cheriimo - Tumblr blog

cheriimo · 8 days ago

Text

sin bin sweetheart.

summary: when your housing falls through, the last person you want to end up living with is your best friend’s arrogant, hockey-playing brother, satoru gojo. sharing a space with him feels like being trapped in the sin bin, but the longer you live together, the harder it is to ignore the fact that breaking the rules might be worth the penalty.

pairing: ice hockey player!gojo satoru x fem!reader details: fluff, angst, smut (fingering, nipple play, riding, couch sex, shower sex), enemies to lovers au, roommates au, best friend’s brother au, college au. contains: profanity, alcohol consumption, mentions of death. art by kynlv1. 16.2k words.

sin bin (n.) – (in sport) a box or bench to which offending players can be sent for a period as a penalty during a game, especially in ice hockey.

01. how to piss off your new roommate 101 (an introductory course).

There are only three rules you asked Satoru Gojo to follow:

No bringing random girls home.

No hockey gear all over the living room.

Do your own laundry.

Sure, it might not be your house, because, technically, you’re the one moving in, but you think you’re being pretty reasonable. It’s just your bad luck that your new roommate happens to be the worst at following rules, because right now, at one o’clock in the morning, you are subject to him breaking rule number one already—and very loudly, at that.

There’s a thud against the wall, and a muffled laugh, followed by a low, drawn-out groan that sends every nerve in your body firing at once—though not in the way Gojo’s current “guest” might be feeling. You clutch the pillow over your head, suffocating yourself with cotton in a desperate attempt to block out the obscene noises. It doesn’t work. Nothing does. Not your loud sighs, not the rustle of your own blanket, not even the way you jam your phone’s speaker against your ear and crank your playlist until the bass rattles.

Your playlist doesn’t stand a chance against Gojo’s bedroom door and his absolute disregard for your sanity.

Rule number one, you think bitterly, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was the bare minimum. You had been so clear when you’d moved in three days ago. No random girls; no trail of hockey gear sprawling through the apartment; no mountains of dirty laundry festering in the communal space. Simple, enforceable rules—or so you thought. Apparently, Satoru Gojo is not the kind of man who respects laws, rules, or any other socially acceptable guidelines for how to coexist with another human being. Especially not when he’s this loud.

A particularly obnoxious moan makes you snap. You swing out of bed, feet hitting the cold wooden floor, and stomp into the hallway. You pause in front of his bedroom door, hand hovering in the air, knuckles inches away from knocking. Maybe you should just let it go. It’s not worth the fight. Not worth seeing that infuriating grin of his, the one that makes you want to throw a shoe at his face.

You hear another giggle from inside.

Nevermind. Definitely worth it.

You pound on the door. “Gojo!”

The noises cut off instantly. For a blissful moment, there’s silence—no laughter, no groans, just the sound of your own shallow breathing and the pounding of your fist against the door. Then comes the telltale rustle of sheets, followed by footsteps, slow and deliberate, as if he’s taking his sweet time just to make you more irritated.

“Roomie?” His voice drips with amusement, low and lazy, as if he’s been waiting for this moment all night. “Can’t sleep? You could’ve just asked nicely if you wanted me to tuck you in.”

Your jaw drops, heat rushing to your cheeks—not from embarrassment but from pure, undiluted fury. “Rule. Number. One,” you bite out, enunciating every word. “Do you even remember what rule number one is?”

There’s a soft laugh on the other side of the door, and you can hear his guest giggling faintly too, like this is all some joke to them.

“You’re no fun,” he says. The doorknob clicks, turning slowly.

The door swings open to reveal Satoru Gojo, all six-foot-something of hockey-playing, rule-breaking glory, leaning against the frame. He’s shirtless—of course he’s shirtless—skin glistening with a sheen of sweat that makes you roll your eyes so hard you swear you see your brain. His white hair is mussed and sticking out at odd angles, like he’s just come off the ice—or, well, not the ice, but something just as irritatingly active.

He smirks down at you. “Didn’t know you were such a light sleeper. Or… Are you jealous?”

“Jealous?” Your voice cracks an octave higher. “Of what, exactly? The fact that you sound like you’re starring in a bad porno?”

His laugh is immediate, loud, and unrestrained. He leans closer, bracing one arm against the frame just above your head, his bare chest far too close for comfort. “If you were watching, it’d be a good one.”

Your face burns hotter. “You’re disgusting.”

He laughs again, and the girl—this poor, probably very lovely girl—steps into the hallway behind him, wearing one of his oversized jerseys and looking anywhere but at you.

“I should… probably go,” she mumbles.

“Yeah,” you mutter before he can say anything. “You probably should.”

She scurries past you without a second glance, and you suddenly feel a little bad for her. Not because of Gojo—though he is the worst—but because she has no idea what she’s walked into. She’s just another girl in a long line of them, another notch on his stick, and probably clueless to the fact that he thrives on the attention, not the intimacy.

Gojo watches her disappear around the corner, then turns back to you, his smile gone slack. “You didn’t have to be mean.”

“I wasn’t,” you snap. “I was trying to sleep. Sorry if that’s inconvenient for you and your—whatever.”

Gojo studies you for a moment, his head tilting just slightly as if he’s trying to decipher something written on your face. It’s unnerving, the way his eyes—bright and unnaturally sharp even in the dim hallway—linger on you, taking their time. For the first time tonight, he’s quiet, though not in a way that feels like victory. It’s the kind of quiet that makes you more aware of the rise and fall of his chest, the glimmer of sweat on his skin, his overbearing presence in the narrow hallway.

“Whatever?” he repeats. “That’s harsh, even for you.”

“Do you ever take anything seriously?”

“Not really,” he says. “Keeps me young and pretty, don’t you think?”

The audacity of this man. Pretty. He says it like it’s a fact, like he’s fully aware that half the campus would line up just to run their fingers through that ridiculous white hair. You hate that it is a fact, that his lean, cut frame and infuriating confidence somehow make him stupidly, obnoxiously attractive.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. “Do you even remember the rules we agreed on when I moved in? Or was I talking to one of your empty hockey helmets?”

“You wound me. I’m a great listener. I heard every word you said that day. I just don’t… care.”

Your hands ball into fists. “You don’t care.”

“Not about rules,” Satoru teases. “You, though? I care about keeping you entertained.”

“Entertained?” you echo, incredulous. “By waking me up at one in the morning with—” You cut yourself off, scowling as the words die on your tongue.

He grins and steps forward. “With what, sweetheart?” he asks, voice dipping into that husky, too-casual tone that makes your stomach do stupid things.

You take a step back; then another, until your back almost hits the opposite wall. “You’re impossible,” you spit out, but your voice is thinner than you’d like.

“You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“Stop saying that!”

“What?” His grin widens. “It’s true. You get all flustered. Bet you don’t even know you’re pouting right now.”

“I’m not—” You snap your mouth shut, realising that you are, in fact, pouting, and that only makes his grin that much more smug.

“Adorable,” he says simply, leaning back.

“You’re annoying as fuck.”

“And yet, you moved in here.”

You inhale sharply, the reminder stinging more than you’d like to admit. He’s right—you did agree to this arrangement. You had convinced yourself it was temporary, a few weeks max while you figured out your own place. Riko’s brother had been the last resort. You never expected it to feel like… like this. The hallway feels too small. He’s too close, too much. You can smell his cologne—clean, a little sharp, something that clings to him even after a game or whatever this was. You hate that your brain even registers the detail.

“Go to bed,” you manage to grit out.

“Careful,” Gojo drawls, stepping back. “Sounds like you’re starting to like telling me what to do.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You spin on your heel, storming back to your room, and slam the door behind you.

You don’t see him again until morning, which, unfortunately, is only a few hours later.

The scent of coffee drags you from your room, bleary-eyed and determined to avoid any and all conversation. But the moment you step into the kitchen, there Satoru is—shirtless again, because apparently he doesn’t own clothes—leaning against the counter. His white hair is damp, still dripping from a shower, and his sweatpants hang low on his hips as he scrolls lazily on his phone.

“Morning, roomie,” he drawls, not looking up. “Sleep well?”

You grab a mug and pour yourself coffee. “You’re lucky I don’t own a bat.”

“Ah, threats of violence. My favourite way to start the day.”

You don’t answer. You can’t, not when he’s standing there like that: hair damp and curling at the ends, little droplets of water slipping down the curve of his neck, trailing over his collarbone. It should be illegal to look that good at 7:42 in the morning, and in sweatpants, no less.

Instead, you wrap both hands around your mug and focus on not throwing it at his stupid, smirking face.

“Awfully quiet this morning,” Gojo muses, locking his phone and tossing it onto the counter. “What happened to the yelling? The righteous fury? The deeply unsexy threats about noise ordinances?”

You take a long, scalding sip of your coffee. “I’m choosing peace today.”

“That so?”

“Yup. Thought I’d try being the bigger person and see how it feels.”

“You sure it’s peace you’re feeling? ‘Cause it kind of looks like repressed rage. Or maybe,” he says, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the counter, “you’re just still flustered from last night.”

You nearly choke. “Flustered?”

“Uh-huh. You did knock on my door in the middle of a good time.” He winks. “Can’t blame you for being curious.”

“You’re delusional,” you state.

“Maybe so,” he acquiesces. Gojo’s grin is lazy and crooked, shamelessly amused as he watches you struggle to maintain even a scrap of composure. You busy yourself with sipping coffee again, even though it’s too hot and definitely burning the tip of your tongue. Small price to pay for the distraction.

He shifts his weight and the movement draws your eyes before you can stop yourself—down to where his sweatpants slouch indecently low, the V of his hips on full display. Your eyes snap back to your mug so fast you’re surprised you don’t get whiplash.

“I’m not flustered,” you mutter, mostly to your drink.

Satoru hums, unconvinced. “Of course not. You’re the picture of serenity.”

He reaches for the coffee pot and you realise, with a petty kind of satisfaction, that there’s not enough left for a full cup. You watch, vindicated, as he tips it all into his mug and frowns down at the half-full result.

“You’re the worst,” he says, utterly serious.

“I’m the one choosing peace, remember?”

“That was obviously a lie.”

You shrug and sip. “Maybe I’m just learning from the best.”

Gojo laughs, low and bright, and leans further over the counter, like he’s trying to invade your personal space just for the hell of it. “You’ve got a mouth on you, huh? I like that.”

“Bet you say that to all your roommates.”

“You’re my first,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Be gentle with me.”

You scoff, setting your mug down with more force than necessary. “I don’t even want to know how you ended up on the lease.”

“Simple,” he says, straightening and sauntering toward the fridge. “My old place burned down.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Well. Not all the way down. But it did get very, very singed.”

“And they let you sign another lease?”

He turns, carton of milk in one hand, and says, “Yup,” popping the ‘p’ at the end. You roll your eyes so hard you see stars, but there’s a weird warmth curling in your chest now, beneath the irritation and caffeine. Despite yourself, your gaze lingers on him a beat too long—on the line of his shoulders, the relaxed slope of his spine as he leans down to peer into the fridge.

“You gonna keep ogling me or…?” he says without turning.

You startle, cheeks warming. “I wasn’t ogling.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I wasn’t!”

He straightens again, milk in hand, and gives you a look that says he knows he’s won. “You’re bad at lying. Your ears go all red.”

You clap your hands over them instinctively, which only serves to make him chortle. “I hate you,” you grumble, grabbing your mug and heading for the living room.

“I love our morning chats,” he calls after you. “They really centre me for the day.”

You flip him off over your shoulder.

“You’ve got a great energy, roomie! Keep it up!”

It turns into a sort of game, after that: who can rile up their roommate the fastest. Satoru Gojo, of course, plays to win.

He starts small—mild provocations disguised as “accidents.” The shower mysteriously runs cold whenever you step in after him. Your favourite snacks vanish from the cupboard, only to be found later half-eated and crumpled under his bed. He starts setting his alarm ten minutes earlier than yours and singing obnoxiously loud in the mornings. It’s always the same song—something bubblegum pop and irritatingly catchy, like Twice or Britney Spears—and it sticks in your head all day, pulsing behind your eyes like a migraine.

You retaliate, of course. You start leaving passive-aggressive sticky notes around the apartment:

Replace the toilet paper next time, you sicko.

If you touch my almond milk again, I will cut off your balls in your sleep.

Why do you shed like a cat? Buy a lint roller. Freak.

You switch the labels on his shampoo and conditioner. You hide the remote. You change the password on the Wi-Fi.

It only fuels him. The worst part is, the bastard laughs. Every time you glare at him, every time you yell his name across the apartment, every time you swear you’re going to murder him in his sleep, he just grins like the cat that got the cream. Somehow, impossibly, he always wins.

Nanami is already at your usual table in the campus café when you arrive, tossing your bag into the seat opposite him with a force that rattles the salt shaker. He doesn’t look up from his coffee when he asks, “What did he do this time?”

“He unplugged the fridge, Kento,” you groan, slumping into your chair. “The fridge. All my groceries are ruined. My oat milk exploded.”

“Did you check the breaker?”

“Do I look like someone who knows what a breaker is?”

“Yes,” he says. “You are a functional adult. You are enrolled in a university. You should know how electricity works.”

“Okay, Mr. Engineer,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “I was too busy trying not to throw Gojo out the damn window.”

“I thought you lived on the first floor.”

“Exactly my point.”

You look down, picking at your cuticles. You wish Gojo, your best friend’s annoying brother, wasn’t your last resort. The student dorms were all occupied, and you had to find housing at the last minute. Gojo offered, because he’s known you since you were an acne-riddled teenager in middle school, and also, most likely, out of obligation for his little sister’s best friend. Why else would he put up with you and pay half the rent? You remind yourself that you’re in his house, and not the other way around, and try to stay grateful for that fact.

You also wish you could tell Riko about her older brother, but you can’t because Riko’s dead.

Nanami sets down his cup with a soft clink, eyes lifting at last to meet yours. There’s no pity in them—he’s not the type—but there’s understanding. With every ounce of his understanding nature, Nanami says, flatly, “You’re going to give yourself a stroke before midterms.”

You exhale through your nose, pressing your palms to your eyes. “It’s like he wants me to lose it. He keeps bringing random girls home, Kento. At 3 A.M. And they’re loud. One of them used my toothbrush.”

Nanami looks visibly disturbed. “Why do you know that?”

“Because it was wet.”

“You should throw that out.”

“I did throw it out. And then I wrote a note. And you know what he said? He said, ‘Oh, my bad, was that your toothbrush? I thought it was for guests.’ Guests, Kento. He has a guest toothbrush now, that he keeps in the same cup as mine. I’m being psychologically tortured.”

“He’s always been like this,” Nanami sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s the one being victimised.

“You were on the same team as him for three years,” you say. “How did you not murder him in a locker room?”

“Because I’m not an idiot,” he replies. “I kept my earbuds in and my mouth shut. You, on the other hand, are picking a fight with a man who once got suspended for pelting a referee with jello shots.”

“That was him?” you gasp.

“Of course it was. Who else brings jello shots to a game?”

“I knew it wasn’t a food poisoning incident,” you mutter, leaning back in your chair. “They kept blaming the vendors, but one of those things hit Riko in the back of the head.”

Nanami’s expression softens for a second. He clears his throat, glancing out the window. You follow his gaze, the familiar ache blooming in your chest. It’s been two years since the accident, since the call you never thought you’d get. Since Satoru’s voice broke down over the phone, rasping your name, saying it over and over again like it would change something, like you could undo it just by being there.

Sometimes you forget she’s gone. You still scroll through your photos and stop at the ones of her, still think to text her dumb updates about your day. You still reach for your phone when Satoru does something particularly stupid, your thumb hovering over her name like muscle memory.

It’s worse around him. He reminds you of her—same nose, same stupid grin. Same laughter echoing off the apartment walls, loud and fearless and full of something that’s been missing since she died.

You scrub a hand over your face. “I don’t even know why he let me move in,” you say quietly.

Nanami, annoyingly perceptive as always, says, “Because you’re the only person left who reminds him of her.”

Your throat closes up. You glance away, blinking hard. It’s easier to talk like this with Nanami, with someone who knew her, who understands what’s been left behind in her absence.

It’s just harder when you go home, when Gojo’s waiting in your kitchen, stealing all your forks, leaving crumbs everywhere, making a mess of your carefully managed grief. It’s harder when he smiles at you, wide and unbothered, like nothing in the world could touch him, like he isn’t hurting just as much. Maybe that’s why you haven’t packed up and left, or haven’t demanded he take you off the lease.

“Do you want to come watch us practice today?” your friend asks gently. “You could use the break.”

“Sure,” you agree, nodding.

The rink on campus is mercifully empty, barring the ice hockey players and their coach. You huddle deeper into your hoodie, tugging the sleeves over your palms as your breath fogs in the cold air. The bleachers are metal and unforgiving beneath you, but there’s something calming about the sharp scent of ice and the dull echo of skates carving into the rink. Nanami’s team is already mid-practice, moving like clockwork in their matching jerseys, passing the puck to each other. Nanami’s form is unmistakable—broad shoulders, crisp turns, no-nonsense efficiency. He’s the kind of player who never wastes energy, never showboats.

Which is probably why it takes you a second to notice the blur of white helmet skating circles around everyone else.

Even from here, you can tell it’s Gojo. Nobody else plays like that—reckless, fast, stupidly dramatic. He doesn’t pass so much as he dares his teammates to keep up with him. One second, he’s flicking the puck behind his back to someone mid-sprint; the next, he’s skating backwards while taunting the goalie, stick dragging lazy arcs on the ice. It should be annoying. It is annoying. But it’s also hypnotically, infuriatingly graceful.

You watch, arms tucked tight around your ribs, as Gojo ducks past a defender and pivots sharply on one skate. The move is flashy, unnecessary, but completely effective. He spins just out of reach, like he’s showing off for a crowd that isn’t even there. Then again, knowing him, maybe the absence of an audience is what makes it fun.

He catches the puck again mid-glide, lets it roll across his blade for the briefest second, and sends it arcing across the ice with a lazy flick of his wrist. It lands right where he wants it—at Nanami’s feet. Nanami redirects it into a clean slapshot that smacks against the boards with a heavy thunk. The coach blows his whistle and yells something you can’t quite make out, and the players all begin to split into drills.

Gojo circles back to the bench, tugging off his helmet. His hair is damp and flattened at odd angles, cheeks flushed red from exertion, but he’s smiling. He laughs at something one of the younger players says, throwing his head back like everything in the world exists solely for his amusement. His grin is sharp and his posture is loose with confidence, like he’s never known a moment of self-doubt in his entire life. He stretches his arms overhead, the hem of his jersey riding up just a little over his pads, and you force yourself to look away before your eyes linger too long.

It’s stupid. You’re here to support Nanami. You’re here because your friend thought you needed fresh air, something different, something other than the quiet churn of your own thoughts. You’re not here for him.

But when Gojo finally turns, like he’s felt your eyes on him all this time, and spots you across the rink, he smiles—wider this time. Brighter. You look away too fast to know if he waves.

The drills resume. They’re brutal, repetitive, the kind that test stamina more than strategy. Nanami is steady and solid, the way he always is, never showy but always in the right place at the right time. Gojo, by contrast, is everywhere. He darts around the rink, weaving in and out of formations, making near-impossible shots just to see if he can land them.

