.
“Good evening, miss,” came the call—from an officer, you assumed. “Pardon my intrusion, for I am simply tempted to make an acquaintance with someone of such great countenance as yours. I almost mistook you for a princess, you know.”
He was tall, had long legs, and a fit figure. His hair was dark, and so were his eyes, which were sharp, and stared back at you with emotion you could not read. Of all men you had noticed, he was, as of late, the most handsome, and by far.
A hand was given; a kiss was placed on the back of the palm; and names were exchanged. You referred to him as Mr. Wright, and, after a few minutes spent in conversation, you deemed him a quite agreeable man, whose good breeding had gone not only into physical appearance, but also into his heart. Mr. Adam Wright had opinions similar to your own, was interested in writings you read, and preferred the entertainment of pianoforte, which you played quite often.
“How have you been liking Wadsworth, sir?” you asked, as the two of you began to make your ways to the instrument in the corner of the hall; Wright had requested to hear you play.
“Very much. Very much so, indeed. It is even more lovely than your aunt (remind me her name again, was it Lady Anne?) had previously said. I’m quite fond of the scenery, actually.”
“Oh, are you? You know, there are many paths to walk where you’ll be able to see breathtaking views, I must say. But, if you dislike walking, it’s safe to say that passing by the gardens and shrubbery of most homes is quite adequate enough.”
“No, no, there will be no need,” Wright said, shaking his head. “I find walking very enjoyable.”
You laughed. “What a coincidence; so do I!”
It was, about a second’s distance away, just before you were beginning to seat yourself at the pianoforte, that you felt another presence behind you. Thinking it was just a friend of Mr. Wright that was only planning on making conversation, you turned around with a smile already on your face, but you were met with the sight of none other than your aunt, Lady Annesley, who appeared buzzy, and a bit gone. Had people already begun to drink? you wondered.
“Dearest niece,” she started, placing a hand on your shoulder, “there are two very fine gentlemen I would like for you to meet. Come along now, child,” your aunt beckoned, but as she noticed the man standing to your right, she paused for a minute, laughed, and then continued, “you do not mind, sir? if I steal my niece away for just a moment? I assure you, there are many nice ladies in here that you can help yourself to.”
Lady Annesley waited not even a second to hear Mr. Wright’s response before she dragged you away to another part of Grantley Hall. You occasionally stumbled over your shoes due to your aunt’s unbalanced speed, and watched as the faces around you came and went in a blur whilst you traveled. Obviously, you knew prior, but you only fully realized how many people were in attendance when you caught the eyes of an old teacher—who, to be completely honest, you had not seen since last Michaelmas.
“Right this way, my dear,” your aunt said, in a sing-song tone. “I am very eager, you know, for my darling niece to make such very acceptable acquaintances tonight. Not a chance nor a second shall be missed, and, if the gentlemen have not left and juked me, they should still be right . . . here.”
Lady Annesley had stopped so abruptly in her tracks at a corner of the room that you nearly collided with her back, but, fortunately, you did not. Your eyes lifted, and met the view of two very dashingly dressed gentlemen. Brothers, you assumed, who both had equally pink hair, and wore a pair of nearly complete opposite expressions on their faces.
The taller one—who you thought was the brother—had a fine countenance, a very fine countenance, indeed. His lips were pressed in a thin line, and truly brought out the essence of his character. He had sharp features, similarly to Mr. Adam Wright; his eyes were red as the rubies on his brooch, and he looked like the epitome of wealthy and expensive and elegant. His posture was composed, confident, and totally sure of himself; his hands were folded behind his back, and his eyebrows had a slight quirk in them as he, too, looked you over as you approached.
Your eyes then wandered over to the shorter brother, who stood to the right of the taller one. His face was a near replica of the prior, but his features were softened down, a little more dull, if you could even put it that way, and his smile was perhaps the most prominent feature on his face. The youthful countenance of his was on display, and you had no doubt that either Charlotte or Helena had already set their eyes on him. On the other hand, he looked young, very young—younger than you, perchance; an air of innocence was about his figure, and his eyes shone bright as day.
Sunshine, and thunder.
Oh! that is right; you knew these men, or, at least, you knew the taller one.
A corner of your lips tugged upwards as you made the remembrance. This—this man, this great, wealthy man; you had seen him last week! Certainly! He was one of the two gentlemen who rode on their steeds into town, and as of late, you had received no additional information about them except for the fact that they were of extraordinarily good breeding and admirable poise.
Your hand was offered, received and accepted, and was kissed in greeting. Introductions were quickly exchanged, and you happened to learn that the taller gentleman was called Sukuna Ryomen, whilst his (confirmed to be) brother was named Yuuji. To your great surprise, and due to your aunt’s nosiness, you found that the both of them were unmarried, single, and unengaged.
Originally, you had hoped that that would be the end of it, and your aunt would let you be. But, of course, the universe was not on your side this evening, and you were without the ability to leave and peacefully sit at your beloved pianoforte. Instead, you stood, in a corner of Grantley Hall—under numerous chandeliers—as you were forced to exert yourself for the sake of ‘acquainting’ your being with the two brothers, who, too, looked a bit unsettled by your aunt’s coercing to continue conversation.
“Pray,” you began, “is your current companion the same gentleman from when you first arrived?”
“My brother has hair similar to what is on my own head; my previous companion—a friend—has hair white as snow,” stated Mr. Ryomen, his tone declarative. “Have you no eyes, miss? I am quite sure you are capable of answering your own question.”
You could, obviously, make out that Yuuji was, in fact, not the same man from when Mr. Ryomen first arrived at the countryside; but, you were just simply making small talk. Was the country where the brothers came from so unaccustomed to that? you wondered.
“Have you no sociability, sir? I was not informed prior that simply making small conversation was so . . . unwanted by men like you.”
“What, in heaven’s name, is the meaning for this lack of cordiality, I dare ask? Bless me!” exclaimed your aunt, a look of astonishment on her face as she scolded the three of you. “We are all here to make acquaintances, are we not? Let’s shift to another topic. Pray tell, you are here for . . . ?”
“Vacation, miss,” the younger brother smiled. “We have some friends and family living in Wadsworth, but aside from that, Sukuna is also a landowner here—in addition to his other estates (he likes a change of scenery, every once in a while, I must add). I’ve heard how nice the weather is, and decided to visit, as well.”
“Oh, yes! Most certainly!” nodded Lady Annesley. “Wadsworth is a very common tourist countryside, you must know.”
“Is it?” asked the elder brother.
“Have you no ears, sir? That is what was just said; I am quite sure you are capable of answering your own question.”
“My, is that how the ladies around here speak?” quipped Sukuna, his voice velvety, and dripping with honey as he spoke. “—To gentlemen, as well? I may have overestimated your hospitality to newcomers, or, well, vacationers.”
“Excuse her,” your aunt interjected, nervously laughing, “she’s. . . She caught a cold from the recent rain, I’m afraid. Yes, of course, the rain. Isn’t that right?” Lady Annesley nudged you by the elbow. “It’s the rain, isn’t it?”
“. . .Indeed.”
Though your aunt occasionally gave you rebuking looks for your behavior, you had paid no effort in pretending to be engaged in conversation with the brothers. She had, with all her might, tried to erect as many topics and subjects worth speaking of as possible, but to no avail. Her spirits were deflated, and Lady Annesley had concluded that if you were going to marry one day, the chances of it being with Mr. Sukuna Ryomen were close to zero.
