#just need a short break from studying

[fading4ngel]

i think i have art block a bit.

at least i tried something a little different in my art process, but idk if it looks any better or worse.

[sskk-manifesto]

--

[astrxealis]

eepy

[emstargazer]

No amount of words that I can currently muster up could express what I so desperately want to put into this post, but I'll try to start with:

I fucking hate it here.

[ghostbsuter]

"Vladimir Masters arrived, and by his side is a teen, adolescent guessing around 17. B, he doesn't look too happy to be here." Reports Tim as he stares subtly at the direction of the pair, walking around.

It didn't take a genius to see that the teen by Vladimir's side wasn't happy to be here.

"Got my eyes on them," Dick shares from across the room, where he'd grabbed a glass of champagne and mingled around. "Need some help, I'll try talk to the guy. O, know his name already?"

Tim plucked a small dessert from the table, giving a polite smile to the women passing him and frowning. Vladimir Masters wasn't an unusual guest they had, but whenever he did attend, it was alone. He was not married, Tim knew. So where did he get that guy from?

"Got him." Oracle's voice comes through the comm. "Daniel Fenton-Masters. Guess our friend over there got more family than we knew. That's his godson. There is... a lot. To say."

As she trails off, Dick makes his way slowly and steadily over, interest rising as he waves to an elderly man. "What is it?"

"Daniel hates Masters. Or so it seems." Oracle bluntly states, Dick nearly trips. "He was arrested once for keying Masters car, by Masters himself. Bailed him out after a few hours." She seemed more amused than alarmed, which was good.

Despite their talking through the comm, Tim nor Dick took notice of the youngest Wayne in the room stopping in front of the Masters.

"Eyes on Damian." Bruce speaks up for the first time, finally taking a break from the persona it seems.

Much to the short confusion turned alertness, Dick caught onto the youngest Wayne's plan. "He's engaging in a conversation all by himself! I'm so proud!"

With Damian and Daniel talking, Vladimir did not hesitate in leaving his wards side and talking with other guests. Dick still kept an eye on him, remaining close but outside of his path.

"O, tune us in on their conversation?"

With an affirmative hum, the channel switches and their voices become loud and clear.

"How is Delilah? From the letters I received, she seemed to be well."

"Oh, yeah! She's doing great! Don't tell anyone, Damian, but the zoo believes her to be pregnant."

"Pregnancy? Give her my blessings if it is true."

Was that pride in his tone? Dick would weep if he were alone.

The idle conversation switches topics from the apparently endangered monkey species(? Of course Damian would know. He seemed to have been in contact with Daniel previously.)

"Vladimir!" Brucies voice cuts in, startling Damian for a second and having the other birds in the gala swirl their heads toward their father.

As Dick keeps an eye on Bruce and Vladimir, Tim studied the other teen. During Damians startle, invisible to the trained eye, he had looked back with a flick to see. Despite how fast or practised the move was, Daniel followed along seamlessly.

Almost like a Bird.

The talk between the two ended shortly after the one from the adults started, Daniel was on the move after a quick excuse, grabbing a glass of champagne on his path directly towards his guardian.

And yet. The message he'd given Damian to escape repeated itself in his mind.

"Sorry, Damian, I need to save your father, one second. I'll be back soon."

Save Bruce from Vladimir? Why?

One second, he'd just watched Daniel pass him. The next, the boy was apologising repeatedly, over and over again. The glass of champagne empty on the floor, broken and the liquid inside all over Vladimir Masters.

"Masters is angry. Send someone to clean up the mess, please." To that, man in uniform arrived with a broom in his hand and cleaning up the shards of glass in seconds.

"That was clearly intentional. Daniel made sure Masters didn't get to talk with B past formalities. The picture I'm getting keeps getting uglier here, guys."

"Got it, thanks O. I'm joining in now."

...at least no rogue had yet to crash the gala? Tim hopes he didn't just Jinx them all.

[sixeyesonathiel]

free throws and figure drawings

pairing – star player! gojo x broke artist! reader

summary : satoru gojo is many things—basketball star player, campus menace, objectively the best-looking guy in any room—but he is not a model. so when you, some quiet, intense art student, shove a flyer in his face and ask him to pose for a painting, his first instinct is to laugh. his second instinct is to say no.

it’s supposed to be easy money. sit still, look pretty, collect cash. but between your infuriating perfectionism, your absolute refusal to be flustered by him, and the way you stare like you’re trying to figure him out, satoru starts to suspect he’s in way over his head

tags –> one shot, 22k wc, university au, oblivious mutual pining, slow burn, idiots to friends(?) to lovers, banter, fluff, light angst, first kisses, reader has questionable financial priorities

playlist. | collection m.list.

satoru hates being late.

he’s not a model student, not by a long shot, but failing a long quiz because a horde of fan girls blocked his way to class? unforgivable. he was so close to making it in time, too—if only he hadn’t stopped to sign that last autograph. normally, he’d brush it off, but this wasn’t just any quiz—this was for a professor who already had it out for him. if he fails even one subject, the coach might force him to take a break from the team to focus on his studies, even if he was their star player.

he thrives on attention, okay? what’s the point of being their university's star player if he can’t bask in the privelege and the fame? that last game was legendary—he clutched the final shot, the crowd went insane, and now half the campus is screaming his name. still, if he gets benched over grades, that win won’t mean a damn thing.

now, he’s sulking on a campus bench, spinning his phone between his fingers, wondering how hard his professor is going to roast him next lecture. probably a lot. maybe enough to make him consider actually studying. his teammates will be insufferable about it, especially suguru.

and then, like a gift from the universe, you show up.

“excuse me.”

he barely glances up. he’s still bitter. still annoyed. but when he finally does look—oh, he knows your type. wide-eyed, a little nervous, clutching a sketchbook like it’s a lifeline, like it holds something more important than just paper and ink. he bets you’re about to ask for a selfie, or his number, or—

“i need you to model for me.”

his head tilts slightly, brow arching in lazy amusement. huh?

he waits for the punchline, but you only stare, unwavering. there’s something unnerving about your gaze—not shy, not desperate, just… intent. like you’ve already decided something, and his answer doesn’t matter. then, as if confirming it to yourself, you give a small, determined nod. “yeah. you’re perfect.”

his lips twitch, the ego in him flaring up instantly. “obviously.”

“so you’ll do it?” you lean in, hopeful, hands gripping the edges of your sketchbook like it’s anchoring you.

“obviously not.” he leans back instead, stretching an arm along the back of the bench, his smirk turning sharp. “listen, i know i’m pretty, but i’m not that easy.”

your expression shifts, a flicker of something unreadable—then, with a breath, you square your shoulders. “i’ll pay you.”

he barks out a short laugh, blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “oh? and what’s my going rate, then?”

without hesitation, you pull out a flyer from your bag, movements quick and businesslike. “i have an hourly rate. cash upfront.”

he plucks the paper from your hands, more entertained than anything, scanning it with a smirk. this is, without a doubt, the most absurd thing to happen to him all day (and that’s saying something). you’re actually serious. actually offering him money to sit still and look pretty.

you must be so down bad.

“sorry, sweetheart,” he drawls, handing it back lazily. “but i’m a busy man. can’t waste my precious time sitting around just so you can stare at me.”

he expects you to stammer, to get flustered and retreat. most people would.

there’s a pause, thick with hesitation, before you finally speak—like you’re pulling the words from somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t usually let people see.

“hold still,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. your gaze moves over his face with the kind of scrutiny that makes people uncomfortable, but satoru doesn’t squirm—he preens under it, smirks like he’s used to being admired. but that’s not what this is.

your eyes narrow slightly, head tilting. “your features are sharp, but not harsh. the lines of your face—” you trail off, thoughtful. “they flow too well. it’s almost unnatural.”

he blinks. “uh. thanks?”

you ignore him, scanning lower. “your collarbones frame the composition perfectly. and your hands…” your gaze flickers to them, fingers twitching against your sketchbook. “deliberate. expressive.”

his brows lift. “you’re checking me out.” he accuses, tone dripping with amusement.

“i’m analyzing your composition.” your voice is absentminded, matter-of-fact. you’re still staring, still studying, like he’s some kind of divine anomaly.

and maybe he is.

satoru should be smug about this. should be teasing you. but there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—serious, unwavering, like you’ve seen something no one else has. something not even he knows how to name.

his smirk falters, just slightly. “…so?”

“so,” you say, straightening, gripping your sketchbook tighter. “i need to paint you.”

not want. need.

and for the first time in a long time, satoru gojo is left without a clever comeback. because—okay. wow. that was a lot.

for the first time, he actually looks at you, really looks at you. and there’s no hint of deception in your expression, no underlying flirtation. your eyes—burning with something too raw, too genuine—throw him off completely.

“sounds like you’re obsessed with me.” he tries, aiming for his usual brand of cocky. but it’s weaker this time. a little off.

“i’m obsessed with getting my pieces right,” you counter, and it lands like a challenge. your voice doesn’t waver, steady in a way that makes his smirk twitch. “i’ll even raise your pay.”

his smirk falters for half a second. “yeah?”

“i—” you hesitate, fingers tightening around your sketchbook, knuckles pale from the pressure. “i can go up to… ten bucks per session. upfront.”

he snorts. “sweetheart, do i look like a discount model to you? you want me to sit still for hours, me—an in-demand athlete, a social necessity at every party, the backbone of this school’s sports program—for a measly ten?” he leans back, draping an arm over the bench like he’s getting comfortable for a long negotiation. “at least pretend to respect my market value.”

you exhale sharply, visibly weighing your options, then straighten with new resolve. “fine. twenty-five bucks per session. i can push to fourty, but you have to commit to at least three sittings.”

he opens his mouth to refuse—just for the drama of it, just to watch you scramble for a better offer—but then he hesitates.

and he sees it.

the way your fingers tighten around your sketchbook, the way your shoulders hold a quiet, unyielding tension. the way your eyes stay locked onto him, not with admiration, not with infatuation, but with something deeper, something urgent. there’s a pull in them, a quiet desperation—not for him, not for his attention, but for the shape of him, the angles of him, the way light bends and softens around the sharp edges of his face. he realizes, with a strange flicker of something he can’t name, that you aren’t begging him—you’re needing him.

…ugh.

satoru groans, throwing his head back dramatically, hands flopping uselessly onto the bench like the universe has personally inconvenienced him. “you’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“nope.” your jaw sets, firm, unwavering.

a sigh. a pause. a moment of self-reflection where he briefly considers if the extra cash is worth sacrificing his free time—his parties, his practices, the worship of a school that already thinks he’s untouchable.

then—he grins, sharp and easy, like he’s the one who’s won something here. “alright, mystery artist. i’ll be your muse.”

he leans in, cocky and insufferable, but there’s something new behind it now—a flicker of intrigue, the curiosity of a man who knows he’s irresistible but has never quite been needed like this before. “but only because i’m feeling generous.”

the next day later, satoru reminds himself—firmly—not to let this happen again. he should have held out longer, should have played hard to get, should have, at the very least, haggled for more cash. but no, he let himself get swept up in whatever this was, in your weird little artist intensity, and now he’s sitting on a questionably stable stool in the middle of your cozy, cluttered studio space. regretting. just a little.

your “studio” is barely more than a corner of your dorm room, wedged by the window where the light slants in at an annoyingly aesthetic angle. the floor is a battlefield of abandoned sketchbooks and paint tubes, half-squeezed and discarded like fallen soldiers. unfinished canvases lean against the walls in various stages of completion—some just rough sketches, others hauntingly close to done but left untouched, as if you lost interest mid-stroke. it’s clean and chaotic all at once, the strange contrast between the precisely arranged brushes—lined up by size, bristles all facing the same way—and the paint-stained rags draped carelessly over the back of your chair. the room smells like turpentine and old paper, sharp and familiar, like stepping into the mind of someone who never really stops thinking.

he should be bored—but he’s not.

“shoes off.” you say the moment he steps inside, not even looking up as you sort through your supplies.

satoru stops mid-step, blinking. his latest purchase—some limited-edition basketball sneakers, bought with the last of his cash prize from securing mvp last season, the sheer reason why he is broke right now to be here in the first place—suddenly feel heavier on his feet. his gaze flicks from you to the floor, then back again, a slow, deliberate movement as if testing whether you’re serious.

“seriously?” he drawls, shifting his weight.

“yes.”

“what, afraid I’ll track in dirt?” he tilts his head, smirk lazy, but his fingers hook around the back of his shoes, already anticipating your answer.

“no, i just don’t want you stepping in paint and crying about your expensive sneakers.” you finally glance up, eyes flickering to the telltale logo on the side of his shoes. there’s no mockery in your tone, just detached amusement, but he still bristles slightly—maybe because you’ve already figured him out so easily.

satoru exhales, exaggerated and put-upon, before kicking them off with a bit more force than necessary. the shoes land haphazardly by the door, slightly askew, pristine against the chaos of your floor. “...fine. but I better not step on a thumbtack and die.”

“noted.” you murmur, already moving on.

he takes in the room as he tugs at the hem of his hoodie, adjusting it. the space is a contradiction—small, but alive, every inch used with an artist’s careless precision. tubes of paint lie scattered like relics of past battles, pages of half-formed sketches peek from beneath stacks of books, and the air smells sharp—turpentine, charcoal dust, something faintly citrusy, probably from the cup of tea cooling by your desk. he should be unimpressed, but his gaze keeps getting caught on the little details—the careful arrangement of brushes, the single paint-smeared rag draped over your chair, the faint blue smudge on the back of your wrist.

"sit here." you drag a wooden stool into the light, the scrape of its legs against the floor cutting through the quiet.

his eyes narrow. “this thing gonna hold up?”

“unless you plan on moving around like a child, yes.”

satoru hums, unimpressed but intrigued, tapping two fingers against his thigh before finally dropping onto the stool. his posture is lazy, all careless sprawl and long limbs, arms hanging over the backrest like he’s got all the time in the world.

you click your tongue, stepping closer. “sit up straight.”

he sinks even lower, stretching his legs out in front of him. “but I like this angle. mysterious. brooding. like I have a dark past.”

you don’t even hesitate. “it looks like you have scoliosis.”

he barks out a laugh, sharp and genuine, teeth flashing under the dim light. “maybe that is my dark past.”

“fix your posture.”

satoru sighs, rolling his shoulders back—but not enough. you click your tongue, unimpressed, and before he can react, your hands are on him, firm but careful, adjusting his posture with practiced ease. your fingers press lightly against his upper back, trailing down to nudge at his shoulder blades, guiding him straighter. clinical, detached, nothing more than necessity. but he still goes still, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

your hands are cool against his skin, grounding in a way he doesn’t expect. for the first time, he realizes you’re really looking at him—not like most people do, with admiration, envy, or that desperate need to impress. no, you look at him like he’s a problem to solve, a subject to study, something to be rendered on paper in strokes and shadows. he should say something—flirt, tease, break the moment before it turns into something else—but the words sit strangely in his mouth. and then you’re already pulling away, back to your desk, already moving on.

"good," you murmur, reaching for a pencil amid the mess of supplies. you don’t sound satisfied, exactly—just focused, as if his presence in your studio is nothing more than another detail to get right. then, after a beat, you look up again, really look at him, and say, “don’t move.”

satoru smirks, tilting his head just enough for his bangs to shift, casting a fleeting shadow over his eyes. “no promises.”

you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you adjust the angle of your easel. the wooden frame creaks as you tighten a knob, movements brisk, precise—like you don’t have the patience for his nonsense today. “relax your shoulders.”

he spreads his hands, a lazy, exaggerated gesture, his varsity jacket slipping slightly off one shoulder. “my shoulders are relaxed.”

you glance up, unimpressed. “you look like you’re trying to fight god.”

“that’s just my natural aura.”

your hand pauses over your palette, fingers hovering just above the tubes of paint. then—a twitch. fleeting. almost imperceptible. but he sees it, the tiny, reluctant quirk of your lips, and his eyes glint with amusement.

“was that a smile?” satoru's grin is all teeth, sharp and victorious, as he leans forward, resting his forearm on his knee. “are you falling for me already?”

you don’t even bother looking up as you squeeze out a streak of cadmium red onto your palette. “i was smiling at the thought of shoving you off that stool.”

he lets out a low chuckle, leaning back again, hands bracing the edge of the seat as if testing its limits. “that’s fair.”

acrylic meets oil in a slow swirl, the colors blending as you mix with deliberate strokes. outside, the sun shifts, casting golden streaks through the dusty windowpanes, dappling his profile in warm light. he watches you in the silence that follows, something unspoken settling between the brushstrokes and banter.

and that’s how the first session goes—him trying to be difficult, you trying to make him less difficult.

but somewhere between the banter, the occasional begrudging moments of stillness, and the quiet scratch of pencil against paper, something shifts.

at first, he’s just counting down the minutes until he gets paid, watching the clock, tapping his fingers idly against his knee. but then, he starts watching you instead.

satoru notices the way your brow furrows in concentration, the way your fingers hesitate before committing to a line, the way your teeth graze your bottom lip when something isn’t turning out right. there’s a softness to you when you work, an intensity that feels different from how people usually look at him. no awe, no expectation—just a quiet, unwavering focus, like he’s something worth capturing.

he should be bored. this kind of thing isn’t for him—sitting still, staying quiet, being studied like some museum exhibit. but he’s not. instead he is interested.

not by the painting itself—he still doesn’t get the whole ‘art’ thing, still doesn’t see why people obsess over lines and colors and whatever meaning they think is hidden beneath. but he gets this. gets the way you treat it like it matters, like it’s something real, something worth your time.

so he keeps coming back.

SPRING bleeds into familiarity as summer approaches. the air carries the scent of sun-warmed pavement and freshly cut grass, the kind of early heat that settles into your skin before you even realize it. days stretch longer, the sunsets grow richer, but in this quiet, in the hush between afternoon and evening, it’s routine now—as natural as practice drills, as effortless as muscle memory.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper, the faint drag of graphite as you sketch his form for the hundredth time. the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you concentrate, brows furrowing in that particular way that means you’re unhappy with a line. the way satoru makes a grand show of complaining, of stretching obnoxiously, of sighing like he’s been sentenced to something far worse than sitting still for an hour—but he always shows up anyway.

“this is cruel and unusual punishment.” satoru groans, slumping back in the chair like the very act of modeling is siphoning the life out of him. his long legs sprawl out, one foot tapping idly against the floor, an unconscious rhythm that betrays his restlessness. strands of white hair fall messily over his forehead, catching in the afternoon light, but he makes no move to fix them. instead, he tilts his head back dramatically, like a man resigned to his fate, letting out a sigh so deep it should echo through the room.

“you’re literally getting paid.” you remind him, tilting your head, adjusting the angle of your sketch with a practiced flick of your wrist. your voice is steady, patient, but there’s a weight to it—a quiet exasperation that makes the corners of his mouth twitch.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper fills the space between you, a contrast to his theatrics. your fingers move with precision, thumb smudging a shadow, expression unreadable as your gaze flickers over him like you’re dissecting every line and curve.

“at what cost?” satoru presses, shifting slightly in his seat, the chair creaking beneath his weight. his arms drape lazily over the armrests, fingers tapping against the wood—anything to keep himself occupied. his restlessness isn’t feigned; he’s never been the type to sit still, and the urge to move tugs at his muscles like an itch he can’t scratch. but he waits, because the way you sketch—brows furrowed, lower lip caught just slightly between your teeth—has him more intrigued than he wants to admit.

“at the cost of you shutting up for five minutes.”

“bold of you to assume i’m capable of that.”

his eyes flick toward you, sharp and searching, waiting for the reaction he knows is coming. for a moment, you’re still, the only movement the subtle shift of your fingers against the page. then—your lips twitch, the barest ghost of amusement, before you catch yourself and shake your head, returning to your work. satoru leans forward just slightly, just enough for the smallest smirk to pull at his lips, because he saw it—saw the way you almost gave in—and he counts that as a win.

you start talking more.

not just the usual corrections or critiques, but more—about your process, your ideas, the frustration of trying to capture his proportions because “seriously, satoru, why are your legs so stupidly long?”

“can’t help that i’m perfect, sweetheart.” he says, flashing a grin, stretching in his seat like he’s on display. his limbs sprawl out with practiced ease, one arm draped over the back of the chair, the other lazily resting against his knee.

“you’re built like a faulty character model,” you mutter, erasing a line with more force than necessary. your brows pinch together, irritation bleeding into your strokes, and satoru watches the way your lips press into a thin line, your focus so sharp it almost cuts.

“so you admit i look unreal.” satoru says smugly, tipping his head to the side, silver strands slipping over the curve of his cheekbone.

you exhale through your nose, controlled and measured, but he catches the slight twitch in your jaw. “yes, satoru. that’s exactly what i meant.”

his grin spreads wider, pleased and easy, tapping his fingers idly against his knee in a steady rhythm. you’re getting used to him now—the sarcasm, the running commentary, the way he moves like he owns the space around him. you roll your eyes less, sigh less, even smirk sometimes—tiny, almost imperceptible, but he catches it every time, cataloging each one like a victory.

he starts talking more, too.

about his classes, about basketball, about how he wasn’t late to his quiz this time because he jumped out a window to avoid his fan girls. he says it so casually, like it’s just another tuesday, like it’s not the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard.

“you jumped out a window?” you ask, blinking, your pencil hovering mid-stroke. your brows pinch slightly, lips parting like you’re trying to process the sheer idiocy of it.

“listen, it was a short fall.”

there’s a beat of silence—just enough for him to catch the way your eyes flick over his face, searching for any sign of exaggeration. his smirk is lazy, easy, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll scold him for it.

and then you laugh.

it’s sudden, unfiltered, slipping past your lips before you can catch it. breathless, a little incredulous, like even you can’t believe he’s that ridiculous.

he wasn’t expecting that.

it’s not like you never laugh—you do, just not at him. not like this, not in a way that feels so real, so genuine, so—unfair. it hits him square in the chest, something sharp and electric threading through his ribs, like a perfectly aimed free throw sinking straight through the net.

“oh my god,” you say, shaking your head, still grinning. “you’re actually ridiculous.”

“thank you,” he says, flashing a smug grin, because he made you laugh.

and that’s the first time he realizes he likes your laugh.

so he starts playing it like a game—how many times can he make you laugh in one session? how many times can he distract you before you start scolding him? it’s almost too easy, the way you fall into the rhythm of his teasing, the way your lips press together like you’re fighting back a smile even when you’re glaring at him. he takes it as a challenge, a personal mission to pull a reaction out of you, to chip away at your stubborn focus just enough to make you crack.

“hey, what if you sketched me mid-dunk? you know, capture my essence—” satoru leans forward, gesturing dramatically, his white hair falling into his eyes.

“sit still.” you mutter, not even looking up, but he catches the way your brow furrows just slightly, the way you grip your pencil a little tighter.

“but imagine the drama! the movement! the raw athleticism—” he babbles, spreading his arms wide as if to showcase the sheer grandeur of his idea.

“sit still or i’m deducting your pay.” your voice is flat, but the way your eyes flicker toward him—just for a second—tells him you’re at least half-listening.

“cold.” he pouts, slumping back into the chair, but his grin never wavers.

sometimes, when you’re too absorbed in your work, he shifts in his seat just to see if you’ll notice. a tiny movement, barely anything—but your head always snaps up, your gaze sharp, the slightest exasperation flickering in your expression. “stop that,” you’ll say, and he’ll throw his hands up in mock innocence, feigning surprise. it’s stupid, really, but he likes it.

(he starts winning. he always wins.)

but somewhere along the way, he starts losing, too.

because he catches himself watching you between poses.

satoru catches himself noticing things he shouldn’t—the way you tuck your brush behind your ear when your hands are full, leaving a faint streak of graphite on your temple. the way your sleeves are always smudged with paint, like you’ve been too caught up in your work to care. the way your fingers twitch when you talk, tracing invisible shapes in the air, like you want to sketch your thoughts into existence. it’s the little things, the ones that slip through the cracks when he isn’t paying attention—except he is, now, and he doesn’t know when that started.

catches himself waiting for your sessions.

it sneaks up on him—slow, creeping, like a game he didn't realize he was playing until he was already losing.

one moment, it’s just a side gig, a funny little arrangement, an easy paycheck. another, it’s something else entirely, something that lingers in his mind longer than it should.

because sometimes—which is already a lot—when he steps onto the court, ball tucked under his arm, the first thing he wonders isn’t about the game, but whether you’ll be sketching from the bleachers. sometimes, when he sees something stupidly pretty—the golden slant of light cutting across the gym floor, a perfect shot arcing through the net, the weightless seconds before it sinks—he thinks, you’d know how to capture this.

sometimes, when you’re concentrating, when your brows pull together, when your lips part just slightly in thought, when your whole world narrows to the page in front of you, he thinks—he doesn’t finish that thought. because it’s just routine, right? just the same way he looks forward to practice, to games, to winning.

it’s nothing more than that.

right?

but then, it starts happening—subtle at first, easy to dismiss. a text invitation left on read, a half-hearted ‘maybe’ in response to a party he’d normally say ‘hell yeah!’ to.

it’s a gradual shift, barely noticeable at first—until it is. until suguru eyes him from across the court, spinning a basketball on his fingertips, gaze sharp and knowing.

“you skipping out?” suguru asks one afternoon, his tone casual, but the way he watches satoru says he already knows the answer. “big party tonight. everyone’s going.”

“got plans.” satoru says easily, crouching to tie his laces, fingers tugging the knots tight like he’s sealing the conversation shut.

suguru bounces the ball once, catching it smoothly. “since when do you have plans that don’t involve getting wasted?”

satoru straightens, rolling his shoulders until they pop, shaking out his arms like he’s gearing up for something. his hair is a mess of white strands falling over his forehead, a little damp from practice, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he flashes a smirk, weight shifting easily onto one foot. “i’m broadening my horizons.”

suguru snorts, spinning the ball in his hands. “yeah? what’s her name?”

satoru flicks his wrist, and before suguru can react, his hand snaps out to intercept the ball satoru just stole from him, catching it last second. suguru narrows his eyes, unimpressed. satoru just grins, rocking back on his heels, the picture of insufferable ease. “shut up.”

he tells himself it’s not a big deal. he’s just picking his battles, choosing his nights, being selective.

but then, one evening, his phone buzzes with an invite—exclusive rooftop party, vip only, the kind of thing that would’ve had him saying ‘hell yeah’ months ago. the kind of thing he used to crave, to thrive in, all flashing lights and endless noise, a crowd that could never quite keep up.

instead, he glances at the time, sees that your session starts in half an hour, and swipes the notification away without a second thought.

he doesn’t even hesitate.

SUMMER arrives with a vengeance. spring’s fleeting softness is long gone, replaced by air thick with humidity, pavement hot enough to sizzle, and days that stretch into slow, languid eternity. campus, once alive with restless energy, now feels like an echo of itself—half-abandoned dorms, quiet hallways, the distant hum of cicadas filling the silence. no fan club lurking outside his lectures, no teammates calling his name across the quad. just heat, stillness, and a lot of free time.

satoru gojo is losing his mind.

your dorm is somehow even worse than outside, the air stifling, unmoving, dense with trapped summer heat. the pathetic excuse for a fan in the corner barely stirs the air, its dull hum doing nothing to ease the sweat clinging to his skin. he’s slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back dramatically as he groans to no one in particular.

“this is inhumane,” satoru whines, shifting again, the fabric of his jersey clinging uncomfortably to his skin. his arm drapes lazily over his forehead, white bangs damp with sweat, eyes half-lidded in a show of exaggerated suffering. “you can’t expect a man to look this good while melting, y’know.”

“satoru, i swear to god, if you move one more time—” you mutter, not looking up from your easel, brush moving in slow, deliberate strokes. there’s a tension in your shoulders, one he recognizes by now—focused, immersed, determined to ignore him.

he cracks an eye open, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “you’ll what?” he drawls, voice syrupy with amusement. “paint me uglier?”

you don’t dignify that with a response, just exhale through your nose and keep working.

it’s been months since you first hired him, and somewhere between his insufferable attitude and your exasperated sighs, something shifted. something settled. something... comfortable.

satoru is still impossible—never quiet, never fully still, always testing limits. but you’re used to him now, the same way you’re used to the hum of your fan or the scratch of your brush against canvas.

and he’s used to you, too.

he knows you never play music while you work (insane). he knows you paint in layers, slow and methodical, as if each stroke is a commitment too big to rush. he knows you hate when people hover over your shoulder—but for some reason, you let him stay.

so he stays.

“remind me why we’re even in the dorms right now?” satoru complains, flopping back onto your bed without permission, limbs splaying like he owns the place.

“because it’s a hassle to go home.” you murmur, brush dragging against the canvas, expression unreadable.

“you say that like normal people wouldn’t want a break from all this,” he gestures vaguely, letting his hand fall limply onto his stomach.

“i don’t like breaks,” you say simply, not bothering to look at him. “breaks mean i stop making things.”

he squints at you, the weight of your words settling in his chest. it sounds like a joke, but it’s not. and just like that, something clicks. maybe you’re here for the same reason he is. not because you have nowhere to go. but because being here is easier than being somewhere else.

he doesn’t say anything. just shifts further onto your bed, limbs sprawling even wider, purely out of pettiness.

the sheets beneath him smell like you—something faint, something warm, something familiar. he exhales, eyes slipping shut for a moment.

yeah. he could stay a little longer.