You settle into your seat, arms hugging your knees, and try not to think too hard. But it’s hard not to, especially when every stupid little memory rushes in like floodwater. The way Gojo always takes the last Pop-Tart in the box but leaves the wrapper on the counter; the way he sings obnoxiously loud in the shower and always, always manages to steal your charger right when you need it most; the way he tilts his head and looks at you, eyes too blue and too knowing, like he enjoys seeing how close he can get to pissing you off before you snap. Perhaps worst of all: the way he never apologises, just looks at you, smug and smugger, until you roll your eyes and pretend you weren’t mad in the first place.

Asshole.

You don’t realise how long you’ve been staring blankly, wrapped up in your own thoughts, until someone else joins the bleachers. The guy’s tall, wrapped in a wool coat and beanie, sipping a coffee that steams in the cold air. He glances at you briefly, offers a polite nod, and turns his attention back to the rink.

Gojo’s still showing off. The team’s moved to scrimmage now, red versus blue, and he’s the first one to score. He raises both arms in triumph, sticks his tongue out, and skates backward toward the bench, basking in invisible applause.

You groan quietly and bury your face in your hands. “God, I hate him.”

The guy next to you chuckles. “You know him?”

“Yeah,” you say looking up.

“He’s not so bad. Bit of a drama queen, but he’s good. Probably the best player we’ve got.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t want to give Gojo the satisfaction, even by proxy. Instead, you wait for the moment he inevitably catches sight of you again—because of course he does, because nothing in his life is ever subtle. His head tilts. His grin turns sharklike. He lifts his stick and points it right at you, mouthing something across the rink. You groan again and pull your hood up.

Later, when you’re halfway back to your shared apartment, your fingers still freezing from the cold, your phone buzzes.

Gojo: you looked cute freezing your ass off up there Gojo: want me to warm you up? 😇

You: 🖕

02. the beginnings of affection (an existential crisis).

In high school, you made the grave mistake of telling Riko you thought her older brother was hot. It wasn’t a lie, because he was—tall, lean, unfairly pretty in that model-off-duty way, with a smile that had left many a classmate in a state of ruinous delusion. But back then, he was an idea, a rumour, a hallway myth in an expensive uniform and designer sneakers.

Now you live with him. Now you know better. Underneath his veneer of hotness lies a cold, twisted soul incapable of feeling remorse.

Yet. This morning, you catch yourself staring.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, pouring coffee into a chipped mug that says World’s Okayest Roommate. His hair’s still damp from a shower, falling in soft curls over his forehead, and he’s wearing a hoodie that doesn’t belong to him. Yours, actually—the one you thought you lost three weeks ago. It fits him, though it’s oversized on you, the faded design on the front nearly unreadable. His sweatpants are slung low on his hips, and one of the pant legs is tucked into a sock for some godforsaken reason. There’s a smear of toothpaste on his cheek.

And yet you think: cute.

Which is concerning.

You frown into your cereal, spoon halfway to your mouth, and try to rationalise it. Maybe it’s sleep deprivation. Maybe it’s the new shampoo he’s using. Maybe you’ve finally been broken by the sheer absurdity of sharing space with him. That must be it. A slow descent into madness. Like Stockholm Syndrome, but for roommates.

He catches you looking and grins.

“What?” you snap.

“You were staring,” he says smugly, raising his mug to his lips.

“I was zoning out,” you lie. “You just happened to be in the way.”

“Mhm. Don’t worry,” he says, winking. “Happens all the time.”

“You’ve got toothpaste on your face, weirdo.”

He wipes it off with the sleeve of your hoodie. Not his hoodie. Yours. You make a mental note to burn it.

“I’m going to start charging you rent for borrowing my clothes,” you mutter, standing to rinse your bowl.

Gojo hums. “Then I’ll start charging you for moral support. You know, the way I bring light and laughter into this apartment.”

“You bring irritation and trauma.”

He laughs. You pause, hand on the faucet. You shouldn’t feel warm. You shouldn’t feel anything. But there it is again—that awful flutter in your chest; that twist in your stomach like you’ve just misread a question on an exam and realised too late. You stare down at the water running into the sink and think, no. No, no, no. Not this. Not him.

Your hand tightens on the faucet. You don’t look up. If you do, he’ll see it: the flicker of something not quite annoyance, the hiccup in your heartbeat. The very beginnings of affection—or, worse, the remnants of it you thought you’d long since buried.

“You’re being quiet,” your roommate observes, voice languid with interest.

“I’m thinking about how I’ll kill you,” you reply. “Maybe poison. Something slow. Arsenic in your overpriced protein shakes.”

“Ooh. That’s hot. Do I get a last meal?”

“You already ate the last of my oats yesterday.”

“Untrue,” he says cheerfully. “I gave it to my teammate—”

You finally turn to glare at him, but it’s a mistake. He’s still wearing your hoodie, still smiling with toothpaste in the corners of his mouth and hair curling at his temples. His mug is held loosely between his fingers and he taps it against his hip like he’s about to say something clever.

He doesn’t. Instead, he just looks at you. You blink first.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to say something stupid and ruin my morning.”

Satoru grins. “I was gonna say you look nice. But I see now that would be stupid.”

Your cheeks burn. You hate that he still gets to you. Hate that, despite all the bickering and unsolicited borrowing of clothes, you still feel something twist inside when he looks at you like that. He finishes his coffee and sets the mug down. “I’m going to be late,” he announces, stretching until the hem of your hoodie rides up and reveals the slope of his back. You look away like you’ve been burned.

“Don’t forget your umbrella,” you say, because it’s drizzling outside.

He grabs the umbrella by the door. “I’ll be back around seven,” he calls, halfway out. “Don’t wait up.”

“I won’t.”

But the door shoots behind him before the lie is even fully out of your mouth. There’s no point denying it. The problem isn’t that he’s hot. It’s that he’s warm, sometimes; thoughtful in ways you don’t expect, and annoyingly perceptive. The problem is that, in the hazy moments between arguments and insults and irritation, you’ve let your guard slip.

God. You’re so screwed.

“Hey. Hey. I thought I told you not to wait up.”

“I didn’t wait up for you.”

He toes off his shoes with a grunt, dropping his keys into the dish by the door and pulling off his jacket in one fluid motion. The collar of his t-shirt is wrinkled, stretched a little too wide at the neck, like someone had tugged at it—maybe he had, or maybe it was already like that. His hair’s a windblown mess, strands sticking up at odd angles, and his eyes are rimmed with red like he’s either been up too long or had one too many drinks. Or both.

But he’s still Satoru, still maddeningly good-looking in that careless way of his, still the same insufferable guy who leaves the toilet seat up and sings Twice songs in the shower.

You’re curled up into the far corner of the couch, blanket wrapped around you, half a bowl of popcorn abandoned on the coffee table. You weren’t waiting up—really, you weren’t—but the TV is playing some old sitcom on mute, the light from the screen flickering across your face in soft, silvery flashes. Your phone is dark in your lap. You’ve read the same sentence in your book five times. You glance up when he speaks, and he stops mid-step, tilting his head at you.

“I didn’t wait up for you,” you repeat, quieter this time, and go back to pretending to read.

He smiles faintly, like he doesn’t believe you but won’t push. “Right,” he says, voice low. “Of course not.”

He throws his jacket over the back of a chair and pads into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. You try not to follow him with your eyes. Try not to notice the way his shoulder blades shift beneath the fabric of his shirt, the way he hums softly under his breath as he opens the fridge and lets the light spill out across the tiles.

“You didn’t answer my text,” you say after a moment, tone sharper than you mean it to be.

“My phone died.”

You nod, once. Stupid. You don’t say anything else.

Satoru walks back into the living room, glass in hand, and sinks into the armchair opposite you with a groan. “Rough night,” he says, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. “Didn’t think it would go that late.”

“Didn’t think you were going out at all.”

That makes him crack an eye open, a ghost of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “Jealous?”

You snort. “Of your terrible taste in dive bars and worse taste in company? Never.”

“I didn’t stay long,” he says. “The music sucked.”

“You go for the music?”

“I go for the distraction.”

Outside, it’s started to rain again, a slow, gentle drizzle against the windows. You stare at the pattern of drops sliding down the glass, trying to ignore the shape of him in your periphery—broad shoulders and long legs and bare feet resting against the edge of the coffee table. He’s too close and too far all at once.

“Do you… want some popcorn?” you ask eventually.

Satoru opens his eyes again and blinks at you. “Is this the part where you admit you were waiting for me?”

You scowl. “Forget it.”

“I’m kidding.” He sits up, leans forward slightly, eyes warm now, too warm. “I’d love some.”

You push the bowl towards him, watching as he picks out a piece and pops it into his mouth.

“This,” he says, chewing thoughtfully, “would be the part in a romcom where we kiss.”

“This,” you say, rolling your eyes, “would be the part in a horror movie where the protagonist makes a terrible decision and dies five minutes later.”

“That’s just rude.”

“Good.”

But he smiles at you, bright and boyish, like there’s no place he’d rather be than in this shitty living room at one in the morning with rain tapping against the windows and you scowling over a bowl of popcorn. You hate that it makes your heart ache; hate that, for all your better judgement, for all the times he’s made you want to scream into a pillow, there’s a part of you that softens around him. A part that keeps watching the door when he’s late. A part that stayed up, no matter what you said.

“We should bond,” Satoru says suddenly. “Do you have any plans tomorrow?”

You blink. “Bond?”

“Yeah. Like team-building. Except we’re not a team, and there’s no building.”

“That’s the worst pitch I’ve ever heard,” you say, but the corners of your mouth tug upwards despite yourself.

He shrugs, leaning back into the armchair again and tossing a piece of popcorn into the air, catching it clumsily with his mouth. “I don’t know. I feel like we’ve been circling each other. Might as well make it official.”

“Make what official?”

“This thing,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Our roommate truce-slash-rivalry-slash-situationship.”

You nearly choke on your own breath. “What—what situationship?”

“Okay, fine. Maybe not that last one.”

You throw a pillow at him, and he catches it with one hand, laughing. The room is too warm, or maybe that’s just your face. You glance away, shaking your head.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I was thinking. Since it’s Saturday tomorrow, and we’re both obviously in need of deep, soul-cleansing joy—”

“You mean you want to avoid your hangover.”

“—we should go skating.”

“Like, on the ice?” you ask.

“No, on a frying pan,” he says. “Yes, on the ice.”

“Come on,” Satoru calls. “It’s just frozen water.”

“I know what ice is,” you hiss.

He skates back toward you, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, cheeks flushed pink from the cold and a beanie pulled snug over his snowy hair. Of course he makes gliding over a frozen lake look like second nature. He probably was born skating. You glare at him from your self-imposed prison at the edge of the ice. Your fingers are locked in a white-knuckled grip on the guardrail, your knees slightly bent like your body already knows it’s about to betray you.

Satoru stops a few feet away, his skates coming to a perfect halt with the faintest spray of ice. “You’re going to have to let go eventually,” he says, amused but not unkind.

You shake your head immediately. “I don’t trust frozen water. Or you.”

“That’s fair.” He shrugs. “But one of those things is going to get you moving, and it’s not the ice.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Doesn’t have to. Come on,” he coaxes, holding out a gloved hand. “I’ll go slow. Promise. Baby steps.”

You glance down at the ice, then at his hand, then back at the ice. It’s unfair, really, the way he looks so annoyingly trustworthy in moments like this. As if he hasn’t spent the better part of your shared time together being the most irritating man on the planet. As if he didn’t just spend the last twenty minutes zipping across the lake like a show-off while you contemplated your mortality from the safety of the shore.

Still, you let go of the guardrail. Just a little. Your hand slips into his, and his fingers tighten reassuringly around yours. He doesn’t tug; he waits, steady and warm and patient, until you peel yourself entirely away from your comfort zone and step onto the ice.

You immediately regret everything. Your foot slides, your balance tips, and you let out a strangled noise as you clutch at him with both hands now, absolutely abandoning any pretense of dignity. Satoru laughs, open and delighted, the sound echoing across the lake like it belongs in a different world.

“I’ve got you,” he says. His grip is solid, his body a firm counterweight to your graceless flailing. “Just stand. Don’t try to walk yet. Feel how your skates sit on the ice.”

“I hate this. I hate you,” you mutter, clinging to his coat.

“You’re doing amazing,” he says, and you scowl because he’s grinning now, and it’s not helpful at all.

Slowly, he eases you forward, step by wobbling step. The cold nips at your cheeks, your breath fogging between you in soft white puffs. Every movement feels like a gamble, your muscles tense with the knowledge that at any second, you could end up flat on your back.

“You skate like Bambi,” he observes cheerfully.

“Say that again and I’m taking you down with me.”

“You’d have to catch me first,” he says. “And given your current progress, I’d say that’s not happening in this lifetime.”

You lurch at him, purely out of spite, and he lets out a surprised yelp as he stumbles back a little, catching you both from falling with more grace than you’ll ever possess. You end up in his arms, your face smushed embarrassingly against his chest, heart pounding from more than just the cold.

“You’re not bad at this,” he murmurs near your ear. “For someone who looks like they’re skating on stilts.”

You pull back to glare at him, but his smile softens into something almost fond, and you blink. He’s still holding you, hands braced at your waist now, fingers curled against the fabric of your coat. His touch is warm through the layers. You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you can.

He leans back, clears his throat a little, and says, “Alright. Lesson one: don’t look down.”

“What?”

“No, seriously. Head up. Trust yourself a little. If you stare at the ice, your body will think you want to meet it.”

You lift your gaze slowly, reluctantly, and focus on the horizon instead: trees dusted in frost, a sky bruised with early twilight, and Satoru’s impossibly pale eyes, sharp and bright and filled with something you can’t name. He starts guiding you again, his hands still at your waist, your balance a little steadier now. Each glide is cautious; it’s progress, however painstaking.

You’re still clumsy—more shuffling than skating—but the panic has dulled, replaced by a nervous sort of awareness: of your feet, of your breathing, of him. The cold cuts through the air with a crispness that sharpens everything, from the bite in your lungs to the sting in your cheeks, but somehow, with Satoru’s hands anchoring you, it all feels a little softer.

“Look at you,” he says, low and a bit smug. “You’re a natural.”

You snort. “I’m one step away from death.”

“Death by ice is very poetic,” he muses. “We’ll put it on your tombstone. Beloved roommate. Skated once.”

You elbow him weakly, the motion throwing off your centre of gravity just enough to send you pitching forward—again. You gasp, arms flailing, but he catches you effortlessly, laughing as he draws you back upright like it’s nothing. Like it’s second nature to steady you.

“That’s lesson two,” he says, grinning down at you. “Don’t do that.”

“You are the worst teacher.”

“And yet,” he says, steering you in a slow arc, “you’re still standing.”

The lake is quiet, save for the dull scrape of blades against the ice, the rustling of wind in the trees, and the shouts and hoots of a group of teenagers skating on the other end. You imagine the rink gets really crowded later in the evening, but for now, it’s just the two of you, wrapped in shades of silver and slate, the world narrowed down to the stretch of frozen water and the steady cadence of his voice in your ear. You take another step. Then another. Satoru doesn’t let go, even though you think you could maybe handle it on your own now. But you don’t ask him to.

“This wasn’t just about the skating,” he says after a while.

You glance up at him. His expression is unreadable now, the teasing stripped back to something quieter. You try for lightness. “Oh? Is this the part where you declare your undying love for me?”

“No. I did that last week. You were too busy yelling at me about the dishes.”

You huff a laugh, but it catches in your throat, because he’s looking at you in that way again—like you’re the only thing in focus. Like the cold and the ice and the time you called him a walking disaster don’t matter.

“I just wanted to do something with you,” he says. “Riko—Riko and I used to do this all the time as kids.”

“...Oh,” you say dumbly.

He doesn’t look away when you say it. His hands haven’t moved from your waist, and you realise, belatedly, that you’re not gripping onto him anymore. You’re standing.

“She used to hold my hand like you’re doing now,” he continues, a half-smile flickering across his face, wistful. “Only, she had these tiny little gloves with cats on them, and she’d nearly pull me down every time she slipped.”

You can see it, easily—Riko as a small blur of determination, dragging her too-tall older brother around a rink, shrieking with laughter while he pretended not to be terrified of falling. You wonder what it was like, growing up with someone like that; with someone who looked at Satoru and saw more than the smirking exterior, who loved him before he learned to weaponise his charm.

“Is this where you guilt-trip me into being nicer to you?” you ask.

“No,” he says. “You being mean to me is the only thing that keeps me grounded.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not when your chest is doing that awful thing again—that fluttery, traitorous ache that started as irritation and now feels like something worse. “Do you ever stop being—” you begin, but you don’t finish.

Because he lets go. Just like that.

Your breath catches, skates faltering as your arms instinctively reach for him—but you don’t fall. Your legs wobble, sure. Your equilibrium protests. But you’re still upright, and still moving, slowly and awkwardly and without grace. And he’s just standing there, a few feet away now, watching you with a look that’s proud and amused and terribly fond.

“You’re doing it,” he says, and the words hang in the air like steam, like warmth in the cold.

You stare at him. “You tricked me.”

“Obviously.”

“You let go.”

“I did.” Satoru’s smile is maddening. “But look. You’re fine.”

You aren’t sure if you’re grateful or angry or both. The lake is wide around you, open and echoing, and your arms feel empty without his to cling to. But you’re skating. When you reach him again—because of course you make your way back, clumsy half-glides bringing you close enough to grab his coat again if you want to—he doesn’t move away.

“I hate that you’re right,” you mutter, breathing hard.

“I’m always right.”

“You’re never right.”

“You’re right,” he says solemnly. “I’m only ever hot and devastatingly charming.”

You shove him. It doesn’t do much; he’s solid, annoying, smug. But he laughs, and it echoes across the lake again, bright and honest. Then his hands find yours once more. “Next time,” he says, leaning in close, “we’ll try a spin.”

You gawk at him like he’s insane. “I will murder you on the ice.”

“I’d die happy.”

You should pull away. You should say something cutting, something that reestablishes the boundaries he’s always so eager to toe. But you don’t, because he’s warm even through your gloves, and the sky above you is bleeding into a soft lavender dusk, and his breath is a whisper against your cheek when he adds, “You were really brave today.”

“Don’t make it weird,” you mumble.

“Too late.”

You close your eyes, just for a moment. Without warning, you tug his hand and take a step back on the ice, away from him. It’s shaky. Messy. Maybe even stupid. But you don’t fall, and when you glance over your shoulder, he’s already following.

You don’t end up at the ice hockey team’s practice on purpose. It’s all a matter of circumstance: you’d forgotten to bring your keys, and Satoru had practice immediately after classes, so you decided to pay him and Nanami a visit because you’re meticulous and already ahead of all your assigned readings, so you have some free time anyway.

Your boots squeak faintly against the rubber mat lining the entrance as you step inside, the sharp scent of ice and that weird rubbery tang from equipment stinging your nose. It’s colder than you expect it to be—not just chilly, but biting—and you hug your coat tighter around yourself, muttering under your breath about your own stupidity for forgetting your keys.