You two sent jeering comments and jokes towards each other as if your lives depended on it, and, in truth, you couldn’t count on either of your hands how many times you rolled your eyes. You found Mr. Ryomen to be a highly disagreeable man, and, if it weren’t for his indubitably large fortune and handsome countenance, you would probably call your aunt deranged for even suggesting you mingle with him. Yuuji, his brother, on the other hand, was much agreeable, and his views and prejudices were very reasonable. Of course, the same could not be said about Sukuna.
His interests were in going a-shooting, riding on his stallions, or taking vacations to his various abodes. Yes, he had multiple, and he had no humility to hide that fact; Sukuna’s pride would take up the whole of Wadsworth and more, if it had a physical form. Of course, he had reason to be full of pride: born rich, and would, eventually, die rich. Still, does it hurt so bad to be humble? You didn’t waste your breath asking that question; you knew, after all, that Sukuna had no experience in that department.
“Are you staying long—in Wadsworth?” you asked, looking only at the younger brother. Ignorance was a petty way of spiting someone, you had to admit, but it was childish, and Sukuna was as childish as a child could possibly be.
“Ah, that is the hope,” smiled Yuuji. “I may think of purchasing land here, you know.”
“Isn’t that just wonderful to hear? I would be delighted to have someone as agreeable as you for a neighbor,” you said. “Pray, does your brother live anywhere near Blackwood Park? I heard you mention him having property here, in Wadsworth.”
“I live five miles away from Blackwood,” Sukuna answered, instead, for Yuuji.
Your eyes shifted to meet red ones, and you moved your weight onto a different leg, whilst fanning yourself with your fan. “I do not recall asking you, sir.”
Sukuna scoffed. “Is it not sensible to answer on my own behalf?”
“Perhaps so. But, I find that nothing you do is sensible,” you laughed. “So, either way, there is really no difference.”
It would be a highly plausible assumption to make by saying that Mr. Ryomen Sukuna was pampered to no end as a child, and never denied any fundamentals or trivials. If that was truly the case, then, you could have sworn you saw an unrecognizable glint flash in his ruby eyes at the sound of your constant discourtesy. Unbeknownst to you, Sukuna had, in fact, been coddled as much as you had assumed. And, just hearing his name being so mercilessly abused was already enough to intrigue him. There was, in a sense, something so alluring and bewitching about your recklessness in conversation, that Sukuna couldn’t help but long for more of the hearing your insults.
Lady Annesley, on the other hand, was extremely disappointed at your behavior, and couldn’t find any reason—no matter searching—for your incredible disdain towards the eldest of the two gentlemen. Your ridiculous bickering and bantering would only serve in embarrassing your aunt’s reputation in Wadsworth, and that was far from what Lady Annesley dreamed of. The only thing she could thank God for was that you weren’t nearly as prejudiced towards Yuuji as you were to his brother.
“Pray, how about we all dance, yes?” your aunt proposed, in faux cheerful spirits. “Shall my niece partner with the younger gentleman?”
“Oh, I’m quite afraid that could not be made possible, miss,” said Yuuji, as he offered an apologetic expression. “My leg is in incredible pain, and I must—with much embarrassment—admit to my having fallen once while riding here. I may have chosen to travel on quite a rowdy stallion, but it is only myself that I have to blame.”
With a politeness you could never aim towards Sukuna, you offered up your condolences, and, with a smile, proposed that the two of you sat down whilst the other attendees danced to their heart’s content. (If it wasn’t obvious before, you were very desperate for any excuse to avoid dancing.) But, to your dismay, Yuuji had declined sitting down, and explained that he had a few other people he was interested in speaking with before the end of the night, and, with a well mannered farewell, bid the three of you adieu.
“Well, upon my word, your parents have done a good job raising that fellow,” added Lady Annesley, a sorry expression on her face as she watched the only other pacifist in your party walk away with an uneven gait, which further proved his excuse.
“Whether that was by the work of my parents, or a governess, or something unspoken, is debatable,” the pink-haired man remarked.
“Or, perhaps, he was merely born with the admirably civil heart he has now. That is quite rare, I must say, in this time, and among these people.” You directed that last bit towards Sukuna, and it was probably pretty clear—seeing as red eyes met yours with just as much animosity soon after your little witty comment.
At first, you were merely treating Sukuna with the same omitted amount of respect he was giving you, but now, you found yourself starting to rather enjoy bullying him. It was pointless banter, after all, and you were almost certain Sukuna felt the same way. Although you felt a sense of dislike towards the man, you couldn’t help but be fond of the way he was, probably, the only other man you could banter with so lightly.
Your unconventional views and dislikes and interests often provoked strong emotion and irritation in most gentlemen, and you weren’t thought to be very agreeable. But, as for the pink-haired gentleman, he took your abusing words with little to no offense. There was the occasional annoyance displayed on his features: like a little furrow of the brow, or crinkle of the nose; but it was almost humorous—seeing as a small smile usually appeared soon after—as if he found your insults to be jokes.
After a pregnant pause, Sukuna broke the silence by saying, “Do you dance, madam?”
“Will you force me?”
“If it cannot be helped.”
You hadn’t actually thought to dance with a man like Sukuna, but upon hearing this concise exchange between her niece and hopefully future nephew-in-law, your aunt thought there was nothing better in the world than to usher the both of you to the center of Grantley Hall herself, and force you two to dance among the rest of the attendees. The orchestrated music was loud—loud enough so that little to no one could hear your protesting complaints, and Lady Annesley, smiling to herself at finally having succeeded in getting you to properly socialize, walked away in the direction of the drinks.
Looking at your aunt’s back as she walked away, you sighed; all your attempts at escaping had been fruitless, futile, and done in vain. For, whilst a pianoforte played in a ¾ time signature, you turned to face Sukuna with a sorrowful expression, but you were instead met with a contrasting smile.
“I have never danced with a lady like you before, miss,” he said, in a condescending tone, as he took your hesitant hands into his, and readied himself for a slow, smooth, elegant waltz.
Sukuna’s hands were calloused, rough, and large compared to your own; he was, certainly, a man.
A warmth spread throughout your body as you made contact with his skin, and it was almost electrifying, like nothing you had ever felt before. It’s safe to say you were expecting something else, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.
“You must not dance very often, then. I can assure you, with no doubt, that there is not much to put me aside from others.”
The two of you began to move at a languid speed, and soon caught up to the velocity of most other dancers, though, even in such a large and crowded space, you couldn’t help but feel as if it was just the two of you. The two of you dancing, the two of you talking; the two of you.
“I can name plenty of distinguishing aspects you have.”
“Is that so?” you asked.
“Indeed.”
“My, my, my, do enlighten me, Mr. Ryomen.”
“Do you mean it is not obvious?” he asked, looking into your eyes with intent.
You responded with the shaking of your head.
“Your eyes—somehow brighter than most. Your smile—infectious, even to someone such as I.” Sukuna’s words were spoken with the utmost sincerity, and you could tell, from his tone, that he meant every word he said; although it surprised you to be complimented by him, you couldn’t help the warmth that rose to your cheeks. “Your laughter—melodious to even the deaf. And you, yourself—I find you alluring.”
“. . .”
“Is your silence a sign of disbelief?”
In truth, you weren’t exactly familiar with hearing such a plethora of compliments, and, since it came from someone you could never expect it from, it made you all the more embarrassed.
“I beg your pardon, sir. You find me . . . alluring?”
“It shall be known, soon enough, that I am a man who thinks what he says. I do not say what I do not mean, miss.”