“seriously,” he groans again, tugging at the neckline of his jersey, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second layer. with a restless sigh, he rolls onto his stomach, sprawling out across your bed like a cat too lazy to move from a sunspot. his cheek presses against the sheets, indigo eyes flicking lazily toward you, half-lidded from the heat. “why is it so hot? isn’t there some artist trick where you suffer for your work without making me suffer too?”

you don’t bother looking up, your focus unwavering, the soft scratch of your brush against canvas filling the silence between you. there’s a faint crease between your brows, a telltale sign of concentration, though your expression remains unreadable.

“maybe if you stopped talking, you’d cool down.”  you murmur, dipping your brush into a shade of blue.

he scoffs, shifting onto his elbows, pushing damp strands of hair from his forehead with a lazy flick of his fingers. “bold of you to assume that’s an option.”

and it irritates him—how unfazed you are. does nothing shake you? does nothing break through that focus?

so it turns into a game.

at first, he starts small—subtle shifts in posture, exaggerated sighs, ridiculous flirtation, all carefully designed to draw your attention. a slow roll of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head, the stretch of long limbs sprawled across your bed as if he owns the space. each movement is deliberate, each word carefully chosen to poke at you, to pry beneath that layer of calm focus you always seem to wear.

“what if i posed like one of those renaissance statues?” satoru muses, arching his back slightly, stretching his arms over his head, the muscles in his shoulders shifting beneath sun-warmed skin. his voice is thick with faux contemplation, his white lashes lowering as if he’s actually considering it. “y’know, real dramatic, real divine. make me look like a legend in the making.”

“you already think you’re a legend.” you mutter, the barest flicker of amusement crossing your face, so quick he almost misses it.

his grin sharpens, flashing teeth, and he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to watch you work. his hair falls slightly over his forehead, messy and weightless, catching the light in wisps of silver and white. “i mean, aren’t i?”

you don’t even look at him. just reach for your paintbrush, flick your wrist—and suddenly, a few drops of cold paint water splatter against his bare arm.

he yelps, jerking away like you’ve actually wounded him. “the hell—” he glares at the tiny droplets seeping into his skin, like they’re an offense to his very existence. “are you serious? that’s abuse.”

you hum, not bothering to hide the faint smirk on your lips as you dip your brush back into the paint.

his narrowed eyes linger on your expression, on the relaxed set of your shoulders, on the tiny, satisfied twitch of your mouth.

(point goes to you.)

when that doesn’t work, he switches tactics.

his gaze flickers to the stack of empty ramen cups in the corner, precariously balanced like a monument to bad decisions. his lips twitch, smug and knowing, before his eyes drift toward the mini fridge tucked against the wall. last time he checked—which was purely out of curiosity, mind you—it was nearly empty, save for a half-full bottle of water and a single, sad yogurt cup. it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

“do you always paint this obsessively?”

“yes.”

“do you ever eat?”

“obviously.”

he hums, stretching his arms behind his head, the movement making his damp jersey stick even more uncomfortably to his skin.

“…you sure?”

your brush hesitates—a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but he notices. then, just as quickly, you resume painting, voice perfectly even, expression carefully blank.

“what’s with the interrogation?”

“just curious,” he says, shifting until his long legs are stretched across the bed. his head tilts back against the sheets, white strands of hair falling messily over his forehead. “plus, if you pass out mid-session, who’s gonna pay me?”

you roll your eyes, exhaling through your nose, the corners of your mouth twitching. “i’ll put that in my will. ‘to satoru gojo, my life drawing model and worst financial decision.’”

satoru's laughter bursts out of him, loud and unfiltered, cutting through the thick, oppressive heat of the room. it’s the kind of laugh that makes walls feel smaller, that shifts the air, that lingers longer than it should.

and you don’t hide your small smile fast enough.

his laughter stutters for half a second, his sharp eyes catching the curve of your lips before you press them together again. fleeting, but unmistakable. something smug and delighted unfurls in his chest, a warmth that has nothing to do with the summer air.

his grin stretches slow and wicked. “oh, you like me,” he sings, rolling onto his back, looking at you upside down with that insufferable glint in his eyes.

“i tolerate you.” you correct, but your hand twitches, and before he can blink, another flick of your brush sends a tiny splash of paint in his direction.

he yelps, twisting away, but it’s too late.

(he’s still winning.)

but then—he moves too much.

a shift of his shoulders, an exaggerated sigh, the creak of your mattress beneath him. his knee bumps against your sketchbook, disrupting the careful balance of supplies stacked at the foot of the bed. then, as if testing the limits of your patience, he stretches, arms extending above his head, his basketball jersey riding up just slightly—just enough to reveal the sharp dip of his waist, the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone. his head tilts back against your pillow, and he groans, long and drawn out.

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a click before pushing yourself up from your stool.

satoru's eyes track your movement, bright and sharp even in the dim light of your dorm. he’s expecting a scolding, maybe even an irritated glare. but there’s something different this time—your expression unreadable, your gaze fixed on him with that same unwavering focus that always throws him off. you move with purpose, deliberate steps closing the space between you, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the heat pressing heavier against his skin, against the air between you.

he watches, waiting for the usual sigh, the exasperated reminder to stop fidgeting. he waits for you to roll your eyes and mutter something about how he’s impossible to work with.

instead—your fingers catch his chin, tilting it just so.

satoru's breath hitches, barely perceptible, but you don’t notice—or if you do, you don’t acknowledge it. your touch is firm, not hesitant, your thumb grazing just beneath his jaw as you adjust the angle of his face. then, without a second thought, your hand shifts, fingers ghosting along the curve of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, brushing against the sensitive skin below his ear. there’s dried paint smudged on your fingertips, faint streaks of color that leave invisible traces against his skin, and his throat bobs as he swallows.

you don’t stop there.

your other hand lifts, smoothing his slouched shoulders back against the pillows, fingertips pressing briefly into the fabric of his jersey. then you reach for his wrist, shifting his arm so it drapes more naturally across his stomach. and all the while, you’re silent, your movements efficient, unthinking—like touching him is no different than adjusting the angle of a still life, like he’s just another part of the composition you’re perfecting.

before the silence stretches too long, before his brain can fully process the casual way you just handled him, he grins, slow and wicked.

“damn,” he drawls, voice lazy, smug, but there’s something tight beneath the ease of it. his head tilts back slightly against your pillow, eyes half-lidded, watching you with a mixture of mischief and something deeper—something that makes his smirk seem almost too deliberate, like he’s waiting for you to react. “you’re really making this a whole thing, huh?”

“what?” you say absently, fingers still deftly adjusting the angle of his jaw, your touch steady as you tilt his chin just another fraction higher. the concentration in your expression is unreadable, but your gaze never wavers, sharp and focused. he notices how your brows furrow just the slightest, the way your lips press together in a line that says you’re not going to let him distract you this time.

“nothing,” he smirks, his grin widening, amused by the way your hands move over him with such intention. his fingers twitch where they rest against the blanket, itching for something to do, but he forces himself to remain still, curious to see how far he can push you. “just—y’know, if you wanted me like one of your french girls, you could’ve just said so.”

your fingers tighten slightly in response, the faintest press of your nails against his skin—not quite a warning, but close. you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat under your fingertips, steady but accelerating just slightly, as if your touch has an effect on him he’s unwilling to admit. there’s an almost imperceptible shift in his posture, as if he's bracing himself, but his eyes are still locked on you, playful but careful.

“if you don’t shut up,” you say, voice perfectly even, calm in the face of his teasing, “i will paint you uglier.” the words roll off your tongue without hesitation, but there’s an edge to them, something you both know you mean more than you let on. your hand doesn’t move from his jaw, but your fingers tighten for a moment—enough to make him flinch, just barely—and it’s enough to make his grin falter.

“mm. bold of you to assume i have a bad angle.” his voice is dripping with sarcasm, his smirk returning in full force, and his hand twitches again as if he’s resisting the urge to reach out, to touch you in return. but he holds himself back, all too aware that this is your space—your process—and he’s simply a subject in it. yet, his confidence remains unshaken, a challenge flickering behind his eyes.

you give his jaw a deliberate little nudge, the motion slow and purposeful, and barely suppress a sigh as you watch him react—his body tensing under your touch, as if the slight pressure is just the right amount to make him ache for more. but you’re not finished, not yet.

“stay still, satoru.” you murmur, your voice the slightest bit sharper this time, but with a subtle undercurrent of something softer. he could almost mistake it for a command, if not for the way you adjust his position with gentle precision, ensuring every detail of his form is just as you want it. your eyes flicker over him, tracing the angles of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his neck—something about the way you hold him, make him stay, makes him feel like you’re in complete control, and that’s when it hits him.

he doesn’t dare move.

not because he suddenly respects the process.

but because your fingers are cool against his overheated skin, an unexpected relief against the oppressive heat of the room. because for a moment, when you adjusted his posture, you were close enough for him to see the flecks of paint on your cheek, the way your lashes framed your eyes, the soft crease in your forehead when you concentrate.

because you touched him without hesitation. without thought. without treating him like something fragile, something distant, something untouchable.

and he doesn’t move for the next three hours.

...oh.

he’s in grave danger.

AUTUMN arrives with brisk winds and golden light, the air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant bonfires. the campus shifts with the season, summer’s lazy sprawl giving way to hurried footsteps and layered clothing, students caught between clinging to warmth and embracing the inevitable cold. the world feels sharper now, edges clearer, the sun hanging lower in the sky, stretching shadows across the pavement. satoru gojo hasn’t changed much, still striding through campus like he owns it, but there’s something different in the way he keeps showing up.

it starts with a realization: you’re an idiot with money.

satoru has been modeling for you for months now, first as a casual arrangement, then as an unspoken habit, and now—now he’s not even sure what to call it. at first, it was just a side hustle, a way to fund his snack addiction and make up for his tendency to forget that classes required effort. he still shows up late sometimes, still complains about holding the same pose for too long, still finds ways to annoy you just to see how you’ll react. but somewhere between summer and autumn, it stopped being about the money.

because you’re routine now.

just like basketball practice. just like late-night convenience store runs. just like winning. he doesn’t think about it too much, doesn’t poke at the feeling, just lets it settle into the spaces between his days. but then, one evening, it clicks—this thing between you isn’t exactly balanced. because for all the money you pay him, you’re the one stretching yourself thin.

it happens when he catches you eating a sad cup of instant noodles for what must be the fourth day in a row.

at first, he doesn’t say anything, just watches as you peel back the lid, steam curling weakly into the cool autumn air. he thinks maybe it’s a preference thing, some weird artist habit, until his gaze drifts—to the extra commissions stacked on your desk, the supply receipts stuffed into your sketchbook, the way you barely check your phone unless it’s him texting about a session. your fingers tighten around your chopsticks, movements slower than usual, exhaustion threading through the way you stir the noodles.

you are, quite literally, funding him instead of yourself.

“again?” he finally asks, gesturing at your dinner. his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else behind it, something sharper, like he’s waiting for you to slip up. he watches the way you barely react, how your grip on the chopsticks stays loose, how you keep your focus on the pitiful cup of noodles steaming in your hands instead of looking at him. his knee bounces once, a restless motion, before he stills it with a pointed exhale.

you shrug, not meeting his eyes, stirring half-heartedly, and the broth sloshes over the rim, spilling onto your sleeve in a dark stain. but you don’t react, don’t even seem to notice, just keep stirring, keep avoiding his gaze like you can will this conversation into disappearing. “i have a budget.” you say, voice even, detached, like you’re stating a fact and not making an excuse. your fingers tighten around the flimsy cup for half a second before you force yourself to loosen them, nudging a stray noodle back under the broth like you can’t feel his eyes on you.

satoru narrows his eyes, shifting where he sits, the mattress creaking under his weight. his arms stretch over his head for a beat, but there’s tension in the motion, his jaw tight even as he forces himself to lean back, feigning nonchalance. “you literally raised my pay just to get me to pose.” he says, voice incredulous, edged with something between concern and irritation. he isn’t laughing anymore, isn’t teasing, just watching, waiting, expecting you to have some kind of answer.

“those two are completely different things.” you mumble, slurping up some noodles like the conversation isn’t happening, like you can hide behind the motion. your posture shifts, shoulders curling inward, the steam from the cup rising in thin wisps against your face, half-obscuring your expression.

different how?

but you don’t elaborate.

you don’t meet his eyes, either, just keep pushing your noodles around the cup, the movements small, aimless, stalling. his gaze flickers down, catches the little details—the fading paint stains on your fingers, the slight tremor in the way you stir, the tension coiled in your shoulders like you’re bracing for something. he exhales, head tilting, watching you with the same sharpness he saves for an opponent about to make a move, for a moment of weakness he can take advantage of—but this time, it doesn’t feel like a game.

and then, all at once, it clicks. how much you’re actually paying him. how much of your already-limited allowance is going to him just so you can paint. how much you’re giving up without a word, without a complaint, without even a hint of hesitation.

and suddenly, his next paycheck doesn’t sit right with him.

so from that moment on, satoru starts caring for you in ways you don’t even notice.

it’s subtle at first, woven into the fabric of your routine, slipping in so seamlessly that you almost don’t register the shift. he still shows up late sometimes, still drags his feet through the doorway like he’s doing you a favor, but now—now he’s always carrying something. a plastic bag crinkles against his fingers as he drops it onto your desk, careless and offhand, like he isn’t watching for your reaction.

“leftovers,” he says way too casually when you glance up at him, suspicion flickering in your eyes. his voice is loose, unconcerned, but there’s something too deliberate in the way he nudges the bag closer, the way his hand lingers just a second too long before he pulls away. “figured you’d want ‘em before i threw them out.”

you eye the freshly wrapped onigiri and convenience store sandwiches, brows knitting together as your fingers hesitate over the bag. the packaging is neat, unopened, no signs of the mindless picking and half-eaten portions he usually leaves behind when he’s actually careless. “…since when do you not finish your food?” your voice is skeptical, flat, but there’s something guarded in the way you ask it, something careful.

“since now,” he says, flopping onto your bed with the kind of dramatic ease only he can manage. his hoodie rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of pale skin, but he doesn’t bother adjusting it, too busy stretching his arms over his head. “just eat it before i change my mind.”

you do. you don’t question it, don’t pick apart the way he shifts his weight against your mattress like he’s making himself at home, don’t dwell on the way his voice sounded just a little softer than usual. he pretends not to notice when you eat in silence, barely glancing at him. but later that night, when you’re alone, you find yourself smiling down at the empty wrapper before tossing it in the trash.

then he starts paying for your drinks when you go out, slipping the cash over the counter before you can argue, calling it his ‘treat’ like he’s some kind of benevolent patron.

“you only say that because i’m the only artist you know.” you deadpan, reaching for your coffee, fingers brushing the warmth of the cup.

“yeah,” he grins, unapologetic, smug, like he’s already won something. his fingers drum lightly against the side of his own cup, restless energy bleeding through the way he leans just slightly into your space. “and you’re killin’ it at first place.”

your fingers twitch slightly against the cup, grip adjusting like you’re trying to steady something that isn’t your coffee. you pretend not to feel the warmth in your chest, pretend his words don’t settle somewhere deep, somewhere dangerous. but when you take a sip, you don’t fight the way the heat lingers.

but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

satoru watches the way you flip through your sketchbook, fingers skimming the edges of each page like you’re weighing how much space you have left. he sees the way your gaze lingers on your paint tubes, the way your thumb presses absently against the label, as if debating whether the color is worth using. he notices the way your sleeves push up slightly when you mix paints, the faintest crease forming between your brows when you check how much is left. you won’t take money from him outright—he knows that much—but maybe, just maybe, he can get you to make money some other way.

so he tries introducing you to sports betting, grinning like he’s telling you the best-kept secret in the world. his energy is relentless, all sharp confidence and easy arrogance, like he truly believes he’s about to change your life. you don’t even need to look up to know he’s leaning in too close, elbows braced against your desk, practically radiating self-satisfaction. it’s unbearable.

“satoru, that’s literally gambling,” you say flatly, dragging your pencil across the page, deliberately uninterested.

“it’s strategic investing,” satoru corrects, voice smooth, pleased with himself, like he’s just introduced you to some kind of financial loophole. he shifts slightly, and his jersey slips off one shoulder, exposing the curve of his collarbone, but he doesn’t seem to notice—too caught up in his own nonsense. his fingers tap against your desk, impatient, restless, waiting for you to take the bait.

you don’t. instead, you finally glance up, brows raised. “you lost thirty bucks last week.”

his lips part like he’s about to argue, but then he pauses, reconsiders, and pivots. “okay, but that was a fluke,” he says, already curling his mouth into a perfectly crafted pout.

“was it?”

satoru exhales dramatically, like this conversation is somehow exhausting him, and drops his head onto your sketchbook, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re still holding a pencil. “have a little faith in me, damn.”

you shake your head, amused despite yourself. you shouldn’t be. you should shut this down, make it clear that you have no intention of entertaining whatever scheme he’s trying to rope you into.

but then—

“fine,” you say one day, flipping through your sketchbook, voice too casual, too offhanded. like this is barely worth mentioning, like you’re not actively indulging him. “i’ll bet on your team.”

the change is immediate.

satoru's body goes still, and for once, there’s no teasing, no smirk, no cocky remark. just a blink—slow, calculating—like he’s processing the words more carefully than anything else you’ve ever said to him. the tension lasts only a second before his mouth curves into something dangerous, something sharp, something entirely too pleased.

oh. oh, no.

“oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice all silk and trouble, reaching up to ruffle his already-messy hair. his fingers linger for a second, pushing back the damp strands before he tilts his head at you, grin widening. “you’re not gonna regret that.”

he doesn’t wait for your response. he’s already out the door. and frankly, you didn't expect the game to be brutal.

clearly, your estimate was wrong. the gym is packed, filled with students from both universities, the air thick with tension, sweat, and school pride. banners hang from the walls, school colors clashing, chants echoing through the space like war cries. the visiting team—tall, muscular, built like they were engineered for this—carries themselves with the weight of confidence, a roster of starters who have dominated the league all season. they tower over the court, standing like an immovable wall of defense, but it only takes one play for them to realize they’re in trouble.

because satoru gojo is simply faster. better.

the moment the ball is in his hands, he moves like he owns the court. the opposing point guard—a solid 6’5 with broad shoulders and a killer defensive record—lunges to block him, but it’s over before it even starts. satoru feints left, shifts right, and leaves him grasping at air, breaking into a sprint toward the basket before the others can react. their power forward—tall, heavy, built for blocking shots—steps in, arms raised high, but satoru barely acknowledges him.

because satoru is 6’3, fast as hell, and has a vertical leap that makes people question physics. he jumps, body twisting mid-air, and the slam dunk is so violent it rattles the rim.

the crowd erupts.

the visiting team’s coach is already shouting, hands flying in frustration as his players scramble to reorganize. they try to lock satoru down, try to double-team him, but it’s pointless—his crossovers are disrespectful, his footwork impossible to track, his speed completely unfair. one defender—6’7, easily one of the best in the league—steps up, stance wide, arms ready, but satoru doesn’t even give him time to think.

because satoru is playing with purpose.

his second shot? half-court. no hesitation.

the ball soars through the air, clean, perfect, and the second it lands through the net, satoru is already turning away, smirking as if he knew it would go in before he even let go.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” nanami mutters, watching as the other university’s shooting guard—who up until now had been known for his defense—grabs his knees like he’s questioning his life choices.

“they’re frustrated,” suguru notes, amused, stepping up beside satoru during a dead ball.

“they should be.” satoru says, rolling his shoulders, letting his sweat-slicked jersey shift against his skin. he looks completely relaxed—untouched, unbothered, infuriatingly smug—as if he isn’t systematically destroying one of the best teams in the league.

but this isn’t just about winning.

because every time he scores, he looks at you.

he doesn’t even try to be subtle. his icy blue eyes flick up to the bleachers, head tilting slightly, lips curving into a knowing grin. his fan girls scream, convinced he’s looking at them, but you know better. because satoru isn’t just playing—he’s showing off.

he breaks past another defender with ridiculous ease, dribbling once before stepping back for a three-pointer that barely even touches the rim. the opposing team’s captain calls for a switch, barking out orders, but it doesn’t matter—they can’t stop him.

the timeout huddle is a mess.

players are breathing hard, jerseys clinging to sweat-damp skin, shoulders rising and falling as they try to recover. the gym is loud—too loud—the crowd still buzzing from the absolute disaster that was the first half. their coach is talking, something about holding the lead, tightening defense, not getting cocky, but no one is listening. because across the circle, satoru is still grinning like he’s having the time of his life.

“yo, what the hell is wrong with you today?” suguru mutters, tossing him a towel, brow furrowed like he’s genuinely concerned.

satoru catches it with one hand, absently wiping the sweat from his forehead, movements lazy, easy, completely unbothered. his white hair is a mess, strands curling slightly from the heat, the glow of the overhead lights catching on the sharp angles of his face. his jersey is clinging to his frame, fabric damp where it stretches over his shoulders, his chest, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or care. instead, he tugs the collar away from his skin, letting the cool air hit, eyes flicking up toward the stands like he’s looking for something.

or rather, someone.

“nothing.” he says, voice easy, light, like he didn’t just dismantle an entire university’s defense and humiliate half their starters in front of a packed gym. his breath is steady, not a hint of exhaustion, only the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his damp jersey, fabric clinging to his frame, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his collarbone. his hair is an absolute mess, strands sticking to his forehead, white against flushed skin, but he makes no move to fix it. he just breathes in deep, exhales slow, and grins wider, a lazy, knowing curl of his lips, all sharp edges and unchecked arrogance.

then, too casually—“just gotta make sure my girl gets paid.”

suguru blinks. once. twice. then exhales, a slow, measured breath, like he’s trying to process what he just heard.

his expression shifts—not shocked, not confused, but amused. a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, dark eyes glinting with something knowing, something entertained. because this is the same girl, isn’t it? the same girl satoru was ditching party invitations for, choosing study sessions over late-night drinks for, showing up to campus early for when he barely woke up on time for class.

“...oh?” suguru says, just to hear him say it again.

but satoru doesn’t elaborate. doesn’t even look away from the stands. just flips the towel over his shoulder, rolls his wrists like this is just another game, like he hasn’t just set the entire gym on fire with a single sentence.

the buzzer blasts. second half starts. and satoru gojo is playing for blood.

the other university comes back from halftime determined, desperate, their coach gesturing wildly from the sidelines, barking orders as if sheer strategy will make up for the fact that they are losing to one man. they throw everything at satoru—double teams, switches, aggressive press defense—but none of it matters. he slips through them like water, like air, like something untouchable, moving with the kind of ease that makes even the referees hesitate before blowing the whistle.

he isn’t just scoring—he’s playing with them.

he spins the ball between his fingers, a lazy smirk curling at his lips, then passes it off last second, only to sprint across the court faster than anyone expects and sink a corner three. when their shooting guard tries to lock him down, satoru just laughs—actual laughter, low and effortless, before stepping back and draining another deep shot, his wrist flicking with a perfect follow-through. it barely touches the net.

you shouldn’t be this invested.

but your eyes track him anyway, caught up in the rhythm of his movements, in the way his jersey clings to the shape of his shoulders, the sweat glistening at the hollow of his throat. he’s moving like this is personal, like the entire game is some elaborate performance meant for you alone, and it’s starting to get to you. every time he scores, he glances up, searching for you in the stands, and you hate that your stomach flips when his gaze finds yours.

you hate it even more when you catch yourself smiling.

he’s impossible to ignore, too bright, too loud, too much. the crowd responds to him like he’s some kind of basketball god, voices rising every time he moves, a mix of screams, chants, and what you’re pretty sure is an entire row of students calling out his name. his fan girls are in absolute chaos, some clutching each other’s arms, others dramatically swooning, like they’re seconds away from fainting just from watching him exist.

the other team is beyond frustrated.

they’ve thrown everything at him—double teams, switches, aggressive defense—but it doesn’t matter. because satoru isn’t just playing to win. he’s playing to humiliate.

his next victim is their shooting guard, 6’4, all muscle, built like he should be a defensive wall. he steps up, arms wide, eyes sharp, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. but satoru? satoru doesn’t even look like he’s trying. he bounces the ball once, twice, just enough to let the anticipation build, before shifting forward like he’s about to drive in.

the defender lunges and satoru, the absolute menace that he is, just stands there.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even attempt to go around him. just watches—completely unbothered, completely still—as the guy flies past him, momentum carrying him forward, stumbling face-first onto the court.

the crowd gasps.

the defender scrambles to recover, but it’s already over. satoru spins the ball in his hands, takes a single step back, and—without even looking at the rim—launches a half-court shot.

the ball soars, clean, effortless, perfect. it barely even touches the net. the gym absolutely erupts. and then—he winks up at the bleachers.

or rather, at you.

it’s infuriatingly slow, deliberate, the corner of his mouth curling up in a way that is both cocky and playful. his white hair is a mess, damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead, but it only makes the sharpness of his features more pronounced. his lips part slightly, the ghost of a smirk still lingering, the blue of his eyes catching under the lights—bright, focused, sharp enough to be dangerous.

the reaction is immediate.

“he saw me!” someone shrieks, grabbing their friend’s arm in a death grip.

“no, he was looking at me!” another one yells, voice already breaking.

“oh my god, he’s literally flirting with our section!”

meanwhile, you’re still just watching him play, like he didn’t just incite a full-scale riot in the stands. you don’t even think—you just lift your hand, give him a thumbs up, then go right back to pretending this is normal.

satoru freezes.

for a split second, he stares, blinking like he wasn’t expecting you to actually respond. the gym is too loud, too chaotic, but all of it fades into static as he holds your gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his expression.

then—his grin stretches slow and sharp, something almost dangerous flashing in his expression.

the opposing team barely has time to react. the second satoru turns back to the game, he’s already moving.

their point guard makes the mistake of hesitating, fingers gripping the ball a second too long as he scans the court for an opening. satoru doesn’t wait. he lunges forward, impossibly fast, cutting through the space between them like a blade. his hand shoots out, fingers slapping against the ball with a sharp, decisive smack, and suddenly—it’s his.

the steal is clean, effortless, unfair.

the defender barely has time to curse before satoru is already gone, already breaking into a full sprint down the court. his movements are fluid, sharp, ruthless, his jersey clinging to the sweat on his skin as he takes off, the crowd roaring in anticipation.

a single defender manages to keep up, breathing hard, desperate, sprinting beside him in a last-ditch effort to block him. but satoru doesn’t even look at him. doesn’t even acknowledge him.

he takes one step inside the paint—then jumps. and he just keeps going. the crowd screams as he soars, legs tucking, arm pulling back, body arching so high it feels unreal. the defender leaps, arms stretching, trying—failing.

because satoru gojo is 6’3, fast as hell, and plays above the rim like the air belongs to him.

his fingers clamp around the ball, grip firm, the muscles in his arms flexing as he swings forward—then slams it through the net with enough force to make the entire backboard rattle.

the gym explodes. the other university’s bench is silent. their coach buries his face in his hands.

satoru drops back down to the court, landing lightly on his feet, rolling his shoulders as if he didn’t just commit a crime in front of a full audience. he turns, gaze flicking up toward the bleachers—toward you. his fan girls lose their minds.

but you? you don’t stand a chance.

you exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your face. you’re not swooning—you refuse to be one of them, one of the girls throwing themselves at him like he’s some kind of untouchable idol. but your fingers curl against your sketchbook, grip tightening, and you know you’re falling for him anyway.

the game is already over.

the scoreboard doesn’t say it yet, but everyone knows. satoru knows. the other university knows. even their coach, red-faced and exhausted from yelling, has stopped trying to call plays that might turn things around. but satoru? he’s still playing like he has something to prove.

his next move is straight-up cruel.

their point guard is waiting for him at the three-point line, arms wide, stance low, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. he isn’t. satoru bounces the ball between his legs once, twice, then shifts forward just enough to make it look like he’s driving in. the defender lunges, panicked, reaching out to block him—but satoru is already gone.

a single, fluid crossover sends the guy sprawling onto the court, hands catching empty air as satoru steps back and sinks another three-pointer like he’s just shooting around at practice. the bench erupts, players falling over each other in disbelief, a mix of laughter and shouts filling the gym. even the referee—usually stone-faced and neutral—lets out a quiet, impressed whistle.

you cover your mouth with your sleeve, shoulders shaking as you try to stifle your laughter. it’s unfair, really, how easily he does this—how easily he turns the game into his own personal stage, his own playground.

he doesn’t even look at the scoreboard. he looks at you.

your breath catches, because this time, there’s something different in the way he holds your gaze. he isn’t just searching for a reaction—he’s watching. like he’s waiting for something. like he’s confirming something.

your fingers tighten against your sleeve. you know.

and from the way his smirk softens just slightly, the way his head tilts, eyes bright beneath the glare of the gym lights—he knows, too.

the final seconds tick down.

the other team stops trying to chase the score—they know it’s hopeless. some of them don’t even bother running back on defense anymore, hands on their hips, breathing hard, completely defeated. when the final buzzer blares, it’s almost mercy at this point, the end of a game that should’ve stopped being competitive long ago.

final score: 112-39.

satoru lifts his arms in a lazy stretch, grinning, completely unbothered, as if he didn’t just personally crush one of the highest-ranked teams in the league. sweat clings to his skin, his jersey damp, hair an absolute mess, but he still looks ridiculously good, annoyingly confident.

his teammates crowd him immediately, patting his back, ruffling his hair, laughing at his absolute disrespect on the court. he takes it all in stride, leaning against suguru’s shoulder like he didn’t just outrun everyone on that court, fingers lifting in a lazy peace sign as cameras flash.

but the moment he’s free—he looks for you.

he doesn’t find you right away.

by the time the final buzzer blares and the court erupts into cheers, you’re already making your way down the bleachers, tucking your sketchbook under your arm like you can pretend you weren’t watching him the entire time. the gym is still loud, electric, the energy of the crowd vibrating against your skin as students swarm the court, players getting swallowed up in a mess of high-fives and celebratory shouts. you keep your head down, moving quickly, telling yourself that you’re just avoiding the chaos, that you’re not actually running from him.

but then—footsteps. fast. deliberate. coming straight for you.