Through the glass panels that separate the stands from the rink, you catch sight of the team already in warm-ups, skating brisk laps along the boards. Nanami is easy to spot, with his clean-cut form and too-serious expression, weaving between teammates. Satoru, in contrast, is a blur of motion and colour—grinning, flippant, always moving like he’s daring gravity to catch him. You know it’s him even with the helmet on. There’s something unmistakable about the way he skates, fast and loose like he was born with blades for feet and no sense of self-preservation.

You slip into the bleachers, choosing a middle seat and tucking your hands between your thighs for warmth. Your breath fogs in front of you in soft clouds. Below, the players yell instructions at one another, the thud of pucks hitting boards punctuated by the scrape of blades on ice. You expect to be bored within ten minutes, but strangely, you’re not.

You catch yourself watching Satoru more than you should.

He’s wearing a dark jersey with the number six on the back, paired with white hockey pants. He skates like he owns the ice, like the world is some elaborate game designed for his entertainment, and he’s the only one who knows all the rules. He’s obnoxiously good, of course. His passes are sharp and clean, his puck handling seamless, like the stick is an extension of his arm. He doesn’t celebrate the goals he scores, but you can tell he enjoys each one. It’s in the way he glances towards the stands after every shot, like he’s half-expecting applause. Like maybe—just maybe—he knows you’re watching.

And, of course, the one time you lean forward with genuine curiosity, Satoru catches your eye. You immediately sit back and pretend to examine the very interesting metal railing in front of you. When you look up again, he’s skating backwards towards the centre line, grinning like a lunatic. You roll your eyes.

Practice drags on, but in that weird hypnotic way that makes time pass fast. The drills shift from technical to scrimmage-style, players darting about, sticks clashing, shouts echoing through the space. Nanami plays with all the joy of someone forced into it by obligation, but you admire his skill all the same. Satoru, on the other hand, is infuriatingly smooth, darting past defenders and spinning to block shots.

At some point, you begin to lose feeling in your toes. You pull your legs up into your seat and burrow deeper into your coat. Satoru scores another goal with a fancy little flick of his wrist and has the nerve to wink at you through the glass. You flip him off, and he beams like you’ve handed him a bouquet of roses.

When practice ends, the players skate to the benches, pulling off their helmets and guzzling water. You consider leaving before Satoru can come find you, but by the time you make the decision, he’s already peeled off his gear and is jogging toward the stands, a towel slung around his neck and his hair a snowy mess of sweat-damp curls.

“You stalking me now?” he calls up, voice echoing through the cavernous space.

“I forgot my keys,” you reply flatly. “Trust me, if I had other options, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Aw,” he says, leaning on the railing in front of you. “So you missed me.”

You stare down at him, unimpressed. “You smell like a wet dog. I can smell it all the way up here.”

“Still came to see me, though.”

You open your mouth to reply with something scathing, but the words don’t quite come. Not when he’s standing there with flushed cheeks and a grin that’s more sunshine than snow, squinting slightly because of the overhead lights. Not when you remember, fleetingly, that Riko once told you her brother was really quiet, and you remember, again, that he changed after she died. The thought vanishes before you can dwell on it.

“We’re out of milk, by the way,” you say instead.

Nanami skates over. His jersey is soaked through, but his hair remains irritatingly neat under his helmet. He slows to a stop beside the boards, stick tucked under one arm, and gives you a nod in greeting. You nod back.

“She came all the way out here just to tell me we’re out of milk,” Satoru says.

“I didn’t—” You cut yourself off with a sharp exhale and gesture vaguely in his direction. “Why do you talk like that?”

“He talks like that because he has no concept of shame,” Nanami says.

“You wound me, Nanamin.”

Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response—just raises a single brow and skates off toward the locker room. You watch his retreating figure for a second, then glance back at Satoru, now balancing precariously with one arm out.

“You are so dramatic,” you mutter, standing and starting down the bleachers.

“I prefer being called expressive,” Satoru calls after you, hopping off the railing and jogging to meet you at the base of the stairs. He smells faintly of sweat, rubber, and whatever chemical funk lives permanently in every locker room, but he’s grinning so widely you almost forget to wrinkle your nose. Almost.

“I can see your hair freezing,” you say as you fall into step beside him. “That’s disgusting. Go shower.”

He throws an arm around your shoulders; the gesture makes your skin bristle from the chill still clinging to his clothes. “But you like me gross,” he says, bumping your side with a playful swing of his hip.

You scoff and shove him off, barely managing to keep your balance as your boots skid slightly on the damp rubber flooring. “I like you better when you’re not radiating the scent of boiled socks.”

“So specific,” Satoru laughs. “Were you composing that one in your head the whole time I was on the ice?”

“No,” you mutter. “It came naturally. Like an allergic reaction.”

You follow him through the back hallway toward the locker rooms. It’s quieter here, the sounds of the rink replaced by the low hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional groan of old plumbing in the walls. The linoleum floor is scuffed and water-stained, and everything smells like damp towels and disinfectant. You slow your steps, lingering near the door to the players’ lounge while Satoru pushes through the locker room entrance.

He peeks back before disappearing inside. “You waiting out here, or are you coming in for the full experience?”

“I value my life,” you deadpan.

“Suit yourself,” he singsongs, tossing the towel from his neck over your head before ducking inside with a grin. You yank the towel off with a sound of disgust and drop it on the floor. A few minutes pass. You idle on your phone, scrolling through old messages, then flick over to your calendar. Everything’s already done: papers outlined, deadlines logged, readings colour-coded and annotated. You’re bored.

Ten minutes later, the door creaks open and Satoru emerges, hair damp and pushed back from his face, now in grey sweats and a university hoodie two sizes too big. He looks softer like this, more human, like he could’ve been anyone else, if the world had been a little gentler.

“What?” he says, catching you staring.

You blink. “Nothing.”

He tosses his duffel bag over one shoulder and jerks his chin toward the exit. “Come on. Let’s hit the store. You said we’re out of milk, right?”

“And bread,” you add as you fall into step beside him again. “And you used the last of the eggs and just… put the empty carton back in the fridge.”

“False accusations. I plead innocent.”

“You plead lethargy.”

03. conflict resolution (the eternal affliction).

Christmas comes and goes, and the new year begins with you and Satoru deciding to sell the TV. It had been half-broken for weeks anyway—Satoru insisted it gave the screen a “vintage haze,” but you insisted it gave you migraines. So, on the second day of January, in a rare moment of mutual decisiveness, you both posted a picture of it on Facebook Marketplace with a joke caption, and watched the replies pour in. Some poor soul came to pick it up that evening, and just like that, your living room was quieter than it had been in days.

Maybe you needed the quiet. The holidays had been a blur of noise—family phone calls, missed trains, clinking glasses, and Satoru’s very enthusiastic and very drunk rendition of Last Christmas that made your upstairs neighbour leave an aggressive Post-It on your door.

Now, it’s snowing—thick, slow flakes that coat the windows and silence the city. You’re curled up on the couch with two blankets and a cup of peppermint tea you don’t really like, watching Satoru fiddle with the thermostat.

“It’s broken,” he says for the fifth time, shirt riding up slightly as he bends down to look behind the radiator. “I’m gonna sue the landlord.”

“You say that every week,” you reply, blowing on your tea. “You’ve never sued anyone in your life.”

“I could,” he says indignantly, standing upright. He looks infuriatingly good in sweats and a hoodie, even with socks that don’t match and a piece of tape stuck to his elbow from when he tried to fix the window seal this morning. “You don’t know what I get up to when you’re asleep.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re usually asleep before me.”

Satoru points a finger at you. “Exactly. That’s what I want you to think. But maybe I’ve been moonlighting as a lawyer in the dead of night. Ever think about that?”

You take a long sip of your tea to hide your smile. “You can’t even read the rental agreement without getting a headache.”

“You said you’d never bring that up again!”

“You were crying, Satoru.”

“It was printed in a size 10 font, what do you want from me?”

You laugh. Outside, the streetlights blur into glowing halos. Inside, it’s dim and warm, the air thick with the scent of peppermint and laundry detergent, and something you can’t quite place—Satoru, probably, who always smells like something slightly sweet, like sugar cookies and whatever shampoo he uses when he forgets yours isn’t his. You look over the rim of your mug at him. His hair’s messier than usual, falling into his eyes. You’ve told him to get it trimmed. He hasn’t listened.

“It’s still getting colder,” you say quietly, watching the snow. “You think we’ll get snowed in?”

Satoru flops onto the couch beside you, his body warm where it presses against your blanket-wrapped one, his knee knocking lightly into yours. “God, I hope so,” he mutters, tugging the throw off your legs to cover himself. “We could use the time off.”

“You don’t even work a real job,” you remind him.

He frowns, the expression exaggerated and pouty. “Excuse me. I’m a public servant. I’m out there risking life and limb every day, for our stupid old landlord. Or did you forget who shoveled the steps this morning?”

“Badly,” you point out. “You missed half the landing.”

“I was conserving energy,” he says primly, “in case we do get snowed in. You’ll be thanking me when it’s day four of no groceries and you’re chewing on the couch cushions.”

You scoff, curling your feet under you. “We’ve got food. I made sure.”

“I saw.” He grins, tilting his head to rest against the back of the couch, blue eyes sparkling. “I saw you hide the good snacks in the cereal box. You’re so sneaky.” Satoru reaches for the remote out of habit, then remembers the TV is gone. “Oh. What are we supposed to do now? Talk to each other?”

You smile around the rim of your cup. “We could play cards.”

“We could commit tax fraud.”

You nudge his leg with yours. “Satoru.”

“Fine, fine,” he sighs. “But only if I get to cheat.”

“You always cheat.”

“You always let me.”

He says it quietly, but he looks at you like he’s talking about something else entirely. Maybe he is. You set the mug down carefully, your fingers too warm now to keep holding it. You’re suddenly aware of everything: how his thigh brushes yours, how he’s slouched so far down the cushions that his hoodie’s ridden up again, showing a sliver of pale skin and the waistband of his sweats; the scar on his hip he told you he got from an ice hockey accident; the way he shifts when you don’t say anything, like he feels your gaze and likes it.

The peppermint flavour in your mouth goes sticky and sweet.

“I’m bored,” he says again, softer. “You wanna do something stupid?”

“Like what?”

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “Like take a really hot shower. Together. For environmental reasons.”

You huff, trying not to laugh, even as your stomach does a slow somersault. “Very eco-conscious of you.”

“Exactly. I’m a hero.”

You roll your eyes, but the thought lingers—his body wet and close, fogging up the glass, your cold skin pressed to his. It lingers longer than it should. You lean your head back against the couch and try to chase it away, but Satoru leans closer, propping his chin on your shoulder, voice lazy and low, as he says, “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“You’re such a bad liar.”

You shoot him a look, about to say something, but it dies on your lips. He’s close. His eyes are sleepy but sharp, his breath warm where it brushes your cheek. You blink slowly. You think you could kiss him and he’d let you. You think if you said please, he’d let you crawl into his lap and never leave.

“I don’t even like peppermint,” you deflect, mostly to yourself.

“Riko used to say you always drank it in winter.”

“It’s supposed to feel festive.”

“You’re festive,” he says, almost absentmindedly, like the words slipped out without thinking.The snow falls harder. The pipes groan, and the heater hisses weakly. You pull the blanket higher around your neck. “You’re not warm enough,” he observes.

“Thanks for the update.”

“I’m just saying. We could fix that.”

“Is this you trying to seduce me?”

“Is it working?”

You stare at him. He’s gorgeous like this—half-lazy, half-serious, the kind of effortless pretty that shouldn’t be allowed in sweats and two-day-old hair. You think about the way his voice goes low when he’s teasing you, like it is now. The way he always runs a hand down your back, firm and gentle, when he knows your day’s been long. It’s unbearable, sometimes, the want. The wanting him like this.

“I could be convinced,” you say quietly.

“Oh, yeah?”

He doesn’t move right away; he watches you—searching, maybe, or waiting for you to change your mind. You don’t. He shifts to face you more fully, and leans in slowly, like he’s giving you time to pull away. His fingers brush your jaw, warm and careful, and then he kisses you.

It starts soft, the kind of kiss that feels like a question. You answer with a small sound at the back of your throat, leaning in, tilting your head, letting your mouth part just slightly under his. Satoru deepens it with a low noise that vibrates between you, his hand slipping to the back of your neck to anchor your close. His lips are warm, his mouth sweet—peppermint and the leftover hint of something honeyed from dinner. He kisses like he does everything else—wholeheartedly, a little cocky, and all-consuming. Your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie, needing something to hold onto as he presses in.

His other hand slides beneath the blanket, settling against your waist. You’re still bundled up in layers, but you feel the heat of his palm through the cotton. Your whole body reacts to it: shivering, softening, leaning closer. You sigh into his mouth, and he swallows the sound.

When he finally pulls back, it’s just barely, his nose brushing yours. His eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils blown, a flush high on his cheeks that has nothing to do with the cold. “You sure?” he asks roughly. “Because I’ll stop. I’ll stop right now if—”

You kiss him again, quick and firm. “I’m sure.”

Satoru lets out a breath, then nudges the blanket off both of you. The cold air hits your skin for half a second before he’s pulling you onto his lap, coaxing you into straddling him. You go willingly, knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of his hips. It’s clumsy at first—your feet slide, your knee bumps the coffee table—but he steadies you with both hands on your hips, and it stops being funny.

Your faces are inches apart. You can see every speck of silver in his eyes, the pink curve of his bottom lip, the threadbare collar of his hoodie that dips just low enough to show the line of his throat. Your fingers slip under the hem of it, and he shudders.

“This okay?” you ask quietly.

He nods, but adds, “Don’t ask like that. Like I’d ever say no to you.”

You kiss him again. His hands move—up your back, under your shirt, leaving trails of heat where they go. You’re both flush with warmth now, the kind of warmth that fills your chest and settles low in your belly. The radiator’s broken, and your tea’s gone cold, but it doesn’t matter, not with his body beneath yours, not with his mouth at your neck now, pressing soft, reverent kisses to the place where your pulse beats.

“Satoru,” you whisper, and he groans softly against your skin like it’s the best thing he’s heard all week. You tighten your fingers in his hoodie, tugging just slightly, and he lifts his head to look at you. You run your hands down his chest, over the soft cotton. “This has got to go.”

He grins, crooked and flushed. “You just want an excuse to touch me.”

You tug the hoodie up, and he raises his arms without a word, letting you pull it over his head. His hair is mussed even further, sticking up in a dozen directions, and you can’t help smoothing it down with your hands. His skin is warm beneath your palms, the planes of his chest scattered with faint scars.

“You’re staring,” he says, softer now.

“You’re pretty,” you reply, just as quiet.

His smile falters—not in a bad way, but in that way it does when you say something that actually gets to him. He swallows, reaches up, and brushes your hair back behind your ear. “You’re not supposed to say things like that when I’m trying to be cool.”

“You’re never cool,” you whisper, leaning in again. “I’m on birth control. Just so you know.”

His laugh is rough, but it dies in his throat the second you crush your mouth to his again—all heat, no patience now, just the wet slide of his tongue against yours. His hands are already pushing under your shirt, fingers tracing every rib, until his thumbs drag slow circles under your breasts. You arch into his touch.

“Off,” he says, yanking your shirt up. You lift your arms, letting him strip it away, leaving you in just your bra—some flimsy lace thing he’s already eyeing like he wants to tear it off. The cold air hits your skin, but you barely feel it, not with the way his gaze burns over you. His hands are on you again instantly, palming your tits through the lace, squeezing just hard enough to make you whimper. His thumbs flick over your nipples, already stiff, and you gasp when he leans down to lick a hot stripe over the fabric.

“So beautiful,” he says, teeth catching the edge of the cup. He tugs it down, freeing one breast, and seals his mouth over it with wet, filthy pulls of his lips while his tongue flicks the peak. You moan, thighs clenching, already grinding down against his lap where his cock strains against his sweatpants.

“Satoru—” Your fingers twist in his hair, holding him to your chest as he switches sides, biting lightly at the other nipple through the lace before dragging the cup down to give it the same treatment. His free hand slides between your thighs, cupping you through your pants, and you shudder when he presses the heel of his palm hard against your clit.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he groans against your skin, fingers rubbing slow, torturous circles. “Can feel it through your pants.”

You’re panting now, hips rolling against his hand, chasing the friction. He undoes the string of your pants with one hand, shoving them down your thighs along with your underwear. His breath hitches when he sees how wet you are, glistening and swollen.

“Look at that,” he rasps, dragging two fingers through your folds, spreading your slick. He slides one finger inside you, just to the first knuckle, teasing. “Already so fucking tight—how’re you gonna take me?”

You whine, hips jerking, trying to him deeper, but he just chuckles, adding a second finger, curling them just right to make you gasp. He pumps them slowly, his thumb circling your clit in time, until you’re trembling, your thighs shaking around his wrist.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling his fingers free with a filthy sound. You nearly sob at the loss, but he unbuckles his jeans, shoving them just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, already leaking.

“Ride me,” he orders, voice rough.

You don’t hesitate. You reach between you, guiding him to your entrance, and lower yourself into him inch by inch. The stretch burns, the way he fills you so perfect, it steals your breath. Both of you groan as you take him to the hilt, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

You start to move, rolling your hips in slow, deep circles, and his head falls back against the couch with a groan. His hands roam your body—squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples, then sliding down to grip your ass, urging you faster. You comply, bouncing on his cock now, the slap of skin echoing in the room. Every thrust drags him against that perfect spot inside you, and you can feel the coil of pleasure tightening, your clit throbbing with each movement.

“Gonna come,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. “Satoru, I’m—”

“Let go,” he urges, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles. “Come on my cock.”

The orgasm crashes through you—your back arches, your walls clamp down on him, and you cry out, shuddering as pleasure rips through every nerve. He fucks you through it, his hips jerking up to meet your frantic movements, until he groans and spills inside you with a low moan.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, sweat-slick and spent. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as your heartbeat steadies. He tilts your chin up, after a moment, kissing you slow and lazy.

“So,” he mumbles against your lips. “About that shower.”

“Yes, please.”

He peels you off the couch with a groan, your legs shaky, your skin still fever-hot where his come drips down your inner thighs. The bathroom tiles are cool under your bare feet as he guides you in, his palm never leaving the small of your back, like he can’t stand not touching you for even a second.

Steam fogs the mirror before the water even hits your skin. Satoru adjusts the spray with a rough twist of his wrist, testing it with his fingers before pulling you under the warm heat. The water sluices over your shoulders, your breasts, his hands following its path like he’s trying to watch every inch of you with his touch instead.

“You missed a spot,” you tease, breath hitching when his thumbs drag over your nipples, already stiff again from the contrast of heat and his calloused fingers.

“Fucking smartass,” he says, but there’s no real bite to it—not when his cock is already thickening against your hip, the tip flushed and leaking. He crowds you against the tile, his mouth searing a path down your throat, sucking bruises into the tender skin below your ear. Water beads on his lashes when he looks up at you, fingers hooking under your knee to hike your leg over his hip.

“Turn around,” he orders, voice frayed with want.

You obey, bracing your palms against the slick wall as he presses flush against your back. His cock nudges between your thighs, not quite inside it—just rutting against your slick folds, teasing. The head catches on your entrance, the stretch just shy of unbearable, and you whimper, pushing back.