Through keeping your head down, you avoided meeting Sukuna’s eyes with all your might, but still, you could feel his penetrating gaze piercing holes through your face. Listening to the music in the background was a method you used in an attempt to calm your nerves, but all was fruitless in the end. If Sukuna had not the way of words he did now, his voice would certainly make up for it. Thick, sultry, velvety; it was absolutely ludicrous how bothered it made you, and you had to occasionally let out a cough to cover up the way you swallowed the frequent lumps in your throat.
After having settled in silence for a few counts of three, Sukuna smiled, laughing at your sudden shyness. “I have heard lots of great things about you, you must know.”
“Is—Is that so?”
“So it is,” he nodded, before continuing; “your aunt—Lady Annesley, was it?—had briefly spoken about you, in addition to her other nieces and nephews, when she first approached me and my brother.”
At this, you laughed, finally having built up the courage to meet Sukuna in the eyes. “I am concerned about what she might have had to say.”
“All good things, I assure you.”
You breathed out a sigh of relief you didn’t know you were holding, before continuing on in casual conversation. Your banter from earlier had grown severely scarce, and was evidently replaced with subtly flirtatious comments. All the while, you found yourself growing embarrassed more than ever, but over time, you had gradually worked up a familiarity towards the compliments, and felt rather at ease whilst simultaneously talking and dancing with Mr. Ryomen Sukuna—who appeared as cool and composed as per usual.
It was after the pianoforte’s playing had ended, that the crowd had disconnected from the partners, curtseyed and bowed to one another, and burst into applauds of plaudits. The room was lively, with its guests chatting and talking with delight at such a wonderful dance they had danced just moments prior. People took seconds to recollect themselves, by either grabbing glasses of water, or fanning themselves before the next waltz. You, on the other hand, had begun to make your way to the pianoforte, before you were stopped again (yes, again; why on earth was everyone so opposed to letting you play music nowadays?).
There was a nudge against the back of your elbow, and you turned around with much grace, just to be met with the same face from before.
“Could I trouble you for another round, miss?” came that velvety voice you loved so much.
It was Mr. Ryomen Sukuna, and he was with the objective of claiming yet another spot on your dance card this evening. How wonderful, just so, so very wonderful. . .
“. . .And just what type of round are we speaking of, sir?”
Sukuna’s countenance held the expression of mischief, and playful doing, as he leaned his face down closer to yours, till you couldn’t distinguish the line between your and his breath. “Whatever you’d prefer, my fair lady.”
As a smile made its way onto your face, Sukuna did just as he had done before: gathering your warm hands into his cold ones, and bringing the both of you into another waltz just as the euphonious music began again for a second time that evening. While you could never admit it aloud, as the hours passed by, you soon found yourself forgetting all about your beloved pianoforte—that could, as of late, be put off for maybe just a little longer.
***
“All we did was waltz—just like everybody else! What, in heaven’s name, is so unusual about that?”
Your cousins had called on you the next morning after the ball at Grantley, and waited not a second before asking—no, demanding—you to tell them about all that had happened whilst they were away and mingling. (Yes, you were, in fact, correct in assuming that the girls had been acquainting themselves with officers galore and other various gentlemen that same evening.) But, despite them having a most eventful evening themselves, they were, by far, more curious as to hearing about your experience.
“Yes, you waltzed,” Charlotte replied, exasperated, “we know that; we saw it! after all. But, but, but, not only did you waltz together, you waltzed together twice! Can you believe that, Helena? A wealthy—and, if I must say, handsome—gentleman claimed not one, but two spots on our very dear cousin’s dance card last evening!”
“It is oh-so wonderful!” cried Helena, absolutely overjoyed at the fact you were finally socializing for once. “But, do not forget, sister, that Mr. Ryomen Sukuna, the very man our dearest cousin danced with, also held her hands without gloves! Without gloves! Bless me! I find I shall faint if not cautious, you know.”
The girls gossiped and confabulated over yesterday’s events with much interest and engagement. They teased you, giggled at the way you waltzed with a man right after verbally abusing him, and accepted his hand twice. It seemed that they could not and would not let it go that you had danced with such a man last evening, and it seemed the only way you could get them to leave their current attentions was to mention their events and who they danced with—to which, they were most delighted to answer you.
“Shall we tell her, Lottie?” exclaimed Helena, eager to reminisce about the ball she had. “Shall we tell her?”
“Of course, of course!”
And so, with that, the minds of the girls had been successfully veered over to the subject of other men. Helena recalled chatting with several young officers, all who were, as she said, “charming, and effectively handsome, but they were, unfortunately, as taciturn as to make people assume them mute.” Helena complained about how she could only get acquainted with most officers if she was the one who spoke up first; which, in her eyes, was terribly unacceptable.
Charlotte, on the other hand, was not as extroverted as her twin sister, though, she was pretty enough so that people approached her before she had to open her mouth to anyone. She had made acquaintances with “very fine gentlemen, very fine and intellectual gentlemen, indeed,” and laughed and chatted about poetry and philosophy almost all night long. She geeked out on her favorite authors and thinkers, and her interlocutors reciprocated with their own. It was a most enjoyable night for her—seeing as most people of Wadsworth did not find such topics in conversations as pleasant as Charlotte did.
“Did you know, cousin,” began the blonde, “that such an abundance of officers read poetry?”
“Nay, I did not, but go on.”
And go on, she did. Whenever Charlotte spoke of writing and literature, she rarely even took a breath to breathe. She was like that: always very passionate about her favorite subjects, and she was rarely able to notice if the people around her had started to bore or not—but, it mattered not; Charlotte wouldn’t have stopped talking anyway, unless, by a chance, she found herself getting thirsty. Yes, she got thirsty quite often, and you often joked (all in good nature, of course) that it was due to how much she talked.
The three of you had spent the entire morning gossiping over tea and biscuits, until a maid-servant had called you all for lunch, and you all burst into quite a harmoniously-sounding fit of laughter at the realization that, throughout your chitter chatter, you had finished neither one cup of tea, nor one plate of pastries. It was a pleasantly spent morning, indeed.
That week passed by with much ease, and the next one passed by similarly. There was even one day, where, you had been met with the fortunate coincidence of crossing paths with none other than Mr. Adam Wright whilst on your daily walk outside of Blackwood Park.
“Good day, miss,” he began, in a smooth voice, “how do you do?”
“Oh! bless me; you had me startled there—for a minute, Mr. Wright. But, I am very well; I thank you.”
“I beg your finest pardon, madam,” replied he, before bowing his head ever so slightly. “I did not mean to alarm you.”
You waved your hand around in a dismissing manner. “And, to what do I owe the honor of running into you today, sir?”
“Ah, I was just admiring the views you were telling me about. You know, when we were chatting about nature and shrubbery? Yes, well, I find your suggestions to be very credible, for this is quite the place you have here, miss.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wright, very generous of you to say so.” You smiled.
“No need to thank me, I am sure you receive compliments on your home thousands upon thousands of times each day. Pray, how many acres is Blackwood Park?”
“I would assume a little above three thousand.”
“Is that so?”
“So it is,” you said, smiling. “Why the face? Do not you believe me?” you joked, seemingly in a playful mood this morning.
“I ought to walk with you around the park in order to further prove your answer.”
As you two linked arms, and began to walk around the park, surrounded by bushes and trimmed shrubbery under the shade-providing trees, you wondered if this was Mr. Wright’s attempt at flirting, or getting to know you. But, either way, you kept a smile on your face and walked, explaining the paths and routes and terrain as you did so.
“Do you walk often, miss?”