“oi, oi—why are you leaving so fast?”

too late.

you barely have time to react before satoru catches up, falling into step beside you, grinning like he’s won something more than just a game. he’s still breathless from the court, his jersey damp, sweat clinging to the edges of his hair, but he moves easily, like the entire game was just a warm-up. the fluorescent lights overhead catch on the sharp line of his jaw, on the bright blue of his eyes, on the smug tilt of his lips as he leans in slightly, invading your space like it’s his right.

“so,” satoru drawls, voice still rough from exertion, breath still a little uneven. his skin glows under the fluorescent lights, sweat clinging to the sharp lines of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the stray strands of white hair sticking to his forehead. but he doesn’t seem to care—too busy grinning, too busy basking in his victory. he leans in slightly, crowding into your space the way he always does, eyes alight with something smug, something expectant. “how’s it feel to profit off your favorite athlete?”

you blink, gripping your sketchbook a little tighter, pressing it against your chest like a shield. this is not a conversation you want to have right now—not when he looks like that, not when he’s still riding the high of the game, not when he’s standing too close, towering over you, sweat-drenched and insufferably pleased with himself.

“…i think i probably only made like twenty bucks.”

he freezes. for the first time all night, satoru gojo short-circuits. “...huh?”

you shift your weight slightly, trying not to smile, but he sees the way your fingers twitch, the way your gaze flickers away for half a second, like you’re barely keeping it together. “i only bet the minimum,” you admit, voice calm, unaffected, like you didn’t just shatter his entire perception of the game. “didn’t wanna risk too much.”

there’s a pause. a long one.

satoru's grin falters. his gaze sharpens, like he’s replaying the last two hours in his head, like he’s remembering every dunk, every deep three-pointer, every ridiculous play he pulled off—all under the assumption that you had gone all in.

you see the exact moment he realizes. he ruined a college team’s entire morale for twenty bucks. he also accidentally started several dating rumors.

“no way.” his voice is flat, almost horrified. “no actual way.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, struggling to keep your expression neutral. it’s too easy.

he runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the damp strands, still looking like he’s processing an entire life-altering event. “you—you barely even bet?”

“yup.”

“so you weren’t—” he gestures vaguely, looking genuinely lost, like he’s been personally betrayed by the universe itself. “you weren’t, like, invested?”

you shrug, avoiding his gaze, because you suddenly feel kind of bad. “not really.”

his expression crumbles.

“oh my god.” he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his temples like this is causing him actual physical pain. “i wasted all my best moves for twenty bucks?”

you nod, lips pressing together, but this time, the guilt outweighs the amusement. you peek up at him, watching the way he slouches slightly, shoulders dropping, his usual confidence momentarily replaced with the weight of sheer disbelief.

“…i mean,” you murmur, hesitant, before reaching into your pocket. “you looked pretty cool.”

he doesn’t react immediately, still looking far too devastated to register your words, but when you pull out a neatly folded handkerchief and raise it toward him, he finally glances down.

his brows lift.

“what’s this?” he asks, voice suspicious, but there’s something softer in it now, something curious.

you swallow, suddenly self-conscious, but you don’t pull your hand back. “you’re, um… sweating.”

his lips twitch.

“oh?” he says, and now he’s watching you instead of the handkerchief, instead of anything else.

you avert your gaze, cheeks warming slightly, but you still reach up carefully, dabbing the cloth against his forehead with quiet, deliberate movements. he goes still, just for a second, just long enough for you to register the shift in the air, the way his breath hitches almost imperceptibly.

then—slowly, teasingly—

“damn,” he murmurs. “if i knew you’d be this sweet about it, i would’ve played even harder.”

your fingers pause, pressing against his skin just a fraction longer than necessary, before you pull back abruptly, heart stumbling over itself.

“forget it.” you mutter, stuffing the handkerchief back into your pocket, turning on your heel.

satoru laughs, bright and unbothered, falling into step beside you like he wasn’t just existentially wrecked a minute ago. and somehow, you know this isn’t the last time he’s going to make you feel like this.

but as it turns out, offering satoru a handkerchief isn’t enough to alleviate his mood—he sulks for an entire week.

he still shows up, still lounges around your dorm like he owns the place, but everything he does is unnecessarily dramatic. he sighs—loudly and often—collapsing onto your furniture like his limbs don’t work properly. he sprawls across your bed without asking, flopping onto his stomach like some overgrown cat, muttering about betrayal every time you glance at him. he pokes at your art supplies absentmindedly, dragging a finger along the rim of your paint jars, staring mournfully at your sketchbook like it personally wronged him.

satoru refuses to play pickup games at the campus court, claiming he’s ‘retired’ after his efforts were wasted on someone who only bet the bare minimum. he stretches out on your floor instead, staring at the ceiling with the air of a fallen war hero, occasionally tossing a basketball in the air and catching it one-handed—just to remind you of what was lost.

“you could’ve told me.” he grumbles one evening, sprawled out in the middle of your dorm, arms crossed like a petulant child. his hair is still damp from practice, the ends curling slightly where sweat has dried, but he hasn’t even changed out of his jersey yet—too busy sulking.

you hum in response, dipping your brush into a fresh shade of blue, too used to his dramatics to entertain them. “what, that i wasn’t planning to go broke over a basketball game?”

“yes!” he says miserably, rolling onto his side so he can stare at you like you personally ruined his life.

his arms are still crossed, but one hand is half-buried in his hair, fingers tugging lightly at the strands, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and heartbreak. “i would’ve toned it down.”

you snort, finally glancing at him. his blue eyes are fixed on you, sharp but lazy, like he’s waiting for you to admit you were wrong. “no, you wouldn’t have.”

satoru opens his mouth—probably to argue, probably to deny that he's the most dramatic person alive—but then he catches the look on your face. something shifts in his expression, something slower, something warmer, like he’s seeing you in a way he hadn’t before. for the first time since he walked into your dorm today, he goes quiet.

you don’t look away.

outside, the wind rattles against your window, golden leaves scraping against the glass. the air smells crisp, cold, like the start of something new. autumn is settling in.

“…did you at least have fun?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. your voice is lighter than usual, quieter, like you already know the answer but want to hear him say it anyway.

he doesn’t answer right away.

he just grins, lazy, easy, completely insufferable, like he knows something you’re not ready to admit yet.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “guess i did.”

the last days of AUTUMN slip in quietly, fading into the edges of routine like the final strokes of a painting.

the air is sharper now, biting, enough that satoru finally stops showing up in just his jersey—though he still refuses to wear anything heavier than a hoodie, claiming he’s "built different." the wind rattles your dorm window more often, slipping through the cracks to nip at your fingers as you paint, and the trees outside stand bare and skeletal, their golden leaves now forgotten heaps on the pavement, damp and crumbling underfoot.

and then, there’s finals.

campus shifts with the season, brimming with stress, the energy heavier, more desperate. the library is always full, lights flickering through the windows at all hours of the night. students hunch over laptops in cafés, their cups stacked high with unfinished coffee, their fingers smudged with ink and exhaustion.

and you—you are pushing yourself too hard.

satoru sees it before you do.

he sees it in the way your hands don’t move as fluidly when you paint, how your brushes sit in murky water for too long before you remember to rinse them out. he sees it in the way you rub your eyes more often, fingertips pressing against your temples when you think no one’s looking. the way you sip your coffee like it’s medicine, like you need it just to stay upright.

but more than anything, he sees it in the way you’ve stopped sketching between sessions.

at first, he doesn’t say anything.

because he knows you. knows that you hate being told to slow down, that you treat breaks like enemies, that unfinished work sits on your conscience like an open wound.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, not even bothering to pretend they’re leftovers anymore. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, side-eyes your instant noodles with blatant, unfiltered disapproval.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, no longer bothering with the flimsy excuse of calling them leftovers. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, always with an offhanded comment—"don’t die on me, yeah?"—before flopping onto your bed like he didn’t just shove sustenance into your hands. he drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, the plastic cool against your wrist as you sketch, and side-eyes your instant noodles like they personally offend him. when you ignore him, he clicks his tongue in disapproval, muttering something about "atrocious dietary habits" like he’s one to talk.

“you’re not my mom, satoru.” you say one evening, peeling the wrapper off the snack he just unceremoniously threw at you.

“nah,” he scoffs, propping himself up on one elbow, watching you unwrap it with clear satisfaction. “if i was your mom, i’d actually let you starve so you’d learn a lesson.”

you pause, narrowing your eyes. “...what lesson?”

he shrugs, grinning like he didn’t just say something completely unhinged, dimples showing slightly. “i dunno. that eating real food is important or some shit.”

you roll your eyes, but you still eat whatever he brings.

and when you think he’s not looking, you chew a little slower, savoring the warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the food.

he starts texting you more, too.

[10:47 PM] still awake?

[10:48 PM] wait dumb question. ofc you are.

[10:48 PM] go to sleep before ur brain melts. if you can’t sleep we can call, im a wonderful singer.

[10:49 PM] also if ur ignoring me rn i’m gonna be soooo hurt u don’t even know.

[10:50 PM] i’m okay, satoru.

[10:51 PM] just a little tired. i’ll sleep soon.

[10:51 PM] thank you for checking, though.

he doesn’t reply right away.

you stare at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard, wondering if he fell asleep or got distracted, if he’s still there. as if sensing this, his replies arrive.

[10:54 PM] yeah, i know.

[10:54 PM] but take it easy, okay?

[10:55 PM] i’ll see you tomorrow.

you exhale, something warm settling in your chest, something you don’t have the energy to unpack right now.

[10:56 PM] okay.

you flip your phone over, tucking it beneath your pillow, but you fall asleep easier that night. because it’s nice. having someone to notice. having someone to care.

then, one evening, it happens.

you’re halfway through a painting, something that’s been frustrating you for days, something that isn’t coming out right no matter how many times you fix it. the colors aren’t blending the way you want, the strokes feel too heavy, too forced—like your hands aren’t listening to you anymore.

satoru is there, sprawled across your bed like he has nowhere else to be, phone in one hand, the other tucked lazily behind his head. he glances at you between scrolling, sighing loudly whenever you don’t react, making just enough noise to remind you of his presence. when that doesn’t work, he shifts onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, eyes flicking toward your hunched form at the desk. “you’re supposed to entertain me, y’know.”

“i’m busy,” you mutter, barely sparing him a glance, your focus locked on the canvas in front of you. your brush hovers midair, colors blending under the dim light of your desk lamp, but there’s a tightness in your grip, a frustration in the way your shoulders remain stiff.

“so?” he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, his head tilting slightly as he watches you. “i am literally your muse.”

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a little more force than necessary. “you are literally annoying.”

he gasps, clutching his chest like you just struck him. “harsh.” his voice is light, teasing, but his eyes stay on you, watching as you tilt your head, exhale through your nose, then lean forward again, brush hovering over the canvas.

you’ve been fixated for too long now, barely moving except to mix colors, sigh, and frown at your work. your posture is too stiff, too tense, your shoulders drawn up, the curve of your spine locked in place like you’ve forgotten how to relax. your fingers tighten around the brush, knuckles whitening, the bristles pausing mid-stroke as your breath shudders slightly—too shallow, too uneven.

something itches in his chest. for the first time all night, he frowns.

“hey,” he says, sitting up, his phone forgotten beside him. “id you even eat today?”

"“huh?”

your reaction is delayed, your head turning toward him like it takes effort to shift your focus. you blink at him, slow, eyes unfocused, as if you’re still caught between here and the painting, like you don’t quite register what he’s saying.

then—the brush slips from your fingers. before he even registers what’s happening—you sway.

his heart stops. then he’s off the bed in an instant, faster than thought, hands reaching, catching you before you can hit the ground.

“woah, woah—hey.” his voice is too sharp, too urgent, nothing like his usual lazy drawl. one arm curls around your waist, steadying you, while the other grips your wrist, fingers pressing against the faint pulse beneath your skin. you’re too light in his hold, your weight sinking into him like you can’t hold yourself up.

your head lolls against his chest, and he barely registers the faint smudge of paint you leave on his hoodie because—you’re not responding.

panic flares white-hot in his gut.

“okay, no. you don’t get to just faint on me,” he mutters, adjusting his grip, his breath coming quicker than he’d like. he taps your cheek lightly, the warmth of your skin too cool against his fingertips. “wake up, idiot.”

you groan softly, brows pinching together, your expression twisting like even the act of regaining consciousness is too much effort.

“...m’fine,” you mumble, barely coherent, words slow and heavy like your tongue can’t quite keep up.

satoru lets out a sharp breath, his grip on you tight but careful, like he’s still processing the fact that he had to catch you in the first place. “oh, yeah? yeah? that why you just dropped like a damn sack of flour?” his voice is sharp, edged with something that’s not quite annoyance, not quite panic, something he doesn’t know what to do with.

you don’t answer.

his jaw tightens, muscles flexing as he exhales through his nose, his chest rising and falling too fast, too unevenly. without another word, he shifts, carefully maneuvering you onto your bed, his movements stiff, deliberate, too controlled.

“unbelievable,” he grumbles under his breath, pulling the blanket over you with a little more force than necessary. “who even does this? who just forgets to function?”

you mumble something unintelligible, your voice so soft that it barely even reaches him, your eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his. they’re glassy, unfocused, struggling to stay on him, and for some reason, that frustrates him even more.

satoru exhales sharply, running a hand over his face before pushing his hair back, his fingers tangling into the damp strands at the nape of his neck. after a beat, he crouches beside the bed, forearms resting on his knees, his gaze steady as he studies you.

“you okay?” his voice is quieter now, but there’s an edge beneath it, something pressing.

“…m’fine,” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper, but you don’t even sound like you believe it.

his eyes narrow.

“you literally just passed out.” his tone is flat, unimpressed, laced with something dangerously close to concern. “try again.”

you blink slowly, like it takes effort, like you have to search for the words. “…just… tired..” you admit, the syllables slipping together as your lashes flutter, fighting to stay awake.

he doesn’t like the way that sounds.

“yeah, no shit.”

you shift slightly, eyes slipping shut again, breath evening out, and he presses his lips together, watching you too closely, his expression unreadable. his fingers twitch against his knee, like there’s something else he wants to say, something else he wants to do.

then, quieter—like he’s speaking more to himself than to you—“you gotta stop this.”

you hum softly in response, already half-asleep, your breathing slow, steady, but he’s still watching you, still too aware of how small you look like this, how fragile you felt in his arms.

but he means it. you can’t keep doing this. can’t keep running yourself into the ground, pushing past your limits like they don’t exist.

he won’t let you.

his arms remain loosely folded over his knees, but his fingers tap restlessly against his leg, his jaw tight. his hoodie is still stained with the smudge of paint from where your head rested against him, but he doesn’t move to wipe it off. instead, he watches the slow rise and fall of your chest, the faint crease between your brows even in sleep, like you’re still carrying the weight of exhaustion. he exhales, rubs a hand over his face, then reaches for the blanket crumpled at the edge of the bed and drapes it over you, movements slow, careful.

he stays until he’s sure you’re really resting.

when  you wake up, the first thing you notice is the blanket draped over you. the second thing you notice is the smell of something warm, something fresh.

your fingers twitch against the fabric, gripping the edge of the blanket like you’re grounding yourself, like you’re trying to make sense of where you are. your head feels heavy, dull with leftover exhaustion, but there’s something comforting in the warmth pressed against your legs, the scent curling into the cold air. you blink blearily, sitting up, and there—

satoru, on your floor, typing away on his phone. beside him, a steaming cup of instant miso soup sits on your desk.

his back is against the bed frame, legs stretched out, hair a mess of uneven strands where his fingers must’ve run through it too many times. his hoodie hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose the sharp cut of his forearms, and when he hears you shift, he glances up—expression unreadable, gaze sharp but softer than usual.

“you’re awake,” he says, this time without looking away, without the usual smug edge to his voice.

satoru's eyes flicker over your face, assessing, sharp but softer than usual, like he’s searching for something—proof that you’re really okay, that you’re here, conscious, breathing. his posture is relaxed, but there’s something unnaturally still about him, like he hasn’t quite settled since you collapsed. the glow from your desk lamp casts uneven shadows across his face, catching on the messy strands of his hair, the faint crease between his brows.

“...what happened?” your voice is hoarse, rough around the edges, like you’ve been asleep for much longer than you should have. you shift under the blanket, fingers tightening around the fabric, the weight of exhaustion still pressing against your limbs.

he gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“you died.”

you blink at him, lips parting slightly—stunned, too tired to argue.

he holds your gaze for half a second longer before exhaling, reaching for the cup on your desk. “...briefly,” he amends, his fingers barely touching the ceramic as he pushes it toward you, the soft scrape of porcelain against wood filling the quiet space between you. “drink. before you die again.”

your fingers curl around the warmth, hesitating for just a second before lifting it. the heat seeps into your palms, steadying, grounding, and for some reason, your chest tightens in a way you don’t want to name.

you take a slow sip, the warmth spreading through your bones, reaching into the cold, exhausted parts of you that you hadn’t even realized were there.

“thanks,” you mumble, voice quieter now, the steam from the soup curling into the cold air between you.

satoru shrugs, but his gaze lingers, watching you a little too closely, a little too long, like he’s waiting for something. there’s no teasing grin, no smart remark—just a quiet, unreadable weight in the way he looks at you. his fingers tap absently against his knee, the rhythm uneven, restless, like there’s something on the tip of his tongue that he’s still deciding whether or not to say.

then—"you know," he starts, voice too casual, too calculated, like he’s testing the waters before fully stepping in. "you never let me see your sketchbook."

your grip tightens slightly around the cup, the warmth pressing against your palms, suddenly too much, too distracting.

he notices.

satoru's gaze flickers down—just for a second, brief but deliberate—before meeting yours again, sharper now, curiosity replacing the usual lazy amusement in his expression. the teasing edge is gone, replaced by something steadier, something unreadable. “why is that?

“…no reason,” you lie, shifting under his stare, trying to appear unaffected. but the soup in your hands is suddenly too warm, too grounding, your fingers curling tighter around the ceramic like it might steady you. you can feel the weight of his attention, the way he’s watching you too closely, too intently, like he’s waiting for the cracks to show.

his brows lift, his expression flat, unimpressed. “bullshit.”

you scowl, gripping your soup tighter, like it’ll shield you from this conversation, like it might somehow block him from seeing through you.

“it’s private.”

“so? i’m literally the subject,” he argues, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his presence suddenly heavier, more insistent. “i should get at least a sneak peek.”

“no.”

his eyes narrow slightly, the corner of his lip twitching like he’s already planning a new approach. “why?”

“because,” you say, and that’s all you give him. because you don’t know how to explain it. because you don’t want to.

his lips press into a thin line, his gaze lingering just a little too long, just sharp enough to make you shift under the weight of it.

a challenge.

but you’re still half-buried in exhaustion, your limbs too heavy, your mind still foggy, and he knows it.

so after a beat, satoru exhales through his nose, then leans back against the bed again, arms folding behind his head, stretching out like he’s already decided this conversation isn’t over.

“fine. for now,” he says, voice light, easy. but there’s something about the way he says it—something low, something certain, like a promise rather than a concession.

you glare at him, because you know him—know the way his mind works, know that he never lets things go, never drops anything without a reason. you see the way his grin lingers, the way it tugs at the corner of his mouth just slightly off-kilter, like he’s already planning his next move. it’s not a matter of if he’ll bring this up again—it’s when.

he grins wider, because he knows you know. because you’re predictable in a way that amuses him, in a way that keeps him entertained. you’re trying too hard to brush this off, to pretend like the question doesn’t rattle something inside you, but he’s always been good at noticing the little things. your avoidance, your tight grip on the cup, the way your shoulders stiffen just slightly whenever he pushes too close.

and just like that, the weight of the moment lifts, the air turning lighter again, slipping back into something familiar. you take another sip of the miso soup, the heat seeping through your fingers, spreading through your chest, anchoring you in the quiet. satoru shifts, arms still behind his head, gaze flickering away from you for once—out the window, toward the sky, toward the city beyond.

outside, the wind rattles the glass, slipping through the cracks, curling into the room like the first whisper of something colder.

autumn is ending. and winter is near.

WINTER has settled in, quiet but undeniable.

the air is colder, sharper, slipping through the cracks of your dorm window no matter how tightly you close it. the ground outside is dusted in frost, the once-vibrant autumn leaves now forgotten beneath slushy sidewalks and the occasional crunch of ice. campus is emptier now, students retreating home for winter break, leaving the dorms quieter, the hallways less crowded, less alive.

but he’s in your dorm all the time now.

it started with quick drop-ins after games—an excuse to complain about how sore he was, to stretch out on your floor like a lazy cat, to toss you a snack without explanation. then it turned into late-night visits when he had nowhere better to be—until, eventually, he stopped pretending he needed a reason at all.

your dorm isn’t much, just a tiny room barely big enough for the both of you, but somehow, it’s become his space, too.

he kicks his shoes off without thinking, leaves his jacket slung over your chair like it belongs there, flops onto your bed without asking. he always brings something with him—sometimes food, sometimes a new brand of tea he insists you try, sometimes just the lingering warmth of conversation when the room feels too quiet.

(you complain about it. “this is not a hangout spot.” “stop making a mess on my desk.” “for the last time, satoru, my bed is not your personal couch.” but you never actually tell him to leave.)

and lately, you seem less exhausted when he’s here.

finals are over. winter break has started. the campus is quieter, the stress that had settled into your shoulders finally lifting, loosening its grip.

you still overwork yourself, still get lost in your paintings for hours, but you’re taking care of yourself now, too.

he sees it in the way you actually eat full meals instead of just instant noodles. in the way you don’t fight him when he shoves a bottle of water into your hands. in the way you’ve stopped waking up with smudged paint on your cheek from falling asleep at your desk.

he’s proud of you. not that he’d ever say it out loud. maybe one day. but for now, he’ll just keep showing up.

tonight, though, you’re running late.

some meeting for an art exhibition, something you were weirdly cagey about when he asked. you had waved him off, barely sparing him a glance as you gathered your things in a rush, stuffing papers into your bag, adjusting your coat with hurried movements. he had teased you—“look at you, so professional. should I start calling you sensei?”—but you had just rolled your eyes, muttered something about being late, and disappeared out the door.

he almost doesn’t notice at first, too busy digging through a plastic bag of snacks he brought for you, tossing a pack onto your desk, then tearing open another for himself. he stretches out against your bed frame, one knee propped up, his phone in one hand, snacks in the other, making himself comfortable in the way he always does. your absence doesn’t bother him—you’ll be back soon, and besides, he’s already claimed this space as his own.

but then—his eyes flicker to your desk. to your sketchbook.

it’s right there.

he’s been curious for months.

he’s seen the way you snap it shut the second he moves too close, how you always turn it facedown, tuck it under your arm, keep it pressed against your chest when you leave a room. it’s deliberate, protective, like it holds something you don’t want him to see—something more than just rough sketches from your sessions.

and he’s been good. he’s been patient. but now? now, he’s alone. and, well—what’s the harm in taking a little peek?

his fingers brush the cover, hesitating for just a second—a quiet moment of restraint before curiosity wins out. then, with one last glance at the door to make sure you’re not back yet—he flips it open.

he expects sketches of his poses from your sessions. the usual. the planned. the predictable.

what he doesn’t expect is—pages and pages of him.

not the carefully composed ones, not the ones you’d shown him before. no, these are different. the lines are loose, unpolished, real—like you weren’t drawing to impress anyone, like you were just trying to capture something before it slipped away.

his fingers still against the page, breath catching slightly, pulse stuttering in a way he doesn’t understand. his own face stares back at him, over and over again, not the carefully arranged expressions from your sessions, but the ones he didn’t know you were paying attention to.

him, tying his shoes before a game, the curve of his shoulders loose and relaxed. him, tossing his head back, laughing, mouth open, eyes crinkled—drawn in a way that makes him look softer than he’s used to. next to it, in small, slanted handwriting: ‘loudest laugh in the world.’

satoru exhales slowly, flipping the page, movements quieter now, more deliberate.

him, spinning a basketball on his fingertip, drawn from multiple angles like you were trying to get it just right. him, leaning against your dorm room wall, arms crossed, head tilted, gaze sharp but amused—like he’s in the middle of teasing you. his eyes flick to the corner, where you’ve written, ‘always watching. annoyingly perceptive.’

he huffs out a quiet breath—not quite a laugh, not quite anything. his throat feels tight.

he turns another page, his fingers careful now, almost hesitant. a corner of a napkin peeks out—he pulls it loose, unfolding it carefully. a quick, half-finished sketch of him mid-sprint, lines rushed, motion barely captured, next to a coffee-stained note that just says: ‘too fast to draw. unfair.’

his lips part slightly, breath catching at the words, at the fact that you even tried.

another, taped messily into the spine of the book—a full-body drawing of him from behind, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets, walking away. ‘somehow takes up more space than anyone else.’ you wrote in the margins, the ink slightly smudged, like you had run your fingers over it absentmindedly.

he swallows, jaw tightening. his thumb brushes the edge of the page, lingering there, like if he just holds still, he’ll figure out what to do with the way his chest feels too full, too tight.e because this—this isn’t simply a collection of sketches. this is him, through your eyes.

and then—he flips another page. this one is different.

not a quick sketch, not a half-finished doodle on the edge of a napkin, not something you scribbled in passing. a full portrait. detailed, deliberate, like you took your time with it. like you wanted to get it exactly right.

he recognizes the jersey immediately—it’s from last week, when he had come over grumbling about practice, throwing himself onto your bed like it was his own, arms sprawled out, eyes shut, muttering about how being the best was exhausting. he remembers laughing, remembers the weight of your gaze on him, remembers teasing you about how you were always staring anyway.

but this—this means you had watched him even longer. the expression you captured—it’s him, but it’s softer. relaxed. comfortable. unaware.

oh.

his fingers pause against the edge of the paper, grip tightening just slightly.

but you couldn’t have done all this in front of him without him noticing. you’re always preoccupied, always doing something else whenever he’s around—never reaching for your sketchbook. had you drawn this only after he left? had you memorized these moments, watched him for far longer than he realized, until you could capture him this accurately?

his stomach does something weird again.

like a sharp twist of something unfamiliar, something heavy, something he doesn’t quite know what to do with. his throat feels tight, his pulse uneven, a strange warmth creeping into his chest and settling there, stubborn and unmoving.

his gaze lingers on the portrait, taking in the details—the careful shading of his jawline, the way his hair looks slightly messier than usual, the way his arms are draped carelessly over the sheets. he looks like he belongs there.

he swallows, jaw tightening. because he does.

he hears your footsteps before the door even opens—the soft, familiar rhythm of them padding down the hall, the faint rustle of your coat as you shift, the quiet exhale you always let out before stepping inside.

the door creaks open gently, slow and careful, like you’re trying not to startle the silence of the room. “i’m home,” you say softly, the words barely past your lips before you step inside.

but satoru isn’t paying attention. because his heart is still racing, his hands are still gripping the sketchbook, and he’s way too fucking giddy to think of a way to get rid of his crime in time.

you take two steps in before your gaze lands on him—seated on your bed, sketchbook open in his hands, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. your expression shifts in an instant—relaxed to confused to absolutely horrified.

“satoru, what are you—” your voice cuts off mid-sentence, sharp and sudden, like you physically can’t finish.

he looks up at you, eyes bright with mischief, lips already curling into a grin, the kind that spells nothing but trouble. fingers still pressed against the pages, holding them open like evidence, like proof. then—casually, effortlessly, like he didn’t just get caught red-handed—“you like me.”

you freeze, body going rigid, fingers twitching at your sides like you don’t know whether to snatch the book back or bolt.

he tilts his head, grin widening, flipping through the pages with exaggerated slowness, dragging out your suffering. “and here i thought you only liked me for my bone structure—”

“give it back.” your voice comes out too fast, too sharp, laced with something close to panic.

he laughs, flipping another page, gaze flicking between the sketches and your rapidly reddening face. “so you have been staring.”

"satoru—" you take a step forward, but he just leans back against the bed, completely unbothered, holding the sketchbook out of reach.

“oh, this one’s nice,” he teases, holding up the sketch of him mid-game, spinning the book slightly between his fingers like he’s inspecting it. “was this from last week? so you were watching me train and not just pretending to be absorbed in your sketchbook—”

“i was drawing!—”

“—drawing me.” his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else under it—something quieter, something warmer, something dangerously close to fondness.

you snatch the sketchbook out of his hands so fast it nearly smacks him in the face.

he expects you to yell at him. maybe shove him. maybe even hit him with the sketchbook. but instead your expression twists, your cheeks burning, lips parting like you want to say something but can’t, and before he can react, before he can stop you—you groan and slam the sketchbook back to your bed, turn on your heel and leave.