Satoru chuckles, one hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head aside. His other hand slides between your legs, fingers spreading your slick over your clit. “Still dripping,” he says, circling that swollen bud just hard enough to make your knees buckle. “Like you’re fucking made for me.”

You gasp when he finally pushes inside—slow, deliberate, stretching you with every inch until his hips meet your ass. The water cascades over both of you as he starts to move, deep, rolling thrusts that have you arching, your nails scraping against tile.

“Look at you,” he groans, tightening his grip on your hip. His other hand leaves your hair to grab your breast, pinching your nipple as he fucks into you harder. “Taking me so fucking good.”

It’s too much—the drag of his cock against your walls, the slap of skin, the way his teeth sink into your shoulder. You’re babbling, half-formed pleas and his name, your thighs trembling with every thrust.

“Gonna make you come again,” he grits out, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing circles. You come with a cry, your walls fluttering around him as your climax crashes over you. Satoru fucks you through it, his hips stuttering as his own release hits—a harsh groan against your neck as he spills inside you.

He holds you up when your legs give out, turning you in his arms to kiss you slow and filthy under the spray. His tongue licks into your mouth, while his hand drifts down to your ass.

“Clean now?” you mumble against his lips, dazed.

He laughs, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Dirty as hell.” His other hand slides between your thighs, gathering the mix of water and come dripping down your skin. “Gonna have to do this again.”

You shiver as he brings his fingers to your mouth, watching your lips part to suck them clean.

Spring is sprung, but nothing changes between you and Satoru. It’s as if the two days you spent snowed in right after New Year’s are just that—two days that exist outside of your usual periphery, kept locked away in the recesses of your mind like a dream you can’t decide whether to revisit or forget. The world has thawed and so, seemingly, has he. No more late nights curled together on his couch. No more cereal-for-dinner declarations or tangled limbs under too-warm blankets. That strange liminal space you existed in, suspended in the hush of snowfall and the hum of radiator heat, disappears as soon as the city begins to bloom again.

Instead, things shift back into old rhythms.

You start finding mismatched socks in the laundry again. His cereal bowls accumulate in the sink in quiet protest of dishwashing. You bicker over the thermostat settings like you always used too—Satoru insists that 24°C is the perfect temperature while you’re constantly reaching for the dial to turn it down. He steals your phone charger without asking. You use his shampoo out of petty revenge. He hogs the bathroom mirror every morning, combing through his hair with a devotion that borders on tragic. And you… you go back to pretending that none of it ever meant anything more.

You try not to notice how careful he is now, how his gaze lingers a little too long but his fingers don’t. How he keeps his distance—playfully, almost purposefully. As if closeness is a privilege that’s been revoked. As if intimacy was a mistake that neither of you are willing to acknowledge.

And because it’s easier this way, you don’t ask.

Instead, you both fall into the easy charade of Just Roommates, the same performance you perfected before that blizzard rewrote the script. It’s familiar, comfortable—until it isn’t.

Because one night, he doesn’t come home.

You notice it sometime around 11:30 P.M. His shoes aren’t by the door, his keys aren’t clattering into the dish like they usually do. The apartment is quiet in a way it hasn’t been for months. You try not to worry. He’s an adult. He disappears sometimes. That’s just Satoru being Satoru. But something in your chest prickles with unease, and your thumb hovers over your screen for a good five minutes before you finally open your messages.

You: hey, you coming home tonight?

No reply. The text sits there, read but unanswered. You sit on the couch for another half hour, idly scrolling, not really seeing anything. Your eyes keep darting to the door like he might waltz in with some dumb excuse and a bag of chips. When the clock hits 1:04 A.M., you give up pretending and text Nanami.

You: do you know where satoru is?

Nanami: hold on. Nanami: yeah. unfortunately.

Two seconds later, an image pops up.

It’s a picture taken at a frat party—one of those messy, overcrowded events where the music’s too loud and the floor’s sticky with God-knows-what. There’s a blur of colour and movement, people crowding the frame, but it’s not hard to spot him: Satoru, in the centre of it all, unmistakable even with the grainy quality of the photo. He’s half-sitting on the back of a couch, red solo cup in hand, sunglasses perched uselessly on the bridge of his nose despite it being well past midnight. His head is tilted toward a girl beside him—brunette, bright lipstick, her arm draped over his shoulder.

You stare at the image for longer than you mean to.

The girl’s laughing. Satoru’s smiling. And not that small, soft sort of smile he gives you when he thinks you’re not looking, but wide and lazy, the kind he usually wears when he’s trying to charm his way out of something.

Your stomach curls, cold and unpleasant. You shut your phone off. The apartment is still too quiet. You brush your teeth with shaking fingers, climb into a bed that feels a little too big, and press your eyes shut like that might block out the sudden ache in your chest.

It shouldn’t matter. You’re just roommates.

You think about the girl he’d brought home that day, three days into your moving in. You’d felt bad for her, knowing that she was just a notch in his over-filled stick. Is that what you are, too? Just another person he slept with? His little sister’s best friend, who’s never been the same after she died, just another name on his list?

Maybe it’s your own fault. You knew what he was like.

The morning after, you don’t reach for your phone. You don’t check to see if he came home sometimes after you fell asleep. You don’t look for his shoes by the door. You just go about your day like you’ve got somewhere to be.

It’s easier this way. To keep moving. To stay busy. To pull your focus away from the image etched into the backs of your eyelids: the shape of him in someone else’s orbit, grinning like he didn’t have your heartbeat tucked between his palms only a few weeks ago.

When you finally do check your phone, there’s no apology. Just a half-hearted “my bad lol” text that arrives sometime around 10 A.M., flippant and thoughtless, as if it never even occurred to him that you might’ve waited up.

You don’t answer. He doesn’t push. The silence becomes your new rhythm.

Where once there was casual ease between you, there is now only space. Deliberate, careful space. You start closing the door to your room whenever he’s home. You keep your headphones in, even when you’re not listening to anything. You stop making dinner for two. You stop leaving him notes on the fridge. He seems to notice, but doesn’t say anything. Maybe he’s relieved. Maybe he’s too oblivious to put the pieces together. Or maybe this is just easier for him, too.

You start planning your exit. You don’t tell him. You don’t know how to. You start searching on your laptop late at night, under the covers like it’s something shameful. Studio apartments, room shares, sublets posted by strangers who spell everything in lowercase. Nothing looks promising, but you scroll anyway, determined to find something, anything, that doesn’t have him in it.

You start making lists in your notes app. Things you’ll need: a kettle, your own set of plates, a bathroom rug. Things you’ll miss: the way he sings when he’s in the shower, the sound of his laugh echoing down the hallway, the smell of his shampoo. And then there are the things you don’t let yourself write down. Like the way his arms felt around you that night on the couch. Or the look in his eyes when he thought you were asleep. Or the fact that, for a brief few moments this winter, you really, truly believed he could be something more.

You don’t talk about any of it. Not to him, not to Nanami, not to your friend who sits next to you during class. You just swallow it down like a bitter pill and keep moving.

Some nights, he comes home late and you pretend to be asleep. Some mornings, he lingers in the kitchen a little too long, like he’s waiting for you to say something, anything, but you never do. You sip your coffee in silence, watch the steam curl up, and keep your eyes fixed on the window. It’s not that you don’t want to talk to him. It’s that you don’t trust what you’d say.

Because the truth is this: you’ve overstayed your welcome, not just in this apartment, but in the idea of him. You let yourself want, and now you’re paying for it.

And Satoru—he’s still Satoru. Beautiful and reckless and untouchable in the ways that matter most. He flits around you like he doesn’t notice you pulling away. Or maybe he does, and he’s letting you go. So you send in applications. You tour a too-small studio with cracked linoleum and convince yourself the peeling walls are “charming.” You lie on your bed at night and stare at the ceiling and imagine what it’ll feel like to live in a place where his laugh doesn’t echo through the walls.

Spring has sprung. The world is warm and blooming again. But you—you’ve never felt colder.

When you tell Nanami you’re moving, he doesn’t chide you for it. Just shrugs, and asks if you want any help with packing. You nod, grateful, and ask if you can accompany him for their ice hockey practice that evening. You need to give Satoru your keys back, and you would prefer to do it with your friend next to you.

The rink is always colder than you expect. Even in the early blush of spring, when your jacket is too light and the wind a little gentler, the ice rink clings to winter. Nanami doesn’t say much on the walk over. He’s not the type to pry unless invited, and you’ve been… quiet, to say the least. A silence cushioned in resignation more than sadness. As if the version of yourself who cried into her pillow over Satoru in January has finally dulled into someone softer, steadier.

You sit in the bleachers with your arms tucked close to your chest as Nanami skates onto the ice. The boys are already roughhousing, and Satoru—he’s grinning. Always grinning.

You spot him the moment he hops the rail. His hair is a mess under his helmet, and his jersey hangs a little lopsided over his pads, but there’s that same carefree energy, as though nothing in the world has ever really touched him. Not even you.

You fold your fingers around the keys in your coat pocket and press them tight into your palm. Practice is what you’ve come to expect. Fast. Loud. A blur of bodies in motion, blades on ice, the occasional thud as someone crashes into the boards. You watch the way Satoru moves—like he owns the rink, like gravity is just a suggestion. You realise, belatedly, that you are looking. Maybe too hard.

When the whistle blows and the scrimmage ends, the team filters off the ice in staggered waves, peeling off helmets, slapping shoulders, shouting about drinks and dinner plans. Nanami nods at you from the bench, motioning that he’ll meet you outside. You’re halfway down the bleachers when you hear his name.

“Hey!” Satoru’s voice cuts through the buzz of conversation. You turn. He’s jogging over with that same impish grin, helmet under one arm, hair sweat-damp and eyes far too blue. “You came.”

You blink. “Yeah.”

“You missed me, huh?” he teases, bumping your shoulder with his. “Don’t look at me like that. I know you love watching me play.”

There it is—that familiar tilt of his head. A part of you wants to smile back, the way you always do. Fall into the rhythm again. Pretend.

But not this time.

You pull your hand from your coat pocket and extend it toward him, fingers curled around the small, silver ring of keys. “Here,” you say simply.

Satoru stills. He looks at your hand like he doesn’t quite understand what he’s seeing, like the keys might bite him if he takes them. “What…?” his voice falters. “What’s this?”

“Your spare,” you reply. “I’m moving out.”

He doesn’t take the keys right away. He stares at you, the confusion sharpening into something quieter, something more serious. “You’re serious.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

You don’t say I wouldn’t have watched you skate around like nothing ever happened if I wasn’t. You don’t say I wouldn’t have dragged myself back into this space, this icebox version of our past, if I didn’t want to close the door for good.

He finally reaches out and takes them, curling his fingers slowly around the metal like it might dissolve. You notice the way his smile has faded. The rink is suddenly very quiet.

“I see,” he says. It’s the most subdued you’ve heard him in weeks.

You take a step back. “Good game, by the way.”

You walk away.

04. the end (happily ever after).

“You can’t leave until the end of the month,” Satoru says by way of greeting, toeing off his shoes at the entrance. “You signed the lease with me. You have to stay until April.”

You pause halfway through stacking one of the moving boxes, fingers curled around a stack of your dog-eared books. “Are you seriously quoting the lease at me right now?”

Satoru shrugs out of his jacket. “I’m just saying. It’s legally binding.”

You set the books down a little too hard. “What, so now you care about the rules?”

“I’ve always cared,” he says.

“No, Satoru. You care when it’s convenient. You care when it means getting the last word. You don’t get to act like this now, after weeks of pretending I don’t exist.”

“I wasn’t pretending—”

“You stopped coming home,” you snap, the words catching in your throat like thorns. “You stopped showing up. You stopped talking to me.”

“I needed space,” he says, and you laugh—cold and bitter and hollow.

“From what? From me? From whatever happened that weekend?”

He says nothing. Just shifts his weight and stares at the floor like the grain of the wood might suddenly rearrange itself into answers.

You swallow. “Right. Of course. That weekend didn’t mean anything. Just like everything else.”

“Don’t do that,” Satoru says quietly. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“I’m just trying to figure out what we are,” you retort defensively. “Were. Because you clearly figured it out a long time ago and didn’t bother telling me.”

“It’s not like that.”

“No?” Your voice shakes. “Then what about the girl from the party, Satoru? What was that?”

His head jerks up. “What girl?”

You cross your arms. “Nanami showed me a photo. Some frat party. You and some girl. You looked—happy.”

Something flickers across his face—confusion first, then something like hurt. “You mean Misaki?”

“I don’t know her name. I just know you were smiling. With your arm around her. And I know I don’t sleep with people I don’t care about. So maybe it didn’t mean anything to you, but it did to me. And you were just going to go back to your life like nothing happened, I wish you’d said so before I gave a damn.”

“Misaki,” he says again, stunned. “She’s dating Hajime.”

You blink.

“She’s my teammate’s girlfriend. He wanted a photo of all of us for her birthday because she’s moving to Osaka. That’s it. We all posed for a stupid picture, and then I left. I didn’t even want to go.”

You want to believe him. You really do. But your chest still aches with weeks of uncertainty, with that night you nearly cried yourself to sleep on the mattress you were already half-packing away. “Then why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I thought I already fucked everything up,” he admits. “You stopped talking to me. You looked right through me. I thought I crossed a line, and you regretted it.”

You shake your head, disbelieving. “You—you thought I regretted it? Satoru, I—” You cut yourself off. Swallow it down.

He steps forward, hands out like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed anymore. “I didn’t want to risk making it worse. But then you stopped coming to practice. You stopped leaving your door open. You were just… gone.”

“The only thing we ever had in common,” you say, “was Riko.”

His face falls.

“She’s dead, Satoru. And maybe… maybe we were just trying to hold on to each other because she was the one who tied us together.

“No.” His voice is firm. “No, that’s not true.”

You look away. “Isn’t it?”

“Maybe at first,” he says. “But not anymore. Not for a long time.”

“Then why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I’m an idiot. Because I thought I had more time. I miss you. Every day. I miss going grocery shopping with you. I miss your hair in the drain and your mugs on the counter and the way you used to fall asleep on the couch back when we still had the TV. I miss you,” he repeats, quieter this time, “so no. You can’t leave. Not until I get to ask you out properly.”

For your first date, Satoru sneaks you into the campus ice rink at one in the morning.

“Nicked the keys from the coach,” he says. “Don’t tell Nanamin.”

The air inside the rink is biting and crisp, even colder than you remember from the times you’d come to watch practice. Satoru flips the lights on, flooding the empty arena with a soft, almost romantic glow—clean white against the polished glass, shadows stretching long along the bleachers. You stand near the edge of the rink, hugging your coat tighter around your body.

“I can’t believe you stole from your coach for this,” you say, though you’re smiling.

Satoru shakes the keys at you. “Borrowed. It’s borrowing if I return them.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m endearing,” he corrects, walking backwards towards the ice, arms spread wide. “And this is your first official date. Has to be memorable.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart is soft and melty, like it always is around him now.

He’s already laced into his skates, having arrived with them slung over one shoulder. You, on the other hand, have to sit at the benches while he kneels in front of you to help you with yours. His fingers are quick and practiced, tugging the laces snug before double-knotting them with a flourish. It should be embarrassing—being fawned over like this—but there’s something reverent in the way he moves, like this is a ritual of his own making, and it tugs at something in your chest.

“You do this for all your first dates?” you ask, trying to sound casual, but failing. You’re too aware of the way his breath fans over your thighs, or the way his touch lingers just a little too long against your ankles.

He glances up at you, bright eyes amused. “You’re my first. Be gentle with me.”

The ice is smooth, freshly resurfaced. Satoru leads you to the centre, gliding effortlessly, show-offy as ever. He does a little spin, throws both arms in the air like he’s just scored, then turns and offers you a hand.

“You know I can’t skate like that.”

“Lucky for you,” he says, stepping closer and tucking his fingers through yours, “I happen to be very good at holding people up.”

You’re wobbly at first, your legs unsure, and he skates backward slowly, pulling you along. His hands are steady on your waist, his smile wide and proud. And once you find your rhythm—still shaky, but upright—you circle the rink together, the only sounds the soft hiss of blades on ice and your laughter echoing against the rafters.

It’s surreal. You’ve seen him like this before: in his element, cocky and sure of himself on the ice. But it’s different now, because now, every glance he throws your way feels like it means something. Halfway through, he slows to a stop and pulls you in close. “You know,” he says, softer now, “I used to dream about this.”

You blink up at him. “About breaking and entering university property?”

“No,” he says. “About you. Being with you. I used to imagine all the ways I could maybe get you to see me the way I saw you. And it always started with something like this.”

You flush. “Satoru…”

“Do you remember,” he says, nudging his forehead against yours, “after the snowstorm? When I told you I wouldn’t regret it?”

You nod.

“I meant it,” he says. “I still mean it.”

The kiss comes naturally, like exhaling. You’re both half-frozen, and he tastes like mind and cold air, but it’s perfect anyway—slow and warm and just a little clumsy, because you’re still in skates and your balance is terrible, and he laughs into your mouth when you nearly topple over.

“I’ve got you,” he says, arms anchoring you close.

When you eventually sit on the benches again, sipping hot chocolate from a thermos he’d smuggled in his bag, he wraps an arm around your shoulder and leans in to whisper, “Next time, I’ll bring you here in the daytime like a normal person.”

You hum, smiling against the rim of the cup. “But I think I like this version better.”

Satoru’s fingers find yours and squeeze. “Me, too,” he says.

The final buzzer sounds.

The crowd erupts around you—horns blaring, feet stomping, voices swelling into an anthem of unbridled celebration. On the ice, bodies collide in a heap of jerseys and helmets, gloves flung into the air like confetti. The scoreboard flashes a victorious 5 – 4, and you swear your heart’s beating just as fast as the game-winning slapshot Satoru landed in the final two minutes.

You stay seated in the bleachers, slightly breathless, fingers clenched around the hem of your coat. The whole rink pulses with energy. You could cut the adrenaline with a knife. Students are screaming their heads off. Someone nearby throws a foam fingers into the rink. Your ears are ringing and your eyes are locked on the number 6 jersey, skating lazy circles while his teammates swarm Nanami in a dogpile near the goal.

Satoru Gojo.

You watch him turn, searching the stands. The grin on his face is dazzling, sweat-slicked hair sticking out of his helmet in damp tufts. He lifts his stick over his head like a banner, pointing it directly at you when he finds you in the crowd.

Your heart stutters. You’re not even embarrassed about how wide your smile stretches.

He doesn’t even wait for the rest of the ceremony.

Not ten minutes later, he’s climbed the barriers and jogged up the bleacher steps, ignoring the photographers, the shouts of “Gojo! Pictures!” and Nanami’s loud, “Get back here, Gojo!” He finds you in the fifth row, standing now, half-shocked and half-laughing, and barrels straight into you.

“Hey—” you start, but then he’s kissing you.

It’s not the first time—God knows it won’t be the last—but something about it makes the rest of the world dissolve. Your hands find the sides of his face, fingers catching on the straps of his helmet, as he presses you back gently against the guardrail. He tastes like mint and ice and sweat, and his smile never fully disappears against your mouth.