“I believe I told you that I did—at Grantley. Or have you already forgotten? I didn’t know you paid so little to a supposed princess’s words, sir.”
Mr. Wright laughed. “It was an assumption, I explained. If you shall continue to tease me on that subject, I may become humiliated, you know.”
“What if that’s my goal?”
“Then, I suppose, the ladies here in Wadsworth must be very cruel.”
The both of you turned a corner, walking a new veered path as the sun bathed you in light. You were just about to reposition your parasol to shield yourself from the blinding radiance, when, out of the blue, a hand came up to cover your eyes from above; it was discovered to be Mr. Adam Wright’s.
“Oh!” you exclaimed, heat rising to your cheeks. “I thank you, sir.”
“It is not a problem,” began the officer; “you repay me by showing me the very nice landscaping here, after all.”
“. . .Ah, I see.”
In truth, you had not been in hopes of being joined in your walk this autumn morning, and you usually preferred solitude in times like these, but, alas, you had been joined by an officer, and were now to show him the ways around Blackwood Park and the rest of Wadsworth. You would be lying if you said it didn’t bother you in the slightest. . .
The both of you walked and talked: admiring the beautiful river of Northwick, crossing the bridge above said river, speaking of the chestnuts that had fallen from deciduous trees, and laughing about the squirrels above; all of this up until lunchtime, when you two departed—you, who had arrived at Stratford House to exchange your calling card with Charlotte and Helena, and Mr. Adam Wright, who had the objective of going forth to the shops.
Upon entering Stratford, you were greeted by the sight of two very excited twins.
“Oh, cousin! You’re here!” cried Helena. “We were waiting for your call, you know.”
“Hm, well, isn’t that lovely? What were you waiting for, exactly?”
“I’m not surprised you weren’t informed as of late; it was very last minute,” began Charlotte, “but, we were invited to Kendall Manor, actually. All three of us!” The blonde gestured to you, herself, and her sister.
“Kendall?” you repeated, raising your eyebrows. “Well, color me intrigued, then.”
Kendall Manor was a very envied spot in Wadsworth. With many beautiful arts there, it was a very famous spot for tourists to visit; you had even been there once or twice, whilst paying respects to its multitude of pianofortes and large collection of literature. Outside, it had high walls, lakes, an abundance of land, and various fountains throughout. The estate was known, but, in contrast, its owner was not.
For as long as you had lived, the possessor of Kendall Manor had never been present in Wadsworth. Not much information was of him, whoever he was, but the one piece of knowledge regarding him, was that he was alive and well. Maybe in a neighboring country, maybe somewhere else, no one knew where, but everyone knew he was there. It worked out, though; if so many people were visiting and entering Kendall Manor each day, surely the owner would be bothered, but in this case, that didn’t matter; the owner wasn’t even there!
“Come, lovie,” began Charlotte, as she ushered you upstairs to a changing room; “we must make haste! The chaise and four have already been called for, and not a second can be of waste.”
You had been dressed, your hair done, and your face painted, before you were, again, shoved into a carriage and driven off to Kendall Manor. It happened incredibly quickly, and gave you whiplash all the while.
“Do you two happen to know who specifically invited us lot?” you asked. “I wasn’t familiar with the fact that the owner of Kendall Manor was in the country; was it the doing of a servant? Or was the manor let?”
“Dear cousin, you worry too much,” laughed Helena. “We should instead rejoice at the opportunity of another party; we are bound to have a ball, after all. Why does the host matter?”
You grumbled, and sat silent for the rest of the ride. It was strange; why now? Why did the owner of Kendall decide to come home now? And, why on earth did he invite you and the girls? As far as you were concerned, you had no acquaintance with him, whoever he was, and neither did your family or any other relations you had.
Whilst basking in your confusion and wonder, the horses had come to a stop outside of a quite magnificent abode, and you instantly knew that this was Kendall Manor. Four or five thousand acres of land, under the blazing sun. Beautiful, vast, and plagued with mystery.
The three of you were taken up the stairs, and led inside by a valet, where you were greeted with the even more surprising sight of the rest of your family: some aunts and uncles, Lady Annesley, and others you did not care to name. If that wasn’t enough to make your jaw drop, you noticed half (if not all) of Wadsworth residents and even a few familiar faces of officers from the regiment temporarily stationed in the countryside; but, try as you might, your eyes could not set upon the countenance of Mr. Adam Wright—who was, probably, out at the shops, and alone.
What was this? Why was everyone here?
“Forgive my lack of planning prior,” began a velvety voice you knew well; and when you turned to the sound of that voice, you were met with the face of Mr. Ryomen Sukuna, standing next to his brother. “Welcome, all, to Kendall Manor.”
It was quickly explained that this was a party, in celebration of Mr. Ryomen, who had finally returned to his home country of Wadsworth, and was planning on staying for longer than he had been gone. He wanted to make acquaintances with all the people he would’ve known had he been here instead of at all his other estates and properties.
The guests were introduced to a large variety of pastries and biscuits and drinks and other desserts from the other counties Sukuna had been staying at previously. People asked him about what his other homes were like: if they were much different from Kendall of Wadsworth, and he—with his usual disagreeableness—did not even try to act humble as he described his very prosperous and fortunate self.
There were many ladies of Wadsworth that were single, and none of them wasted any chance in practically throwing themselves at the owner of the manor. In addition, Charlotte and Helena, once standing beside you, were now off and talking with a number of officers, having a very pleasant afternoon themselves.
You, on the other hand, were not much interested in speaking about subjects such as these, and, accompanied by very few people, walked into a nearby drawing room. Though you were not much of a card-player yourself, it was, perhaps, the only source of entertainment you could find within the walls of Kendall (except for playing pianoforte, which the girls forbade you). A table for Whist was set up, and a party of four, including yourself, began to play.
For a few rounds, you thought you had found peace, but no, a thunderstorm had soon followed you all the way into the drawing room. Mr. Ryomen had come, and was accompanied by the other guests, who were all flocking to him like birds.
“Shall we all play a game for more of us?” began the pink-haired gentleman. He was clearly doing this on purpose; his face told you all you needed to know: he was disturbing your peace and quiet for the simple motive of being a bother.
Of course, no one could refuse the host of such a grand party, and a much larger game table was soon set up, so that many could sit down and gamble. You had the unfortunate fate of being seated between the host, and Lady Annesley; and, although you were near at least one good relative, your aunt paid minimal attention to you, for she was seated beside Admiral Dawson, whom she was grossly engaged in conversation with.
Throughout the betting game, either your or Sukuna’s seat had been gradually inching closer to the other’s, to the point your shoulders were practically touching, and so were your elbows, which occasionally bumped together, causing the both of you to mutter curses or complaints.
“Why don’t you move nearer to your brother, sir? I am sure it would be much appreciated,” you jeered, obviously fed up with the amount of hits you were receiving.
“Careful there, miss. Lying too much can be detrimental.”
“‘Lying’? Oh, please. There is no truth in my saying ‘I enjoy sitting beside you’.”
“Of course,” laughed Sukuna, in a mocking tone. “Of course, Miss Untouchable. How could I forget? you just have a problem with everyone these days.”
“. . .”
“I wasn’t at all aware, you know, that such a disagreeable woman like you existed. Though, I can’t say it was unexpected; your countenance gives quite a fair hint to everyone when looking at you.”
You rolled your eyes. “I am sure the absolute same could be said about you, sir.”
“What a coincidence!” teased Sukuna. “I was beginning to think we had nothing in common.”