“hey—!” he scrambles after you, nearly tripping over a stack of books, nearly sending an entire pile of papers flying, nearly proving why you never let him near your workspace unsupervised. his breath comes out in sharp puffs of white against the cold air, but he barely notices, too focused on closing the distance between you, on the way your shoulders are stiff, the way you move like you’re fighting the urge to break into a full sprint.

outside, the first real snowfall of the season is drifting down, dusting the campus in white, clinging to the bare branches, softening the edges of the world. but you’re too preoccupied with storming away to notice, too caught up in your own mortification to care.

“oh, come on,” satoru groans, catching up with long, easy strides, like this isn’t a crisis, like this isn’t your worst nightmare unfolding in real time. “don’t just run away—”

“i am not running away.”

“you totally are.”

“i—!” you whirl around so fast he nearly crashes into you, nearly walks straight into your personal space like an idiot. he stops just short, breath catching slightly, eyes flicking down to the tiny sliver of space left between you.

the air is cold between you, breath visible in the space that suddenly feels too charged, too warm despite the winter creeping in.

your arms are crossed so tightly it looks like you’re holding yourself together, like if you let go, you might actually combust from sheer embarrassment.

“you’re so—” you huff, flustered, frustrated, desperate to change the subject, desperate to claw back even a fraction of your dignity.

“handsome? charming? incredibly kissable—”

“—infuriating!”

he just grins, all teeth and shameless amusement, because you’re easy to read now. because no matter how much you glare at him, your ears are pink, your fingers are twitching, your weight is shifting like you want to run again but can’t bring yourself to.

“you like me,” he says again, softer this time. more certain.

you don’t answer.

snowflakes land on your lashes, catching in your hair, melting against your skin. your lips are parted like you want to argue, but nothing comes out. your eyes are too bright, too wide, too caught between wanting to flee and wanting to stay.

satoru gojo is not known for his restraint.

so, naturally, he kisses you.

he moves before he can think, before he can overcomplicate it, before you can run again. his head tilts, his breath warm against your skin, and then—he leans down, slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.

but you don’t.

and oh—oh.

his lips are warm despite the cold, despite the way the winter air bites at your skin, despite the snowflakes melting between you. his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he closes his eyes, those impossibly bright baby blues disappearing beneath pale lashes. he doesn’t rush, doesn’t tease, doesn’t turn it into something playful. for once, he takes his time.

his free hand lifts just slightly, like he wants to cup your cheek, like he wants to hold you there, but at the last second, he hesitates. instead, his fingers curl lightly around your wrist, grounding, steady, just enough pressure to keep you from slipping away.

you freeze for half a second.

then, you melt.

your breath stutters, your fingers gripping at the fabric of his uniform, hesitant at first, then firmer, anchoring yourself to him. your body tilts forward, just the slightest bit, just enough to tell him—yes.

and he’s already grinning into the kiss, absolutely insufferable, because he knew it. because he knew you wouldn’t pull away. because he knew you liked him.

when you finally pull back, breathless, he doesn’t let you go.

doesn’t want to.

his grip on your wrist stays firm, not tight, not demanding, just enough to keep you here, to keep you in this moment a little longer. his breath is warm against your skin, fanning softly over your lips, his fingers twitching like he’s debating pulling you back in.

“so,” he murmurs, forehead pressing against yours, nose barely grazing your own, “are you gonna admit it now, or do i have to go through another sketchbook’s worth of proof?”

your fingers tighten slightly around his sleeve, your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape, like it’s trying to make up for every second you spent pretending this wasn’t real. your cheeks are burning, the cold doing nothing to help, but still—you force yourself to meet his gaze, to stare straight into those impossibly bright baby blues.

“…i do.”

his breath hitches.

“you… do?”

“i like you,” you clarify, somehow both firmer and shyer at the same time, words tumbling out too fast and too soft. then, before he can say anything stupid—“now you say it.”

his grin falters—not in amusement, not in teasing, but in something softer, something fonder, something that makes your stomach flip.

“i like you,” he repeats, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like he never doubted it for a second. his ears are pink, his fingers twitch against your wrist, but his voice stays steady, stays sure. “a lot.”

your stomach twists, your face burns, and before he can get even more unbearably smug about it, you shove him, pushing at his chest with more force than necessary, just to wipe the grin off his face.

he laughs, stumbling back a step but still holding onto your wrist, still looking at you like you’ve just handed him the greatest win of his life.

but this time, you don’t walk away.

instead, you sigh, shaking your head as you grab his sleeve properly and start pulling him back toward your dorm, fingers curling around the fabric like you’re holding on without realizing it.

“what, no dramatic speech about how i misread everything?” he teases, falling into step beside you, his free hand slipping lazily into his pocket.

“shut up,” you mumble, voice muffled by the scarf you’ve pulled higher over your face, like it’ll somehow hide the warmth still lingering in your cheeks.

“soooo,” he drawls, bumping his shoulder against yours, “does this mean i’m officially your muse and your boyfriend now? multi-purpose?”

“no.”

“cold.”

he laughs, and it’s light, easy, painfully warm despite the winter air, like it’s found a home between you, settling there without permission. his breath fogs in the cold, but the space between you feels warmer somehow, lighter, like the weight of something unspoken has finally lifted. his steps are relaxed now, shoulders looser, head tilting toward you every so often—a quiet, effortless gravity pulling him closer, even when he doesn’t realize it.

when you get back to your dorm, he kicks off his shoes like always, sending them haphazardly toward the corner. shrugs off his jacket like always, barely looking where it lands. flops onto your bed like always, stretching out like he owns the place, arms behind his head, hair messy from the wind.

but this time, you roll your eyes and curl up beside him, too.

he doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t tease, doesn’t even try to fight the smug grin tugging at his lips. he just shifts, adjusting without thinking, making room like he’s been waiting for this—like you’ve belonged there all along.

when he tucks his arm around you without thinking, you don’t complain.

when you mumble, half-asleep, voice softer than usual, “thanks for taking care of me.” he just hums, low and content, the sound barely more than a vibration against your skin. his fingers move without thought, absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy circles against your back, the rhythm steady, grounding.

when he presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head, breath catching just slightly against your hair, you don’t push him away.

outside, the snow keeps falling, soft and slow, blanketing the world in quiet. winter settles in around you. and for once, you let yourself rest.

the last of WINTER lingers in the early mornings, cold air curling against skin, clinging to rooftops, biting at fingertips. but the afternoons are warming up, the sun stretching a little higher in the sky, melting the ice that once lined the sidewalks. students swap heavy coats for lighter jackets, trading chattering teeth for the kind of energy that only comes with knowing winter is finally loosening its grip. cherry blossoms are just beginning to bud, hesitant, as if uncertain the cold is truly gone.

campus is filling up again. winter break is over. the once-quiet halls are alive with movement, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing against tile, the hum of life creeping back in. the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifts from the cafés, mingling with the crisp air, a sure sign that students are shaking off their winter sluggishness.

and satoru gojo is a public menace.

he was already bad enough as their university’s basketball star before. always loud, always impossible to ignore, always moving through campus like he owned it, like he was more event than person, someone you watched because you couldn’t help it. with that ridiculous, effortless kind of charm, all long limbs and easy smiles, like he’d never once known the weight of the world.

but now? now, he has a girlfriend. and now, he has you. and he makes sure everyone knows.

“my beloved!”

his voice slices through the courtyard like a warning bell, sharp and unmistakable, sending heads turning with an almost comical synchronicity. he’s leaning against a vending machine when you spot him, his navy varsity jacket loose over his shoulders, white t-shirt just barely clinging to the lean muscle beneath. his hair is a mess of soft white strands, tousled from the wind—or maybe practice—but his grin is bright, his blue eyes locked onto you with alarming precision.

you freeze for half a second—just half—but that’s all it takes for him to zero in on you, and you can feel the shift in the air, the heat of his gaze on your back as if he’s been waiting for this moment all along. the sound of his footsteps quicken, and before you know it, the familiar, teasing voice slices through the space between you.

“lovey! sweetheart! honeybunch sugarplum—”

you don’t even hesitate. the instinct to escape rises up, and you walk faster, head forward, eyes fixed on some imaginary point in the distance. it’s an old trick, pretending like if you just focus hard enough on something far away, you can ignore the fact that satoru gojo is loudly, dramatically, chasing after you like some over-the-top rom-com hero.

“stop it.” your teeth grind together, a faint blush creeping up your neck as you force your shoulders to stay stiff, trying to hold onto whatever dignity you have left.

he laughs, delighted by your discomfort, the sound almost echoing in the quiet space. with a lazy, unbothered air, he shoves his hands into his pockets and easily falls into step beside you. his white hair is still a mess from practice, some strands falling into his eyes, but he looks effortless, like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. “you wound me, darling.”

“i am not doing this with you.” you mutter under your breath, barely glancing at him, hoping that if you ignore him long enough, he’ll just go away. but it’s futile.

he’s faster. it’s always the same. his long legs carry him with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone so tall, and with barely any effort, he’s at your side, matching your pace, his grin stretching impossibly wide. his head tilts slightly, his white hair falling over his eyes in that way you’ve come to recognize so well—shifting and effortlessly falling into place. his blue eyes catch the light, looking so damn intense, you can’t help but notice the way they gleam through the long lashes, unguarded and almost playful.

“starlight, love of my life, future mother of my children—”

you stop mid-step, throwing him a sharp look, and his smile only widens at your frustration. “satoru.”

he gasps, clutching his chest in mock horror, eyes widening as if you’ve physically hurt him. he stumbles back a step, just for effect, and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “are you—” his voice drops to a dramatic whisper, his expression feigning scandal as he leans in closer. “are you ashamed of me?”

your jaw tightens, the irritation mixing with something else you’d rather not address. “i would like for people to know quietly.”

satoru halts mid-step, his hand flying to his chest as if you’ve just ripped out his heart. his face contorts into exaggerated pain as if you’ve just shattered him with a single sentence. “you—you don’t want to scream our love from the rooftops? you don’t want the whole world to know how much you adore me?” he flutters his fingers dramatically in the air as if visualizing the grand spectacle of it all.

you groan, shoving your hands into your pockets, doing your best to ignore the amused glances and curious whispers around you. it’s not bad, really. the attention.

you had expected—well. you don’t know what you expected. for people to react badly? for them to wonder why he’s with you, of all people?

but mostly, people are just… surprised. conversations halt mid-sentence, heads whip around for second and third takes, and whispered speculations weave through the air like static electricity.

a lot of:

“wait. gojo has a girlfriend? for real?”

“damn, i thought he was just messing around.”

“no way. no actual way.”

a handful of utterly devastated fangirls, clutching their textbooks like lifelines, staring as if their world has just come crashing down. but no one says anything cruel. no one scoffs or sneers. no one looks at you like you don’t belong next to him.

it’s a little overwhelming. but not awful. just… loud. and satoru? he thrives in it.

he’s absolutely ridiculous about it, keeps throwing his arm around your shoulders, keeps making a show of lacing his fingers through yours, keeps finding ways to bring it up in conversations that have nothing to do with him. when you’re walking together, he tugs you just a little closer, just a little tighter, like he wants everyone on campus to see. his hand is always finding its way to your waist, resting there like it belongs, fingers tapping idly against the fabric of your sweater. sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly dramatic, he’ll spin you around in the middle of the hallway, dipping you like you’re in the final scene of a romance movie, just because he can.

and you—earnest, quiet, and in love despite yourself—you let him.

you don’t indulge him the same way he does you. your affections are smaller, tucked between the spaces he leaves, a quiet echo to his relentless declarations. but you don’t pull away when he leans into you. you don’t protest when he sneaks his fingers through yours. and when you think no one’s looking, when his head is turned just so, when he’s grinning at something dumb and impossibly satoru, you let yourself look at him the way he looks at you.

one time, in the middle of lunch, he just sighs dramatically, leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. his white hair is a mess from practice, sweat-damp at the nape of his neck, but he still looks effortless, still looks like he belongs under the sun, basking in the warmth of his own theatrics. he exhales, long and suffering, tilting his head back so far his chair almost tips. and then, with all the weight of the universe pressing down on his chest, he declares;

“man, having a girlfriend is crazy.”

you don’t even look up from your sketchbook. you’re used to this. you barely even blink anymore when he starts talking like the main character in a tragic love story. “you literally asked for this.”

“yeah, but still.”

he hums, thoughtful, like he’s truly pondering the gravity of his situation—then abruptly flops onto your lap, draping himself across you like he’s meant to be there. his head lands against your stomach, arms sprawled, legs stretched out across the bench, the weight of him pressing down on you like an overgrown cat. his hair tickles your wrist, and when you peer down, his eyes are already on you, bright and full of trouble. he’s grinning, of course he’s grinning, his lips twitching like he’s barely holding back a laugh.

you grunt under the sudden weight, the pressure of his body settling onto you like a heavy, careless blanket. you barely stop yourself from elbowing him off, your muscles tensing from the surprise, but he’s already too comfortable, sprawled across your lap with a dramatic sigh. “get off me.”

“no.”

he sounds so certain, so annoyingly nonchalant as he rests his head on your stomach, his hair messy from practice, damp strands sticking to his forehead like a defiant halo. you sigh through your nose, fingers tightening around your pencil, the sharp tip pressing against the paper as if it could ground you. “what do you want.”

“you know,” he says, his voice light, almost sing-song, as his head tilts just enough to meet your gaze, those ridiculously bright, ridiculously smug baby blues peering up at you with a look that’s both teasing and entirely too pleased with himself. “you kinda have a responsibility now.”

your sigh is louder this time, escaping through your nose as you flip to a new page in your sketchbook, trying to ignore the weight of him and the pull of his presence. you shift a little beneath him, adjusting to make space as your gaze flickers down at him. “what responsibility.”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t break the casual pose, his arms still spread wide like he’s claiming the space between you, his legs stretched comfortably across the bench, his fingers tapping lightly against your stomach. “you have to come to all my games. non-negotiable.”

you finally glance down at him, unimpressed, but your eyes soften just a little when you see the way he’s looking up at you, his grin wide, eyes twinkling like he’s saying something that’s a matter of life and death. you roll your eyes but can’t help the quiet smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. “all of them?”

“yes. all.”

you blink at him, your hand drifting to your lap, pressing down the fluttering feeling in your chest, the soft affection you try so hard to keep from spilling over. “but i already go to most of them—”

“all. of. them.” his tone is firm now, a little playful but undeniably serious, his finger poking at your side like a reminder of his claim over your attention. he lifts his head just slightly, his lips pulling into a smirk that’s far too smug for anyone's good, and you know, without a doubt, that he’s completely and utterly certain of his win.

you sigh, louder this time, rolling your eyes as he grins up at you like he’s already won. his hair is soft when your fingers brush against it, a stray lock falling over his forehead as he waits, expectant. you hesitate for just a second, then let your fingers linger a beat longer than necessary, smoothing it back into place. “and why, exactly?”

his smirk falters, just for a fraction of a second. almost imperceptible. but you catch it, the flicker of something softer beneath the bravado, the way his throat bobs slightly before he answers.

“because you have to witness your incredibly talented, best-athlete-on-campus boyfriend in action, obviously.”

“obviously.”

“plus,” he adds, reaching up to poke your cheek with the most obnoxious little tap, “i play better when you’re there.”

your fingers tighten around your pencil, just slightly. you don’t answer immediately, because if you do, it might come out too soft, too earnest, too much. but your lips press together, and your gaze lingers, and when you finally murmur, “…is that true, or are you just saying that?” it sounds quieter than you mean it to.

his grin widens, eyes gleaming, mischief and sincerity tangled together like a promise. “guess you’ll have to keep coming to find out, huh?”

you shove his face away.

but later, when his attention is stolen by something else—when he’s laughing with his friends or zoning out as he stretches— you find your gaze lingering, the subtle shift of your focus as you tilt your head. your eyes trace the smooth curve of his cheek, the way the sunlight catches in his hair, making the white strands look like a halo around his face. there’s the easy slope of his shoulders, the way he leans back with that effortless confidence, his legs stretched out over the bench like he owns every inch of space around him. you notice all these things in the quiet moments when he’s not looking, and it’s almost like a secret you keep tucked away.

and then you think, helplessly, hopelessly— he plays better because he’s looking for you. it's not just the game he’s focused on. it’s the stands, it’s you. and for all his teasing, all his dramatic declarations, there’s this undercurrent you can’t deny—that he needs you there, in that spot, where his eyes always find yours.

you go to all his games anyway. it’s not a question, not a choice. you sit in the stands, your eyes fixed on the court, but your mind elsewhere, always waiting, always watching. every time, without fail, he looks for you before tip-off, and the moment he spots you, his expression shifts—just the faintest change in the curve of his lips, the way his eyes brighten as if he’s found something precious. every time, he finds you, like there’s no other place he would rather be. every time, he grins that obnoxious, confident grin, the one that says he will win, that he knows you’re there, and that’s enough.

spring creeps in. the last of the cold melts away, and you notice how the days stretch longer, how the warmth settles in your bones as everything begins to bloom around you.

and satoru gojo never stops being loud about loving you, his voice always rising above the noise, always unafraid of being seen. and you, quiet as you are, never stop loving him right back, holding it all in the space between the moments, where words aren’t necessary.

a/n : i would like to formally announce that i was this close to killing her off in winter via tragic anemia-induced collapse, but in a rare act of mercy, i decided against it. as such, i will be accepting 100-word minimum essays filled with gratitude in the comments. failure to comply may result in me rethinking my generosity. choose wisely.

kidding aside, im glad i finally got this fic out of my drafts—this has been rotting and slowly cooking since the episode with satoru playing basketball released😋 idk much about western school year so i apologize if the schedule is all wrong! i only relied to google writing this. not like they will read this but i still wanna thanks my homeboys for helping me write the basketball scene, i definitely needed that <3 im not an artist so i apologize if there are any misconceptions in my fic ^^

[madamechrissy]

Figure You Out

art in the center by @ahresprite!!

pairings - Satoru Gojo x F! reader

contents/warnings- College AU, Reader and Toru are both nerds tbh, FLUFFY and sweet, some sexual tension, lots of unspoken feelings, so fkn cute I'm sick aha, Gojo playing the guitar while you're studying, kissing, light smut so MDNI- fingering, orgasms, both you and Toru are down bad virgins and stay that way for now hehe - friends to future lovers?

the Gojo guitar art has been fkn me UP so here's a lil short oneshot of them being fucking adorable and Gojo composing a song for reader- 3k wc

Satoru is playing the guitar softly in the corner of your room, leaned back in your bright pink gamer chair, the sight is as cute as you'd imagine, his lanky big body laughable in comparison. And he's playing the only song you think he knows - Wonderwall. You've heard it about eighty seven times this week, but you never ever will get tired of it.

You're exhausted from your studies, your hair is in a messy excuse for a bun falling down, you have bags under your eyes, and Satoru is just watching you as he sits across from you in your dorm room, playing softly and smiling a bit. You smile back sleepily, the two of you have been friends since high school, and you both frequently study together.

Satoru is so smart, however, he barely studies and just aces everything he does, whereas you are smart but bust your ass for those sort of grades. You haven't slept for shit with finals coming up, and here he is, long fingers strumming that guitar, as you listen with a sigh, putting down your thick textbook for just a moment.

"Is that a different song, Satoru?" You ask softly, leaning back then, he eyes your thighs as your pleated skirt rises up just a bit, willing his heart to calm down.

There's something so sexy about you like this, those dark circles just fucking suit you, the disarray of your messy band tee all torn up - your comfort shirt when you study - and the scattered books all over just fit you. You're kind of a beautiful mess, honestly, busting your ass so hard, he'd love to just make you feel better.

In every way.

You've always just been his friend, maybe the guitar and the endless versions of Wonderwall were a way to distract himself, to keep fingers occupied that would die to trace up the gentle curve of your neck. He barely composes himself as you repeat his name softly, realizing you've asked a question.

"It is, did you think I only played Wonderwall? rude," his little pout makes you giggle, as does his narrowing blue eyes. "I am composing a song, missy."

"You are? I wanna hear it." You lay down on the floor now, on your tummy with your ankles propped up and crossed, resting your chin in your hand.

"Shouldn't we be studying?" He asks, raising a brow as you tilt your head and look at him, so pretty for a moment he gets nervous.

The song he's composing is for you.

"I wanna hear it, please? I need a break, look at me." You frown, undoing the bun and letting your messy hair fall across your shoulders. The sight almost does him in.

How long has he loved you?

"All right," he smiles a bit, so cute always you think.

How long have you loved him?

It feels like forever, since freshman year when you and all of both of your friends joined high school, Nanami, Shoko, Haibara, Geto and... Gojo of course. The six of you were as close as it got, the memories endless, and now you're all in college together, and the fear of not seeing Gojo in particular grips at your heart.

Maybe it's why you always ask him over, it's not that he helps you study so much as you love him around. He's so handsome - fuck he's pretty actually, he has a whole fan club that gathers around him when he starts playing that damn Wonderwall again in the pretty field in front of the university. Gojo eats up the attention, always, but you know you're the only one that gets the private show.

He starts to play something softer, slower, you watch long fingers strumming the frets of his old acoustic guitar- gosh he's had it since high school - mesmerized for a moment. When his lips part and his thin white brows go together in concentration, he begins to sing just a bit, something you've never heard.

A little hoarse and raspy, and a tiny bit off key, it's probably the sexiest thing you've ever heard, as he looks at you with those swirling blue storms that he calls eyes, as he sings to you. You almost feel like the song is for you, and only you. Maybe it's foolish, as you sit up now, on your knees, hands on your bare thighs, looking at him.

The sight makes him fumble the strings, makes his heart race and pound in his chest, those plush lips parting just so as he gathers more courage, to tell you with his song what he's never spoken. The love he has for the girl sitting right here in front of him, the only girl for him.

"Satoru, that's so beautiful," you realize you're emotional, as he ends the song slowly, clearing his throat and blushing. You then realize you're crying. He puts down his guitar, getting down on the floor with you then, cupping your face in his hand. "Sorry, maybe I'm tired, I'm usually not one to cry randomly."

"You're exhausted," he murmurs caringly, rather than teasing you like he usually does, a thumb swiping away a tear. "You're studying too much, too hard."

"I can't disappoint everyone." Your words hurt him then, for you this is a huge scholarship, your family back home is counting on you to do big things, Satoru has his own pressure, but he sees how hard you always work.

"You don't disappoint anyone, how could you?" His words and the way he looks at you, the way the lights of your dorm hit his white locks and show just a hint of lavender in them, they do you in.

Maybe you're just tired, maybe you're just exhausted of lying to yourself, of being afraid, maybe you're past giving a fuck if he knows how you feel. You lean up then, a hand over the soft silk of his white dress shirt, more expensive than a meal card for the year. He falters, and you feel his heart quicken under your palm.

"Satoru," you whisper his name, and your pulse quickens as you lean even closer. Everything fades away, the stress of the week with finals coming up, the pressure you're under, it's all just focused on pouty, glossy lips inviting you in.

"Sweets, you're very close, and if you don't back up looking like that right now..."

"Looking like shit?"

He laughs, shaking his head. "There's not been one day I've known you where you don't just look beautiful."

Now the words are out of his mouth, you both flush, cheeks burning as your breaths come faster. "Are you saying that to-"

"It's the truth. Messy hair," he brushes it back, feeling the tangles in his fingers, as your tummy clenches with desire. "dark circles," his cool fingers press against them gently, "this shirt you've had since I known you that's falling apart..."

He brushes his hands across it now, tattered with holes and just hanging on by threads, brushing the sides of your breasts and moaning softly when he sees the nipples press up. You bite back an embarrassing moan from that, eyes locking with his then, as he draws them away.

"Nothing makes you less beautiful, maybe you're even hotter like this," you giggle, shaking your head, tears falling for what reason you're not even sure. "I'm serious."

"What'd I do to deserve a friend like you?" you lean even closer, cupping his face now, as your breaths meld together, his is so sweet, like the candies he always sucks on, his hands now pressing against the small of your back.

"You're very lucky, hearing my exclusive song. The girls all over this campus would be very jealous." You smile again, feeling his touch slip under your tee, and send shivers up your spine.

"They'd be more jealous if..." you press a hesitant kiss to his lips, feeling him tense then. You pull back, flushed and overheated, breaths coming quicker. "Sorry, I-"

"No," he drags you against him, kissing you firmly, lips pressing against yours, moaning softly as he presses you so close. You gasp at it, and his tongue slips in, making you heat up everywhere. You're trembling with how much you need him, your arms wrapping his neck as you start meeting his kiss.

He shocks you when he just lifts you up, and you're straddling his lap then, you feel him, hard and thick against you, making you gasp at the sensation. You pull back, both breathless, his fingers pressing into your hips, and he drags your heat across his cock right over his jeans, the rough denim pressing against the soaked cotton of your panties.

"Satoru..." You whisper his name, and he kisses you again, moaning softly, a hand slipping up your spine to entangle in your messy locks, and you rock your hips, feeling more and more of him. "Mnh..."

"Fuck, I need to stop," he pulls back and gasps for a breath, and you look down.

"I'm sorry-"

"No, just... I've thought of this too many times for like six fucking years now. And I think I'll really do a terrible job if we..."

"You've thought about it?" You ask softly, eyes locking again, he sees your swollen lips, your dilated eyes, and it makes him throb under his boxers for you.

Maybe if he could go jerk off once or twice he could please you, but he's close to cumming from inhaling your sweet scent, feeling your heat on his cock. He nods, swallowing then, that prominent adam's apple bobbing up and down as he rests his head on yours for a moment, exhaling.

"Every day., the words are hoarse, forced, and you roll your hips again, making him suck in a breath, glaring. "If you make me cum in my new pair of jeans I'll be so fucking mad."

"Satoru!" You're giggling now, and he scowls as you wiggle some more.

"You're a brat." You stop your giggles when he drags you off him, and you pause for just a moment, breathless before he's laying you on the soft carpet of your floor, braced over you. You two look at each other, so much left unsaid still, your hand trails down his hard chest, his strong muscles, when he grips your wrist firmly.

"Let me touch you, please?" He whines out at it, shaking his head again. "I've never tried. I've never wanted to with anyone else."

"Never wanted to?" He looks at you curiously, and you blush, looking down at where he's got your delicate wrist in his huge hand. "Have you never..." you shake your head nervously.

"Have you?" He blushes again, shaking his head, and your eyes widen. "How... you're... really?"

"I've never wanted to with anyone but you." His soft declaration has you melting, both of your breaths coming quicker together. "Doesn't mean I haven't researched it."

"Researched it?" You moan softly as he pins down a wrist, pressing his weight on that elbow as his other hand slips down your body, pressing up on his knee then.

"Extensively," he touches your nipple over your shirt, before slipping lower, down the curve of your waist and hips, then to your thighs, slipping up one carefully as you whine out. "Should I show you what I've learned?"

You nod quickly, he smiles just a bit, touching you right over your panties, and you whine out, hips lifting. "Toru..."

"God, you're soaked," his words are not that of some virgin, they're far too fucking sexy, brushing the wetness that's gathered on your panties then, before tugging them to the side, long fingers calloused from the guitar sliding up your slit. "Fuck..."

"Mmnh!" Your free hand slides into his hair, carding through the silky, thick strands to tug him closer, lips against yours again as he finds your soppy little hole, teasing a finger inside. "Please..."

"You're so tight, so wet... so hot..." he's throbbing in his pants, leaking sticky precum as he slips his finger in your gummy walls, gripping him so goddamn good he can't stand it. "Sweetheart... you're so perfect."

You're kissing him again, feeling how long and thick his finger is inserted inside of you, much longer than your tiny, pathetic fingers can hit, he presses up on that spot then, the one you've never hit. You cry out, gushing down his finger, and Satoru groans at it, curling that spot again.

"I've researched thoroughly for this moment," he teases softly, blue eyes so bright it hurts to look at, squelching wetness loud in your little room while he fingers you right on the floor. "G spot is here, does it feel good baby?"

You nod eagerly, and he moans, kissing you again and angling his arm just so, slotting that finger in and out of your cunt over and over now, curling inside as you feel the pressure growing. You're soaking him, tummy pressure building and building, you're gasping out at it, thighs shaking around his hand.

"Satoru, it feels s'good," you whisper, tired eyes rolling back in your skull, when he slips a second in, and brings your attention back, his pretty face flushed. "Oh!"

"Too much?" You shake your head, the stretch is perfect, he's scissoring them in and out of you so deep, moving them up and down. "Can you cum f'me, pretty girl?"

"Fuck..." you're one step away from just blurting out you love him, biting down on your lip and whining out.

"Can you? Be a good girl, say yes," where is nerdy, silly Satoru right now? He's pure sex, hovering so fucking big over you, as your hand entwines with one of his, your other clinging to his expensive shirt, nodding. "Words, sweetheart."

"Yes, please..." he moans at that, kissing you and curling them up just so, heel of his hand grinding your needy little clit, having you cum all over him, you scream into his lips, drooling as your cunt gushes arousal all over his fingers. He moans at feeling it, as you're pulsing around his thick digits, the sounds filthy as your lips collide.

He sucks in every cry and whine as he feels you convulsing, his thumb brushing your twitchy clit and pushing your from one orgasm into another. He can't take it when he pulls back, watching your back arch, feeling you cumming again, making a mess of his hand, down to his fucking wrists, dripping across your pretty thighs.