“I knew you’d come,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice rough with exertion. “Could feel it.”

You swat him lightly on the chest, breathless. “Of course I came. It’s the finals.”

“You didn’t come to the semi-finals,” he teases, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Thought I’d been demoted.”

“You were in the sin bin for half the game,” you retort. “Not exactly sweetheart behaviour.”

He grins against your cheek, pulling back just enough to look at you. The crowd’s still losing their minds around you, but neither of you seem to notice. His helmet’s off now, clutched in one hand, and his forehead leans against yours.

“You came tonight,” he repeats. “That’s all I needed.”

It hits you, then, just how many people are watching. Phones are out. A chant’s already building in the lower rows—Gojo! Gojo! Gojo!—but he doesn’t care. He kisses you again like you’re the only person in the arena.

Maybe you are.

“God,” he says, breathless as he pulls away, “you’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that after a win.”

You smile, fingers curled loosely in his jersey.

“Well,” you whisper, tugging him closer, “guess you’ve earned it.”

6K notes · View notes

cheriimo · 8 days ago

Text

Look

28K notes · View notes

cheriimo · 8 days ago

Text

come follow me

33K notes · View notes

cheriimo · 8 days ago

Text

sleepover

57K notes · View notes

cheriimo · 10 days ago

Text

real shit

dick from a man who embarrasses me at every turn

139 notes · View notes

cheriimo · 13 days ago

Text

✦ kiss it better — fushiguro toji

[ nsfw ] — smut (18+) ; fushiguro toji x reader

word count: 4,272 — read on ao3

tags: shameless smut, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal sex, public sex (car sex), unprotected sex, explicit language & sexual content, praise kink, dirty talk, size kink (implied), creampie, fingering, casual hookup, cocky toji, reader folded like laundry, mdni!

summary:

The scar pulls just slightly at the corner of his lips as he leans in, and his voice drops—deep, amused, thick with heat.

“Should I kiss it better, princess?”

You meet him at a bar with a bandaged finger and no intention of flirting—but Fushiguro Toji makes bad decisions taste like honey and sin.

And you’re already bleeding.

notes:

just horny hours lol. i’m ovulatingfjskd 😭 enjoy :))))

All you wanted was a salad.

Just a plain, no-frills, go-to-hell iceberg-lettuce kind of salad. Something that felt like trying, something vaguely healthy to undo the three-day streak of takeout and wine. It was supposed to be simple—wash, slice, toss. But the mandolin had other plans, and now your index finger is bandaged like a cartoon character, throbbing in punishment. Blood everywhere, a ruined meal, and your pride in shreds.

You’re not dramatic—usually. But the way your stomach dropped when the blade bit in? The hissed breath, the small yelp you swore was not a whimper, the blood pooling fast? It was enough to make you declare war on vegetables. Forever. You’ve never hated a cucumber so much in your life.

So now you're here. Nursing the sting with a beer instead of a bandage change, seated at the bar of a dimly lit izakaya that plays lo-fi remixes and smells like soy sauce and cheap salvation. The edamame is overpriced, the fried chicken greasy, and you’re still pissed off—but less so. Because nothing says fuck this day like drinking alone and people-watching.

And right now, the man to your left is a show worth watching.

He’s huge. Not just big, but big. Broad shoulders that strain against the fabric of a plain black tee. Thick forearms, veins like lightning bolts over muscle. Messy black hair brushing his ears, a scar carved clean across the right corner of his mouth like a warning sign—don’t get too close. You’ve never seen a man look so casually violent and so annoyingly attractive at the same time.

You’ve been half-watching the two of them—him and some younger, yappier guy—for the past ten minutes. They’ve clearly just finished arguing about something, and it ends with the younger one laughing as he claps him on the shoulder.

“Next time you’re better off, Toji. Or maybe not,” he grins, smug and loose. “I always win anyway. Thanks for the money again!”

The man—Toji—grunts low. Barely a sound. Just a flick of his jaw, a disgruntled mutter. He takes a slow sip from his beer without looking up.

And maybe it’s the beer, or the bandage, or just the sheer fuck-it-ness of your mood, but you lean in and say it before you can stop yourself.

“You know, next time you make a bet, you should probably be sure you’re going to win it.”

Your voice is casual, edamame pod between your teeth, not trying to start anything—but definitely not trying to stay quiet either.

His head turns.

Slow. Deliberate. Like a hinge creaking in a dark hallway.

He looks at you—really looks. Eyes that are sharp and dark, that gleam under the bar lights like they could see through your clothes if he wanted to. His face is angular, masculine in a brutal kind of way. And up close, that scar is even sexier. His mouth quirks, one brow lifting.

“What the hell do you know about football?” His voice is low and gritty, like smoke after the flame’s gone out. Almost lazy. Like he doesn't expect you to answer anything that could surprise him.

You shrug, chewing on the pod. “Not much. But I do know penalties are a lottery. Doesn’t matter how good you are. You bet on luck, you usually lose.”

He narrows his eyes at that. Not insulted—curious.

“…Mhmm.” It rumbles in his throat, part hum, part growl. Then, as if something clicks behind his gaze, he shifts. Turns toward you fully. Arm propped on the bar now, broad chest angled in your direction, and suddenly you’re more aware of how small your stool is. How small you feel beside him.

“I’m Toji,” he says simply. Like that’s all the explanation anyone needs. And for a man like him, it kind of is.

You hesitate for a second; common sense says don’t, but you give him your name anyway. Something about the way he looks at you makes you feel like he already knew it.

He repeats it, slow and firm. Tastes it in his mouth. Then his eyes flick downward and catch the white bandage around your finger.

“What happened to your hand?”

You lift it halfway, sheepish. “Mandolin accident.”

Toji grins. Real slow. Real dirty.

The scar pulls just slightly at the corner of his lips as he leans in, and his voice drops—deep, amused, thick with heat.

“Should I kiss it better, princess?”

It’s not the words that make your stomach clench; it’s the way he says it. The drawl of princess, said like it’s a private joke, like he already knows exactly what you’d sound like moaning it back to him. He says it like a tease, but there’s weight behind it. Pressure.

His eyes are half-lidded, but razor-sharp beneath it. Measuring your reaction. Watching your throat work as you swallow. The sudden shift of your knees. The hitch in your breath you hope he didn’t notice.

But he did.

Of course he did.

You hold his gaze, not quite bold but not backing down either. “You kiss all girls with kitchen injuries, or just the ones who challenge your football choices?”

That grin widens. “Only the ones who bleed real pretty.”

Jesus Christ.

He says it like a flirt and a threat all in one. Like he could take you apart with his teeth and still call it mercy.

You laugh. You can’t help it—quiet and a little nervous. “That’s… mildly concerning.”

“‘S not the worst thing I’ve said.” He shrugs, easy, like the devil telling bedtime stories. “You want another beer?”

You do. You really, really do.

But it’s not about the drink anymore.

It’s the way his thigh brushes yours when he leans to call the bartender. The way his voice rumbles when he says your name again, lips brushing close to your ear this time—like he wants to see how far he can get without touching you.

Like he knows you’ll fold eventually.

And you do fold.

Like—fast.

Really fucking fast, actually.

One beer later, your food long gone and the grease of fried chicken forgotten, and somehow you’re the one who paid for both your drinks—how did that happen?—you find yourself in the backseat of your own car. Cramped. Hot. Steamy with breath and body heat. And none of it matters, not the tight angle of your legs or the awkward press of the seats, because Toji is there.

Between your thighs.

Like he belongs there.

He’s kneeling on the floor of the car, big frame somehow wedged between the seats, thick arms spread wide to hold your legs open like he owns them. One hand curls beneath your knee, the other anchoring on your thigh—firm, rough, commanding. Your skirt is shoved up, your panties long forgotten, probably stuffed into the glove box or maybe his pocket—you don’t know, you don’t care. All you can think about is the way his mouth is on you.

And God, his mouth.

His tongue drags slow through your folds, lazy and unbothered, like he’s savoring the taste. He pulls back just enough to let a fat line of spit drip from his lips and land heavy on your clit. It’s obscene. Wet. Shameless. And then he leans in again, sucking it into his mouth with a filthy, slurping kiss that has your hips jolting, a sharp moan breaking from your throat.

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice thick with lust and spit and satisfaction. “That’s it. Make some noise, princess.”

His middle finger is already inside you—knuckle deep and curled just right, like he mapped your cunt before you were even born. The callused pad brushes a spot that makes your vision blur, and when he sucks on your clit again, slow and hard, your moan breaks into something more helpless, almost feral.

You’re not a quiet girl. But this? This is different. This is animal. Your legs are shaking. Ankles flexing, toes curling in your boots. You clutch at the headrest behind you, at the fogged-up window, at the tangled seatbelt that’s cutting into your spine—but nothing helps. You’re unraveling too fast. Melting down to the bone.

And he just keeps going.

Every flick of his tongue feels deliberate. Every pulse of his finger inside you is a study in how to make a woman fall apart. He moves like he has nowhere to be and all night to spend ruining you. And when he pulls his mouth away again—just briefly—you almost sob from the loss.

Toji looks up at you then.

Face soaked with your slick, lips glistening, eyes sharp and smug and hungry all at once.

“You taste fuckin’ good,” he grins, low and rasped, like the heat in his voice could scorch the leather. “Could eat this pussy every damn day.”

And then he doesn’t even wait—just shoves a second finger inside you with no warning, thick and relentless, and sinks his mouth back down onto you like he means to devour you whole.

You gasp. You almost scream.

Your body jerks, thighs clenching around his head, but he growls low and presses them wider, forces you to take it. Forces you to feel everything. His tongue flicks fast now, lashes tight against his cheekbone, and you realize—somehow, some-fucking-how—he’s moaning. Like he’s getting off on this. Like you being messy and wild and broken open is doing something for him. And that makes it worse. Better. Everything.

“F-fuck Toji—oh my—” you pant, hips grinding against his face now, chasing the edge like your life depends on it. Your pulse is in your ears. Your chest is heaving. Your voice breaks and he loves it. You can feel it in the way he groans into you, the way his fingers fuck into you faster now, rough and deep, like he’s trying to feel the shape of your orgasm with his knuckles.

You clench around him, hard.

It’s coming fast. Too fast. Like a car with no brakes.

“Toji—Toji—I’m—”

But he knows. Of course he knows.

He hums into your clit, curling his fingers just so, and it hits you like a truck. Your whole body arches, mouth falling open in a soundless cry, everything locking up and then crashing down. You shake. You tremble. Your orgasm drags on and on, sharp and hot and unbearable, and Toji doesn’t stop until you shove at his shoulder, overstimulated and gasping.

Only then does he pull away. Slowly. Like he’s reluctant to stop.

He sits back on his heels, chin wet, lips red, eyes half-lidded. He looks wrecked. Ruined. Beautiful.

“You good, princess?” he asks, like he didn’t just rip your soul out through your cunt. His grin is feral. His voice is smug. But there’s a flicker of something behind it. Something darker.

You nod. Or maybe you whimper. You’re not even sure.

Toji chuckles low and grabs your chin, thumb brushing across your jaw. “Don’t pass out on me yet.”

And then he leans in, kisses you full on the mouth—wet, dirty, unapologetic.

You kiss him back like you mean it, tasting yourself on his tongue.

Tongue messy and eager, breath stuttering between kisses, palms gliding up his chest. His shirt clings to the broad expanse of muscle stretched beneath it; hot and solid, like he was carved for this, for you. Your hands skim over his abs, over the ridges of his stomach, greedy to feel, to claim, to map every inch of him. And he lets you—lets you touch him like he belongs to you—but he keeps your jaw in his grip, fingers flexed against your skin like he’s the one steering this kiss, like he’s guiding you through it. You moan into his mouth, gasping between tastes of him.

“I’ve never gotten my pussy eaten like that,” you pant, breath hitching.

Toji pulls back with a grin so sharp it cuts clean through your spine. That goddamn scar pulls wider across his cheek when he chuckles, slow and cocky, then brings a hand down to palm the bulge in his pants.

“Good,” he drawls, low and filthy, “’cause you’re about to get dick like you’ve never had before too.”

The bluntness of it makes your thighs twitch. Makes your cunt throb. You suck in a breath because fuck, you’ve never wanted anything more.

He moves fast, efficient—hooking his thumbs under your boots, pulling them off with a grunt and tossing them somewhere into the dark mess of the footwell. You’re already reaching for him, helping him shove his pants down his hips, fingers fumbling as fabric stretches over muscle and then finally—

His cock springs free.

Fuck.

It’s big. Thick. Heavy. Veins running down the shaft, flushed and hard and glistening at the tip where pre-cum beads like syrup. His balls hang full and tight beneath, and your mouth waters at the sight of him, pulse thundering between your legs.

You reach for him without thinking. Fingers wrapping around the base of his cock and feeling the heat of him, the twitch against your palm. He hisses under his breath when you stroke him—slow, testing, from base to tip. Your thumb drags over the head, smearing that bead of precum around the fat crown, and then you lean in to kiss him again. Hungrier this time. Wetter.

You break away just long enough to lick your palm—messy, obscene—and pump him again, gliding your spit over the slick of his arousal, and the groan he gives you is worth it. Low. From his chest. Like you’re pulling it straight from somewhere deep.

He grabs your thigh and presses his forehead to yours. “You got a condom, or you okay with me fucking you raw?”

Your breath catches. Your stomach flips.

“Raw is good,” you whisper. “Raw is fine.”

And that makes him grin; bigger, wider, devilish. That scar of his pulls like a slash across his cheek, and your heart pounds faster in your chest when he shifts upward, settling his knees onto the backseat.

He presses you down, his body looming over yours, and you fold fast under him—like your bones know what to do. Legs bent, pressed close to your chest, your thighs parting easily for him, feet bracing against his shoulders as he leans in, one hand gripping the back of your calf to keep you open.

Your pussy is dripping now—wet, desperate, ready—and Toji doesn’t rush. Doesn’t just slam in. He takes his time. Taps the thick head of his cock against your folds, dragging it slowly through your slick, coating himself in your arousal. Over your clit. Over your entrance. Again and again. His jaw clenches, his grip tightens, and then—

He pushes in.

Slow.

Inch by inch.

You gasp—sharp, choked—because he’s so big, and the stretch is intense. It burns in the best fucking way. Your nails dig into his shoulders, clutching at his neck as he sinks deeper, and deeper, until he bottoms out. Until your walls are clenched around him; full, stretched, aching, perfect.

“Shit,” Toji breathes, low and reverent. His eyes flicker, dark and wild. “You’re wet as fuck.”

You can’t speak. You can barely breathe. All you can do is moan—soft and needy—feeling him pulse inside you.

Then he moves.

Pulls his hips back and slides in again, slow and steady, so you feel every inch. Every drag. Every ridge and throb and twitch of him. The sound of it—the wet slide, the smack of skin—echoes inside the car, under the pitch-black sky and the heavy heat of your breath.

Your back arches. Your feet curl against his shoulders.

Toji leans into the rhythm, grinding his hips deeper with each thrust. “Fuck—feel that?” he grunts, “Feel how deep I am?”

You whimper, nodding, the only thing you can do as he fucks you open.

It feels so good. Too good.

He fucks you like it’s the only thing he was born to do—like this is the only thing he wants to do. Like this moment, this angle, this pussy, is exactly where he belongs. His hips grind into yours with heavy, rhythmic force, and every thrust lands deep, hot, thick, perfect. It punches the breath from your lungs. Makes your legs tremble where they’re pressed tight against your chest. Your thighs ache, your core burns, and you don’t want him to stop. Ever.

And then he leans down—his mouth hot and bruising, his breath thick against your cheek—and kisses you.

Sloppy. Wet. Possessive.

It’s not a soft kiss, not tender or sweet. It’s the kind of kiss that says mine without needing words. Tongue pushing past your lips, swallowing your whines, stealing your voice, tasting the moans he’s fucking out of you. One of his hands grips your calf tighter, keeping you bent, nearly folded beneath him, and his other hand shifts to your hip, grounding you in place as he starts fucking into you harder.

“Fucking wet warm cunt,” he growls against your mouth, hips slapping hard against your ass. “Grabbing my dick like it doesn’t wanna let go.”

Your moan catches in your throat. That filthy voice of his—rasped and deep, worn like gravel and smoke—wrecks you. His words pour straight into your cunt, make it throb around him. He’s fucking you fast now, deep and rough, his cock dragging against your insides like he’s marking you from the inside out. And with every thrust, the back of your head knocks gently against the window, now fogged so thick with heat and sweat you can't see anything but blur.

The car is full of sound—your wet gasps, his ragged grunts, the slap slap slap of his hips meeting yours, the lewd squelch of your soaked pussy every time he drives back in. And through it all, the only thing that grounds you is him—his weight, his voice, the scent of sweat and skin and sex, the stretch of him inside you.

“C’mon, princess,” he rasps, teeth dragging over your jaw, “tell me how good it feels. Tell me how good I’m fucking you.”

You try.

You really try.

But your brain is going fuzzy, scrambled by pleasure. Your body is shaking, twitching, every muscle tight like a bowstring about to snap. When he hits that spongy spot deep inside you—just right, just perfect—you gasp, voice breaking on the edge of a cry.

“S-so goo—” your eyes flutter, rolling slightly back in your skull. “Really good,” you breathe, barely more than a whimper.

Toji fucking grins.

And then he does it again. Angles his hips and slams into that spot, again and again, until you’re moaning loud and high and helpless. Your back arches, your fingers dig into his shoulders, and your mouth drops open but no words come out—just breath, just noise, just raw need.

“Yeah,” he mutters, low and smug. “That’s it. That’s what I fuckin’ thought.”

You can feel how wet you are. Can hear it, the way your cunt makes that slick, filthy sound every time he buries himself back inside. You’re gushing around him now, thighs trembling against his shoulders, your body fluttering and clenching like it’s begging to come again—maybe for the second time, maybe the third, you don’t even know anymore.

And Toji?

He’s not done.

He’s watching you unravel like it’s his favorite fucking thing. His hand slides down your thigh, thumb brushing over your clit with just enough pressure to make you jerk.

“Gonna make you come again,” he tells you, low and serious now, “and this time, you’re gonna scream for me.”

“Oh fuck,” you whimper, voice breaking around it, your nails clawing at his shoulders. “Please—please, make me come again.”

You’re begging now. Desperate and aching, your legs trembling against his shoulders, your mouth spilling over with words you don’t even hear until they’re out. You’re so wet it’s dripping, slick pooling beneath your thighs, and your pussy clenches around his cock like it never wants to let him go.

Toji grins. Slow, sharp. Filthy.

“Whining like a needy little thing already?” he taunts, his tone dipping darker, cockier. He slows just slightly, grinding deep into your cunt with each thrust, dragging the tip of him across that soft spongy spot inside you that makes you twitch. “Shit, might have to make you come again and again if I hear you beg like that.”

Your whole body reacts. Your cunt flutters around him, a pulse of pleasure so sharp it steals your breath, and Toji feels it.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, brows drawing together as he leans closer, voice brushing hot against your ear. “I’ll never pull out of this fucking pussy if it keeps doing that.”