Narrowing your eyes, you stabbed the heel of your shoe onto Sukuna’s, but he let out neither a curse nor a groan of pain.
Instead, Sukuna rested his arm on the back of your chair with an overwhelming grip as he leaned his face closer to yours; and you could’ve sworn you could see the red of his eyes swirling together in a mix, as if a tornado. The tips of your noses were only centimeters apart, and you couldn’t draw a line between where your breath ended and where his started even if you had to.
Your eyes met with equal resentment and agitation, as if there was a mutual message being sent from merely your locked gazes alone, but then, to your surprise, his stare drifted up to your hat.
“Various shades of blue and green, with gold as an accent,” he noted, in a slurred tone, almost as if he was drunk.
“Well, yes. Have you never seen a peacock feather?”
“Two of which are both colors on the cooler side of the color spectrum,” he continued, paying no mind to your words; “but, I must say, red would suit you much better, my darling.”
Your eyes widened at the sound of this, and your gaze fell to your fidgety hands in your laps. Still, you wasted no time in quipping, “I have no doubt I would wear the color much better than you, Mr. Ryomen Sukuna.”
“I can imagine that, but I would rather see it with my own eyes,” he said, eyes trailing back down to your lips.
“. . .”
The hand that was previously draped over the back of your chair slowly but surely made its way down, until it was draped over your hip, gripping and kneading the flesh there. Your breath caught in your throat, and you turned to face Sukuna with an incredulous expression. You mouthed the words What on earth are you doing? To which, the pink-haired man only responded with Nothing you wouldn’t want, my lady.
In order for the hand on your hip to not be visible, you had to scoot your chair as far away from Lady Annesley as you could, and press your body as close to Sukuna’s as you could possibly venture. The rest of the drawing room remained boisterous, and completely oblivious to the scandalous act you had going on with the party’s host.
As his hand lowered down to the ends of your dress, and his fingers crept up your skirt, your cheeks warmed to an extreme extent, and you tugged on Sukuna’s sleeve, desperate for something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. This was utterly humiliating! you thought. What was the meaning for this? And in the middle of a party?
His hands felt cold, and you frequently shivered as they moved at a dreadfully slow speed up your legs, before settling in between your thighs. If your face wasn’t as red as a tomato before, it surely was now. For, you had originally thought that clamping your thighs together would be the perfect plan to get Sukuna to stop his movements, but no, it made everything altogether worse. By a thousand degrees.
His hand was stuck between your thighs, and, like the bastard he was, Mr. Ryomen Sukuna thought it would be such a fun thing to move your panties aside, and put pressure on your clit, which, consequently, resulted in you having to cover your mouth with your fan, to hide and shield the whimpers that came soon after.
“Nnghh.”
His fingers then removed themselves, to which you gasped in relief, but before you could utter another word, you were interrupted by his fingers entering you once more, in a quite diligent fashion. They curled and twisted, and reached deep inside of you, but alas, you could do nothing but writhe; you couldn’t bear this predicament you had gotten yourself into being exposed to the rest of the party guests, and you couldn’t—without feeling shame—let it be known that the feeling of Sukuna’s fingers was rather pleasurable.
Your whole body’s temperature rose, and you couldn’t help the moans that left your lips. This feeling was so . . . strange; you had never felt anything like this before. So overwhelming with both pain and pleasure, and incredibly scandalous. If anyone were to find out what you were doing—never mind, you need not know.
Sukuna’s lips ghosted the shell of your ear, before whispering, “Don’t fight it.”
One finger, then two, and now three.
“F-Fight what?” you managed, between whimpers. “What are you doing?”
With your thighs still clamped together and squeezing around his hand, the pleasure of Sukuna’s fingers moving within you was highly intensified, and your expression twisted into one of embarrassing lewdness. The suddenly appeared knot in your stomach had tightened, and you had soon reached your peak only moments later, your release clinging to Sukuna’s fingers, which were still deep inside of you.
“Hahh, Sukunngh,” you moaned, eyes squeezing shut as you hid your face from other guests behind your fan.
Just as you were recovering from your body’s physical reaction and occasional jolts, Sukuna’s voice suddenly sounded in the room, and everyone and their mother turned to face him, completely unbeknownst to the fact that his hand was still in between your legs.
You didn’t hear much of what he said—your head still swimming, and your self dazed—but you managed to make out a few words, where Sukuna had explained that there were numerous hallways in Kendall that were filled from top to bottom with many famous and beautiful paintings and other art works. The guests were unsurprised by this knowledge, but nonetheless, they were greatly intrigued, and as a valet of Sukuna’s led the party out of the drawing room, Sukuna sat back down (after making sure everyone had exited) and turned to you with a smug expression—never once removing his fingers from deep within you.
“Sukuna,” you mewled, nearly going crazy at the realization that the man would probably never run out of stamina to finger you, “what are you doing?”
Whilst grinning like a mad man, Sukuna pulled you onto his lap within the blink of an eye, which resulted in your back being flush with his hard chest. Beyond shocked, you gasped, but before you could get out another word, you felt the tickling sensation of lips dragging down your clavicle and shoulders, peppering kisses on several moles and freckles you had there.
There was a growing warmth in your core, and though you writhed and wriggled in his grasps, you couldn’t help but (after a few moments) finally succumb to his touches and caresses. A sigh left your lips, and you leaned back against the body behind you.
“Sukuna, I—ahh, w-why?”
Just as you were beginning to relax, Sukuna removed his hand from between your legs and, with the assistance of his other hand, pulled the top of your dress down, leaving the bare skin of your chest revealed to the empty drawing room and cool air.
“You’re so beautiful, my lady,” he slurred, eyes glued to your exposed tits.
Without wasting a moment, Sukuna began to pull and twist and press at your nipples, which were beginning to harden at his assaults. Your back arched, and you let out an embarrassingly loud moan at the unfamiliar feeling of pleasure. This was totally erotic! you thought, though you did nothing to stop it. As your nipples were carelessly toyed with to Sukuna’s content, your body twisted and squirmed all the while, but to no avail.
As if a child playing with a new toy for the first time, Sukuna squeezed and squeezed at the wholes of your tits, admiring the way your buds pebbled at the attention they were receiving. Your legs kicked at nothing, and you thrashed around wildly; and, if things couldn’t get more lewd, you felt the sensation of a warm, wet tongue lick a stripe up your neck.
Pornographic moans, whimpers, and cries filled the empty drawing room, and you couldn’t even imagine the looks on people’s faces if they returned from the gallery early.
“Nnghh! Ah—ah—ahh! Sukuna!” You panted, delirious.
“Mmm, that’s it, sweetheart,” said Sukuna, as he kissed and nipped at your throat. “Don’t hold back; just let out all your cute little noises for me.”
The hands which groped at your breast soon paused in their assaults, and as you began to catch your breath, you felt them gradually slide down the curves of your body, all the way to your thighs, where they hiked up the material of your skirt, pulling it up to your stomach, which left your panties and dignity exposed.
“. . .Sukuna?” You blinked.
“Ha! You’ve become so wet just from my hands alone, that I think it would be no trouble at all for you to take my cock right about . . . now.”
“What—oh! Mmph!”
Apparently, Mr. Ryomen Sukuna had a major problem with cutting people off, because, just as you were about to ask what he very well meant by that, your hips were tightly gripped onto, your body was raised, and you cried out as you were soon slammed back down onto Sukuna’s cock. All the words in your throat had been swallowed, and your brain turned to mush as you felt so utterly full from his girth and length alone; it was so . . . big. You had never done anything as insane as this, and as moans and cries left your lips left and right, you couldn’t distinguish whether you felt more pain or pleasure.