He's whining when he feels it, he could almost cum here, but he wills his cock to listen to reason - that when he finally has the love of his life cumming on his fingers that would so not be okay. He closes his eyes for just a moment as you're shaking, cunt gushing more and more arousal, so fucking much, when he slips his fingers out with a suctioned, loud pop.

"Oh my god... Toru..." you whisper his name, face fucked out already, just making him wonder what it will be like to sink inside you for the first time. He sighs, pulling those fingers to his lips and sucking you off them, moaning as he tastes you, your mouth drops open, face decorated in the prettiest blush. "Are you..."

"Mmm, you're so sweet," his soft whisper has you burying your face against his chest, he chuckles. "You're cute."

"You just tasted me!" He laughs again, tilting your chin up, kissing you softly, his arousal dripping on his lips, making you whine out softly, as your aftershocks rock you.

"You taste so good, don't you?" You nod nervously, when he fixes your panties carefully, but not before taking a good look at your pretty pussy, knowing he's about to jerk off to it when he gets back. "The song, it's for you."

"It is?" He helps you sit, nodding and tugging you against his chest, his cock straining and aching, but he knows now you're not experienced and he wants to reassure you.

You melt into his embrace, tears against his neck. "Sweetheart, are you all right?"

"It was so good, fuck. Sorry." He smiles in relief as you kiss up his neck, letting him hold you tightly. "It's for me?"

"Of course it is," he acts like you should just know, you can't stop the pounding in your heart. "You need a nap, you know. To rest a bit, you're working too hard."

"Will you um... nap with me?" You ask softly, he tenses, because god his dick just fucking hurts, but he sure wouldn't turn down holding the girl he's in love with.

"Of course I can." He is soon in your little twin bed, lanky body taking it over, tugging you against him, and you smile and snuggle, the exhaustion starting to set in as he strokes your hair.

"I really like the song, I never got tired of Wonderwall though." You tease, he chuckles then, burying his face against your neck and tugging you close.

"Good, I'll keep playing it for you."

"And the new one?"

"Mmhmm. Get some sleep."

Everything changed that day, the two of you falling into a comfortable nap, hoping soon you'll have the courage to say how you really feel.

This was so fluffy for me, I needed it after the angst I've been fucking with. Hope you enjoyedddd

perm tags - @alt--er--love @nanasukii28 @cuntphoric @loafteaw @n1vi @indiewritesxoxo @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @baepsays @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster @iam-souless @lanii-i @cristy-101 @doeeyestoji @cvixmei @mutsu422 @ivyvenus333 @g00seg1rl @suki91 @satoblue-main @fairygardenprincesss @theonlyjuggernaut @huntyhuntycunty @lovelockdownff @ibreathesmut @s777athv @twinklywinkly @akiii143 @squeezyvalkyrie @cookielovesbook-akie @oinksa @grignardsreagent

[lov3notts]

"you what?"

ᥫ᭡Theodore Nott x F!Readerᥫ᭡

summary: accidentally drinking a lust potion, you asked your best friend Theo for help.

warning: smut, cursing, unprotected sex, size kink maybe? cream pie.

word count: 2.4k

18+only; minors don’t interact

Navigation; masterlist; request rules

“You what?” Theo’s eyes widened, you wanted him to do what? He wasn’t sure if this was a dream or not but if it was he didn’t want to wake up

Earlier that day , you had accidentally drank a lust potion. 

How, you might ask?

Well the boys (Enzo/ Mattheo) thought it would be funny to prank Draco by giving him a lust potion as payback for pranking them earlier that week

At lunch the 2 boys were there first, taking their usual spots they slip the potion to a bottle of Draco's favorite drink and placing it on the spot were Draco usually sits

One by one the group gets to the table ,leaving you and Draco left. 

Soon both of you walk in, but you seem to be in a rush

“Sorry guys I can’t stay and chat, I have to get back to studying, i’m just here to get some food to eat while studying” grabbing random things and the only drink you see left, you quickly stuff it in your purse

“Wait y/n!” Enzo saying frantically, giving Matt a worried look

You look up at Enzo as you start to zip up your bag. “Yeah?” 

“We were actually saving that for Draco, um- were having practice later and that’s his favorite”

“Omg I’m so sorry! Here-“ as your opening you bag Draco comes behind you , going to sit down 

“I actually got my own drink, y/n can have it” Dracos says while pulling out his drink from his bag,

Enzo’s and Mattheos’s eye widen.

“I- um, but we got it for you” Matt says with a bit of a shaky voice 

“Its fine, I don’t need it” as he waves his drink showing the 2 boys

“But-“ 

“Omg thank you Draco, I really have to go now guys see you later” you say as you're walking away before the boys have a chance to take away the drink.

Both Enzo and Matt try to call you back but you’re already gone, both freaking out inside. praying you don't find out what they did.

While studying in your dorm you couldn’t focus for more than 10 seconds. Thinking you might just be tired from all the studying you took a break. Getting up from your desk you head towards your bed. Laying in your bed you start to space out

At first it was all innocent thoughts, school, weekend plans but then they started to shift The only thing you could think of was pleasure. Thinking of a certain boy made your cunt throb, making your body hot

Your hand slowly creeps down to your shorts. Slowly playing with yourself imagining it was Theo’s fingers rubbing circles on your clit.

“Oh god Theo” you moaned 

but no matter how good it felt you couldn’t reach your climax. You were so needy and nothing was working. The rising heat from your body only made things more uncomfortable.

“God what is wrong with me, and why is it so hot” getting up from your bed you walk towards your desk, trying to find your drink, in hopes of it cooling you down . You picked up the bottle and before you can finish the drink you saw something written on the bottom of the bottle

“Payback- Enzo and Mattheo”

Your eyes widened with confusion. 

What?

Then you remembered how the drink was meant for Draco. 

everything started to make sense

This is why you were like this

You couldn’t even be mad at them, Your mind was clouded with the urge to get any satisfaction you could. all you wanted was any sort of pleasure but nothing was good enough. it started to get painful and a sudden thought popped in your head. Theo

he’d help right? He was really the only one you can go to. 

Your heart was racing at just the thought of Theo agreeing to help you out, being best friends all these years you had developed a crush on him, of course you never acted on it because you didn’t want to ruin your friendship 

Pacing back and forth your room, you finally decide to ask him for help. Nervously picking up your phone, you open Theo’s contact.

“Theo?”

“Hey Bella, what’s up?”

The nickname itself making you get butterflies.

 “Um- I need a favor, can you come over?”

“Of course, i'll be over in a few”

“Okay see you” hanging up the phone, your thoughts begin to consume you

What if he says no?

What if he laughs at your face and runs off

What if…

What if he says yes… 

Before you can continue, there was a knock on your door. That must be him. Slowly walking to your door, palms sweaty, you turn your door knob

“Hey, what did you need help with?” Theo goes in to give you a hug

Hugging him back, your nose is infused with his cologne  

God why does he always smell so good

He lets go and looks at you closely, he moves a strain of hair behind your ear to have a better look at you. His eyebrows frown, noticing your face is flustered and incredibly warm.

“Are you okay? Your face is warm” resting his hand on your cheek

“Yeah, um actually funny story-“ Quickly leading him to sit on the edge of your bed, holding his hands as you begin to explain

“Please just hear me out. I know it's odd ,but I have no one to go to,- just please-“ falling to your knees, begging.

“Hey hey, breathe. You know I'm here if you need anything. Now tell me, what’s up?” Theo's eyes looking at you with worry.

“Please I- I need you to fuck me” you blur out

That was the last thing Theo thought would come out of your mouth. 

You wanted him to what???

He was speechless, absolutely at a loss of words. jaw wide open

“Please, I'm sorry for asking you for this, I know it’s a lot and we’re best friends. But please I can’t take it anymore. I accidentally drank something that wasn’t meant to me and it had this effect on me. I’ve tried everything but nothing is working. I need your help please” your face heating up from embarrassment . I mean you only ever had the biggest crush on your best friend for years, but what you didn’t know was that so did Theo.

Theo had dreamt of the day he got to be with you.

How’d he spend hours pleasuring himself of the thought of you under him, on top of him and how good you’d take him in your mouth. God, was he hard the second you asked him to help you out.

How could he say no? 

Without another thought he picked you up from the floor. Sitting down back on your bed while you straddled his lap.

Looking into your eyes, moving a piece of your hair behind your ear, resting his hand on your cheek, he leaded in.  

Your soft lips on his, both whimpering into the intense kiss. Licking your bottom lip asking for access. You gladly gave it to him. 

Slowly rocking your hips on his clothed boner, trying to find any friction to satisfy you.

Slowly laying you down your bed, taking off your clothes until you were left in nothing but your matching black lace set. 

“Don’t worry Bella, i’ll take good care of you” Theo whispers as he starts to leave a trail of kisses down your body

“Theo please~” you pleaded, needing to feel something, anything.

“poor thing, you’ve must of been so uncomfortable for such a long time, don’t worry i’m here now”

He stopped to look at your lying body, face all flustered, messy hair. 

“God you’re so beautiful” he wasn’t lying, he’d always thought you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. Always jealous of your ex boyfriends because they got to be with you. But now it was his turn and he was going to give you the best you’d ever gotten, he was going to ruin every other guy you’ve been with. 

Slowly pulling your panties off, dick throbbing at the sight of your wet glistening pussy. Trying to ignore his throbbing cock and focus on you, he gives you a sweet smile. 

“You're soaking wet, so ready for me” leaving little kisses around your pussy, teasing. finally burying his face between your legs, painfully slow licks as he takes it in, savoring every moment. 

As soon as you felt his tongue, you became a whimpering mess.  

“Theo~ oh my god yes” moving your hand to his hair, giving it a little tug. 

Theo couldn’t hold it in anymore, he started to devour you. eating you out as if he’d never get this opportunity ever again

“You taste so fucken good” he groaned against your dripping core. The vibrations sending you waves of pleasure 

“More please, Theo! oh my god~” it felt so good, his tongue making you feel things you’ve never felt before with anyone else

“So polite, even when your so needy” Theo smirked as he sees how much of a mess you were for him

He starts so pump one of his fingering into you while eating you out. Soon enough you felt the feeling you were craving for

“M-so close, fuck Theo i’m so close”

He stops what he’s doing, getting up grasping on his zipper and undoing the button. Tugging his jeans and boxers off. 

“Theo? Why’d you stop? I was so close” you looked at him with teary eyes. you were so close, god why did he stop

“Sorry princess, I wanna be in you, want you cum on my cock” godddd was he hot

His cock strung out his pants hitting his stomach , you were lost for words. In no world was Theodore Nott small, he was big- huge even. you’ve never taken anything close to his size.

Theo noticed your starring

“Like what you see?” A smile tugged the corner of his lips

“Don’t worry you can take it, I know you can”

You nodded at his works 

He lined himself up to your pussy, tracing himself up and down, teasing you.

“You have no idea how long i've been wanting to do this for” 

“Fuck ,Theo please, please fuck me” you whined 

“Anything for you, love”

he slowly pushed himself into you. You both let out a loud moan. 

“fuck, your so tight” Theo was out of breath.

You felt so good around him that he never wanted this moment to end.

“fuck Theo your big” you said panting 

“You think you can take more?”

More???

“There’s more??” Looking at Theo with a disbelief face

He chuckled “i’m only have way”

“Don’t worry you can handle it, can’t you baby?”

“Mhm- yes yes, I can take it”

Pushing the reset of himself into you. bottoming you out. heavily breathing, getting comfortable with the feeling of him stretching you out. 

“good girl ,You’re doing so well for me, are you ready?”

“Yes! fuck-please move, please” you begged

Brining your legs above his shoulders and laying them there. Gripping your ankles to keep you steady as he started to thrust into you. Both a moaning mess

“Fuck fuck fuckkk, Theo-” your eyes roll back, arching your back.

“You feel so good Bella, oh god-“ panting 

“Your squeezing me tight- fuck”

One of his hands moving to your waist. fucking you harder now, unable to stop. His cock was so fucking good, hitting your g-spot every time.

“Fuck Theo just like that, don’t stop, don’t stop please!” Your hands holding onto your bed sheets as he rocks his hips.

“You like that huh? You like it when your best friend is pounding into you, god you look so beautiful, taking all of me like a good girl” he groans while leaving kisses on your ankle.

Your walls clenching at his words

He groaned again as he felt your cunt throb at his praise. 

“Oh you like being called a good girl don’t you?” letting go of your ankle to grip your jaw to make you look at him.

“Who's a good girl are you?” Theo says as he speeds up his thrusts

Looking at him with half lidded eyes “Yours, all yours!!~“ you moan

“That’s right all mine, no one can ever make you feel this good, isn’t that right love?”

 “Mhm only you, ah~ i'm so close”

“Cum for me baby, come all over my cock”

You were absolute bliss, god you’ve never seen fucked this good, yeah you’ve had other hookups but nothing can compared to this, to Theo

You moaned loudly, shutting your eyes as you reached your orgasm “im- im cumming!!” Your body shaking from the overwhelming feeling

The way your walls clenched from cumming made Theo on the verge of spilling. He continues to thrust into you through your first orgasm. He didn’t expect you make such a mess all over his dick, your cum spilling out of you as he thrusts into you

You felt Theo twitch inside of you, knowing he’s close you moved his hand from your waist to your breasts.

“Mmm so soft…” Theo whispered. leaning down, putting his tongue on your nipple, swirling it around. “Mmm Theo that feels good” throwing your head back from a little act. Theo was soon approaching his climax.  

“Fuckk- can I cum inside of you? please oh god I can’t hold it anymore, please? Fuck-” Theo begged as he tried to hold it in, waiting for you response 

“Yes!! fuck Theo cum inside me” you practically screamed as you felt you stomach tighten.

He let out a loud moan as he spilled his cum inside of you. You screamed as you felt his warm cum spilling in you, triggering your second orgasm.

Theo’s thrusts became sloppy, riding out both your highs. He pulled out and laid beside you. Dizzy and breathless, taking a moment to catch your breath.  Finally when you both got steady, you look up at Theo

“Thank you Theo, really”

“No need to thank me Bella, you can come to me for anything anytime” smiling at you.

crawling onto his lap you whispered into his ear “stay the night? I don’t think the drink has worn off just yet~”

This was going to be a long night for Theo.

ᥫ᭡reblog's & comment's are appreciatedᥫ᭡

a/n: Thank you for reading my first ever fic!! a special mention to @leona-hawthorne for being an angel and giving me feedback on my first rough draft. It helped a lot:)!! another honorable mention to @nottsangel!! Im that anon who mentioned writing their first story, hope you like it^-^ thank you both, your blogs have inspired me to start writing. xoxo

©lov3notts ,do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

[jupiterpilgrim]

Tropic Getaway

Hanni x Danielle x Minji x male reader

word count: 20k

The downstairs study lounge is just heavy.

It was supposed to be another night of studying, but, along the way, things went wrong. Or rather, they went wrong. Now papers and books are just everywhere, a mess of good intentions gone bad. Danielle's basically become one with the couch, kinda slumped over, doomscrolling on her phone or just staring blankly at the ceiling, looking totally over it. Opposite her, Minji is full-on face-down in her textbook on the table, like she's trying to absorb the knowledge through her forehead or just taking a very still, very desperate nap. And then there's Hanni, loaded with restless energy, pacing back and forth across the worn-out carpet, basically the only thing moving in the whole room besides Danielle’s thumb.

It doesn't take a genius to know that the keyword of the day is burnout.

"I can't," Minji mumbles, words muffled by the textbook cover. "I physically cannot read another sentence about market equilibrium. My brain has turned into actual sludge."

Danielle lets out a noise that is halfway between a laugh and a groan. "Tell me about it. I spend six hours debugging that stupid short film edit for the Media Club showcase. Six. Hours. Just to fix a two-second audio sync issue." She tosses her phone onto the cushion beside her. "My eyes feel like they're full of sand, I feel like I'm going to spontaneously combust at any moment." She stretches, her joints popping audibly. "Spring break can't come fast enough. Seriously. If I don't get out of here, away from deadlines and group projects and early morning lectures, I'm going to short-circuit."

Hanni stops pacing and leans against the wall, crossing her arms. "Okay, so we're all in agreement. We're burnt the fuck out." Her gaze sweeps over her friends. "Which means we need this break. Like, medically need it. Forget staying here and 'catching up on sleep' or whatever bullshit people pretend they're going to do. We need an escape. A real one."

Minji pushes the textbook away with a sigh. "Okay, fine. Escape. Where?" She slumps back in her chair. "My parents suggest I come home. Help them clean out the garage." The look on her face makes it clear this is less appealing than facing 'market equilibrium’.

"Garage cleaning? Yeah, hard pass," Danielle says. "My mom wants me to visit my aunt in the countryside. Which, you know, love my aunt, but her idea of excitement is watching cows graze."

Hanni makes a face. "Okay, those are both nightmare fuel options. We need... sunshine. Something completely different." She pushes off the wall, starting to pace again, but this time with more purpose. "Think. No parental obligations, no academic pressure, no weird relatives. Just... decompression." She snaps her fingers. "Europe?"

Danielle considers it, tilting her head. "Europe's cool... but doesn't that feel like... a lot of effort right now? All the sightseeing, the museums, the walking... My feet already hurt just thinking about it. And figuring out trains and hostels while my brain is fried? I don't know."

"Yeah, Dani's got a point," Minji chimes in, pulling her legs up onto her chair. "I love the idea of Paris or Rome, but I think I need somewhere I can just... shut down. Like, minimal brain activity required. Maximum relaxation."

"Okay, okay, fair," Hanni concedes. "Effort is bad. Brain activity is bad." She pauses, tapping a finger against her chin. "How about a paradise place? Like, Mexico? Cancun?"

"Spring break in Cancun?" Danielle wrinkles her nose. "Isn't that just... wall-to-wall drunk frat guys trying to get you to do body shots? Feels like trading one kind of stress for another. A louder, potentially stickier kind."

Minji nods vigorously. "Definitely not the vibe. I want peace, Dani wants low-effort, I want... heat. Real heat. Not this pathetic excuse for spring weather we're having."

Hanni stops pacing again, a slow smile spreading across her face. It starts small, just a twitch at the corner of her lips, but grows as the idea takes hold. "Okay. Heat. Low effort. No frat guys, or at least, easily avoidable ones. Maximum relaxation." Her eyes light up. "What about the Caribbean?"

Silence falls for a moment as the image settles in their minds. Crystal clear turquoise water. White sand beaches. Palm trees swaying gently. Colorful drinks with little umbrellas. No textbooks. No editing suites. No Professors.

Danielle sits up straighter, the listlessness fading from her expression. "Okay... Caribbean. Like... where?"

"Doesn't even matter, does it?" Minji asks. "Barbados, St. Lucia, Turks and Caicos... They're all beaches and sun and rum punch, right?"

"Exactly!" Hanni grins, walking over and perching on the edge of the table near Minji. "Pick an island, any island. Somewhere with stupidly blue water, amazing food, maybe some snorkeling or just lying on the beach like lizards, soaking up the sun until our brains reset." She pulls out her own phone, fingers already flying across the screen. "There’s gotta be some great resorts over there."

Danielle picks her phone back up from the cushion. "Okay, I'm looking up flights. Let's see... non-stop options preferred, obviously."

Minji leans over Hanni's shoulder, peering at her screen. "Look at that resort... Jesus, that pool looks insane. Is that a swim-up bar? We could spend an entire day just migrating from the beach chair to the pool chair to the swim-up bar stool.”

"It looks... luxuriously expensive, Han," Minji says.

"Oh, yeah, sure, focus on reality! Let's see what we found on Airbnb."

And just like that the miserable study lounge totally disappears. Forget the textbooks, forget the debugging nightmares, forget the professors. Minji, Danielle, and Hanni are heads-down, phones out, completely lost in scrolling through pictures of ridiculously blue water and white sandy beaches. For these few minutes, market equilibrium and audio sync issues are ancient history. It's all about infinity pools, debating the merits of St. Lucia versus Barbados, and imagining days spent doing absolutely nothing but soaking up the sun until their brains finally feel less like scrambled eggs. School's out—mentally, at least—and the Caribbean dream is officially in.

—

You’re pacing the cramped little room—your dorm, technically, though it’s more of a closet with a bed and a desk shoved against the wall—waiting for her, trying to control a little the nervousness that always appears when you know she's coming. It’s not full-on nerves, just this antsy buzz under your skin, like you’re jonesing for a fix, and in a way, you are. Hanni’s been your hookup for months now, this casual thing that’s not really casual anymore, not with how bad you want her every time she’s near, and with her blatant possessiveness over you—not that you're complaining. The clock ticks past 4 p.m., and you’re wiping your palms on your jeans when the door swings open; no knock, no warning, just her. Hanni steps in, and fuck, she’s a knockout, same as always.

She’s got a college girl vibe dialed up, rocking this tiny plaid skirt, barely long enough to count as clothing, hugging her hips and showing off those legs—thick, smooth, the kind you wanna sink your teeth into. Her top’s a cropped hoodie, loose enough to flash a strip of her stomach when she moves. Her bangs are just adorable, a contrast to the look she's giving you.

Hanni doesn’t even say hi, just drops her bag by the door, crosses the three steps it takes to reach you, and crashes her mouth into yours. It’s hungry, sloppy, her lips soft, tasting faintly of cherry lip balm and whatever Monster she chugged on the way over. Her hands are already fisting your shirt, tugging you back toward the desk chair while she mutters against your teeth, “We gotta be quick—gotta meet the girls in, like, twenty.” You’re too busy kissing her back to argue, letting her pull you down into the seat, your hands sliding up her thighs, feeling the heat radiating off her skin.

She’s got you pinned there, straddling your lap before you can blink, and she’s yanking at your belt, fingers fumbling but determined. “Fuck, c’mon,” she huffs, and you help her out, unbuttoning your jeans, shoving them down just enough to free your cock, already hard, because how could it not be with her like this? She hikes her skirt up, flashing these lacy black panties she doesn’t even bother taking off—just shoves them to the side, and you catch a glimpse of how soaked she is, glistening in the dorm light.

Then she’s on you, sinking down slow at first, and you both let out this ragged, “Ohhh,” like you’ve been holding your breath for it all day. Her pussy’s tight, warm, so wet it’s obscene, and she’s clenching around you before she even starts moving. She leans in, breath hot against your ear, muttering, “Goddamn, I’ve been horny as shit all day—couldn’t stop thinking about this.” You groan, hands gripping her hips, feeling the way her skirt bunches up higher as she starts rocking against you. It’s fast, messy, her bouncing on your lap, the chair creaking under you like it’s about to give up.

Her tits are pressed against your chest, hoodie riding up, and you slide your hands under it, palming her through her bra, feeling her nipples harden under your thumbs. She’s panting, little gasps breaking up her words, “Can’t believe this is the last time ‘til—fuck—spring break. Gonna miss this dick so bad.” You thrust up into her, meeting her halfway, and she yelps, nails digging into your shoulders. “What you doing for break?” she asks, voice hitching as she grinds down hard, taking you deeper.

You’re trying to focus, but it’s a losing battle with her pussy squeezing you like that, slick and hot, dragging you to the edge already. “Dunno,” you manage, “haven’t figured it out yet—what about you?” She’s bouncing faster now, thighs flexing, skirt flapping, and she tosses her head back, laughing through a moan. “Me, Minji, Danielle—we’re fuckin’ off to St Lucia. Beaches, booze, everything we could ask for. Gonna be dope.” Her words are punctuated by the slap of her skin against yours, wet and loud in the tiny room, and you grin, thrusting harder just to hear her gasp again. “St Lucia? That’s sick,” you say, and she nods, eyes half-lidded, lips parted as she rides you. “Yeah, right? No classes, no campus—just us and some random-ass fun.” She clenches around you on purpose, smirking when you groan, and adds, “What you gonna do without me, huh? Jerk off to my texts all week?” You laugh, hands sliding to her ass, squeezing hard enough to leave marks. “Maybe. Gonna miss this—fucking you here, sneaking around. Best stress relief I’ve got.”

She’s grinning too, but it’s wobbly now, her rhythm faltering as she gets closer—you can feel it in how she’s tightening up, her breaths turning into these needy little whines. “Same,” she says, voice softer for a sec, almost sweet, before she catches herself and slams down harder, chasing it. “Fuck! I’m gonna miss this—your cock, this room, all of it.” The chair’s scraping the floor now, probably pissing off whoever’s below you, but you don’t care, she’s riding you like it’s the last time, and maybe it is for a while. Her skirt’s a crumpled mess around her waist, panties stretched to the side, and her hoodie’s slipping off one shoulder, giving you a peek at the sweat beading on her collarbone. You’re both loud—grunts, moans, the occasional “shit” or “fuck” slipping out between whatever half-assed conversation you’re trying to have. She’s soaked, dripping down your thighs, and you’re so close you can barely think straight, just thrusting up into her, letting her take what she wants.

“Fuck, Hanni,” you groan, “cum on my dick—c’mon, I wanna feel it.” She whines, head tipping back, and her bounces get sloppier, harder, the chair squeaking like it’s about to snap. Her moans kick up a notch, too loud, way too loud for this thin-walled dump, and you hiss, “Shit, keep it down, someone’s gonna hear us.” She gasps, tries to stifle it, but it’s no use. “I—I can’t, fuck, it’s too good,” she stammers, and then she’s done holding back—she slams down one more time, hard, and chokes out, “I’m gonna cum, oh fuck, I’m cumming!”

Her pussy clamps down on you like a vice, pulsing hot and wet, and she’s bouncing fast now, riding out the wave, her thighs trembling against your hips. You can feel her shaking, her whole body seizing up as she cums, a shudder ripping through her that makes her gasp and whimper your name—soft at first, then loud again, like she can’t help it. You pull her down, crash your mouth into hers, kissing her deep, swallowing those sounds as she grinds through it. Her lips are slick, desperate, and you break off just long enough to mutter, “You’re so fucking hot… Jesus, Hanni,” before diving back in, biting her bottom lip hard enough to make her hiss. She’s still twitching around you, aftershocks making her shudder, and then she slides off, slow, leaving you aching and hard, your cock slick with her. She drops to her knees between your legs, no hesitation, wrapping her fingers around you; small hands, chipped red nails, and gives you a couple lazy strokes.

“Gimme your cum,” she says, and then she’s on you, mouth closing over the tip, sucking hard. Her tongue flicks the underside, wet and warm, and she’s staring up at you, dark eyes locked on yours, unblinking, fucking devastating. It’s too much, the way she hollows her cheeks, bobs her head, hand twisting at the base while her lips slide down further, taking you deep. “C’mon,” she mumbles around you, muffled, “want it so bad—give it to me.” You’re gone, head tipping back against the chair, groaning low in your throat as she works you, relentless, slurping loud enough to make your face heat up. Her free hand’s on your thigh, nails digging in, and she’s begging with her eyes, her mouth, not stopping ‘til you’re right there. You feel it hit, this tight, hot rush, and you cum hard—ropes of it, thick and messy, spilling into her mouth. She doesn’t pull off, just takes it, swallowing as you go, and you mutter, “Fuck, I love watching you swallow me like this,” She pops off, licks her lips slow, deliberate, and grins. “Love the taste—salty, you, all of it,” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand like it’s nothing.

You two don't waste any time, you’re tugging your jeans up, she’s smoothing her skirt down, but her panties are still crooked, and she doesn’t bother fixing them. Hanni climbs back onto your lap, not to fuck again, just to sit there, legs dangling over yours, catching her breath. It’s quiet for a sec, just the hum of the mini fridge in the corner, and then she leans her head against your shoulder, hair tickling your neck. “Thanks, y’know,” she says, soft, almost shy for once. “You’ve been a fucking lifesaver these past few months—keeping me sane after all the college bullshit.”

You wrap an arm around her, lazy, resting your hand on her hip. “Same here. You’re the only thing that’s kept me from losing my mind some days.” She laughs, quiet, nudging you with her elbow. “We're an eccentric duo, huh? But it works.” You nod, staring at the ceiling, feeling her warmth seep into you, this weird, comfortable closeness that’s snuck up on you both.

She shifts, sits up straighter, and you think she’s about to bounce out the door, she’s got that meeting with the girls soon, but she turns to you instead, skirt riding up again, flashing the edge of those wrecked panties. “So, what d’you think of the Caribbean?” She ask.

You shrug, still fuzzy from the orgasm, wiping a hand over your face. “Looks dope—beaches, food, all that. Why?” She grins and leans in close. “Come with us. Me, Danielle, Minji—we’re going, and you’d be great company. Keep things lively.” You blink, caught off guard, brain still half-fried. “Wait, what? You serious?” She nods, biting her lip, and it’s not just a throwaway invite, she’s deadass. “Yeah, dude. You’re fun as hell, and, I mean…” She trails off, smirks, lets the implication hang there. You picture it: Hanni, Danielle, Minji, you stuck in the middle of that trio, St Lucia sun beating down. It’s insane, but it’s perfect, too good to pass up. “Fuck it, I’m in,” you say, grinning back, and she lights up—full-on Hanni energy, clapping her hands once, loud. “Hell yeah! I’ll tell the girls—gonna text you details later. This is gonna be epic.” She hops off your lap, grabs her bag, but not before leaning down to kiss you quick. Then she’s out the door, skirt swishing, leaving you dazed and already counting down the days.

—

The cheap tequila is doing its job, loosening tension. The girls are crammed into a booth at the pub near the college. They ditched the library hours ago for lime wedges, salt, and rounds of golden liquor. The pub’s loud playlist thumps overhead, a backdrop to the chatter and clinking glasses. Empty shot glasses clutter the table between them, next to a rapidly disappearing basket of fries.