The words hit something low in your belly—a hot, needy jolt that makes you moan helplessly. The thought of him staying in, not stopping, not ever stopping, makes you squeeze around him again, tighter now; messier, like your body’s already bracing for the next wave.

Toji groans, the sound low and broken.

“Fucking—do that shit again,” he grits out, hips jerking harder now. Gone is the teasing, the laziness. His movements are sharper, faster, rougher. His hands shift—one gripping the back of your thigh, the other anchoring at your waist—and he slams into you like he means it.

Like he’s done playing.

“Toji—!” you cry, voice wrecked and trembling. The sound of your name from your mouth hits him hard. He snarls, cock twitching inside you as his thrusts get faster, more brutal, paced like he’s trying to fuck you into the seat itself.

You’re barely holding it together.

Your head knocks back against the window with every thrust. Your breath breaks apart. Your thighs are slick with your own arousal, your clit swollen, overstimulated, begging for touch. The angle is devastating—he’s fucking you folded, deep and tight, with the backseat creaking under the weight of him. His cock hits that spot over and over, perfect, and you can’t help the noises you make—high, desperate, needy.

His name, again and again. Like prayer. Like you’ve forgotten everything else.

You’re so close it hurts.

“C’mon,” he grits out, leaning over you, forehead pressed against yours now, sweat sliding down his temple. “Come on my cock. Wanna feel this pretty pussy milk me.”

You fall apart.

With a cry that cracks the air, your orgasm slams through you, sudden and overwhelming. Your body locks up, thighs trembling violently, toes curling, cunt squeezing around him so hard you nearly push him out. But he holds you down, groaning like you’re killing him, his thrusts stuttering as you come hard, pulsing around him, soaking him, soaking everything.

Toji watches you; feels you.

And then he’s cursing, pulling his hips back and slamming in one last time with a shudder. His head drops to your shoulder, and he grits your name like a threat as he buries himself to the hilt and comes. Hot and heavy, spilling inside you, cock twitching deep as he fills you up raw.

You can feel it.

Every drop.

The way he pulses. The way your body takes it.

The car is silent, save for your panting breaths, the fogged windows dripping, the sticky heat between your legs. Your bodies still trembling. His weight still over you.

After a long beat, he lifts his head. Smirks, voice a low, hoarse rasp. “What’d I say? Dick like you’ve never had before.”

You snort. Actually snort; exhausted and wrecked and absolutely satisfied.

“Yeah, alright,” you laugh breathlessly, trying to smooth your skirt back down and failing. “You win. That was… really fucking good.”

His smirk stretches wider, damn near pleased with himself. Not in a boyish, bashful way. No—he looks like a man who knows he fucked you good. Like he’s been breaking backs in backseats for years and still hasn’t been humbled.

Then, he pulls out.

Slow.

And the drag of his cock leaving your still-clenching, still-overwhelmed pussy makes your breath hitch in your throat. A soft, high noise escapes you—not quite a whine, but close. You feel him slip free, and then the slow, sticky mess that follows; the sensation of emptiness, of heat and come dripping out of you in slow, messy waves.

You sigh, chest rising and falling. “Can you grab me some tissues from behind you?”

Toji blinks. A second passes. And then, without saying a word, he twists at the waist—just enough to reach behind him and pop open the center console. He grabs a half-crushed pack of tissues and hands them over without comment.

You clean yourself up in silence, legs still a little weak, thighs tacky with sweat, as he tucks himself back in and adjusts his pants with that same relaxed ease—like you didn’t just fall apart on his dick two minutes ago. Like it’s just another Saturday.

You both move around the small space awkwardly for a minute. Not exactly shy, but not exactly sure what happens next either. You fix your clothes as best you can. He shifts his weight and stretches his arms a little, joints cracking.

And then…

Just when you expect him to open the door. Say something crude and saunter off like nothing happened. Disappear like the kind of guy you know he should be—

He grins.

“So…” he says, tone light, almost teasing. “You got any money for a bus fare?”

Oh boy.

notes:

i haven’t written for jjk in ages, so this was actually really refreshing lol. hope you all enjoyed it :D

117 notes · View notes

cheriimo · 15 days ago

Text

x / raymond carver

62K notes · View notes

cheriimo · 17 days ago

Text

been away

caleb x femreader | phone sex, long distance, obscene dirty talk from the worlds biggest yearner | minors dni

university was beating your ass, to put it simply.

exams left and right, new lab reports thrown right in your face as soon as you finish the previous. becoming a hunter was never meant to be easy but the life of a college student was just as bad as everyone said it would be. there’s no room to breathe, socializing becoming a chore when you pile it onto studying and 8 am lectures.

it wasn’t so outlandish to assume that all of these responsibilities and expectations would be much easier to juggle with support. caleb was nothing if not the most sturdy rock, the one you could depend on to cook up a meal that you had no energy to make yourself. he would run you a bath without nagging about your lack of self care, he would ensure that the laundry room was stocked with detergent and fabric softener to save you the trip.

he made life easier. it was painfully obvious, it had been the moment he left for skyhaven.

no more prepackaged lunches left in the fridge. no more sticky notes stuck to the bathroom mirror reminding you to pick up toothpaste from the store. no more heavy hampers full of gym clothes and boxers and smelly socks. his absence brought a hollow feeling that took some adjusting to, but he always made up for it with calling and texting.

caleb makes it a point to check in, sending morning messages with little words of encouragement that were met with eye rolls from you. he calls every single day, he sends countless pictures just to update you about his life. quick snaps of his lunch, the occasional video of him hitting another pr at the gym, screenshots of his grades. the distance was strong but caleb’s need to connect was unshakable. he put forth plenty of effort.

the digital clock settled on your nightstand, one of many things you brought over from caleb’s room, read 3:14am. you’d prefer to be sleeping at this hour but the sound of caleb’s ringtone blares in your ear like a trumpet, waking you from your slumber almost immediately. it’s unlike him to be calling so late, knowing better than to disturb your sleep schedule. as compelling as it would be to decline his call, the unusual hour of it helps you decide otherwise.

linkon is quiet, the twinkling of the city outside a bit too bright outside of the bay window by your bed. a soft and sleepy grumble is all you can offer to the receiver as you pick up the call, ignoring his handsome contact photo staring at you on the call screen like a taunt.

heavy breathing greets you right back. it’s faint but audible, caleb’s phone likely tucked between his ear and his shoulder the same way he does when his hands are busy. slick noises stray from the speaker just to get louder with each beat. it raises many questions but he beats you to the punch, a strangled noise of acknowledgement coming through.

“didn’t think you’d pick up,” his voice sends warmth through you, tone full of desperation and a hint of huskiness. the pattern of his breathing hits your ear, shaky and pained with each weighted exhale. “i’m sorry. i know i probably woke you up.”

“caleb? is something wrong?” your voice calls back, sleepiness laced in your tone as you struggle to connect the dots. the mental image of you still being half asleep, bundled up in your covers and pajamas only causes a bead of precum to pearl at his tip. his clothing rustles as he swipes it, lubing his cock with the stickiness.

a hushed curse is all he can manage, the sound of his central air unit humming picked up as background noise. it was no secret that the two of you were having a hard time with the new living situation, being so far apart and unable to a thing about it, but caleb calling at a time like this was odd.

“no, no,” a laugh is interrupted with a hiss, your tired mind taking a few extra moments to read the room. he figured you’d be caught by surprise and he’d feel bad if not for how beautiful your voice sounds after being rudely woken up by a vibrating cell. “i’m good, i’m safe. don’t get all in your head, baby. just missed the sound of your voice in my ear.”

his explanation did little to ease your mind, the random call so uncharacteristic for him. caleb was always on top of his health and wellness, the biggest advocate for eight hour sleep schedules. it almost felt hypocritical for him to be keeping you from your rest but unfortunately, you missed him just as much.

“mister 8pm bedtime is rudely interrupting my beauty sleep,” you shuffle around in your sheets, unable to ignore the moans and lewd sounds of caleb beating his cock on the other end of the phone. “the caleb i know would have my head on a stick if he knew i was answering a phone call this late at night. who are you and what have you done with him?”

the playfulness is your shared love language but he couldn’t be bothered to respond, refusing to throw you a bone. he was too hard, too worked up to go back and forth with you.

“this is your fault, you know,” his voice strains, hurried and unsteady. caleb doesn’t give you a single second to dwell on the meaning behind his words, continuing his onslaught of shuddered accusations. “you just had to send me that photo earlier. showing off your cute hairstyle, giving me that big smile. i know i asked for it but i’ve been so hard since you sent it my way.”

the confession makes your thighs press together, thinking back to the quick selfie you sent caleb after a hair appointment earlier. he was constantly asking for photos, doing what he could to make up for not seeing you face to face. they were the only things he could trust to keep him going, working like instant serotonin when he was really in his feelings about being away. sending them was one thing, but knowing the grave effect that a simple look at your face had on caleb was enough to drive any girl to madness.

“nothing helps. i’ve been trying to get off for hours but nothing fucking helps,” caleb murmurs, frustration laced in his tone as his pace simultaneously speeds up in the background. “i’m begging you here, just humor me. fix what you did to me.”

it was so much easier to keep these thoughts to himself before the two of you went ahead and had sex for the first time. it was right before sending him off to the academy, blessing him with the feeling of your tight walls strangling his cock as a departure gift. it was terrible timing and if he had known how much it would have fucked his head up, he would’ve held off.

now, all he thinks about is you. how you sounded in his ear when he bottomed out for the first time, the way your legs curled around his waist like a serpent catching its prey. your taste is still on his tongue after all of this time. he can’t shut himself up, fiending to feed that side of him that craves you like a fire craves oxygen.

his thoughts are put on the back burner when you whimper in his ear through his phone speaker, sounding just as divine as when he plunged his thick cock into you before he left. it’s enough of a reply, egging him on to tug at his slick dick with more force.

“i bet you’re so warm, bet you smell so good,” caleb rasps into the speaker, long moans leaving his lips, spewing his every inner thought because it feels better to vocalize his need. “bet your pussy would make this so much easier on me. ‘s it wet, honey? does it miss me? let me hear it, i wanna hear you stretch it out for me.”

“caleb, you’re ridiculous,” you mewl, thankful he couldn’t see the way you squirmed to kick the duvet off of your legs. the sheets crumple with the movement and tunnel vision blurs your focus, the sloppy noises of his cock spurring you on. “don’t you have roommates? have some shame and shut up before you wake them too.”

“they’re out,” he hisses, the sound dulled through the line in a way that dampens your mood a tad. he sounded so good, being so vocal— it was a shame that he wasn’t in your ear, crystal clear with his pants and his dirty words. “it’s the weekend, they’re always out on the weekends. got parties to hit and girls to talk to, you know how boys are.”

“go with them.”

“fuck, no. no, got all i need right here. play with that pretty pussy and talk to me.” his breathing suffocates the speaker, the springs of the dorm room bunk creaking with every roll of his hips. “make me cum.”

caleb being so quick to deny himself of going out with his new friends, to stay in and be a homebody because he missed his girl— oh, it left you soaked. he was friendly and approachable by nature but none of that ever mattered if you weren’t in his picture.

your fingertips find your clit under soiled cotton panties, rolling and rubbing the swollen bud. quiet, sleepy moans mingle with his grunts in a rushed melody that borders pornographic, loud without concern of being heard by others. he inhaled with your every exhale, sounding much needier than when you first picked up. he had a way of making you feel like the only girl who existed.

“i wish this was you,” your mouth works before your mind, slurring over your words as the pleasure glues you to the mattress. back arching, hips bucking restlessly to grind against your sloppy touch. “rubbing me like this. your fingers are so much bigger than mine, they can do so much more than i can.”

“yeah, baby. talk to me. ‘m almost there.” caleb huffs back like a reflex, wrist almost aching with how long he’s been trying to coax an orgasm out of himself. calling you was a very impulsive move on his end but god, is he glad he got ahold of you. his vision has been starry and spotty from the moment he heard you accept the call, quiet and lucid and confused as to why he was still up.

“fuck. i gotta get my hands on you, i gotta make you cum again. wanna watch your face when i make that little pussy cream on my fingers. you make the prettiest faces.”

it was downright shocking just how vulgar caleb could get, hearing all of these nasty words leaving his lips so smoothly. it came naturally to him, something that was far from expected after growing by his side for so long. the same guy who picked out cute hair clips for you and the same guy who tucked you into bed every single stormy night could ramble on and on about how he wanted to destroy your cunt. fuck it into the shape of his cock, hit so deep that it winds you.

“shit, i’m gonna fuckin’ cum. gonna bust my nut all over my hand,” his voice shakes, each word a fight to get past his lips, his hand stroking so fast that it echoes in the speaker. “it’s gonna get so messy. you’ll clean it, huh? my favorite girl can clean the cum off of my cock, right?”

2K notes · View notes

cheriimo · 17 days ago

Text

Masterlist

-> next

Thinking about Nerd!Gojo sitting behind his geeky little science project like a kicked puppy in a hoodie two sizes too big, shoulders slumped as he watches person after person walk right past his stall without so much as a glance.

His glasses are slightly crooked, one leg bouncing nervously beneath the table, right hand fidgeting with a clicky pen that’s already half-snapped.

You definitely didn’t come here for this.

The science fair was mostly a glorified excuse to leave your dorm before your roommate subjected you to another hour of screaming about her situationship and eating spicy ramen on your bed.

But now you’re looking at this tall, awkward boy who looks like he’s slowly evaporating from the lack of social interaction.

His display is brilliant. There are twinkling little lights in a model solar system, and a bunch of laminated diagrams with handwritten notes in tight, slanted print. But people just stroll by like they’re allergic to effort.

And honestly, you weren’t planning to care. Not until his eyes snap up to yours.

A shade of gorgeous, bright, glassy blue. They widen behind silver-rimmed glasses, a blink of disbelief before a hopeful sort of brightness takes over his whole face.

You slow down. Because who wouldn't after seeing that look on his face?

"Hi," you say casually, hands in your pockets.

His mouth falls open for a second, like his brain blue-screened.

“Hi! Oh—uh—welcome to my project,” he blurts, scrambling upright so fast he nearly knocks over one of the solar system models. “Sorry. Sorry. Just—hi. Are you into Astrophysics?”

You glance at the fancy title printed in bold across his poster:

Gravitational Time Dilation: A Simulation-Based Study.

“I mean, i like the stars. And Interstellar was cool?”

He laughs. It's a breathy, half-disbelieving kind of chuckle, and suddenly his whole face lights up.

“That totally counts,” he says, nodding way too seriously. “Okay, uh, here—this part represents the gravitational curvature caused by massive objects. Which means time actually bends near a black hole.”

He fumbles around and presses a button. A tiny motor kicks in and one of the models starts to slowly spin, simulating gravitational lensing.

You nod, even though you’re pretty sure you understood maybe two of the five words he said. “I thought that the whole time bending thing was a metaphor or something.”

“Nooo, it’s absolutely real! I mean, not the fifth-dimension bookshelf stuff, but the time dilation is legit,” he says, practically vibrating now, fingers tapping the side of the model. “Like if you parked a spaceship near a black hole and then came back, your friends would be, like, old. Or dead. Probably dead. It’s kinda depressing, actually.”

You bite back a smile at how excited he is. “Wow. That’s… morbidly romantic.”

He pauses.

Then clears his throat, pushing his glasses up. “I mean, dying alone in space is kinda poetic.”

You laugh.

He laughs too, a little too hard, and then suddenly looks panicked like—shit, was that weird?

But you’re not weirded out, not even close.

“Sure. Although full disclosure, I don’t know batshit about space.”

“That’s okay,” he says quickly, smiling as if that’s the best news he’s heard all day. “I can explain. I love explaining. Ask me anything.”

So you ask more questions, even the dumb ones. Especially the dumb ones. And to your surprise, he never talks down to you.

Satoru stumbles over his words sometimes, but not once seems to mind your follow-up questions, even when you mix up neutron stars and nimbus clouds. He just keeps going, like he’s been waiting his whole life for someone to stand here and just listen.

You aren’t even trying to flirt, but he’s so damn earnest it sort of feels like flirting anyway.

Eventually, you glance at the time and sigh. “I should get going. My dormmate’s probably wondering if I got abducted by aliens.”

He deflates instantly, like someone popped his internal helium tank. “Oh… that makes sense. Thanks for stopping by.”

You’re just about to step away, offering him a small smile and a soft “This was fun,” when his eyes flick downward.

“Wait— is that the Chang textbook?” he asks, squinting like he’s not trying to memorize every title on your book cover.

You pause and glance down at the heavy thing tucked under your arm. “Yeah, it’s for Chem 203.”

He perks up instantly, like a plant finally getting sunlight. “You’re in Chem 203?”

“I mostly sit at the back and doodle in the margins,” you say, shifting the book in your arms. “And my grades are hanging on by a single valence electron.”

He laughs. “I’m in that class too! I usually sit near the front—uh, big glasses, white hair, probably looked like I was possessed or something.”

You tilt your head, the realisation hitting you finally. “Wait. That’s you? I thought you were just some intense TA.”

“No, unfortunately. Just me.”

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish now, eyes flicking to the floor for a beat before he tries to play it cool. “I mean, I guess if you need some help with chem—I’d be happy to assist. We could go over some things together, if you’re okay with... that.”

You pretend to consider it. “Hmm. Do you charge by the hour, or is this a discount situation?”

He blinks. “I mean, I can give you, like, the friend rate? If we’re friends? Or not. I didn’t mean to assume—”

“Relax, Einstein.” You laugh, shifting your grip on the book. “I’d love the help.”

You start rummaging through your pockets, half-distracted.

“Hang on—need something to write with. Gimme your number.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

“...My number?” he echoes, like you just asked him for a kidney.

“Yes, your number.” you say slowly, enunciating each syllable. “You know, the ten digits? For modern communication.”

“Right! Totally. I can—uh—yeah, I can give you that. Lemme just—” he pats himself down like a man on fire, checking every pocket, flipping his notebook, looking under the table like maybe a post-it note will crawl out and offer itself up.

“It’s fine,” you chuckle, amused by the sight. “You can just write it on my hand.”

He freezes mid-motion, slowly turning to you like you just offered him your soul.

“Your hand?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Unless that’s too weird for you. I guess you don’t want me to have it—”

“No! No, no, I do! I mean—I can do that.” he stammers, already reaching for his sharpie again.

You smile and extend your hand for him, palm open.

He swallows hard, before reaching out.

Gojo's fingers wrap gently around your wrist, warm and a little shaky, as he steadies your hand in his. His thumb grazes across your skin as he lines the pen up, then exhales softly like he’s trying not to freak out over the fact that he is touching a girl and she is not recoiling. In fact, you’re smiling.

“There,” he says quietly, fingers unwrapping from your wrist slowly.

You glance at it, then back at him. “What if it washes off?”

His eyes widen. “Wait—should I—? Do you want me to—?”

You shrug, smiling. “Guess you’ll have to pick a permanent marker next time.”

His laugh is boyish, ridiculously fond. “I guess so.”

You step back, tucking your arm against your chest. “Thanks, space boy. I'll text you later.”

You start to walk away, but something makes you turn to glance back once. He’s still watching you, dazed, the heat still clinging to his cheeks, ears tinged slightly red.

You shoot him a wink.

He nearly falls off the stool.