Your eyes fluttered shut, and your face twisted into that of incredible lewdness; your hands gripped onto Sukuna’s biceps, and your nails dug into his muscles, surely leaving crescent-shaped marks in the way.
“Shit, gorgeous,” he groaned. “You’re so tight. Ever been fucked before?”
“Nnghh, n-no. . . No!”
“That’s. . . Fuck. You mean I’m the first one to touch you like this?”
Sukuna gripped and groped onto your tits as he spoke, before raising up your hips and slamming them back down just like before. One second, you were empty, the next, you were so impossibly full, and then so on and so forth. As Sukuna repeated this for God knows how long, you nearly passed out from the overwhelming pleasure you felt everywhere. From the calloused hands on your hips, to the length of his cock sliding in and out and up and down your walls, to the warm breath fanning your ear. It was all so much.
You had never known pleasure like this before, and you wondered if this was but a dream.
As you rolled your hips, trying desperately for more friction, you were stopped by the feeling of two hands gripping onto the meat of your hips with a strength that was sure to result in bruising the next morrow.
“Why do you move, darling?” Sukuna leaned down to whisper in your ear, and a shiver ran down your spine. “I’ve got you right where I want you.”
Whilst you bounced sensuously on his lap, Sukuna didn’t show an ounce of shame as he stared with incredible lust at the sight of your tits bouncing up and down. The tip of his cock penetrated you in places you didn’t even know existed until now, and you couldn’t help the plethora of moans that left your lips.
Just as before, the knot in your stomach tightened to an unbearable height, and with one last rough thrust, you came right on Sukuna’s cock; your bodily fluids dripping down his shaft and leaving a sticky feeling between your thighs as they dried.
“So?” began Sukuna, bringing you out of your dazed state.
In confusion, your brows knitted together. “I—I beg your pardon?”
“How was it?”
“How was . . . what?”
You could hear Sukuna scoff from behind you. “Are you that dense, my dear lady? Or have you already forgotten what we have—mind you—just done?”
“. . .I’m afraid my memory is not as sufficient as one’s might be,” you teased, despite yourself.
The corner of Sukuna’s lip quirked upwards, into a grin, as a mischievous expression made its way onto his face. “Shall we refresh your memory, then?”
“How so?”
With his cock still buried deep inside of you to the hilt, Sukuna stood up and moved your bodies in tandem until he was able to lay the top half of your body on the drawing room’s table. Your bare tits pressed up against the rough wood, and you groaned in relief as you laid the side of your face down.
Unfortunately (or fortunately) for you, Sukuna had no even the slightest idea of relaxing on his mind, and as the lids of your eyes began to droop, Sukuna woke you straight up with a hard thrust inside your cunt, which slightly shook the table and resulted in a rather unpleasant sound reverberating throughout the living space.
This, completely, caught you off guard, and the scream that left your throat was to be expected. “Ahh! I—hahh.”
Your back arched, your hair was pulled towards Sukuna, your neck soon began to ache; you saw stars as Sukuna continued his thrusts from before with more (if not the same amount of) force, and you wondered if the walls were thin enough for servants or party guests to hear you from all the way down the hall.
Maybe it was ridiculous, maybe it was not, but as Sukuna’s cock continued to fill you to the hilt, you could’ve sworn you felt him in your guts. Callings of his name, moans of gibberish, and et cetera, left your lips as if in a prayer to God. You panted, you gasped, and your breath got caught in your throat as the table rocked beneath your and Sukuna’s weight.
If not for his stable grip on your hips, you would’ve fallen and crashed to the floor from how your knees buckled and turned to seemingly nothingness.
“Has your memory been refreshed, my lady?” began Sukuna, in a jeering tone.
“I—nnghh, not . . . not quite.” Though you were barley conscious at this point, and pleasure nearly consumed your whole being, you couldn’t help but joke. However, as the speed and force of Sukuna’s thrusts began to increase, you soon found yourself thinking how foolish it was to joke in such a predicament.
“Yeah? How about now?”
Both hands on your hips had left, and instead found their way to your tits, where they groped and squeezed to Sukuna’s liking.
This may have been your breaking point; and as your back arched and the volume of your lewd cries increased, you found yourself grinding your ass back against Sukuna’s crotch. The extra friction brought you over the edge, and you moaned and moaned like a bitch in heat as you came once more.
You didn’t remember much of what came after that (A/N: pun intended), but you knew you had somehow managed to dress yourself and fix your disheveled appearance right as soon as half of the party returned to the drawing room. Whilst the guests drank in the sight of you, Sukuna, on the other hand, had fixed his pants, and casually seated himself on his chair.
“Oh, my niece,” exclaimed a bewildered Lady Annesley, “you are already here.”
You stopped like a deer in front of a carriage driver’s torch, and stuttered as you struggled for an answer. “Yes, I—I quickly lost interest while looking at the artwork, and decided to return here to play another game of cards.”
“So you say? Well, upon my word, what card game did you play that resulted in your countenance to glow so pleasantly as it does now?”
For a second, you had thought your aunt had somehow discovered what you and Mr. Ryomen Sukuna were getting up to whilst alone in the drawing room, but after a moment’s silence, you quickly realized she was being genuine, and, like her usual chaotic-self, was simply wondering about a possible new skincare routine. At this newfound conclusion, you let out a sigh of relief, and continued in conversation for the remaining duration of the party at Kendall.
However, at the back of your mind remained the still recent memory of what it was like to have your brains fucked out by none other than Mr. Ryomen Sukuna, who, whilst he pretended to linger around your being while you chatted with relatives, occasionally trailed a playful finger up your spine, which always resulted in your breath being caught in your throat, as you feared he would do something similar to what he did before the guests had left.
***
It was late—well into the evening, really—when a messenger on his horse had come by with mail in his inventory.
A fortnight had passed since that . . . incident in Kendall Manor’s drawing room, and you had been avoiding Sukuna ever since. You feared that if you did otherwise, you would begin to develop an unhealthy relationship with his cock, which, even after fourteen days, you had not forgotten the feeling of. It was strange, to say the least. At first, you had thought Sukuna to be a very disagreeable man, a very disagreeable man, indeed; but now, he was . . . well, no, he was the same, but his dick, on the other hand, was much more agreeable.
You had never thought yourself to be one to have sexual intercourse before marriage, but maybe there could be an exception for someone like Mr. Ryomen Sukuna.
Sometimes, you laid awake at night, at times past the Devil’s hour, you assumed, and tossed and turned and tried to replicate how Sukuna’s fingers felt, how his mouth made you feel, how full his cock made you, but to no avail. You would, eventually, scream into your pillow out of frustration, and pass out from exhaustion.
Damn him. Damn him and his whole entire lineage.
Who was he to make you feel this way, huh? Who was he to come waltzing into Wadsworth with his expensive little steed and expensive fucking clothes, and leave you high and dry? Who was he to spoil you for your future spouse? He had no right, absolutely none.
And so, when a messenger and his horse came to the doors of Blackwood Park, you could probably imagine the distress and anxiety you had suffered. All the color had been drained from your face, for you wondered if a letter had come from Mr. Ryomen Sukuna himself; your mother and your father had even noticed how pale you had gotten, and, in their worry, asked you how you felt, to which you replied with a short answer, but it contained everything but the truth.
Upon reading the label, you found the manilla paper to be addressed to none other than you. Even more horrified, you searched frantically for a name, and after reading the words Mr. Adam Wright, you seemed to calm down by a few degrees.