Minji leans back against the cracked vinyl booth seat, laughing loudly at something Danielle said, her cheeks flushed. Danielle leans forward over the table, an easy grin on her face, kicking a foot rhythmically against the booth base. Hanni leans back against the cushions, swirling the remaining tequila in her glass, watching her friends with warm, fuzzy fondness.

The relief is notorious: the trip is booked, flights confirmed, Airbnb secured. This weekend celebration feels earned, necessary. They've survived the academic trenches, and paradise awaits. Their corner of the pub hums with shared excitement as they shout slightly over the music, debating outfits, sunscreen SPFs, and foods to try when they arrived in St. Lucia.

Hanni takes another sip, the tequila warming her, making her feel bold. She needs this courage because, well, she has already invited you on the trip. Now she just has to pluck up the nerve to tell Minji and Danielle.

Mentally, she justifies it: The whole point of the trip is maximum relaxation, right? And she knows exactly who excels at top-tier stress relief. You. Just thinking about you, the heat that always sparks between you even during boring club meetings, sends a familiar warmth coiling through her, entirely separate from the tequila.

The hookups are casual, intense, and usually kept separate from her friendships, but the Caribbean feels like the perfect place to... integrate resources. Maximum relaxation needs maximum release, and honestly, no one delivers quite like you do. Your confidence, the way you look at her, how thorough you are... Yeah, a '10/10 wienering,' her brain helpfully supplies.

So, inviting you isn't selfish, she insists to herself. It's practical. A vital contribution to the mission objective: total fucking decompression. Now, to break the news…

"So," Hanni begins, setting her glass down on the sticky table with deliberate care, cutting through Minji's detailed description of the perfect beach towel. Both Danielle and Minji pause, turning their slightly glazed eyes towards her over the rims of their own glasses. "Speaking of... maximizing relaxation..." She lets the phrase hang there for a second, enjoying the tiny flicker of confusion on their faces. "I might have, uh... extended the invitation. To one more person."

Minji frowns slightly, leaning forward. "Wait, what? I think we agree... just us? Girls' trip? No distractions?"

Hanni waves a dismissive hand, trying to project breezy confidence over the pub noise. "Totally still a girls' trip! Mostly. But, like, think of this as... adding a vital resource. For stress management." She grins, letting a little of the mischief leak through. "I have invited him." She doesn't even need to say your name. The way she says 'him', the slight emphasis, the context, it hangs there in the noisy air.

Silence descends just between them. Danielle and Minji exchange a look across the table, a rapid-fire communication passing between them that Hanni can't quite decipher through her own buzz. She sees the gears turning, the slow dawning of comprehension. You. The guy from the Innovation Club. The one who sometimes joins their club when Hanni is there, the one Hanni occasionally disappears with after club meetings or social events, returning later looking flushed and rumpled but ridiculously happy. The one they maybe tease her about once or twice, getting only evasive smiles in return.

Danielle is the first to break the silence, her initial confusion melting into something else; curiosity, maybe even amusement. "Wait. Him him? From the club? The one with the..." She tilts her head, searching for a non-crude descriptor, "...charming smile?" A slow smirk spreads across her face. "Okay. Interesting. Very... resourceful, Hanni." She remembers those times Hanni texts vague excuses about 'running late' or 'working on the project' only to show up an hour later practically glowing, her hair slightly messy, biting back a smile. She recalls catching Hanni sneaking back into the dorm super early one morning after supposedly pulling an all-nighter at the Study Room, looking less exhausted and more thoroughly satisfied.

Suddenly, Hanni's 'stress management' comment clicks into sharp, vivid focus. "So that's where you disappear to," Danielle teases, leaning forward conspiratorially across the table. "Gotta admit, I always figure there is something going on there. You get this specific... smug look after you've supposedly been 'collaborating'." She laughs. "Okay, you know what? I'm not mad. He's hot, not gonna lie. And if he's gonna be focused on... de-stressing you… Maybe the ambient heat will benefit us all? Like relaxation by proxy?"

Minji is slower to come around, her expression more guarded. She takes another sip of her drink, considering. "Hold on," she says, her voice needing to rise slightly above the pub noise. "So, the plan is just us. Relaxing. Peace and quiet." She looks at Hanni across the table. "And now you've invited... your hookup? Doesn't that complicate things? What if it gets weird?" She remembers Hanni's occasional zoned-out bliss, the dreamy sighs after checking her phone, the sudden bursts of inexplicable euphoria. It makes sense now, annoyingly so. You are clearly effective. Still, the logistics... "It is supposed to be our escape, Han."

"It still is!" Hanni insists. "Think about it! He's super chill, you know he is. He helped us debug that presentation software last semester, remember? He's not gonna be some annoying dude trying to take over. He can handle himself. And yeah, okay, fine. He's... exceptionally good at the stress relief part. Like, really good. Which means I'll be less stressed, more relaxed, and way more fun to be around." She looks between them. "Isn't that contributing to the overall vibe? Plus," she adds, playing her trump card, "he has already booked his flight. Non-refundable."

That last part is a lie, but it sounds convincing.

Minji chews on her lip. Danielle is already nodding along, seemingly sold on the 'ambient heat' theory and your general attractiveness. Minji sighs, swirling her drink on the table. She can't deny Hanni's logic entirely. A happy, thoroughly de-stressed Hanni is definitely preferable. And she has to admit, you aren't hard on the eyes, and you've always been perfectly nice, even helpful, during those club interactions. Not the typical frat-bro type Danielle fears finding in Cancun. Maybe... maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe Danielle is right, maybe there are fringe benefits. A little extra eye candy, a different dynamic... It isn't the original plan, but the tequila is making her feel more flexible. "Fine," Minji concedes, trying to sound practical rather than intrigued, though a tiny smile plays on her lips despite herself. "Fine, he can come. But logistics. The Airbnb only has three bedrooms. So, just to be clear, he's rooming with you. No arguments."

Hanni beams, relief washing over her. "Obviously! Wouldn't have it any other way." She winks, picking up her shot glass from the table again. "See? Perfect plan. Maximum relaxation guaranteed. For everyone." She raises her glass. "To the Caribbean! And... vital resources."

Danielle laughs, clinking her glass against Hanni's across the table. "To vital resources!"

Minji sighs but clinks her glass too. "To not having to hear Hanni complain about being stressed, I guess." The noise of the pub, the tequila, the sheer giddy prospect of the trip, now with an unexpected, potentially spicy addition, settles over them, pushing aside the last vestiges of resistance. The 'girls' trip' has just taken a detour, and nobody seems truly upset about it anymore.

—

Spring break finally hits, washing away the hell that was midterms, late-night cramming, weeks of caffeine-fueled meltdowns, profs who clearly don't give a fuck and the club’s endless deadlines. It’s been a brutal stretch, but now it’s over, and the relief is practically physical.

Hanni’s been blowing up your phone since the invite, hyping this Caribbean trip like crazy, and you’re just as hyped, buzzing to ditch the gray campus grind for some actual sun. The girls have been prepping hard—Hanni sending packing pics—half her suitcase is bikinis and crop tops— Danielle dropping Insta stories of her shopping for “tropical fits,” and Minji being the quiet, practical one, texting Hanni about flight times and visa stuff like the group's unofficial mom.

You don’t actually see them ‘til the airport, though. When you roll up with your beat-up duffel slung over your shoulder, Hanni spots you first, sprinting across the terminal like she’s mainlining sugar, slamming into you with a hug that almost takes you out. “You made it!” she yells, arms locked around your neck, totally beaming. Her bangs bounces as she pulls back to look at you, eyes sparkling.

You return the hug. "Wouldn't miss it. Someone's gotta help manage all that stress, right?" You give her a squeeze before gently disentangling yourself enough to greet the others, though Hanni immediately links her arm through yours, leaning against your side possessively. Minji offers a small, polite smile, still looking a little tired but definitely less stressed than the last time you saw her surrounded by textbooks. "Hey," she says, adjusting the strap of her carry-on. "Glad you could make it. Try not to lose Hanni before we even board."

Then your eyes land on Danielle, and you do a slight double-take. Gone are the usual worn-out jeans and practical hoodie she practically lived in during that last disastrous Media Club budget meeting where you helped by analyzing some spreadsheets and trying to bring some light even though you are not a member. Instead, she’s wearing a long, flowing maxi dress alive with bright tropical flowers, paired with strappy sandals totally impractical for airport trekking but perfect for the destination. It catches the eye amidst the drab airport surroundings, making her look relaxed, almost like a different person. She grins, giving the flowy dress a little swish. "What do you think?" she asks, striking a mock pose. "Vacation Dani. Decided jeans are not the vibe for palm trees.”

"It looks awesome, Dani. Seriously suits you. Vacation Dani is gonna kill it." Her grin widens. "Thanks! That's the plan." Hanni tugs at your arm, reclaiming your attention. "Okay, okay, compliments later. Bags need dropping, security needs conquering, tropical drinks need acquiring." She practically drags you towards the check-in line, keeping up a running commentary about the questionable fashion choices of fellow passengers and her detailed plans for claiming the best beach chair upon arrival.

The check-in and security process is the usual purgatory of modern travel: shuffling lines, unpacking electronics, the mild humiliation of the full-body scanner, but the shared anticipation keeps spirits relatively high. Even Minji seems to be loosening up, pointing out a ridiculously oversized inflatable flamingo someone is trying to argue is a valid carry-on item. Danielle and Hanni dissolve into giggles. Finally, you're through, settling into the slightly less chaotic departure gate area. Hanni immediately claims the seat next to you, her thigh pressed against yours, occasionally resting her head on your shoulder while scrolling through pictures of St. Lucia on her phone, narrating potential activities. Danielle and Minji chat opposite you, Danielle already scouting the duty-free shops for bargain sunglasses. The flight itself is uneventful; cramped seats, a mediocre movie you watch half-heartedly with shared earbuds with Hanni, the strange sensation of hurtling through the sky miles above the earth. Hanni dozes off for a bit, her head heavy on your shoulder, soft breaths puffing against your neck. You look out the small window, watching the clouds drift below, the feeling of escape slowly starting to sink in.

Landing in St. Lucia is like stepping into a different world. The moment the plane doors hiss open, you're hit by a wall of warm, humid air thick with the scent of salt, tropical flowers, and something earthy and unfamiliar. It's a welcome shock after the recycled, chilled air of the plane and the lingering damp chill of back home. Sunlight streams through the airport windows, brighter and more intense than you're used to. The sounds are different too, the rhythm of Creole chatter, distant reggae music, birds calling outside. Everyone's skin seems kissed by the sun. Danielle practically skips down the air stairs, tilting her face up to the sun. Minji takes a deep breath. Hanni squeezes your hand, her eyes wide with wonder. "Okay, yeah," she breathes. "This was a good idea."

Clearing customs and grabbing your luggage feels less like a chore and more like the final hurdle before freedom. You pile into a slightly battered taxi van, the driver greeting you with a warm smile and launching into recommendations for local food spots. The drive to the Airbnb is a vibrant assault on the senses, winding roads curving through lush green hillsides dotted with brightly painted houses, glimpses of impossibly turquoise water flashing between palm trees, roadside fruit stands overflowing with colourful produce. The air rushing through the open windows carries the soundtrack of the island: laughter, music, an occasional bleating goat.

The Airbnb turns out to be pretty damn good. It's a spacious villa tucked away on a hillside, painted a cheerful coral colour. Inside, cool tile floors offer relief from the heat. There's a decent-sized living area with comfy-looking furniture, a functional kitchen, and best of all, a wide balcony overlooking a stretch of jungle that slopes down towards a distant slice of blue ocean. It might not be the five-star luxury of some resorts, but it feels authentic, private, and definitely relaxing. There are indeed three bedrooms, as planned. Danielle and Minji quickly claim the two smaller ones, leaving the largest, the one with the slightly better view from its window, for you and Hanni. Bags are dropped unceremoniously, shoes kicked off. The initial adrenaline rush of arrival starts to fade, replaced by the bone-deep weariness of travel.

Danielle yawns hugely, collapsing onto one of the sofas. "Okay, naptime," she declares. "My brain is officially offline until further notice." Minji nods in agreement, already heading towards her room. "Wake me if there's food. Or never." You follow Hanni into your designated room. It's simple but clean, with a big queen-sized bed dominating the space. Hanni wastes no time, unbuttoning her pants and taking them off hurriedly, rummaging through her bag until she finally finds her comfortable shorts and puts them on, then she flops face-down onto the mattress with a groan of pure exhaustion. "Bed," she mumbles into the comforter. "Sweet, stationary bed." You drop your bag and stretch, feeling the kinks in your back from the long flight. Kicking off your own shoes, you lie down on the bed next to her, the coolness of the sheets a small blessing. The sounds of the island drift in through the open window; cicadas buzzing, distant surf, unfamiliar bird calls.

It's peaceful, a world away from campus life.

Hanni rolls over to face you, propping her head up on her hand. Even exhausted, her eyes are sparkling. "So," she whispers. "Excited to be here? Finally?" You smile back, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Definitely. Place is amazing. You picked well." Her smile widens. "We picked well," she corrects, then scoots a little closer. "And... you know Dani thinks you're hot, right? She literally said it when we were drunk in the pub talking about bringing you here. And Minji... she was trying to play it cool, but I saw her checking you out at the gate." A familiar warmth sparks in your belly despite the fatigue. Hanni's eyes flick down to your lips for a second, then back up. "Just... possibilities, you know? For maximizing the stress relief." Her fingers trace a light pattern on your arm.

You lean in slightly. "And you'd be okay with... sharing the stress relief?"

Her gaze holds yours. "As long as I get first dibs," she murmurs, her lips brushing yours for a fleeting moment. "And second dibs. And probably thirds. And as long as I get to join in whenever I feel like it." She yawns then, a wide, jaw-cracking yawn that breaks the spell slightly. "But mostly," she adds, her eyes fluttering closed, "right now I need sleep." You chuckle, pulling the light sheet over both of you. "Sleep sounds good." The exhaustion finally wins, pulling you both down into the welcome darkness, the teasing possibilities left hanging, waiting for the Caribbean sun and rested bodies to bring them to life.

—

The first thing you register is warmth, a comfortable weight pressing down on your chest, and the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing near your ear. You crack open an eye, the afternoon sun filtering through the slats of the blinds, painting stripes of gold across the simple room. Your body feels amazing: deeply rested, completely unwound from the cramped flight and the lingering stress of campus life. The nap wasn't just a nap; it was a full system reboot. Beneath you, the mattress feels solid, stationary, a welcome contrast to the hours spent hurtling through the sky. You shift slightly, and the weight on you stirs. Hanni mumbles something incoherent into your t-shirt, nuzzling closer like a cat seeking heat. Her dark hair tickles your chin, smelling faintly of coconut shampoo and airplane air. One of her legs is hooked over yours, her arm slung possessively across your ribs. Even in sleep, she’s staked her claim. You carefully lift a hand, gently brushing strands of hair away from her face. She looks peaceful, younger somehow without the usual spark of manic energy animating her features. The exhaustion is gone from her face too, replaced by the soft flush of deep sleep. It’s nice, seeing this quiet side of her, but a bigger part of you is already buzzing, eager to get out there and actually experience this place. St. Lucia is waiting just outside that window.

Hanni stirs again, blinking slowly. Her eyes focus on you, still clouded with sleep for a second before recognition dawns, followed swiftly by a lazy, satisfied smile that makes something warm curl in your stomach. "Mmm, morning," she murmurs. "Or... afternoon? Whatever. You feel comfy." She stretches languidly, her body arching against yours. The thin sheet barely conceals the curves you know are hiding underneath, curves she apparently might be willing to share later, according to her sleepy pre-nap proposition.

"Best nap ever," she adds, yawning wide. "Did I drool on you? Sorry if I drooled." You chuckle, shaking your head. "Nah, you're good. Slept like the dead." You gently nudge her. "But I think the island's calling. Pretty sure I heard a palm tree whispering my name." Hanni giggles, finally rolling off you, though she immediately props herself up on an elbow, her gaze tracing the line of your jaw. "Okay, okay, I'm up. Mostly." She swings her legs over the side of the bed, stretching again, this time showing off the curve of her spine and the slight swell of her hips in the sleep shorts.

"Food first? I think my stomach digested itself while we were out." You nod, already swinging your own legs out. "Food sounds essential. Then maybe figure out what Dani and Minji are up to." You glance towards your bag, thinking about clothes. The heat radiating from outside the window demands something light. You pull out a pair of comfortable shorts and a thin linen shirt, definitely more tropical than the jeans you flew in. As you start changing, Hanni rummages through her own bag, pulling out a brightly colored sundress. Underneath, you glimpse the strap of a bikini top. Seems everyone had the same idea about being beach-ready at a moment's notice. "Think they survived the nap?" Hanni asks, slipping the dress over her head. "Dani looked like she was about to hibernate for a week. And Minji... well, Minji always looks like she needs more sleep."

You find Danielle and Minji already in the living area, looking significantly more human than when you last saw them. Dani’s wearing denim shorts and a loose tank top, tapping away on her phone. Minji, dressed in light linen pants and a simple white top, is peering into the fridge. "Morning, sunshine," Danielle chirps without looking up. "Or, you know, afternoon sunshine. Find anything edible in there, Minj?" Minji shakes her head, closing the fridge door with a sigh. "Snacks from the flight and half a bottle of water. We definitely need provisions. Or, ideally, someone else making us breakfast." Hanni bounces into the room, radiating recovered energy. "Breakfast out! My treat. Consider it a 'thank you for letting me bring my favorite stress-reliever' brunch." She winks broadly at you, then loops her arm through yours again.

Danielle finally looks up, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "Oooh, a thank-you brunch? I accept. Especially if the stress-reliever is buying coffee." You laugh, raising your hands in mock surrender. "Coffee, food, whatever you guys want. Lead the way." Minji grabs her sunglasses from the table. "Okay, but somewhere with actual shade, please? My eyes are still adjusting to not staring at a screen."

Finding a breakfast spot isn't hard. You wander down the winding road from the villa, the casual pace feels alien after the usual campus rush. You end up at a small, open-air cafe overlooking a marina filled with bobbing sailboats. Brightly colored fishing boats chug past further out, leaving white wakes on the impossibly blue water. The vibe is incredibly chill. You order fresh juices, strong coffee, and plates piled high with eggs, local fruit, and something called 'bake'; a fried bread that's ridiculously tasty. Conversation flows easily, mostly rehashing the horrors of midterms now that they're safely in the rearview mirror, speculating about the expensive resort Hanni initially found, and Danielle telling—first time for you, thousandth time for the girls—the story of the day she bleached and cut her hair.

"Seriously," she says, gesturing emphatically with her fork, "the stylist kept saying 'are you sure?' like I was asking her to tattoo her name on my forehead. It's just hair! It grows back!"

Minji chuckles, sipping her mango juice. "That was an amazing transformation, Dani. Really. Very... un-academic." Hanni nods vigorously. "Totally! You looked like you belonged on that yacht over there." She points towards a sleek white vessel gliding into the marina. You lean back in your chair, sipping your coffee, just listening to them banter. It feels good, normal, surprisingly easy to just be here with them. Hanni keeps leaning into your space, her shoulder brushing yours, her hand occasionally finding yours under the table for a quick squeeze. It’s comfortable, familiar, but you also catch Danielle watching the interaction with open amusement, while Minji glances over occasionally with an expression that’s harder to read… maybe curiosity, maybe just observation.

After breakfast, fueled by caffeine and carbs, the consensus is to explore a bit before hitting the beach. You wander through the nearby town, a vibrant collection of pastel-painted buildings, bustling markets selling spices and woven baskets, and locals calling out friendly greetings. You duck into a few shops selling touristy trinkets, laughing at the ridiculous t-shirts. Danielle buys a pair of cheap, oversized sunglasses shaped like pineapples, declaring them essential for "Vacation Dani's aesthetic". Minji seems genuinely interested in a stall selling handmade jewelry, carefully examining delicate shell necklaces. Hanni drags you over to look at bright pareos, holding a turquoise one up against you. "This color would look amazing on you," she insists. "Matches your eyes... almost." You deflect, laughing, but the easy intimacy of the gesture isn't lost on you, or on the other two who watch with matching smiles.

You grab some bottles of water and eventually find yourselves near one of the island’s famous landmarks: the Pitons, two majestic volcanic peaks rising almost cinematically from the sea. You don't hike them, opting instead for a viewpoint that offers stunning panoramic views. The sheer scale of them is breathtaking, green slopes plunging down to the sparkling blue water. Naturally, this calls for photos. Danielle immediately takes charge, directing poses. "Okay, group shot! Squeeze in! Hanni, stop trying to climb onto his back." More laughter. You snap pictures of the girls with the Pitons as a backdrop, individual shots, selfies. Danielle insists on taking several of you and Hanni together, positioning you close, making Hanni wrap her arms around your waist from behind. "Perfect!" she declares, reviewing the shot on her phone. "Look how cute you two are. Disgustingly cute." Hanni beams, pressing a quick kiss to your shoulder blade before pulling away. You feel a flush creep up your neck, partly from the heat, partly from the casual display in front of the others. Minji watches, leaning against the railing, sunglasses hiding her eyes, but the corner of her mouth is tilted up in a small smile.

Finally, the call of the ocean becomes too strong to ignore. You find a stretch of beach recommended by the cafe owner—a crescent of soft, pale sand fringed by swaying palm trees. It’s definitely popular; colorful umbrellas dot the sand, families splash in the shallows, and couples stroll along the water's edge. It's lively, but not overwhelmingly crowded like you feared Cancun might be. Music drifts from a nearby beach bar. This is exactly what everyone needed. Without much ceremony, the girls start shedding their outer layers. Hanni’s sundress comes off to reveal a vibrant orange bikini, the top simple triangles, the bottoms cut high on her hips, emphasizing their curve. She might be the shortest, but her body is compact and seriously juicy, and seeing those curves again, now in a new light, is refreshing; those slightly wide hips, the soft curve of her belly above the bikini bottom, all perfectly proportioned. She shakes her hair out, grinning at you cheekily.

Danielle ditches her shorts and tank top for a sleek black bikini. It’s more athletic in style, but holy shit. The top has intricate straps across the back, and the bottoms sit low, showcasing a defined abs that ripple as she moves. She’s leaner than Hanni, but all tight curves and toned muscle. She catches you looking and strikes another playful pose, hand on her hip. "Eyes up here, buddy," she teases, though her own gaze flickers down your torso for a split second.

Then Minji unfolds from her linen layers. Her choice is a deep emerald green two-piece. The top is minimalist, barely there, highlighting the elegant line of her collarbones and, yeah, confirming Hanni’s assessment—definitely small, a little bigger than Dani's, which you happen to appreciate. But the bottoms... they’re cut perfectly to showcase what is undeniably a spectacular ass. She’s taller than the others, with a thicker build, unpretentiously hot in a way that’s incredibly appealing. She turns to grab her towel, giving you an unimpeded view that makes your mouth go slightly dry.

Damn. The three of them together, bathed in the Caribbean sun, shedding the last vestiges of their student identities, are a fucking revelation.

Feeling the heat yourself, and suddenly very aware of being the only one still fully clothed, you pull your linen shirt off over your head, tossing it onto the growing pile of discarded clothes and towels. Hanni lets out an appreciative little hum. Danielle whistles softly. Minji just raises an eyebrow before she turns towards the water. "Last one in buys the first round of rum punch!" Danielle yells, already sprinting towards the turquoise waves. Hanni shrieks with laughter and takes off after her, splashing loudly as she hits the shallows. You exchange a quick glance with Minji. A silent challenge passes between you. You both break into a run, pounding across the warm sand, the sheer joy of the moment infectious.

You hit the water just behind Danielle, the cool rush a welcome shock against your hot skin. Hanni surfaces beside you, spluttering and laughing, immediately splashing you in the face. An impromptu water fight breaks out, devolving quickly into dunking attempts and general chaos. You find yourself wrestling playfully with Hanni, easily overpowering her small frame until Danielle teams up with her, both of them trying to drag you under while Minji watches from a few feet away, a genuine, wide smile finally gracing her face as she ducks a stray splash. You surrender, laughing, letting them dunk you before coming up sputtering. The water is crystal clear, the perfect temperature. Floating on your back, looking up at the vast blue sky, the stress feels like a distant memory, something that happened to someone else in another life.

Later, you all buy coconut water from a vendor walking the beach, sipping the cool liquid straight from the shells. You find some lounge chairs under a palm tree, settling in to dry off and just soak it all in. The conversation is relaxed, interspersed with comfortable silences. You talk about music, shitty campus jobs, travel dreams. Hanni leans against your chair, tracing patterns on your knee. Danielle scrolls through the photos she took earlier, narrating potential Instagram captions. Minji surprises you by asking about your work in the Innovation Club, showing genuine interest in the projects you mentioned offhand. You find yourself talking easily, sharing stories, laughing at their anecdotes. Every so often, your gaze drifts—to the curve of Hanni’s hip as she shifts, the way the sun glints off Danielle’s damp dark hair, the smooth expanse of Minji’s back as she reapplies sunscreen. And sometimes, you catch them looking back—Hanni’s gaze possessive and warm, Danielle’s open and appraising, Minji’s quick and thoughtful before flicking away. It’s not awkward, not yet anyway. It just... is. A current of awareness underneath the easy camaraderie. You feel yourself relaxing into the group, not just as Hanni’s plus-one, but as part of this specific configuration, here on this island.

The walk back to the villa is slower, limbs heavy with sun and salt water fatigue, but spirits are high. Sand seems to have infiltrated every possible crevice. You carry a bag heavy with takeout containers from a local spot the beach vendor recommended—grilled fish, rice and peas, fried plantains—the smell mingling with the lingering scent of sunscreen on your skin. Back inside the cool tiled haven of the Airbnb, it's a synchronized operation born of shared exhaustion. Food is dumped on the kitchen counter, bags are dropped, and a silent agreement is reached: showers first, then sustenance. You take turns, the spray washing away the grit and salt, leaving your skin tingling and refreshed. You change into fresh clothes; comfortable shorts and a clean t-shirt. When you emerge, the girls are gradually doing the same.

Hanni appears in a short, flowy white dress that leaves her shoulders bare, her damp hair slicked back. Danielle rocks a pair of ripped black jeans and a fitted band tee. Minji opts for a simple, dark purple maxi dress that emphasizes her height and clings subtly to her curves; she’s added a touch of dark lipstick that makes her mouth look incredibly plush. They all look fantastic, relaxed and glowing from the day in the sun, the weariness replaced by a comfortable, post-beach languor. You gather around the table, tearing into the takeout containers with minimal ceremony, conversation punctuated by satisfied groans and the clinking of forks.

Later, showered, fed, and buzzing with a pleasant tiredness, the energy shifts again. The quiet relaxation of the villa feels too contained for the lingering holiday buzz. "Okay," Hanni announces, pushing her empty container away. "Food coma is setting in. We need libations. And music that isn't just cicadas." Danielle nods eagerly. "Beach bar? I saw one on the walk back that looked like it had potential. Fairy lights and everything." Minji shrugs. "Sounds good. As long as they have something other than rum punch. I think I'm still tasting coconut from this afternoon." So, you head out again, walking down the now-darkening road towards the sound of faint music and the rhythmic crash of waves.

The seaside bar is exactly as Danielle described: strings of fairy lights draped between palm trees, low wooden tables scattered across a sandy floor just yards from the water's edge, a gentle breeze carrying the salt spray. Reggae music drifts from speakers, loud enough to feel but not so loud you have to shout. It’s perfect. You find a table slightly away from the main bar area, offering a bit more privacy and a clear view of the moonlit ocean. The first round of drinks arrives quickly, potent cocktails in various shades of pink and orange for the girls, a cold beer for you. The alcohol hits faster this time, layering nicely onto the residual relaxation from the sun and the satisfying meal. Laughter comes easier, conversation flows looser. Hanni kicks off her sandals under the table, her bare foot brushing against your calf. Danielle leans back, surveying the scene with a satisfied grin. Minji seems more animated, joining the banter more readily.

Another round arrives. The initial chatter about the day's adventures starts to fade, replaced by a more intimate, charged energy fueled by the booze and the proximity under the dim lights. Hanni, never one to shy away, leans forward, resting her chin on her hands, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she looks directly at you. "Okay, serious question time," she suddenly announces, drawing the others' attention. She gestures vaguely between Danielle and Minji. "Them. Hot, right?" The question hangs there, blunt and direct. Danielle raises an eyebrow, a slow, amused smirk spreading across her face. Minji freezes for a split second, her eyes widening almost imperceptibly before she quickly looks down into her drink, though you see a faint blush creep up her neck.

You feel your own cheeks warm slightly, caught off guard but also weirdly pleased by Hanni’s boldness. You take a slow sip of your beer, meeting Hanni's challenging gaze. "Uh, yeah," you manage. "Obviously. They're both gorgeous." Hanni beams, clearly satisfied with phase one.

"Obviously," she echoes. "But details, details! What do you like most?" She leans in closer, conspiratorial. "Come on, don't be shy. We're all friends here... very good friends." Danielle leans forward too, her expression purely curious, maybe a little flattered. Minji keeps her eyes fixed on her drink, but she’s definitely listening, the blush deepening slightly. You feel put on the spot, but the alcohol buzz makes you bolder than usual. You glance at Danielle first. "Okay, uh... Dani?" You meet her amused gaze. "Your smile. Seriously. It’s like... super bright? Lights up your whole face. It’s really charming."