A/N: Comment 'Nerdjo 👅' if you'd like to see a full-length fic for this. Also, apologies if I went too geeky on the physics, have to use my degree somewhere.

Edit: Taglist for the series will be closed soon!

2K notes · View notes

cheriimo · 17 days ago

Text

yuji itadori doesn’t mean to break you.

he’s all sunshine and sweetness — wide shoulders, pink hair, the kind of boy who helps old ladies with their bags and says “bless you” when people sneeze.

and he has no idea that every time he hugs you (tight, arms low, cheek pressed to your temple), he’s giving you another reason to lose your mind when you’re alone.

because he’s big. he’s warm. and he doesn’t pull away when your thick thighs brush his or when your soft belly presses against his abs.

you try to be normal. polite. sweet.

but then there’s him, stretching beside you in a tank top, moaning about how sore his muscles are. tossing his hoodie off like it doesn’t drive you crazy. and laughing — always laughing — in that boyish, god-help-me way that makes you think about things you shouldn’t.

like riding his thigh. or sitting on his face until you cry. or letting him hold your wrists while he pushes his big, meaty cock into your weeping cunt.

“you okay?” he asks one day, blinking those honey eyes at you.

no. you’re not. you’re soaked and sinful and ruined just from looking at him.

but you smile. you nod. because you’re a good girl.

and good girls don’t beg to be split in two by their best friend.

10K notes · View notes

cheriimo · 22 days ago

Text

君の手が / 「このままでいい」と / 触れるたび

your hands whisper, "you’re enough," with every touch—

꒷꒦︶๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦

He looks good. Too good. Unfairly good.

And it’s driving you insane.

Katsuki’s standing in your kitchen, quietly making you tea like the sweetest, grumpiest domestic man in the world. His back is turned, but you can still see the way his sweatpants hang off his hips in that dangerously perfect way—low, effortless, like he doesn’t even realize how sexy he looks. His compression shirt is clinging to every inch of him, outlining the hard curve of his back, the tension in his shoulders, the sharp taper of his waist, and—Gods—those biceps. They flex just slightly as he lifts the kettle, like he’s not even trying, and it makes your mouth water.

Maybe it’s the hormones. Maybe it’s the three days of missing him like oxygen while he was overseas on that joint mission. Maybe it’s just the primal fact that your man is fine as hell, and you want him more than anything right now.

But whatever it is, it’s bad. Like, pacing-in-place, clenching-your-thighs, bite-his-arm bad.

The thing is, he’s not even trying. He’s just being himself. Barefoot in your kitchen, hair still damp from the long shower he took earlier, a soft hint of stubble along his jaw because he hasn’t bothered to shave yet. There’s this quiet, worn ease to him today—the good kind. Like he finally got some rest. Like his body knows it’s home again.

And you want to climb him.

He looks up as the kettle whistles and clicks it off, moving to grab the mugs. The tea’s still steeping and he’s focused, brow slightly furrowed as he checks the water level—and you’re already stepping forward, like some heat-seeking missile locked onto target.

“Did you do something new in your workout?” you ask casually, voice just a little too breathy as you near him.

He glances over his shoulder with that familiar frown, forehead crinkling. “Nah.” He turns off the burner and straightens up. “Why?”

You shrug as you close the distance between you. He smells like fresh laundry and warm citrus—probably from that shampoo you like in the guest bath—and it’s too much. “I don’t know. You just…” You reach out, hand grazing his arm as he sets a mug down. “You look broader. Bigger. Maybe it’s the mission? You’ve been lifting tanks again?”

His ears turn pink.

You don’t miss it.

Your hand moves up to squeeze his bicep—Gods, it’s firm and warm under your touch—then slides to his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palm. He stiffens under your touch, like he wasn’t expecting it, but doesn’t move away. If anything, he goes still. Like very still.

Then, lower. You trail your hand down over his abs, across the ridges of his obliques where the compression fabric hugs tightest. It’s soft and warm from his skin underneath, and you’re close enough now to feel the way his breath hitches.

He freezes.

Absolutely freezes.

Cheeks flushing, ears glowing, and hands awkwardly hovering near the counter like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

And then you say it.

“Should we have sex?” you murmur, tone airy like you’re just asking about the weather. “Like… we can be quick. Ten minutes.”

Boom. The effect is immediate.

He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat—half a cough, half a choked sound of disbelief—and pulls back slightly, blinking hard like he’s buffering. “Wh—I just—uh, I just got back, a-and we—we just ate and I—”

His voice cracks a little, and your grin stretches slowly, dangerously, as you slide your hands to his hips and lean up, resting your chin on the curve of his bicep, looking at him with mock innocence.

“What?” you ask, soft and teasing. “Why are you blushing?”

“M’not—” He glares at the stove like it betrayed him. “You can’t just say shit like that—”

“Like what?” you blink, still all fake-innocence, even as you press a little closer to feel the heat radiating off of him. “Like I want you to fuck me?”

His jaw flexes. Hard. That stubborn little muscle ticking near the hinge.

Your words hang heavy in the air—sticky and intimate and real in a way that scrapes at the edges of Katsuki’s guarded heart. He’s still standing there, tense and blushing and stubbornly glaring at the stove like it might rescue him, but his body tells you more than his silence ever could.

His jaw ticks again, that muscle fluttering like he’s clenching down on something hard—like he doesn’t trust what’ll come out if he speaks too easily.

And then, finally, he mutters low, almost sheepish, “Don’t say it like that.”

You blink. You weren’t expecting that. You tilt your head against his arm. “Like what?”

He shifts his weight a little, stiff in the way he gets when he’s feeling vulnerable and hates that he is. “Fuckin’,” he says, jaw tight, eyes still not meeting yours. “Like we just… fuck. Nah. That—” He shakes his head, almost like he’s brushing something off. “That ain’t what we do.”

That makes you pause.

Because he says it so softly, even if he’s trying to sound annoyed. There’s a thread in his voice; something frayed and raw and incredibly honest. And it cuts right into your chest.

Still, because you are who you are, you press gently at the edges of his discomfort with a little teasing, hoping to coax him out of that tightly wound shell. “Alright,” you hum, playing innocent again, leaning back slightly but keeping your hands on him. “No ‘fucking,’ then.”

You feel the way his abs tense under your touch, the way his breath stutters. And you smile, dangerous and soft. “But… it doesn’t have to be ten minutes, by the way. It can be longer.” Your tone lilts up at the end, knowing exactly what you’re doing. “We can go a couple rounds. Three or four—”

Before you can even finish the sentence, he groans—deep, frustrated, and entirely done with you. His hand comes up immediately, shoving his palm into your face with a muttered, “Sh’ddup,” like he’s trying to smother both your words and his rising panic.

You laugh—a warm, playful thing—and bite gently at his fingers, just to make him curse.

“Damn it,” he mutters, yanking his hand back like you shocked him. His ears are scarlet now. Full body flush, like he’s overheating from the inside out.

You take pity. A little.

“Katsuki,” you say, softer now, voice still tinged with amusement, but genuine beneath it. You step down, just slightly, letting your chin drop from his bicep as you gaze up at him. He doesn’t meet your eyes. Still frowning. Still looking like you’ve cornered him and he’s not sure what to do with the feeling.

“Why are you being so weird about it?” you ask gently, brushing your fingertips along the hem of his shirt. “Talk to me.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

He just stands there, shoulders stiff, fingers flexing like he’s working through it physically—like the words are stuck in his chest and need to be wrestled out.

And then, finally, he breathes. “Just… still can’t believe y’want me like that.”

The confession is so low, so bare, that you almost don’t catch it.

But you do.

And your heart breaks a little.

Because now it makes sense—the flushed cheeks, the awkward stumbling, the hesitation and heat and quiet. It’s not embarrassment. It’s disbelief. That after everything—his temper, his history, the image people project onto him—you still look at him like he’s the most beautiful thing in the world. Like you’re hungry for him. Like you love him enough to want to devour him, over and over, and never get full.

He finally looks at you then. Really looks. And the ache in his eyes guts you.

He swallows hard, brow furrowed. “S’just—everything’s always been so heavy with me. People either expect too much, or they don’t want anything at all. But you…” His voice tapers. “You see me. And you still want me.” His mouth quirks, barely. “That’s fuckin’ insane.”

And it hits you again—how serious everything is to him. Every look, every brush of your hand, every shared bed and soft kiss. Nothing with Katsuki is casual. Nothing is careless. When he loves, he does it with everything. With a kind of unflinching, terrified devotion that makes your chest feel like it’s caving in under the weight of it.

And sex?

It’s not just a release to him. Not a checkbox. Not even just intimacy.

It’s you. It’s him. It’s all the silent promises he doesn’t know how to say out loud; the need to make you feel seen and touched and worshipped. Not dominated. Not conquered. Not fucked.

Loved.

Completely. Helplessly. Permanently.

So when he says he can’t believe you want him—it’s not just about attraction. It’s about worthiness. It’s about not knowing what the hell he did to deserve someone who looks at him the way you do when you’re begging him to come to bed.

You step into him again. Wrap your arms around his waist. Press your cheek to his chest and breathe in the warm, clean scent of him.

“I do want you,” you whisper. “Not because I expect anything more than what you already give me. Not because I want you to be someone you’re not. I want you, Katsuki. Just you. I love how serious you are. I love how much you care. I love the way you touch me like I’m precious.”

Your hands slip under his shirt, palms warm against his skin. “You’re everything I want.”

His breath shudders.

And then he’s wrapping his arms around you, too. Tight. So tight it almost hurts—but it doesn’t, not really. Not when it’s him. Not when you know that grip is the only way he knows how to say thank you for choosing me without falling apart.

You hear his voice, low and gruff in your hair. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You smile, closing your eyes. “You’ll never have to find out.”

And it’s in that silence that he kisses you—no teasing, no heat, just a long, slow press of his lips to your temple. The kind of kiss that says you’re mine, and I’m yours, and I don’t want anyone else in this world but you.

And later, when he finally leads you to the bedroom—hands still shaking a little, but more confident now, more sure—you let him take his time. Let him kiss you like it matters. Let him love you the way only Katsuki can.

Like it's serious. Like it's sacred. Like it’s the only thing in the world that’s ever made sense.

溶けていく / 神への祈りのように / 肌と汗と / 「もう一度」

—until we melt, like a prayer to gods, skin and sweat and, "again."

790 notes · View notes

cheriimo · 23 days ago

Text

Makeup Ruiner! Caleb

She's out and about while he's sitting at home, pulling tufts of his own hair out. It's almost like she's forgotten about him. Nothing he can't fuck back into her memory tho 🤷‍♀️

cw: smut (so mdni!), stand and carry fuck / wall sex (the goat), mirror sex, jealous Caleb awh, sweet at the end i swear

She slides the key into the keyhole as quietly as she can, turning the door knob with her lip between her teeth. It’s 1AM and her phone has been blowing up for the past three hours.

Where are you?

Let me know when you’re on your way home.

Are you okay?

Hello?

Do you need me to pick you up?

Let me know that you’re okay.

Hello??

She clenches her eyes until she hears the faint click of the door opening. She had accidentally put her phone in ‘do not disturb’ mode earlier, only getting to check it when she was on her way home.

“Caleb is going to kill me.” The thought hums its way like a mantra through her mind and she can only purse her lips in defeat. She steps into her apartment and shuts the door behind her. Her feet are killing her. Though the pink heels she has on aren’t necessarily as high as her other heels, the material still clips at her heels and toes. She braces a hand on the wall, using the other to start untying the winding ribbon on her calf. But her bag slides and knocks into her hand at the tip of her weight. She thinks she might fall over before she throws her weight completely onto the wall.

When she looks up, Caleb is leaning against the doorway, a hand placed languidly on his hip. She gasps, almost falling down again.

“Caleb..!” He pushes himself up, walking towards her. His brows are furrowed. And he’s wearing outerwear. “You scared me.” When he stops in front of her, he takes her elbows into his hands, balancing her off the wall.

“I was so worried.”

She grimaces before giving him her best, pleading look.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realise my phone was on ‘do not disturb’. I didn’t get any of your messages until I was nearly home.” He takes the bag off her shoulder and hangs it at the door.

“You didn’t get my messages? Or you just didn’t happen to see them until now?” Despite her eyes crinkling in guilt, his gaze is lowered at her feet. He kneels down and begins untying the ribbon bow.

“Caleb…”

“You must’ve been really engrossed in whatever you were doing to not check your phone.” Although his words cut into her, his tone is soft. Almost disinterested. Once the ribbon falls to her ankles, he undoes the other shoe. “You’re home safe now. That’s all that matters.” He looks up and gives her a reassuring smile. She can’t help but run her hand through his hair. It’s soft and smells faintly of their shared shampoo.

She winces as he guides one foot out of her heel, leaning one hand down onto his shoulder.

“Your skin’s rubbed raw.” He frowns, wrapping an arm beneath her knees. He picks her up bridal style and she curls her arms around his neck despite feeling supported. Red floods her cheeks and her wide eyes can hardly stay on his. He wiggles her other shoe off before dropping it to the floor. He turns his head to her, mouth parting then closing again, as he walks further into the house.

“Caleb, you don’t have to…” He ignores her.

“Why not wear more comfortable shoes next time?” She looks down, suddenly finding his plain shirt interesting.

“I didn’t think I’d be walking as much as I did. Anyway, it only started hurting now.”

“Right,” he hums, turning the corner into the bathroom and flicking the lightswitch with his elbow. He sets her down on the counter and smooths down the fabric of her dress over her knees. There, his fingers linger, letting the soft cotton fall through his hands.

The bathroom is cramped. Really, it’s a battle when they’re both using it to get ready at the same time. Despite the state of their bathroom in their youth, the room now is spotless. The counter only has their differing face cleansers and creams lined up neatly against the splashback. When he stays over he uses her shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. And he comes out smelling just as pampered as her. He claims that her shampoo makes his hair softer. It’s a local brand, one that he can’t find in Skyhaven. So he’s always taking a travel size back with him when he returns.

He bends down and opens the cabinet, grabbing ointment and a box of bandaids. As he unscrews the cap of the ointment, she takes the box in her hands, inspecting the designs on the back. It’s the same brand they had used as kids, but now the patterns were different. She shuffles through the packets, looking for one with a design to her liking. A wince leaves her mouth as the cool ointment presses into her heel. Caleb murmurs an apology, offering her a teasing pout. He uses a cotton pad to gently rub it in before holding his hand out to her.

“See any you like?” She hands him one with a cartoon apple on it.

“I don’t remember buying these.”

“That’s ‘cause I bought them.” He smooths the bandaid over her skin before standing up and washing his hands beside her. She watches him in silence, chewing at her lip. When he’s done, he returns in front of her, not one word having been exchanged since.

He rests his hands on either side of her, taking a step back and letting his eyes wander over her. Her cheeks are still flushed as his scent encases her. She can feel the warmth radiating off of him; it’s a nice contrast to the goosebumps forming on her shoulders. Her dress is a pillowy pink, with lace butterflies sewn over the straps and bust. The sleeves are a sheer tulle that open out into a fanned cuff at her wrists. She wants to throw a towel at him, but there’s nothing in reach. She has never worn something like this, never seen herself in something so dainty and elegant. So, of course, neither has Caleb. Sure, he had witnessed her princess phases when she was young; the phases when she’d wrap bedsheets around her like a ballgown and appoint him as her butler. Have him hold her hand so she wouldn’t trip over the bundle of fabric while she paraded around their living room.

And the phase in middle school when she began to experiment with makeup, braving school with cheeks so pink it looked like a sunburn. He had even seen her at her high school dance. Makeup done professionally, and a pretty dress that was fit for royalty. But she had still been a teenager. And throughout college and her moving into the workforce, she never returned to those princess phases.

Not until right now.

“You’re beautiful.” He twirls the ribbon around his finger loosely before letting it fall back against her dress. Then he brushes his thumb over her knee, tracing the dangerous line where skin disappears into fabric. His eyes wander over her face. The soft, pink blend of blush on her cheekbones. The intricate detailing of brown and black shadow around her eyes drawn out into subtle winged eyeliner. The gentle, coral plush of her lips. He swallows, a pink hue prickling at his cheeks. “So pretty. Did you have a good time at least?”

She drags her fingers up his arm, pressing into the hard muscle, before humming in reply. She can’t trust her voice not to quiver. Can’t trust her face to not flush in embarrassment if she meets his endearing eyes. No matter what he says, some part of her will still feel like the silly little girl dressing up. He mirrors her hand, knuckles brushing up her wrist, all the way up past her shoulder to her chin. He lifts her jaw so that she meets his gaze, face craned down and eyes searching hers. His brows are slightly furrowed, and she knows if she lets him look any longer, he’ll figure out exactly what’s wrong. So she pushes his hand away. But he only reels back closer than before, palm pressing against her cheek as his fingers wrap along the shell of her ear. He guides her lips towards his, then he waits. Hovers. And she watches as he takes another look down at her dress before clenching his eyes. She watches as his mouth fights between their open and closed states, like he’s juggling with whether or not to speak.

He decides to kiss her first, taking her lip between his and pushing feverishly into her. She wraps a hand around the arm that is still braced on the counter beside her. But the kiss is as fleeting as her shock. He pulls away, just far enough to speak into her cheek.

“I’ve never seen this dress before…” Is that what he’s thinking about? Her mind blanks.

“...It was a gift.”

“Right,” comes his reply after a beat. He doesn’t dwell on it any longer before he leans down again to capture her lips once more. He doesn’t mean to be rough. But the way he’s angling his face, pushing her body back further onto the counter, she can only grip his arm tighter. His tongue swipes at her lip and she lets him in without a thought. His smell, entwined with the scent of his shampoo, fills her. Her eyes fall shut and she feels her mind slip. His tongue is cruel as it sucks on hers, coaxing her mouth wider.

“Right, but, from who?”

She has to fight the roll of her eyes as she takes in a breath, pulling him back towards her. She doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t force her. Her hand runs up along his scalp, messing up his neat hair. She doesn’t know why, but she has a fixation with his hair. The way it just falls through her fingers. The way no matter what angle she’s touching his head, he always lets a groan slip. Delightful, full groans as he rocks his body against her, in between her inviting legs. He hikes her dress up to get closer. He thinks he should be afraid of ruining it, but he isn’t. Not even in the slightest.

“Mmph,” she moans into his mouth. When he lets up, giving them a chance to breathe, both their lips are red and swollen. She can almost see the puffs of hot air leaving his mouth. Almost hear the thumping of his chest if her own wasn’t so overpowering. Her lipstick is smudged at the corners of his mouth, so she takes her thumb and swipes at it, watching with half-lidded eyes at the plush of his lips under her finger.

“Can I take this off?” He fingers thread over the tied ribbons on her sleeves. Despite its airy and pretty appearance, the tulle rubs against her skin the wrong way.

“Yeah.” She guides him back down to her, leaving small kisses along his jaw. At the corners of his mouth. Along the thin flesh of his neck as he pulses against her. His breaths are heavy as he undoes the ribbon and slides the sleeve off her. He does the same on the other side. Then his hand travels to the strap of the dress, tugging gently at the bow.