“Open it, cousin! Open it!” cried Helena; for the girls had been at Blackwood since sundown, and were planning on sleeping over, which was, actually, pretty common between the three of you.
“Shall I have no privacy even in my own home?” you joked.
The girls laughed, before exiting your room and running downstairs.
With a sigh, and a tired groan, you began to unravel the letter.
To your astonishment, it was almost four pages! Four pages, filled from top to bottom with a confession of . . . love‽ Love—from Mr. Adam Wright? What, in heaven’s name, could’ve produced such a feeling as this? you wondered. Sure, maybe you had flirted with the officer a few times, but it was only minor incidents, and you had done them with the imagination that nothing could come of it. But no, you couldn’t have been more wrong.
Mr. Adam Wright was in love with you.
In his letter, he frequently quoted phrases from your favorite books and epics, but none of them seemed to affect you more than with distraught and horror. He confessed he was too much of a coward to profess his love in person, and, in addition, claimed he could not say all that he felt for you, for he felt too much to say, and writing it down was as close as he could get to letting everything out.
He was in love with your laugh, your smile, your mind, and your soul.
“I have never conversed with a lady quite as charming as you, miss. Your character is incredibly suitable to my likes and my dislikes, and I find, if I had never met you, I would have never met the love of my life. You bewitch me, physically and mentally.”
You had to admit, he was quite poetic when it came to writing a confession of love and admiration, but it pained you more than it flattered you, for, you did not feel even an ounce of the same feeling. Guilt and regret plagued your mind as you read through the seemingly never-ending paragraphs, and yet, you could not and would not accept that someone such as Mr. Adam Wright was in love with you.
It seemed . . . preposterous.
You had never thought of him in that way whatsoever. Well, he was handsome, and he was smart and quite the agreeable man, but he wasn’t what you wanted. There had to be someone out there that would reciprocate his feelings, but it wouldn’t be you. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.
After reading the letter maybe three times (just to make sure your eyes weren’t deceiving you), you sat down for a moment of silence, before opening your door and calling for the girls. Upon their entering, you immediately explained the contents of the letter, and, with a very desperate tone of voice, pleaded for any advice they could give.
“Well, this is. . . I’m quite appalled, dear cousin,” began Charlotte; “but, just to be clear, you do not feel the same way?”
“I’m not sure I would be asking for advice if I did.” You laughed, trying to cope with humor.
“I, for one, think you should send a letter back,” suggested Helena.
“. . .You know, I would do that, actually, but, the thing is, Wright wants to see me.”
Both of the sisters asked what you meant by that.
“In his letter, towards the end of it, I am sure, he asks to see me, near Northwick. I assume he means he wants to propose on the bridge; we walked there once, you see.”
“And you did not think to tell us until now?” cried Helena.
You raised your hands in defense. “Hey, I didn’t think much of it.”
“This is quite the predicament you’ve gotten yourself into,” declared Charlotte.
And this was quite the predicament, indeed. The next morning, a little after breakfast, you had begun to walk to Northwick. And, upon reaching sight of the bridge, you had found that Mr. Adam Wright was already there. He looked confident, he looked sure, he looked sharp; which just made you twice as guilty.
Before arriving, you had assured yourself everything was going to be just dandy; you would get it over with as quick as possible, and then attend the play you had been invited to by a couple of friends. The proposal of Mr. Adam Wright would be soon forgotten about, and you would sing and dance and be merry for the rest of the day.
“My lady, how do you do?” Wright was always quick when it came to greeting you. “I assume you’ve received my letter?”
“I am quite fine this morning, sir; and yes.”
“Have you any response?”
You nodded, before saying, “I am . . . rather flattered to receive a proposal from such a man as you, Mr. Adam Wright, but I am afraid I cannot give you my hand in marriage.”
You had consequently explained your reasoning, and how you did not reciprocate any romantic feelings such as love towards Mr. Wright, who accepted your words with a very solemn expression. That was a nice quality of his: to be able to accept rejection, and you even noted how you thought he was a very agreeable man, who was sure to find a wife sooner or later.
“There are many balls that occur in Wadsworth, with many women who attend, but, if that fails, an itinerant profession such as yours indubitably has the aspects to acquire a spouse within a lifetime—yes, I am sure.”
“I see you do not accept my proposal, then; very well. Good morning, miss.”
With the tipping of his hat, and a very quick farewell, the two of you parted ways.
A few hours had come by after your declination, and you soon found yourself standing outside of Grantley Hall with Charlotte and Helena, Lady Annesley, a few other relatives and friends, and Mr. Ryomen Sukuna and his brother. You hadn’t expected to see either of them any time soon, but maybe your aunt was just very sociable, and considered them to be friends.
Upon noticing Sukuna’s face amongst the crowd, you immediately ducked away, and subtly hid yourself behind your aunt, who was taller and broader than you, and could serve as a pseudo-shield, but of course, your efforts were noticed and fruitless, in the end.
Sukuna had caught sight of your figure, and made eye contact with you for a relatively long time, before turning back to a conversation with his brother.
“Everyone seems to be here,” began your aunt, double-checking the party; “how about we begin our journey? The theater is quite far, I heard.”
And so, everyone had started to pile into a multitude of carriages and vehicles. Unfortunately, with such a large party as you were in, you obviously had the luck of being stuck with none other than the Devil himself—Mr. Ryomen Sukuna. There was no other room for you with anyone else you knew; you had received offers to switch seats, but due to your having taken a liking to rejecting people (A/N: this is a joke; please laugh), you had declined them all.
In consequence, you and Sukuna were forced to ride in a carriage—alone.
The cushions were small, and you were forced to acquire a seat right beside Sukuna. Your shoulders bumped occasionally, due to the jolts of the carriage and the bumpy road, but that was about it. You were neither squished nor totally uncomfortable. And, at first, it was quite pleasant, actually. Neither you nor Sukuna spoke much, due to your embarrassment, and his . . . indifference? so you had no reason to stutter or stumble over words. Well, that was, until Sukuna decided to bring up a certain someone into the conversation.
“It seems you have taken quite the partiality towards Wright,” he began; and you could practically feel his piercing stare burning holes through your head, but alas, you kept your eyes on the road, and avoided eye contact—which was beginning to prove to be quite the challenge.
“We are acquaintances.”
“Just acquaintances?”
You sighed. “It depends on how you define the word ‘acquaintance,’ I suppose.”
“You know, my lady, I have heard quite a rumor this morning—regarding you and that officer.”
You froze, an infinite amount of ideas popping into your head, before snapping your neck to meet Sukuna’s much amused ones. “Pray, have you any idea how rude it is to bring up a subject without elaborating,? You, sir, ought to explain further.”
Sukuna, ignoring your words, cast his eyes downward, saying, “Show me your hand,” with as less emotion and as much authority as humanly possible.
Perhaps in an act of childish rebellion, you covered your gloved hands, and put them aside. “I do not see how that is of any relevance.”
“What a coincidence; I do.” Scoffing, Sukuna took your left hand into his, and held it up to his face, completely disregarding your protests and fruitless attempts at flailing around.
When he found what he wanted, he placed your hand down, and looked at your pout with a smug expression. “I take it you are not engaged, then?”
“I’ve no ring,” came your curt reply, before crossing your arms over your chest. You had initially hoped to fool him for even a bit longer, but Sukuna was more resourceful (forceful) than you could admit.