Danielle's smirk softens into a genuine, pleased grin. "Aww, thanks!" she says, actually looking a little bashful for a moment. Then you turn your attention to Minji, who still isn’t looking up. "And Minji..." You pause, gathering your thoughts. "Your lips." Her head snaps up at that, her eyes meeting yours. "They’re... really nice," you continue, feeling a bit awkward but pushing on. "Like, really plump. It gives a special touch to your face. And that lipstick you've got on tonight? Looks amazing." Minji’s blush flares again, reaching her ears this time, but she doesn’t look away. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile touches the lips you just complimented.

Hanni claps her hands together softly. "See? Knew you had good taste! And her lips aren't just nice to look at," she adds, leaning towards you again. "They're super soft too." You frown slightly, playing along, though Hanni’s earlier hints are clicking into place. "Oh yeah? And how would you know that?" Hanni grins wickedly, her eyes flicking towards Minji, who quickly looks away again, though the small smile lingers. "Because I've kissed them, obviously!" she declares matter-of-factly, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

Danielle bursts out laughing. "Oh my god, Han! Just drop it on him like that!" She turns to you, shaking her head. "No subtlety, this one." Hanni shrugs nonchalantly. "What? It's true. Right, Minj?" Minji mumbles something into her drink that sounds vaguely affirmative, still blushing furiously but not denying it.

"Wait, really?" you ask, genuinely surprised by the casual confirmation. Hanni nods. "Uh-huh. Long story. Involved too much cheap wine and a really bad rom-com marathon sophomore year." Danielle pipes up. "Ooh! You know what? Minji should give him a little demo! Just a peek!" Hanni grins. "Yeah, Minj! Show him how soft they are!" Minji looks horrified, her eyes darting between Hanni and Danielle. "No! Guys, stop!" she protests, but there's no real heat behind it, mostly flustered embarrassment.

"Come on," you coax gently, leaning slightly towards her across the table, emboldened by the alcohol and the sheer unexpectedness of the situation. "Just a quick one? For science?" She hesitates, biting her lip, the one you just complimented, then lets out a tiny sigh of defeat, glancing quickly at Hanni and Danielle's encouraging faces. "Okay, fine," she whispers, sounding resigned but maybe a tiny bit intrigued too. "Just... fast." You both lean forward across the small table, the space between you suddenly charged. Her eyes meet yours for a fraction of second before fluttering closed. You press your lips gently against hers. Hanni was right. They are incredibly soft, plush, tasting faintly of her fruity cocktail and that dark lipstick. It’s barely a kiss, just a soft, brief pressure, over almost as soon as it begins. You both pull back simultaneously, Minji immediately grabbing her drink and taking a large gulp, refusing to meet anyone's eyes, though the blush on her cheeks is now practically neon. Danielle and Hanni are practically vibrating with glee. "See?!" Hanni exclaims triumphantly. "Told you!"

The brief kiss seems to break some kind of barrier. Danielle leans forward, her expression shifting from amusement to genuine curiosity. "Okay, so now that we're all being honest... dish. You and Hanni." She gestures between you. "What's the deal? Like, what's she really like?" Minji looks up, her curiosity apparently overcoming her embarrassment. Hanni squirms slightly but looks at you expectantly. The question hangs there. They want the details. You glance at Hanni, who gives you a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Permission granted.

"She's..." you start, choosing your words carefully, mindful of the audience but wanting to be honest. "She likes to give up control. A lot." You pause, seeing Hanni's cheeks flush slightly but her eyes stay fixed on you. "Definitely submissive. And... needy. Like, really needy sometimes. In a good way," you quickly add. Hanni bites her lip, looking down at the table but not protesting. "Okay, yeah, fine," she mumbles. "That's... true." She looks up, meeting your eyes, a flicker of heat there. "And I like getting my ass slapped," she adds suddenly, defiantly, looking around the table. "Like, really hard sometimes." Danielle nods sagely. "Oh, we know, honey. We've heard the complaints about bruises." Hanni throws a napkin at her. Danielle laughs again, then turns back to you, her gaze sharp. "She's also really good with her mouth, though, right?" Her tone is casual, but the implication is clear. "Best head on campus, probably."

You feel your own face flush this time, but you can't exactly deny it. "Uh... yeah," you confirm, clearing your throat. "Yeah, she definitely is." You look at Danielle, a sudden suspicion dawning. "Wait a minute... how do you know? Have you two...?" Before you can even finish the question, Danielle cuts you off with a nod and a grin. "Yep." Hanni chimes in, waving her hand dismissively like it's old news. "Oh my god, babe, catch up. We've all hooked up. With each other. Multiple times."

You stare at her, then at Danielle, then at Minji, who is suddenly looking intensely interested in a scratch on the tabletop. "Wait. All of you? Even... Minji?" The idea seems incongruous with the shy girl who blushed at a compliment about her lips just moments ago. Danielle bursts out laughing again, louder this time. "Him asking about Minji! That's rich!" Hanni leans towards you again, lowering her voice dramatically. "Don't let the quiet act fool you. Seriously. This one?" She jerks her head towards Minji. "She's the worst of the lot. Total freak." Minji finally looks up, swatting weakly at Hanni's arm. "Hanni! Stop it!" she protests, but she’s giggling now, the blush returning with a vengeance. "It's true!" Danielle insists gleefully. "She's a total gooner! Seriously, if you saw her private Twitter account, you'd lose your mind. It's nothing but porn. Wall-to-wall." You look from Danielle's laughing face to Minji's mortified-but-giggling one.

"No way," you say, shaking your head. "I don't believe you." Hanni's eyes light up. "Oh yeah? Prove it, Minj! Show him!" Danielle chimes in, "Yeah, Minji, show him your shame!" Everyone is definitely several drinks deep now, the teasing fueled by alcohol and the increasingly charged atmosphere. Minji groans, hiding her face in her hands for a second. "Oh my god, you guys are the worst." But then she peeks through her fingers, looking at your skeptical face, then back at her grinning friends. A drunken shrug overtakes her embarrassment. "Ugh, fine! Whatever! Don't judge me!" She fumbles for her phone, unlocks it with slightly unsteady fingers, navigates somewhere, and then pushes the phone across the table towards you, refusing to watch your reaction.

You pick up the phone hesitantly. And holy shit. Danielle wasn't exaggerating. It's an Twitter feed, alright, but the timeline is an endless scroll of hardcore pornography. Just post after post. There's a lot of lesbian content, scenes featuring girls who look vaguely like college students, often involving strap-on use that looks surprisingly intense. There are clips of girls in clearly submissive roles, scenes heavy on BDSM elements—spanking, bondage, orgasm denial. You even scroll past some graphic bukkake clips and numerous retweets from other accounts that were clearly thirsty gooners just like her, It's... a lot. A very specific, surprisingly intense collection. You scroll for a few moments, genuinely taken aback but also undeniably intrigued. This quiet, reserved girl has this bubbling beneath the surface? You slide the phone back across the table to Minji, who snatches it back quickly, her face flaming.

You look at her, seeing her in a completely new light. Hanni leans forward eagerly. "So? What do you think? Pretty wild, right?" You take another swig of beer, your mind racing slightly, trying to reconcile the shy girl from earlier with the curator of that feed. "Yeah," you admit. "Wow. I... I liked it." You meet Minji's wide eyes, then glance at Danielle, then Hanni. "I like all of you," you clarify. Minji, emboldened by alcohol and perhaps the exposure of her secret, takes a deep breath and blurts out, "Okay, all this talk... it's kinda making me really horny." A beat of silence follows her confession, then Hanni and Danielle explode into laughter, not mocking, but relieved, echoing the sentiment. "Girl, same!" Danielle exclaims, fanning herself dramatically. Hanni's foot, which had been playing footsie with your calf, slides higher, pressing deliberately against the inside of your thigh. "Tell me about it," she murmurs, looking straight at you.

Then, subtly, almost imperceptibly to anyone not paying attention, her hand disappears beneath the edge of the table. You feel a sudden warmth brush against your leg, followed by the unmistakable pressure of her fingers closing around you through the fabric of your shorts. You were already semi-hard from the conversation and Minji’s surprising revelation, but Hanni’s direct touch sends a shockwave straight through you. Her grip is firm, knowing, squeezing rhythmically, chasing away any remaining shred of drunken haze, replacing it with focused heat. Your cock leaps against her palm, instantly thick and fully hard, straining against the confinement of your shorts. She lets out a low hum of approval, her thumb stroking slowly over the rigid head through the material. Her eyes don't leave yours as she leans in slightly, her voice a low murmur just for you, though the others are definitely watching now, their own conversations faltering. "Someone else feeling horny too?" she asks. Her fingers tighten again, emphasizing the point. You nod, unable to trust your voice for a second, swallowing hard.

"Yes," you manage, the word rough. "A lot." Her lips curve into a slow, predatory smile. "Good," she whispers. "Think you might want to help us... get some release? We seem to be having a bit of a problem." She glances meaningfully at Danielle and Minji, who are both watching the interaction intently. You look at them, then back at Hanni's hand clamped firmly around your erection. There’s no hesitation. "Yeah," you say. "Yeah, I would."

"All of us, though?" Dani asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "That's a lot of... stress relief needed. Think you can handle the workload?" You meet her gaze squarely, feeling a surge of confidence fueled by the alcohol, the blatant desire from all three girls, and the throbbing hardness currently being expertly manipulated under the table. "Don't worry about me," you assure her, letting a smirk touch your lips. "I can handle it." Danielle studies you for a moment, then a slow grin spreads across her face. She nods once, decisively. "Okay then," she says, pushing her chair back slightly. "Convinced. Let's blow this popsicle stand." Hanni removes her hand, leaving you aching and overly sensitive, and immediately flags down the server. The bill is settled quickly, a blur of crumpled bills and credit cards amidst giddy, slightly slurred instructions.

The walk back to the villa is something else. Hands brush accidentally-on-purpose, glances linger far too long, bursts of nervous laughter bubble up and fade just as quickly. You're hyper-aware of Hanni pressed against your side, Danielle walking slightly ahead but looking back frequently with that challenging grin, and Minji trailing just behind, her eyes fixed on you with an unnerving focus.

—

Inside, the door barely clicks shut before the fragile dam of drunken restraint breaks. It's not a frantic rush, but a magnetic pull. Eyes lock, breaths hitch. Without a word, you all seem to gravitate towards the back of the villa, towards the room you're sharing with Hanni, the one with the bigger bed. Inside the room, the dim light spilling from the hallway casts long shadows. Hanni kicks the door shut. The click echoes in the sudden quiet. Then, they turn to you as one.

"Sit," Danielle commands, pointing towards the large bed dominating the room. You obey, perching on the edge, your heart hammering against your ribs, your cock already aching behind your zipper. They converge on you, a wave of perfume, booze, and female heat. Hands are everywhere, immediately working at the buttons of your shirt, the buckle of your belt. Hanni leans in, her lips finding yours in a demanding kiss, tongue plunging deep, tasting like sweet cocktails and pure need. Simultaneously, Danielle is working on your shorts, her knuckles brushing against your thigh, while Minji’s surprisingly cool fingers are undoing your belt buckle with fumbling but determined movements. Kisses land on your jaw, your neck, interspersed with soft murmurs and pleased little sounds as your shirt comes off, tossed carelessly onto the floor. They pull back slightly to wrestle your shorts and boxers down your legs, clumsy in their eagerness. And then you're naked, sitting on the edge of the bed, fully exposed under their combined gaze.

A collective intake of breath follows. Their eyes drop to your cock, now completely hard and jutting proudly upwards, thick and heavy in the dim light. "Holy shit," Danielle breathes, her eyes wide. Minji just stares, her lips slightly parted, her earlier blush returning. Hanni beams, puffing her chest out slightly, a ridiculous wave of proprietary pride washing over her flushed face. "Told you," she says smugly. She reaches out, her fingers gently cupping your balls, weighing them in her palm before tracing a single finger up the thick, straining shaft. You groan involuntarily at the touch. Then, as quickly as they converged, they pull back, leaving you momentarily alone on the bed, throbbing and exposed.

They exchange glances, a silent, giddy agreement passing between them. And then their clothes start coming off. It’s not a polished performance; it’s a clumsy, drunken, utterly captivating strip tease. Hanni fumbles with the zipper on the back of her white dress, giggling as Danielle reaches over to help her, their fingers brushing, sparking little smiles. The dress pools at her feet, revealing her red panties and bra. Minji pulls her maxi dress over her head in one smooth motion, her dark hair falling across her face for a second before she shakes it back, revealing simple dark underwear beneath. Danielle makes a show of unbuttoning her band tee slowly, teasingly, before peeling it off, then struggling for a comical moment with the button on her tight shorts, hopping slightly. You can't help yourself; the sight is overwhelming. Your hand finds your own cock, slicking unconsciously back and forth, a gentle pressure trying to alleviate the almost painful tightness in your groin as you watch them.

Layer by layer, the clothes disappear. Hanni peels off her bra, revealing familiar, medium, perky breasts, her nipples already tight little buds, a slightly lighter shade of pinkish-brown. Her bottoms follow, showcasing those juicy hips and the soft curve of her stomach. You know her body well, every curve, every freckle, but seeing her reveal herself alongside the others, the anticipation of finally tasting what she’s offered, makes her look brand new, utterly delicious. Danielle steps out of her shorts and removes her bra and panties skillfully, tossing them aside. Her body is exactly as advertised by that bikini—lean, toned muscle, tight curves, that incredibly sculpted stomach, and an ass that’s high, round, and practically begging to be grabbed. Her breasts are small and firm, fitting perfectly with her athletic frame.

Then Minji. She slips off her dark bra and panties with less fanfare but no less impact. Her body is softer than Danielle's, taller, with that amazing thickness that you could glimpse on the beach. Her ass is spectacular, full and round, contrasting beautifully with her narrow waist. And as she turns slightly, you notice it, unlike the others, Minji has a neatly trimmed patch of dark pubic hair, a small, perfect triangle that somehow looks incredibly erotic, drawing your eye right to the juncture of her thighs. Her nipples are puffy like Hanni’s, tight points betraying her arousal, but darker, a deep brown against her paler skin. Naked, flushed, slightly unsteady on their feet but radiating pure heat, they stand before you, a breathtaking trio of distinctly beautiful, completely desirable girls.

The hesitation evaporates. They move towards the bed again, converging on you. This time, the kisses are frantic, hungry. All three mouths descend on yours at once, a confusing, exhilarating tangle of tongues, teeth, and soft lips. You taste Hanni's familiar sweetness, Danielle's minty gum underneath the alcohol, Minji's dark lipstick and fruity cocktail. It’s overwhelming, chaotic, pure sensation. Then, as if by unspoken agreement, they shift, allowing for more individual attention. Danielle kisses you hard, her hand gripping the back of your neck, before pulling away slightly, breathless. Minji follows, her kiss surprisingly bold, her plump lips pressing firmly against yours, her tongue exploring tentatively. Then Hanni takes over again, slower this time, deeper, staking her claim before finally pulling back, leaving you gasping, your lips tingling. Without a word, Minji and Danielle slide off the edge of the bed, kneeling between your legs on the cool tile floor. Their eyes meet yours for a split second—Danielle’s full of playful fire, Minji’s dark and intense, her earlier shyness completely burned away by booze and lust.

Then, they lower their heads. The first touch is electric—Minji’s soft lips closing around the base of your shaft while Danielle flicks her tongue experimentally over the sensitive tip. A wave of heat washes over you, so intense it makes your vision swim for a second. Hanni, meanwhile, clambers onto the bed beside you, straddling your leg, and leans down, her hot mouth closing over one of your nipples, sucking hard. She knows exactly how much you love that, the sharp pleasure radiating through your chest. Below, Minji starts licking slowly up the shaft, her movements deliberate, coating you in saliva, while Danielle focuses on swirling her tongue around the head, occasionally taking the entire glans into her mouth. Watching Minji’s plump, dark-lipstick-smudged lips wrap around your cock is insanely hot, almost surreal after the earlier conversation. She makes a low sound of appreciation in her throat, then shifts her focus, her tongue darting out to lave your balls, taking one into her warm mouth while Danielle takes over the full length of your shaft, her throat working expertly. Hanni keeps sucking, occasionally biting gently, sending sparks down your spine.

Your head is thrown back against the headboard, eyes half-lidded, lost in the onslaught of sensation. Minji’s lips and tongue are working magic on your balls, swirling, sucking gently, driving you insane. Danielle has the entire length of your shaft engulfed, her throat working expertly, bobbing up and down with practiced rhythm. The friction, the wet heat, it’s almost unbearable. Hanni finally releases your nipple, leaving it wet and hypersensitive, and slides down your body to join the others.

"Move over," she murmurs, nudging Minji slightly. "Sharing is caring." Minji glances up, lipstick thoroughly smeared, a dazed, hungry look in her eyes, and shifts slightly, giving Hanni access. Now it's pure lust, three mouths devoted entirely to your cock. Hanni focuses on the base, her tongue mimicking Minji’s earlier attention to your balls while her lips create a tight seal. Minji works the mid-section, her plump lips sliding up and down, while Danielle maintains her relentless assault on the head. You groan, a low, guttural sound torn from your throat, arching off the bed slightly.

"Fuck," Danielle gasps, pulling off for a second, leaving a trail of saliva glistening on your skin. "He tastes so good." Minji nods vigorously, licking her lips slowly as she eyes your still-throbbing shaft. "So good," she agrees. Hanni looks up, grinning, then leans over and captures Minji’s mouth in a deep, sloppy kiss, tongues tangling right there next to your thigh. Minji moans into the kiss, her hand coming up to cup Hanni’s cheek. They break apart, breathless, saliva shining on their lips. Danielle watches them, then leans across your lap and kisses Hanni hard. "My turn," she murmurs against Hanni's lips before pulling back and immediately latching back onto your cock with renewed vigor. Hanni laughs, a throaty sound, then dives back in alongside Minji. They work together now, a tag team of tongues and lips, sometimes bumping heads, sometimes pausing to shoot each other competitive little smirks. At one point, Minji deliberately licks a trail up your shaft right into Danielle's mouth, making Danielle groan and push her head away playfully.

"Bitch," Danielle mumbles, before they both dissolve into muffled giggles against your skin. The sight of them teasing each other, kissing while their mouths are slick with your cum-preview, drives you absolutely wild. Your hips start to buck involuntarily against their mouths. "Easy, tiger," Hanni murmurs, pulling off slightly. "Gotta make you last." But you can feel it, the tight knot coiling deep in your gut, the pressure building relentlessly. You're ready. More than ready. You need to be inside one of them, now.

Danielle seems to sense it too. She pulls off completely, her breathing ragged, eyes blazing with drunken lust. "Okay, okay," she pants, looking up at you, determination etched on her face. "Me first. I called dibs, right? Kinda?" She glances at the others for confirmation, though it’s clearly a statement, not a question. Hanni shrugs, still lazily licking the underside of your shaft. "Technically I had first dibs," she points out nonchalantly, referencing her sleepy pre-nap claim. "But whatever. You look like you need it more right now." Minji nods, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Go for it, Dani." Danielle grins, a triumphant, feral look.

She starts to climb onto the bed, clearly intending to mount you. "Uh-uh," you interrupt, your voice coming out rougher, more commanding than you intended, fueled by the overwhelming need to take control. She freezes, looking at you with wide, surprised eyes. "Get on your hands and knees," you order, pointing to the middle of the large bed. "Ass up." A slow, wicked smile spreads across her face. "Yes, sir," she purrs, the words dripping with mock obedience that doesn't quite hide the genuine thrill. She turns without another word and crawls onto the bed, positioning herself exactly as you instructed, hands planted firmly, back arched, presenting her tight, perfect ass directly towards you.

The view is fucking incredible.

Minji watches Danielle get into position, then, with a predatory gleam in her own eyes, she climbs onto the bed as well. She doesn't hesitate, crawling forward until she's sitting directly in front of Danielle, facing her, legs spread wide. She leans back on her hands, tilting her hips slightly, offering an explicit, deliberate view of her own slick, swollen folds and that neatly trimmed patch of hair. Her dark, puffy nipples are tight points, her breathing shallow.

Hanni slides off the floor where she’d been kneeling and comes to your side, pressing her naked body against yours, her skin hot. She reaches down, wrapping her hand around your still-aching cock, stroking it slowly, deliberately. "Ready to play?" she whispers, her lips brushing against your ear before she starts kissing your neck, her tongue tracing lazy circles while her hand keeps up its steady rhythm.

You look at the scene arrayed before you: Danielle, arched and waiting, her tight asshole puckering slightly with anticipation; Minji, sprawled open, her wet cunt glistening invitingly just beyond; Hanni, plastered against your side, her hand working you, her lips on your skin. Your cock pulses in her grip, slick and hard as rock.

Fuck yes, you're ready.

You shift forward, moving between Danielle’s waiting legs, Hanni’s hand dropping away as you position the thick head of your cock right at Danielle’s entrance. She whimpers softly, pushing back against you almost imperceptibly.

You grip Danielle's hips firmly, steadying yourself, steadying her. Her skin is hot and slick with a fine sheen of sweat under your palms. She pushes back against the head of your cock again. You don't make her wait. With a low groan, you thrust forward, pushing into her tight cunt. Holy fuck, she's snug. Her muscles clench around you instinctively, gripping you like a velvet fist. Danielle cries out, a sharp gasp that’s half pain, half pure pleasure, her back arching even more. "Oh god... yes! Fuck, you're thick," she pants. You pause for a second, letting her body adjust, letting yourself savor the incredible sensation of being buried deep inside her heat. It’s delicious, just as you imagined—tight, wet, welcoming. Hanni moans softly against your neck, her hand sliding down your stomach, fingers dancing near the base of your cock where it disappears into Danielle. She keeps kissing you, slow, wet, open-mouthed kisses.

Then, Danielle, still impaled on your cock, twists her head around, her hair sticking slightly to her damp forehead. Her eyes land on Minji, who's watching the penetration with wide, dark, fascinated eyes, her own pussy glistening. A wicked grin splits Danielle's face. "Don't think I forgot about you," she murmurs. She leans forward, stretching, until her face is level with Minji's spread legs. Without hesitation, Danielle's tongue darts out, flicking directly against Minji's clit. Minji gasps, her hips jolting off the bed slightly. "Oh! Fuck, Dani..." she breathes out, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. Danielle chuckles, a low, throaty sound, and settles in, her mouth closing over Minji's swollen folds, sucking and licking with obvious expertise while your cock is still buried deep inside her own pussy. The sight is outrageously hot.

The combined stimuli, the incredible tightness surrounding your cock, the sight of Danielle devouring Minji, Hanni’s hot breath and soft lips on your neck, threaten to overload your senses. You need an outlet. As Hanni continues her sensual assault on your neck and shoulders, your free hand drifts down, your hand sliding across her soft skin. She gasps softly against your skin as your fingers probe deeper, easily finding her clit, already hard and slick. She’s soaking wet. You press down, rubbing in slow circles, then faster, mimicking the rhythm of your thrusts into Danielle. Hanni moans louder this time, grinding her hips against your side, pushing herself onto your fingers. "Yes... fuck, right there," she whispers urgently against your ear, her kisses becoming frantic, biting slightly at your earlobe. You start pumping into Danielle again, finding a steady rhythm. She groans with each thrust, her head thrown back now, entirely focused on pleasuring Minji, whose soft whimpers harmonize with Danielle's louder cries. You slide a finger inside Hanni, then two, stretching her slightly.

She gasps, digging her nails into your shoulder, her wetness coating your fingers as you scissor them inside her, hitting her g-spot with deliberate pressure while continuing to fuck Danielle’s tight cunt. It's a great combination of sensations: Danielle’s tight grip around your shaft, the visual feast of her eating Minji out, Hanni’s frantic moans against your ear as your fingers work her magic, the slick slap of skin on skin filling the hot, humid room.

You settle into a driving rhythm, fucking Danielle with deep, steady strokes that make the bed frame groan softly beneath you. Her tight pussy milks you with every plunge, threatening to pull you under completely. "Oh fuck... oh fuck," she chants, head still turned as her tongue works relentlessly between Minji’s legs. Minji is trembling now, whimpers escaping her lips, her hips twitching uncontrollably. Danielle seems to feed off it, her ministrations becoming almost frantic, sucking harder, her fingers finding Minji's clit and rubbing insistently.

Beside you, Hanni is writhing against your hand, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Deeper," she pants against your neck, her voice strained. "Fuck, yes... finger me harder!" You obey instantly, increasing the speed of your scissoring fingers inside her slick pussy, driving them deeper, hitting that spot again and again. Your thumb finds her clit, rubbing hard circles, mirroring the relentless rhythm of your thrusts into Danielle. Hanni cries out, a high, keening sound, bucking violently against your hand. "Like that! Oh god, don't stop!" Her nails are digging into your back now, leaving trails of fire on your skin. Her wetness coats your hand, slick and hot.

You increase your pace fucking Danielle, slamming into her harder, faster, drawing ragged moans from her throat that mingle with Minji’s higher-pitched cries. Danielle's ass cheeks clench around the base of your cock with each impact. "Jesus Christ," she manages to gasp out between frantic licks against Minji's folds. "You trying to split me in two?" Her voice is breathless, strained, but there’s no complaint in it, only raw, overwhelmed pleasure.

You lean down, grabbing a handful of her sweat-dampened hair, pulling her head back slightly. "You like it rough, don't you?" you growl near her ear. She just groans in response, her eyes rolling back slightly as you pound into her relentlessly, your balls slapping against her wet skin. Minji lets out a choked sob as Danielle’s mouth clamps down hard on her clit. "Dani! Oh fuck... please!" she pleads, though it's unclear if she's begging her to stop or begging for more. Danielle just grunts, seemingly lost in her task, her own body shuddering with the force of your thrusts. The friction inside Danielle is incredible, almost overwhelming. It feels like molten heat, tight and demanding.

Hanni is completely lost to your fingers, her head thrown back, neck arched, moaning your name over and over again, interspersed with incoherent pleas. "Faster... oh god, yes, faster..." You oblige, your fingers blurring inside her, thumb relentless on her clit, feeling the tremors starting deep within her body. She feels so fucking good, so responsive, her wetness seemingly endless. You alternate your attention, one deep thrust into Danielle followed by a faster, harder push of your fingers into Hanni, then she suddenly grabs your wrist, guiding your fingers, pressing them harder against her G-spot. "Right... there! Fuck me with your fingers, goddammit!" she demands. You push harder, deeper, feeling her inner muscles convulse around your digits. Danielle is bucking back against you now with every thrust, meeting your force with her own, her moans becoming deeper, throatier.

She pulls her mouth away from Minji for a second, gasping for air, her face flushed crimson, eyes glazed over. "Fuck... keep going... don't you fucking stop," she pants, looking back at you over her shoulder, her expression pure, unadulterated lust. Minji whimpers at the loss of contact, reaching down blindly as if to pull Danielle back. The room is filled with the sounds of their cries, your own ragged breathing, the wet slap of fucking, the rhythmic creak of the bed. Sweat drips from your forehead, tracing paths down your chest. You keep driving forward, burying yourself in Danielle's heat again and again, while your fingers continue their relentless assault on Hanni, pushing them both higher, deeper into the frenzy.

"Fuck—fuck—your cock’s so deep—" she chokes out, voice cracking around every word, cheek pressed to the mattress as she tries to keep herself steady. But she’s shaking. She’s soaked. Each slam of your hips punches a breath out of her lungs and scrambles the last of her coordination. Her mouth’s right between Minji’s legs, tongue trying to flick and suck at her clit, but she’s sloppy now, moaning too loud, jaw slack, not really able to focus.

"Shit—Danielle," Minji gasps, hips twitching forward, grabbing a fistful of hair, trying to keep her mouth on target. "I need it—don’t stop—" But Danielle just whimpers, licking blindly, overwhelmed, breath hot against Minji’s soaked slit.

To your right, Hanni’s curled beside you, one leg thrown over your thigh, her hips grinding against your fingers like it’s the only thing keeping her sane. Her pussy’s glistening, juices coating your knuckles as you curl two fingers into her, stroking that spot inside her with precision, ruthless in how steady you are. "Fucking—god," she pants, her head thrown back. "You’re gonna make me cum just from your fingers—I’m not kidding—I swear—keep going—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—"

You don’t stop. You press in deeper, scissoring your fingers slightly, flattening them inside her and rubbing hard. You watch her fall apart. She slaps one hand over her mouth and fails to muffle the scream—"F-fuck, I’m cumming—oh god I’m cumming fuck—fuck—fuck—"—her hips bucking hard, pussy clenching tight around your fingers, gushing down your wrist in hot spurts. She thrashes, thighs squeezing shut around your hand, breath caught in her throat until it breaks into a ragged sob of release.

You pull your hand free, sticky and shining, and slap her ass once, making her whimper and twitch. Then you turn back to Danielle.

"Focus," you growl, hands tightening on her hips, guiding her back down into the mattress. She’s collapsed halfway, elbows shaking under her weight, mouth hanging open, spit dripping from her chin. You slam back into her, cock punching deep, and she lets out a wrecked cry.

"A-ahhh—god—please—fuck me harder—I need it harder—please, please, please—"

"You begging for it now?" you grunt, slapping her ass again, watching it jiggle. "You want it faster, Dani? You wanna be fucked dumb in front of your friends?"