His brows furrow as he looks at the thin straps. Her skin is flushed beneath it, and her chest is rising unevenly. Slowly, he pulls the end of the bow until it falls messily and the fabric falls just shy of her breast. He gapes, pulling back a little to get a glimpse of her face.

“No bra?” It’s almost a whisper; almost just to himself, even, as his fingers dip over the soft curve of her flesh. She reaches for his hand, and guides it to the other strap without a word. No, her lips are focused on unwinding him from the base of his throat. He follows her encouragement and pulls the string, letting the bust of the fabric fall down onto her lap. He takes a moment, eyes grazing over the swell of her breasts. Over her hardened nipples as the rush of cold air engulfs them.

“Don’t stare,” she whines, pulling his face into her neck. He uses the opportunity to reach around her and begin loosening the lace in the corset.

“Why not, though?” His tone is teasing.

“It’s unfair,” she mumbles, hands lifting the hem of his shirt. He lets her tug it up to his chest before helping her and pulling it over his head. When he looks back at her, her cheeks are red as embers. His scent is overwhelming, and the heat radiating off his chest makes her dizzy. But she reaches up anyway, and runs her palm over his chest. Her fingers dip and bend to every crevice, every rise and fall of his muscles.

Forgetting the corset, his hands pull her chin back towards him. His lips are scorching against hers, wet and messy in their trail down to her jaw. She gasps into the air, pulling him closer by his waist. The sheer broadness of his torso forces her legs wider, and he leans flush against her. His fingers work blindly to hike the rest of her dress up, pulling it out from under her and bunching it together at her waist.

“Look at you.” His thumbs strokes at the soft flesh of her inner thigh before taking a devious swipe at her clothed cunt. “I’m going to ruin you, baby.”

“Caleb,” she sighs airily, wriggling her hips to get closer. He holds her in place, though, one hand gripping her waist as he kneels down in between her legs. He rubs at her clothed clit and she throws her head back, biting down a moan.

“Don’t go quiet on me now, baby. You’ve done more than enough of that tonight, don’t you think?” She feels the sting of guilt creep back into her chest, contorting with her stirring arousal. But she can’t say anything; her mind blanks as he presses a chaste kiss on the damp fabric. “Answer me, baby.”

“Yes. Yes, I’m sorry, Caleb.” He doesn’t respond; instead he pulls her panties to the side and thumbs over her sensitive flesh.

“You’re already so wet, baby,” he murmurs, leaning in to press another kiss at her sex. She swallows and leans back onto her elbows. Despite her squirms, she can’t get any closer. He won’t let her. “Gonna use my fingers to stretch you out, okay?”

She nods frantically even though he can’t see her, her whimpers breaking through her clenched teeth. He uses his thumb to part her sex, sliding it gently up and down her sticky opening. Just when he thinks he has to use his evol to stop the writhing of her hips, he slides a finger into her, and she shudders. Compared to her own, Caleb’s fingers are thicker, longer. Warmer, even. He starts a slow, even pace. But even he knows she can take more with the state of her dripping cunt.

“Gonna add another, okay?”

She nods again.

“Please, yes.” Her words are just as shaky as her breath. She’s backed so far up onto the counter that her shoulders and head rest on the mirror. It’s freezing compared to the blaze between her legs.

As he slides a second finger in, he wraps his mouth around her clit, sucking harshly. She almost cums right there, lurching forward.

“Caleb!” When the shock dissolves, she leans back down against the mirror, writhing against his tongue. His fingers are still gentle and slow. But his tongue is fierce, nudging at her most sensitive part with the tip of his tongue. She can see him growing restless beneath her, faintly mimicking her squirm. The hand on her waist presses into her harshly for a second before he soothes the area with his thumb.

“Gonna let you go now. Don’t move.” His voice is gentle, but firm. He looks up at her, mouth still on her cunt, and she feels something sinister stir in her stomach. She gives him a weak nod and mouths an ‘okay’.

His hand leaves her shakily, then travels down to his own pants as he begins palming himself. She almost rolls her hips in pleasure but his piercing gaze holds her in place. His pace on his cock is rough yet slow, matching the thrusts of his fingers. Milky fluid is dripping down to his wrist, threatening to drop and stain his pants. He can’t care less, though. Not when he’s the one making her feel this good.

“Caleb!” She can’t stop her squirms anymore, hand grabbing tufts of his hair and pulling him away to no avail. “Stop! I’m gonna come!” The moans falling from her mouth do nothing to deter him.

“Do it,” he says, sucking more harshly. He slips a third finger in and she lurches forward, using her other hand to brace herself on his shoulder. She shakes her head, the sting of tears brimming at her eyelids.

“Don’t wanna.” She groans and her thighs try to clamp shut around him. “Wanna come on your cock. Please, please, Caleb.” His eyes snap up to hers again, brows knitted sternly.

“Come,” he demands, “do it. On my fingers.”

Despite her begs and whines, he doesn’t give her a choice. His fingers never slow, pushing and pulling against her pulsing walls until she can no longer hold it in. She orgasms with an open mouthed whine, thighs cramping in an exhaustive shake around his head. His fingers continue their slow drag through her high, letting her ride out the intensity. A single tear has spilled from her eye, traversing the curve of her flushed cheek. She slumps back down against the mirror, elbows just strong enough to support her body.

“Good girl,” he says quickly, standing up and leaning down over her. He lifts her chin and looks over her, eyes searching hers. He kisses the stray tear gently; and it disappears into the mix of come and fluids on his tongue.

Despite the pulsing of her swollen cunt, when she sees his hands unbuckle his belt, she can feel the slick in her start to build up again. She sucks in a few quick breaths, sitting up and reaching forward. She beckons him down and he obeys, letting her kiss frantic, breathless kisses along his neck, leaving coral lipstick marks in their wake. His fingers almost fumble with the belt, yanking it off and throwing it to the floor. They work messily on his zipper before pulling down his trousers to his ankles and kicking them off. Before he can steady himself, her hands are already tugging at the waistband of his briefs.

“So fucking needy,” he breathes into her, mouth ghosting her hair. Once his briefs are off, he gives himself a few slow, wide strokes. His inhale is shaky. Precum is leaking out of his tip and dripping down its veiny length. “Want me to fuck you, baby?”

“Yes,” she says immediately, shimmying closer. Her breath hitches as he presses the tip at her sex, stroking slowly up and down the puffy opening. “Yes, I want you to fuck me. Please, Caleb.” She can see how strongly her pleas affect him in the way his cock twitches. In the way the muscles in his arms tighten. And in the way his jaw tenses at her every whine.

The sticky fluids from her orgasm gather at the tip of his cock and he rubs it over her flesh like a lubricant. When neither of them can take anymore, he presses forward, pushing into her cunt inch by inch. The girth makes her shudder and moan out into the hot air between them. She can feel him filling her out completely, taking every last barrier between them down until he occupies every nook and cranny of her conscience.

“Oh fuck,” she whines, clenching her eyes shut. He starts moving, fucking her shallowly with half his cock. Working his way further and further into her as she loosens around him. He watches her expressions, each little contortion as he fucks her. Slowing and pulling back when he thinks she might cry out. The first stretch is always overwhelming, but he navigates her physical boundaries until she fully relaxes in his hold. He gives her a gentle kiss on her forehead and she smiles up at him despite her glassy eyes. Her winged eyeliner is smudged across her cheekbones. And her natural flush outdoes the pink blush. She gasps up at him, gesturing for him to keep going.

He begins thrusting into her fully, deeply with his entire cock, and her ears redden at the squelch. His pace is slow but rough, and it pushes her up further and further on the counter until her back is pressed against the mirror. She can only brace her hands against his arms locked on either side of her, nails digging into his biceps. She can feel every drag of his cock along her walls. Every ridge and curve as he fills her up slowly. Almost at a teasing pace.

“Waited all night for you.” He’s bringing this up again now. “While you were out, all pretty for someone else.” He gives her a sharp thrust and she whimpers, eyes falling shut. As she loses herself in the darkness, focusing on nothing but the feeling of his cock pushing in and out of her, she feels his knuckles brush along her cheek.

“Eyes on me, baby.”

It’s a struggle to keep her eyes open and fixed on his piercing gaze, but he doesn’t take no for an answer.

“Caleb,” she moans, blinking frantically to keep herself from slipping. She feels so, so full. And with each delicious push of his cock into her, he rubs against her sensitive, spongy tissue. She can feel her slick slipping out, can hear it even with each embarrassing squelch as his dick pushes through it.

“Couldn’t even message me back-” he lands another forceful thrust, “because you were too occupied with whatever you were doing.” His pace has quickened now; and his knuckles are white against the counter as he braces himself. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

“I said I’m sorry,” she cries out, holding onto him for dear life.

“For what?” He bites at her neck, harshly, then soothes over the area with his tongue. “What are you sorry for?” She gasps as he pulls her to the edge of the counter, forcing her legs wider to accommodate his hips.

“I’m…I-” Her mind is going delirious with every thrust, lips biting into her swollen lips as he pushes her closer and closer towards release. “Wait,” she gasps, plating her palm against his chest. “It’s getting all over the dress.” Their combined slick has dribbled down the swell of her ass, spilling onto the counter and staining the ruffles of her dress.

Caleb barks a laugh, slowing his rut. He pulls out but he can’t stop the gush of arousal that seeps out of her sex and onto the fabric. He lifts her to her feet, steadying her for a second in her wooziness, and presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Want me to take it off, yeah?” His fingers pull at the ribbon and loosen the corset until it all but slips off her chest. He tugs the fabric down her hips harshly through her ‘uh huh’s and helps her step out of the pile of fabric. He kicks it out of the way much to her dismay. “Don’t worry. We’ll get it dry cleaned before you return it,” he snarls in her ear, biting at the skin.

Pushing her away from the counter and against the wall, he wraps her thigh around his waist. His lips work their way across her collarbone, sucking harshly at the flushed skin. She mewls into his ear, wrapping her arms around his neck tightly as he lifts her around him.

“Want it just like this, yeah?” His nose nudges into her cheek at their proximity and he lines his cock back up with her messy sex. She’s pulsing. Being carried like this, having his flexed biceps all over her, she can almost feel her come at the brink of release. As she breathes in him, she catches a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror and almost moans. He’s so fucking huge, covering her entire torso. She can see her legs, wrapped neatly around him, and her heels digging into the flesh just above his ass. She swallows, a guilty flush encasing her face, and hides her face in the crook of his neck.

Caleb slides his cock back into her, the red, angry tip swallowed in murky white release.

“Now, tell me what you’re sorry for.” The sheer power of his thrusts causes him to push her back against the wall for support. She gasps and warbles into him, nipping intermittently at his lipstick stained neck.

“I’m sorry for ignoring you. For not--mmph--checking my phone and making you--oh my god--making you worry.” The tears she has been so strong in restraining finally break. Inky globes roll down her cheek as her mascara runs. He watches her, bewitched by the way she looks so messy. So used and broken as she cries out his name. He thrusts into her harder. And she looks so pretty, he thinks, as fresh, hot tears run down her cheeks. Smearing her eyeshadow and liner until its nothing but a splatter of marks under her waterline. Her tears carve away at her foundation, leaving streaky beige stains down to her chin. And it feels so good. She feels so fucking full of him.

“Talk to me, baby,” he presses, kissing her brow.

“Mmhm,” she moans, head thrown back. “Feels so good. I just feel you.”

Her eyes can’t help but be pulled to the mirror, watching as he flexes his ass with each slam into her. She experiments with dragging her nails down his back, eyes widening as he convulses. Gasping as he pushes more roughly into her, fucking her ruthlessly against the wall. She can no longer hide her fixation, the dirty, sinister churning in her gut as she moans brokenly at the erotic image before her.

“What are you looking at?” His eyes widen for only a split second, like he can’t believe this is what’s got her clamping down on his cock every few seconds. He turns his head slightly and meets her pornographic expression in the mirror. Her eyes are half lidded and her mouth is parted. Her tongue drags lazily over her teeth with each rise and fall of her chest.

“You like watching, baby?” He watches as she breaks even further around his harsh thrusts. The smell of sex clouds her vision, fogs her conscience so much that she can only nod. “Like seeing yourself get fucked?”

He drags his thick cock out to the tip then slides back in, torturously slow. He does this a few times, angling and propping her up in such a way so that she sees the curve of his hard cock disappearing into her messy cunt.

“Go faster,” she pleads, unable to take her eyes away from it.

“You’re such a dirty girl, getting off on this. I had no idea you were such a lewd, filthy girl.” She cries out as she feels the spurt of her release rush to her core. This isn’t how she wants to come. Not when he’s being so slow and teasing. But she can’t help it. Can’t hold it in as she turns to mush in his arms. Her release squirts up onto his torso, soaking his skin in murky white fluids. She watches as rings of white, sticky cum gather at the base of his cock. And when he pushes too close, reaches all the way to her bruised cervix, her cum smears over her swollen sex.

“It feels so good,” she moans, wrapping her hands around his wrists tightly as he settles her down. Her legs are so shaky, and she can hardly support her weight.

“Not done with you yet,” he says, planting kisses on the top of her head. He guides her towards the counter, letting her brace herself against the cool marble, and coaxes her jaw up. “Look how messy you are, baby. So fucking beautiful for me like this.” He holds her chin between his fingers and watches her though the mirror as he plants kisses along her shoulder. Truly, her makeup is ruined. Her cheeks are wet and sticky. And her breasts are swollen, jiggling slightly as he grinds against her.

“Caleb,” she sighs, hanging her head low. Her arms are shaky, and each grind pushes her hips uncomfortably into the edge of the counter. Yet despite her exhaustive state her pussy is still pulsing for more. Seeing him behind her, almost engulfing her, makes her walls twitch and convulse. She bites her lip in embarrassment. “Wanna keep going…want you to cum in me.” She says this to spur him on. Knows that she’s biting off more than she can chew, but she doesn’t care. She reaches behind her and strokes his cock shallowly, guiding him towards her heat again.

He presses his hands against the counter’s edge where her hips meet, cushioning the blows as he bucks into her. His cock is so pent up and strained; and it swells up as she clamps down harshly on him. He’s not going to last long. Especially not now when he has a full view of her swollen breasts in the mirror, jerking with his every thrust. He desperately wants to tug at the plush flesh, bite at her nipples, even just wrap his tongue around it. But his hands are rendered immobile on the counter, and her comfort is prioritised above all else. Instead, he settles for biting into her shoulder and sucking the skin harshly. She can’t help the moans that spill out of her lips, hoarse and ragged. The particular angle of him rutting into her from behind is breaking her mind into pieces. She can feel him in her gut, fuck, she can hardly keep up as he knocks the breath out of her.

“Do you hear yourself?” Comes his taunting voice. Each moan sends a pulse straight to his cock. “Fuck, can you even think?” She manages to shake her head through her tears. She looks absolutely ruined.

“Feel so fucking mmph--feel so good.” She feels her release gush out of her without warning, splattering over his thighs and the floor. She’s never felt so sensitive in her life than she does now as he takes on a bruising pace towards the finish line. He’s breathing out so heavily into her air, groaning and whining her name. And she can only egg him on, crying out for his release. Demanding to be filled up.

His cock hardly leaves her cunt as he tries to push further in and in, balls flush against her ass. She feels him twitch before his warm come floods into her. It’s sticky and hot, and suddenly there’s a ringing in her ears. The feeling of being full, really full, has her gasping out against the mirror, body thrown over the counter. Her cunt is so sensitive, every trivial little shift of his body sets off another moan. Caleb slumps over her, careful not to lean his entire weight on her. He wraps his arms around her and lets her head rest back against his shoulder.

“Don’t pull out yet,” she mumbles, eyes closed.

“Don’t worry,” he coos, rubbing over her hips soothingly. “I’m not going anywhere.” She knows as soon as he pulls out, their mixed come is going everywhere. They stay there for a few minutes, the frantic rise and fall of their chests plateauing out into slow, even breaths.

“Are you okay, baby? I know I was rough with you.” She hums, the fog in her mind slowly clearing.

“I’m okay.” Regaining control over her body, she reaches up and strokes his arm. “That felt really, really good.”

“Yeah?” He kisses at her jaw. “Gonna clean you up now, okay?” She nods. “But,” he gives her a once over, pursing his lips, “I’m gonna have to pull out. Is that okay, baby?” She braces herself before giving another nod.

“Yeah, you can pull out. But, gently, please.” Upon her approval, he eases his cock out slowly, and sure enough, white fluid trickles out of her cunt and down her legs. She lets out a gasp at the heightened sensitivity of feeling so empty.

Caleb scoops her up and sits her back atop the counter. She leans against the mirror with a shy smile, watching him fiddle with the bottles beside her. He flips the cap of her makeup remover and lets some seep out onto a cotton pad.

“My beautiful girl.” He grins down at her, wiping gently across her cheeks. Blushing, she reaches up and brushes aside the hair falling into his eyes. His hair is damp now, seeped with sweat.

“My sweet, doting Caleb,” she echoes teasingly. He only laughs, getting a fresh wipe. He tips her jaw up slightly, dabbing cautiously around her waterline.

“Close your eyes for me, baby.” She does as she’s told, and feels the cold wipe on her skin. He takes extra care around her lashes and the corners of her eyes. When he’s done he leans back and tosses the used wipes in the bin.

When she opens her eyes, he’s holding out a jar in front of her.

“Want to use your cleanser now? Or after a shower, baby?” She giggles, chest filling with warmth.

“You can use it now.” He nods, twisting open the cleansing balm and taking a decent scoop out. Before he can set it down, she takes it, dipping her own fingers in.

“What,” he says through a laugh, “you’re gonna clean me up too?”

“Of course, dummy,” she quips, smoothing the balm between her hands. Once the balm is more pliable, she applies it evenly over his face. She rubs it into his skin with gentle, circular motions. “Like this,” she hums, the corners of her lips curling up into a smile. He watches, eyes rounded and gleaming in awe, and then he follows her direction, spreading the balm over her soft skin. Their arms brush against each other in their proximity.

As they settle into silence, she bites her lip.

“I really didn’t mean to make you worry, Caleb.” He looks up at her, fingers slowing down. She stays focused, though, smoothing the balm over his forehead. “I should’ve let you know I was going out.”

“Don’t stress about it now, baby. You’re here now, right?” He kisses the top of her head. “That’s all that matters.”

“I made you stay up late,” she says. She reaches over to the sink, letting the water run over her hands. Guiding him closer, she begins wiping the balm off then rinsing it down the sink.

“It’s nothing,” he reassures her. “Baby, don’t keep dwelling on it. It won’t happen again, right?” She shakes her head. “Then that’s all I need to know. I trust you.”

She stays still as he begins washing the balm off her face as well.

“Do you have to get up early tomorrow? It’s almost three…” He only shakes his head.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday, baby. I’m all yours.” He pauses. “Well, technically, it is tomorrow.” She mirrors his grin, leaning down and capturing his lips. It’s gentle and slow.

He pulls away first, taking her arms and guiding her down off the counter.

“Come on, gotta shower first before you fall asleep on me.”

Okay, i wrote this ages ago and this was supposed to be part 2 of a Sylus fic where he does your makeup . lord give me the strength to finish it.

bruh when the deceptive solitude artwork came out, best believe i was fucking FROTHING at the mouth

2K notes · View notes