Sukuna laughed. “Miss Untouchable refused Mr. Adam Wright? What a spectacle that surely was. Say, the next time you reject a proposal, let me know prior so I can sit and watch.”
“When Hell freezes over, I will.”
Leaning over to peer into your eyes, Sukuna offered a shit-eating grin. “You can be so rude, my fair lady.”
Finally meeting his eyes at last, you couldn’t help the abusing words that soon left your lips. “You call me ‘rude,’ I hear? That is how you think of me? What about yourself, then, sir? Is the way you treat a lady such as I any different than ‘rude,’ I wonder?”
Sukuna grabbed your hips and dragged you onto his lap as you continued to berate and rip at him whilst he remained totally unfazed. He had become used to your character at this point, and your insults and scolding merely droned on in the background as his mind was set on other things.
“How else am I rude, madam?”
“When you—When you. . .” You paused, averting eye contact. “When you make me feel . . . this way.”
“And, pray tell,” began Sukuna, as he grabbed your chin and forced you to look in his eye, “what way do I make you feel?”
You chewed at your bottom lip, and out of frustration, could not form much to say.
When Sukuna noticed your hesitance, and your embarrassment, he decided to take matters into his own hands, and as a smile began to etch on his face, he lifted the ends of your dress, piling it at your waist, before beginning to trail his hands up your bare thighs at a teasingly unbearable speed.
At the familiar act, your breath caught in your throat, and you clawed at the lapels of Sukuna’s coat jacket.
Without stopping for even a beat, Sukuna’s cold, slender fingers made their way up your thighs, and began to ghost over the wetness that had formed at your entrance.
“My, my, my, don’t tell me, was it your anger at me that got you so wet, or was it my mere showing up today?”
“Neither, you bastard.”
As if possessed by an entity, (or maybe it was because you just couldn’t take it anymore), you grabbed Sukuna by the collar, and roughly—and clumsily—smashed his lips against yours. Almost immediately, his hands squeezed and groped at your ass, as he met your lips with an almost equally fervent kiss.
You had never done something so deliberately and scandalous before (except for that evening at Kendall, but that doesn’t count), and you almost wondered if you were doing everything wrong. But, seeing as you could feel a growing hardness beneath your bottom, you were soon assured of your quite capable abilities.
“Fuck, darling. Have you been waiting to do this?” he murmured, between kisses.
“Mm, yeah—in your dreams.”
Your bodies moved in sync, as if two puzzle pieces designed just for each other, and sounds of sensuous and sensual activity soon began to fill the carriage. Sukuna’s hands trailed down your ass as you kissed, and he didn’t waste any time before shoving your panties aside, and pushing one, then two, fingers in.
The unexpected action elicited a moan from your lips, and you tugged and pulled at Sukuna’s hair as if searching for leverage against the assault between your legs.
His fingers curled within you and moved at a speed that accelerated every second; the painful realization had soon hit you, that, God, you had truly missed this feeling. Slick dripped down your legs, and was, probably, staining the material of Sukuna’s pants, but it wasn’t like either one of you cared.
One of Sukuna’s hands gripped onto the flesh of your ass, while the other toyed with and fingered your dripping cunt; his lips moved against yours like an animal in heat, whilst your arms had been thrown and looped around his neck. The carriage shook and wobbled as it traversed the uneven roads, and that pushed you even closer to Sukuna, leaving you in quite the scandalous position—with your tits pressed up against his chest, your hands tangled in his unruly hair, and his mouth on yours.
It was a missed feeling—the salty taste of his lips—and when the both of you parted, for the inconvenient sake of catching your breaths, Sukuna moved the hand on your ass to shove the top of your dress down to your waist, leaving you nearly bare: in all your glory—just for him.
His eyes roamed your body like a predator admiring prey, and while you leaned your front against him, Sukuna leaned his head down, to your shoulders, to kiss at and suck at all the exposed skin he could reach.
It was incredibly lewd—the sounds you released, and you couldn’t even fathom how the others would react if they saw you: you and Sukuna, doing whatever the hell it was that you two were doing at the moment.
As your volume increased, so did the speed and velocity of his fingers. There was a warm feeling at your core, and you soon found yourself releasing all over his hand—still deep within your cunt—as pornographic moans and cries and mewls escaped your throat.
“Nnghh! Hah, mphh, Sukuna . . . Sukuna—Sukuna!” His name left your lips like a prayer, and you could only hope that the pearly gates would still open for you after this hell of a carriage ride.
“You are . . . inimitable, my love,” he purred, “and extremely, inhumanly bewitching. Fuck, do you think you’re wet enough to take it? I am afraid I cannot loiter any longer.”
It didn’t matter what you thought; you knew you were, and as Sukuna lifted your hips, before bringing them down right onto his cock—which filled you to the brim, and impossibly more than last time—you knew this carriage ride would probably be your last. At least, it would be your last carriage ride with him.
Your hips were raised, before they were repeatedly slammed back down with enough force to bring the both of you crashing down onto the seats; your tits bounced, whimpers left your parched throat, and you could barely hold onto Sukuna’s shoulders for balance and support as the carriage began to jolt and jerk uncontrollably, causing unbearably pleasurable friction.
Heaven’s sake, how bumpy was this road?—goddamnit.
In addition to the bouncing of the carriage, the hands and claws digging into your ass, the marks and bites being left on your chest, there was also the rough thrusts from Sukuna, which brought you nearly over the edge. Your eyes rolled back into your head as the tip of Sukuna’s cock could be felt penetrating all the way in your guts, and to add on to the smell of sex wafting through the humid air, the discordant melody of your moans certainly added a little bit pizzazz.
You wanted more, you needed more, you craved more.
Sukuna’s length and girth slid up the walls of your cunt, and you swore you could feel every pulsing vein of his cock as it moved and twitched. You were so unbearably full; you struggled to form full words, and most of them only contributed to unintelligible sentences meaning nothing.
“Ahh, nnghh, hahh, mmph.”
“What, don’t tell me little Miss Untouchable over here is suddenly feeling pleasure from some low-life bastard such as I,” laughed Sukuna, who, for some reason unbeknownst to you, still had some humor left in him even whilst he had fucked you into putty in his hands.
“I . . . nnghh, do you ever stop talking?”
Sukuna laughed, a husky, dark laugh, before bringing you in for the most zealous kiss you had ever kissed. Your lips collided, smacking against each other’s, and your hands clumsily roamed each other’s bodies, before one last jolt of the carriage had you feeling every inch of Sukuna’s length in the absolute right-est spot you could ever imagine, and as you moaned into the kiss, the knot in your stomach tightened just as before, and you almost felt like you were under drugs as you came.
Sticky, hot, and warm.
Unbearable, highly bothersome, and completely insane.
You were filled to the brim with Sukuna’s seed just a moment later, and a string of saliva from your lips connected you and Sukuna for a few seconds more as the both of you pulled away to catch your breaths.
“Now, before I go and do something foolish,” began Sukuna, still partially panting, “tell me, dear, do you feel like rejecting another man’s proposal today?”
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬/𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: racer gojo/f1 gojo x racer reader/f1 reader. nsfw content. rivals to lovers. toxicity. misogynistic/sexist themes. jealousy. suggestive themes. explicit language. alcohol usage. possessiveness. mentions of restrictive eating. mentions of death. themes of child abuse/child exploitation.
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: a twenty-one year old american rookie in ferrari red was never supposed to exist. especially not beside satoru gojo, the team’s beloved golden boy. one brutal race and one mistake later, their rivalry turns intoxicating and impossible to ignore.