"Yes, yes—fuck—I’m so close—I’m not gonna last—" she whines. You grab a fistful of her hair and tug her head up.

"Then earn it. Don’t ignore your friend," you snap, nodding at Minji, who's watching with parted lips, her legs still open, two fingers slowly rubbing her clit while she watches Dani get railed. "Get back to her pussy. She needs you." Danielle gasps, tears in her eyes, but she listens. Her mouth drops between Minji’s thighs again, tongue sloppily lapping at her folds, one hand fumbling between the friend’s legs as she tries to focus through your brutal pace.

Minji moans, high and breathy. "Fuck—Dani—yes, yes just like that—faster—"

You slam into Danielle harder, angle shifting to hit deep, bottoming out with a filthy slap every time your hips crash into her ass. Her pussy clamps around you, fluttering tight, and she cries out around Minji’s clit, still trying to suck while her body melts. Her hand jerks between Minji’s thighs, fingers frantic now, not coordinated, just desperate. Minji lets out a sob, hips bucking forward into Danielle’s mouth, hand flying up to cover her face.

"Oh—fuck—I’m gonna cum—fuck—keep going—don’t stop—Danielle—yes—!"

And it all goes to hell at once. Danielle screams, back arching hard as her orgasm slams through her. She tries to stay upright, but you keep pounding into her, fucking her through it, and she collapses with her face still buried in Minji’s cunt, fingers still moving. Minji bucks against her, gasping, thighs clamping around Dani’s head as she cries out, cumming in tandem.

"Ahhh—ah—fuck—right there! I'm so fucking horny, shit!" Minji’s whole body tightens, legs shaking, face twisting up with ecstasy as she rides Danielle’s fingers, moaning loud and raw. Her pussy drips down Dani’s wrist as she crashes through her climax, her moans rising with each jerk of her hips.

Danielle’s still moaning too, overwhelmed, ruined, your cock still buried inside her. Her thighs are trembling, cunt milking you, breath ragged.

"Fuck—don’t stop—don’t stop—please keep fucking me—" she begs, almost sobbing, cheek to the sheets, body limp except for her ass pushing back on you.

The bed's a fucking mess, pillows shoved to the floor, sheets half-knotted around legs, heat soaked into every crease like the mattress itself is sweating. Your body’s burning, cock still buried inside Danielle’s fluttering cunt, her hips twitching in aftershocks as she rides the final, ragged edge of her orgasm. Her knees are wide, thighs sticky, her whole frame drooped forward, arms barely keeping her up. You slow down, rolling your hips deep and slow now, just enough to milk every last tremble out of her while her walls squeeze you in these lazy, fading pulses.

“Fuuuck,” Dani groans, slumping down with her cheek pressed into the mattress, face turned just enough for you to see the edge of a dumb, dazed grin. Her eyes are glassy, mouth open, a slick trail of drool stretched from her lip to the bed. “I… I don’t even know what dimension I’m in anymore.” She giggles; light, dizzy, totally lost in that giddy cocktail of post-orgasm high and bar-cocktail drunk. Her whole body shakes as she laughs, then sighs like she’s been deflated.

You slide out of her slow, and she whimpers at the drag, her pussy so sensitive she jerks once on instinct before collapsing flat. You lean in, brushing damp hair away from her cheek, and kiss her, soft, messy, her lips parted, her breath still hiccuping as she giggles into your mouth.

“You’re fucking insane,” she murmurs against your lips, eyes fluttering. “Like. You’ve broken parts of my brain. I think I forgot my major.”

You grin and kiss her again, deeper this time, until she moans, then pull back and look over her shoulder where Hanni’s sprawled out watching you both, her hair a tangle, her inner thighs still glistening with the mess you made earlier. She’s on her side now, hand idly toying with her clit while she watches, all flushed and content and still hungry.

But the moment you turn your attention across the bed, Minji’s already sitting up straighter, brushing hair off her collarbones, eyes locked on you. Her lips are still dark with that same lipstick, slightly smudged now, and her thighs glisten faintly from the earlier action. She raises an eyebrow as you meet her gaze, then tilts her head with a sly little smile.

“My turn,” she says simply, like she’s been waiting with this exact line loaded. “Gonna let me ride you?”

You crawl over the bed, over Dani’s spent body, past Hanni’s grinning mouth, and stop in front of Minji. Her breath catches when you lean in and kiss her slow, letting her taste the linger of Danielle’s moans still on your mouth. She kisses back, firmer, confident, a low sound rumbling in her chest as your hand cups her jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.

“You sure?” you murmur against her lips.

She laughs under her breath. “I’ve been wet for you since the airport,” she whispers. “You’re gonna let me fuck myself stupid or what?”

You lie back in the middle of the bed, propped on a few bunched pillows, and your cock’s already thick and heavy, slick from Dani’s orgasm, standing tall against your stomach. Minji doesn’t wait for permission, she climbs over you, slow and deliberate, straddling your hips like she’s done it a dozen times in her head already.

Her body’s gorgeous: tall, legs strong and smooth, breasts swaying slightly with each shift. Her pussy looks perfect, soft lips already glistening as she kneels above you and wraps a hand around your cock, guiding the thick head to her slit. She shudders just from that contact, biting her lip, her eyes fluttering half-shut.

“Holy shit,” she whispers, dragging your tip through her folds, hips rocking teasingly. “You're so fucking thick.”

“Minji,” Hanni calls, breathless from the other side of the bed. She’s giggling now too, watching her friend work your cock like it’s a goddamn delicacy. “Wait till he’s inside. That first stretch? Fuuuck.”

Minji shoots her a smirk, then lowers herself slow, her pussy parting around your head with slick, obscene resistance. “Jesus,” she breathes, nails digging into your chest. “Hanni wasn’t kidding. You’re huge. I can feel you in my fucking lungs.”

She sinks further, inch by inch, body tensing every time your cock stretches her wider. Her mouth falls open as she drops her hips that last inch, fully seating herself on you with a stuttering gasp.

“Oh my god,” she moans, rocking forward instinctively, trying to breathe through the sudden full-body shock of being stretched so deep. “No wonder she’s always so smug after hooking up with you.”

Your hands settle on her waist, thumbs stroking her flushed skin as she starts moving—slow, careful rolls of her hips at first, working herself open around your cock. Her brows knit together, jaw slack, riding the edge between discomfort and overwhelming pleasure.

“That’s it,” you murmur, dragging your hands up her sides. “Take what you want, Minji. Fucking use me.”

She moans again, louder this time, starting to ride properly now—bouncing with more rhythm, her thighs flexing, tits jiggling with every downstroke. You groan, letting her set the pace, feeling how tight and warm and wet she is wrapped around you.

Across the mattress, Hanni and Danielle have gravitated toward each other. Hanni climbs into Dani’s lap, straddling her thigh and tugging her into a kiss. Danielle, still fucked out and giggling, moans as Hanni’s mouth crushes against hers. Their bodies grind together slow, Hanni humping Dani’s thigh, both of them breathless, lost in the press of lips and the slippery rub of skin on skin.

“Your pussy still twitching, huh?” Hanni purrs into Danielle’s mouth, licking the corner of her lips.

“Mmhmm,” Dani hums, pulling Hanni tighter against her. “But you’re worse. You’re dripping, babe.”

Their hands disappear between each other’s thighs, working slow and sloppy while Minji rides you harder now, both hands on your chest for leverage.

“Oh—fucking—fuck—” she gasps, voice pitching higher every time she bottoms out. “It’s too good—I can’t— I get it now, I get why she’s obsessed—fuck—this cock’s gonna ruin me—”

And you’re still just lying there, letting her take what she needs, eyes flicking between the two girls grinding against each other and Minji’s flushed, desperate face as she bounces faster, cunt slapping down onto your hips with wet, hungry sounds that echo under the moans. Her thighs tremble, sweat dotting her collarbone, hair clinging to her cheeks as she loses her rhythm for a second and drops down hard, bottoming out and grinding herself there, desperate for more friction. Her eyes roll up slightly, fingers clawing at your chest.

“Don’t stop me,” she begs, voice cracking. “I’m gonna fucking cum like this—I swear—I can’t hold it—”

Hanni and Dani’s moans rise in tandem, their fingers flicking across each other’s clits, messy and fast now, lips locked, hands tangled in hair.

You're surrounded, soaked in it—girls panting and moaning, cunt tightening around your cock, legs shaking. Minji’s voice goes high and breathless as she stutters, hips jerking.

She’s close, you can tell—her body’s right on that trembling edge, cunt spasming tight around your cock every time her hips slam down—but she’s holding herself back, grinding harder like she wants it to hurt a little, like she needs that something more to tip her over. Sweat drips down her spine, her back arched, lips parted around a panting whimper. Her fingers dig into your chest like she’s anchoring herself to reality, and her eyes stay fixed on yours, burning through the low amber light of the fucked-out room.

Her pace shifts. Not slower. Not faster. Just... different. Focused. Controlled. Her thighs flex, bouncing with steady purpose, her rhythm so exact you can feel your cock stretching her perfectly on every single roll of her hips. She’s fucking herself into a stupor, breath coming ragged now, and her voice shakes as she leans forward a little, grinding deeper.

“Choke me,” she breathes, quiet but absolutely clear.

You blink up at her, heart kicking once hard in your chest. And then you’re moving, hands sliding up her arms, over the sweat-slicked plane of her neck. You wrap your fingers around her throat and squeeze—not too hard at first, just enough pressure to make her gasp and rock harder.

Her reaction is instant.

“Oh my god,” she chokes out, eyes fluttering, lips twitching into this crooked, dirty grin. “Fuck—yes. Like that—more—don’t hold back—”

You squeeze again, harder this time, and her pussy clamps down on your cock like a fucking vice. Her whole body jolts forward, hair falling into her face, mouth open in a half-scream, half-moan as she keeps riding you through it. The weight of your grip around her throat sends her spiraling—head tipping back, breath coming in short bursts, cunt dripping down your length. Right beside you, a ripple of giggles breaks out—Hanni and Danielle tangled together like drunk, horny vines. Hanni’s on top, legs locked, slick skin sliding. Dani’s thigh is jammed between Hanni’s, and they’re grinding against each other, messy and frantic, watching you and Minji like it’s the best fucking show they’ve ever seen.

“Look at her,” Hanni laughs, breathless, one arm around Dani’s waist as they rock together. “She’s such a little freak, huh?”

Danielle moans, smiling, her hand gripping Hanni’s ass as she bucks against her. “Fuck, yeah. That’s so hot. Look at her face—look how she takes it—ugh, I love this group.”

Minji’s smiling too now, delirious with it, red in the face from the pressure and the pounding. “They’re watching,” she gasps, like it turns her on even more. “They’re fucking watching me like a porn—fuck!—like a fucking slut—”

You keep one hand around her throat and drag the other down, sliding hard across her cheek. The slap cracks through the room.

Minji jolts, gasping, her eyes wide and shining. She pauses—just for a second—then smiles. It’s crooked and hot and wild, like you just unlocked some part of her she doesn’t show most people.

“Again,” she breathes, biting her lip. “Slap me again.”

You do. This time louder. Her head whips a little with the force, her hair flying loose around her face. Her thighs clamp down tighter around your waist. Her pussy floods your cock.

“Fuuuck,” Danielle moans, grinding harder against Hanni. “God, that’s so hot. Minji, baby, you’re killing me right now.”

“Don’t stop,” Hanni pants, rocking her hips hard against Danielle’s, wet friction loud and shameless. “Fucking wreck her, babe. She loves it—look at her—she’s drooling.”

Minji really is. Her chin’s slick, her mouth open, this desperate, fucked-out expression carved into her features like you’ve turned her into someone else entirely. She’s bouncing harder now, breath knocked out of her with each slap of your hips, moaning louder every time your hand hits her cheek.

“Harder—fuck me harder,” she snarls, voice raw, throat bruised under your grip. “Slap me again—do it—do it!”

Another slap. Another gasp. Another roll of her hips, harder than the last. Your cock is buried deep in her, stretching her open, her clit grinding against your pelvis every time she sinks down. She’s dripping, moaning, riding like a demon, chasing something violent.

You glance over—Hanni’s got Dani on her back now, one leg hooked over her shoulder, both of them flushed and sticky, fingers tangled in hair, lips swollen from kissing. They’re still scissoring, sloppier now, hips rocking, thighs trembling.

“Minji’s the star tonight,” Hanni pants, glancing over at you with that fox-smirk that always means she’s up to no good. “God, look at her ride that cock—like she’s starving.”

“I wanna try it next,” Dani mumbles between kisses. “Like, right after. While it’s still all soaked in her mess.”

Hanni giggles, sliding down Dani’s body and latching onto her nipple, teeth grazing it just enough to make Dani yelp and arch up. “Greedy bitch,” she teases, “but after Minji it's my turn.”

Minji hears all of it. She moans, louder now, her pace going ragged.

“Y-you hear that?” she gasps, hands pressing to your chest for balance as she keeps riding, hair flying in her face. “They want your cock next. Right after I break it.” You squeeze her throat again, watching her eyes roll back, then slap her one more time, hard. She’s moaning with every thrust, every slap, the sound messy, guttural, losing the rhythm of it as pleasure cracks her composure.

She’s grinding hard now, not even bouncing—just trying to mash her clit against your pelvis with these desperate, dragging circles, her pussy squeezing your cock with every motion like her body’s trying to pull you deeper, trying to milk something out of you she hasn’t earned yet. Her eyes catch yours, glazed and raw, and she swallows hard like she can barely keep it together.

“Call me a whore,” she gasps suddenly. “Fuck—say it—call me your little whore.”

Your hands slide up her thighs, over her hips, fingers sinking into the curve of her waist as you thrust up once, hard, just to feel how tight she clutches you when she gasps.

“You’re a fucking whore,” you growl, eyes locked on hers. “A cock-drunk, needy little whore riding like your life depends on it.”

She shudders, moaning loud, mouth dropping open like the words themselves fucked her.

“F-fuck, yes,” she breathes, “that’s it—that’s what I needed—fuck me—break me—”

She leans down, chest pressed to yours, and kisses you, mouth hot and wet and shaking. Her lips move against yours, but she’s still whispering between the kisses, frantic.

“Please make me cum—please—I need it so bad—just fucking take it—”

You sit up under her, strong arms locking around her back, rolling her onto the mattress without pulling out. Your bodies flip, her thighs falling open under you, legs spread wide as you slam back in and start pounding her—deep, fast, merciless.

Minji screams, nails clawing at your back, her body rocking with the force of your thrusts. “Oh my god—oh my fucking god—yes—yes, don’t stop—don’t stop!”

You don’t. You hammer into her, hips slapping against the backs of her thighs, cock spearing into her soaked, swollen pussy until she’s drooling onto her own chin, shaking under you, her moans turning to broken sobs of pleasure.

“Fuck, look at her,” Hanni laughs, breathless, watching with wild eyes from where she’s still wrapped around Dani. “Minji’s such a fucking slut right now—so perfect!”

Danielle’s moaning too, her fingers tangled in Hanni’s hair, one leg hooked around Hanni’s waist. Her eyes are locked on the way your hips crash into Minji’s, the way her pussy’s clenching and dripping around your cock with every brutal thrust.

“I’m gonna cum just watching this,” Dani groans. “God, the way he’s fucking her—fuck—fuck, it’s so hot—”

Then Hanni leans over, and suddenly spit on Minji's chest, you quickly spread the saliva across her breasts.

“Cum for him, you dirty slut,” Hanni growls, breath panting against Dani’s neck. “Show us how much of a whore you really are.”

Minji moans louder as she feels her climax approaching, legs locking around your waist.

“I’m gonna cum—I’m gonna fucking cum—don’t stop—don’t stop—break my pussy!”

“Cum on my cock,” you grunt, one hand fisting in her hair, dragging her head back to stare at you. “Fucking soak me, slut—show them how filthy you are—”

Danielle’s shaking, Hanni clutching her tight. They’re grinding hard, kissing messy, watching with wide eyes, their fingers slick between each other’s legs.

Minji throws her head back, screaming now, her voice raw and shaking.

“i’m—fuck—i’m cumming—cumming on your cock—FUCK—”

Her pussy clamps down so hard it feels like she’s trying to crush your cock, her whole body locking up under you as she cums with a high, shattering scream. Her legs kick, back arching, hips jerking uncontrollably while the orgasm rips through her. She’s gushing, soaking your thighs, her nails digging bloody little half-moons into your back as her climax pulses again and again.

Dani cries out right after, burying her face in Hanni’s neck, trembling violently as she cums from the overload, from watching, from the friction of Hanni’s thigh. Hanni moans with her, shuddering, her fingers a blur on her clit as she tips over too, riding it out pressed tight to Dani’s writhing body.

The room’s just noise and panting now. Bodies twitching. Sheets soaked. Minji clinging to you, shaking, still twitching from the aftershocks as you ease the rhythm, your cock still buried deep.

She blinks up at you, dazed, lips parted in a wrecked little smile.

“Holy fuck,” she breathes. “That was… I’ve never cum like that. That was insane.”

You smile down at her, brushing sweat-slick hair away from her face, and kiss the tip of her nose. “You’re amazing,” you whisper.

She grins back, breathless, totally fucked-out. “No, you’re amazing.”

Then, suddenly, the mattress dips with sudden weight—Hanni and Danielle throw themselves between you two like kids cannonballing into a pillow fort, squealing with laughter, bare skin slapping bare skin, limbs everywhere. The bed bounces, a tangle of heat and sweat and giggles. Minji yelps when Hanni’s ass lands half on her thigh, still sensitive and overstimmed, but she’s laughing too, breathless and glassy-eyed, her body so limp she can barely squirm.

“Fucking hell,” Dani gasps, rolling onto her side and flopping over Minji, one hand resting lazily on your thigh. “I came so hard just watching you get fucked like that.”

Minji whines from under her, flinching a little, but nods hard. “I think I died for a second. Like actual blackout, heart-stopping sex-death.” She exhales sharp through her nose, a breathless chuckle buried in the sound. “Worth it.”

Then Hanni slides up, straddling your hips with zero hesitation, her knees pinning you to the sheets as her still-slick thighs nestle against your waist. Her face is flushed, her whole body glowing, shining under the haze of sweat and soft lamplight. She looks ecstatic, and a little drunk in the most adorable, chaotic way. Her bangs are damp, sticking to her forehead, and she’s got that grin spreading across her face like it’s about to consume the whole room.

“I told you bitches,” Hanni says, proud as hell, glancing down at Minji and Dani with a theatrical flick of her head. “Wasn’t it a great fucking idea to bring him?”

Minji, still flat on her back, groans out a slow “Yes,” dragging the syllable like she’s still processing the concept of words.

Danielle raises a hand like she’s making a toast, except it’s just a floppy little wave. “Seconded. Fuck, I vote he comes on every vacation now.”

“All in favor?” Hanni smirks, her hands already tracing slow circles on your chest.

All three girls mumble some variation of “Yes,” “Fuck yes,” “Holy shit yes,” and “Best decision ever,” their voices tangled with giggles and half-moan whimpers. Hanni laughs, pleased with herself, rocking her hips once against you just to feel your cock press between her thighs.

“Relaxation achieved,” Minji murmurs.

“Ten outta ten stress relief,” Dani adds, now curled sideways into Minji’s body, pressing soft kisses under her jaw, lazy little nuzzles full of leftover lust.

Hanni leans forward and kisses you hard. She tastes like sweat, rum, the faint tang of her own arousal. Her lips are needy, tongue teasing, confident in a way that hits different now, knowing she’s been watching you wreck her friends all night.

“You’ve been saving some for me, right?” she whispers into your mouth, grinding her hips once to feel the drag of your cock against her pussy lips. She’s soaked already, slick enough that even that little motion has your length sliding up between her folds, warm and sticky. She ruts against it like she’s starving. “I better not be last on the rotation every time,” she mutters, her tone teasing, breath quickening.

You grab her hips, flip her onto her back without warning, and she squeals with laughter, legs splaying open instantly. Her pussy’s dripping, lips spread already, folds glistening under the light like she’s been ready for hours. She spreads her legs wider, knees bent up, feet flat on the mattress.

“Fuck,” you murmur, staring down at her, cock twitching. “You’re soaked.”

“Gee,” Hanni laughs breathlessly, reaching between her legs and spreading herself open with two fingers, hips rolling with impatience. “What can I say? Your fingers are magical. And maybe watching my friends get ruined by you for twenty minutes straight made me a little wet too.”

Danielle groans softly at that, and when you glance to the side, she’s leaning over Minji, kissing her slow and deep again. Their bodies are tangled now, legs weaving together, the soft press of tits and lips and sticky thighs. Dani’s hand is already slipping down Minji’s belly, sliding between her legs again.

But your focus is all Hanni. She looks fucking perfect laid out like this: cheeks flushed, eyes wild, mouth curved into that too-clever smirk as her fingers drift down her stomach, stopping just shy of her clit. Her other hand strokes along your abs, playful, lazy, guiding your cock into position.

You don’t slide in. Not yet. You hold your cock by the base, tapping the head lightly against her entrance. Her whole body jolts. She gasps, writhes, shoves her hips up to chase it, but you pull back, smacking it again. Wet, sloppy, loud against her cunt.

“F-fuck,” she stammers. “Don’t tease me, I’ll bite.”

You grin. Do it again. She whines, arching her back now, her chest heaving as the head of your cock slaps against her clit once, then again.

“I want it,” she gasps, needy. “I want your cock, please—I’ve been waiting—fuck, just give it to me—”

“You’re sure?” you murmur, teasing the head just barely inside her now, watching her hole flutter.

“Fuck you,” she laughs breathlessly, grabbing your arms. “Yes. Yes yes yes! shut up and fuck me already!”

You thrust.

She screams.

“Ohh my GOD—” she wails, her legs wrapping tight around your waist as your cock plunges into her. She’s tight and wet and so warm, her walls clenching around you like her pussy’s been sculpted for this exact moment. She grabs your shoulders, nails digging in, eyes wide and unblinking.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she gasps, “Why is it so big—why do you feel so fucking good—”

You start to move, hips rolling deep, then harder, setting a brutal pace that rocks her whole body against the bed. Her tits bounce with every thrust, her arms flailing slightly before settling around your neck, clinging on like she’s holding on for dear life.

“Oh my god, oh my god—don’t stop,” she babbles, her head tipping back into the sheets, voice cracking. “That’s it, that’s it—fuck me just like that— ruin my pussy—break it—”

To your left, Dani’s moaning again, grinding against Minji’s thigh, her lips locked with hers in another sloppy kiss. “She’s so fucking loud,” Minji mutters between kisses, smirking against Dani’s mouth.

“She’s so fucking hot,” Dani whispers back. “You see her tits? Fuck, I’d cum just watching her ride a pillow—look at her take that cock.”

Minji laughs, biting Dani’s lower lip. “Jealous?”

“A little,” Dani admits, shivering. “I wanna eat it after he cums in her. Wanna taste it leaking out.”

Hanni hears them. She fucking hears them.

Her eyes fly open, head snapping toward them, mouth open in shock and lust.

“Y-you bitches,” she moans, “talking about licking my pussy while I’m getting wrecked—what the fuck—”

Minji giggles, still breathless. “You like it?”

“I love it—” Hanni screams, hips bucking up to meet your thrusts. “I love being used—I love being watched—I love this cock—”

You fuck her harder. The whole bed shakes. Her moans turn to sobs.

Hanni's body is shaking beneath you, drenched in sweat, soaked between the thighs, every thrust of your cock squelching loud and obscene inside her dripping cunt. She's gripping the sheets now, knuckles pale, nails curled into the fabric like she's hanging on for her fucking life. Her tits bounce with each brutal drive of your hips, hair clinging to her forehead, lips swollen and spit-slick. Her moans are higher now, sharp and stuttering, her head tossing back against the mattress like she's trying to pull oxygen out of the ceiling.

And then she gasps it out—hoarse, frantic, barely audible over her own breathless cries:

“Choke me.”

Your eyes snap down to hers. She’s flushed and wild-eyed, panting, her legs squeezing around your waist like she’s trying to lock you in.

“Choke me,” she begs again, voice cracking. “Like you did to Minji—don’t stop fucking me—just do it, please.”

You don’t hesitate. You slide your hand up her throat, fingers wrapping snug around her neck, feeling the slick pulse of her heartbeat jump against your palm. You squeeze, not too hard, just enough to tilt her eyes up into that fluttery haze, to make her mouth fall open as her breath catches. You don’t slow your hips for a second. You fuck her through it—hard, deep, fast—your cock pounding into her cunt with relentless, savage rhythm. She's wetter than ever, her pussy creamy now, coating your shaft in a sticky mess that smears across her inner thighs, dripping down to stain the sheets.

Hanni's moaning uncontrollably, every thrust driving a noise out of her throat that’s part whimper, part scream, part this fucked-up little giggle, like she’s drunk off the whole experience. Her pupils are huge, mouth open, body writhing beneath you, and she’s so far gone she doesn’t even notice Dani crawling up beside her until cool fingers brush between her legs.

“Sensitive, huh?” Dani murmurs, breath warm against Hanni’s cheek, her hand sliding casually between her thighs. Two fingers find her clit, swollen, throbbing, and the second Dani touches it, Hanni shrieks.

“Fuuuck—Jesus, Dani—don’t—no wait—yes—”

You don’t let up on her throat. Her eyes roll back as you thrust harder, your hips slapping against hers while Dani circles her clit with slow, deliberate cruelty, watching her best friend unravel with a smirk on her lips.

“She’s losing it,” Minji says from the other side, grinning as she straddles Hanni’s arm. She leans in close. “Open your mouth, Han.”

Hanni’s tongue slips out instantly, lips parted, slack with submission.

Minji spits.

A thick, glistening string lands directly on her tongue, messy and wet. Hanni moans around it, head swimming, throat still tight in your grip, the added weight of saliva pushing her even further into that blissed-out place where everything feels too much and not enough at once.

Minji doesn’t even wait. She grabs Hanni’s face and kisses her, hard, filthy, tongue sliding deep, their moans tangled and breathless. Hanni groans into it, writhing between both girls and your cock like she doesn’t know who to fuck first. She’s a mess, her thighs trembling, clit twitching under Dani’s fingers, and every time your cock slams into her, her pussy gets wetter, creamier, soaking your balls in hot slick.

“She’s gonna cum,” Dani whispers, breath hitching as she teases Hanni’s clit harder now, pressing down just right. “Feel that twitch? She's fucking close.”

“She’s right,” Minji breathes against Hanni’s mouth. “Come on, Han. Let it go. Cum on that cock.”

Hanni's voice is wrecked now, thin and broken and so needy. “Please—please don’t stop—don’t stop—I’m close—I’m fucking cumming—”

You growl into her ear, choking her just a little harder. “Cum on my cock, Hanni. Let me feel that pussy explode. You want that? You wanna cream all over me like a filthy little toy?”

She nods frantically, can’t speak, her mouth open in a wordless sob, Dani’s fingers working her clit with practiced cruelty.

“Cum for him,” Minji hisses. “Be good and fucking cum—”

And Hanni breaks.

Her back arches like she’s being electrocuted, legs clamping around your waist, mouth dropping open in a scream that rips through the whole room. Her pussy clamps down on your cock so hard it’s like her body’s trying to hold you hostage, waves of thick, wet pleasure rolling through her. She cums hard, sobbing out her orgasm, twitching with every thrust as you keep fucking her through it, her cream pouring out of her, mess coating your cock, her thighs and the sheets under her ass.

She doesn't stop trembling. Doesn’t stop moaning. And you don’t stop fucking her.

Hanni’s still pulsing around you when the next wave hits. You haven’t let up, not for a second, driving into her with rhythmic, punishing strokes that slap skin on skin, each one dragging out another broken moan from her wrecked throat. She’s quivering under you, thighs wide open, one hand curled helplessly in the sheets while the other claws at Dani’s wrist where her fingers haven’t stopped circling her clit. Minji’s straddled across Hanni’s chest now, hands massaging her tits, thumbs brushing over her rock-hard nipples, leaning down to whisper filth directly into her ear as the whole bed shakes with the force of your fucking.

“You’re gonna cum again, aren’t you?” Minji teases, breath hot against her cheek. “Gonna squirt all over him this time, huh? Gonna make a goddamn mess, baby.”

The second orgasm hits her like a seizure. Hanni's whole body jolts under you, nails raking down your back as her thighs clamp tight around your waist, hips bucking wildly against your thrusts. Her head snaps back against the pillows, mouth falling open in a ragged, “Oh my fuck—I’m cumming again!” It comes out broken, strangled, voice cracking under the weight of it. She doesn’t even make it halfway through the sentence before she starts squirting, pussy gushing around your cock in warm, wet pulses. You feel the spray splash your stomach, your thighs, her own trembling legs soaked through as the sheets go from damp to absolutely flooded. Her eyes roll up, half-lidded and glassy, lips twitching like she’s trying to form another word but all that comes out is a stuttering,

And you keep fucking her through it. Not slowing down, not backing off, pistoning your hips like you’re chasing the end of her orgasm with your cock, hitting her soaked, clenching walls again and again and again. The way she tightens around you now, fluttering with overstimulation, it’s so wet, so fucking wet, the friction slick and obscene, your skin smacking into hers with loud, slappy sounds that echo off the walls. Her whole body is twitching, like you’ve fried her circuits.

Danielle is still there, hand locked between Hanni’s trembling thighs, rubbing tight little circles on her clit with her middle finger. "That's it baby, let it out—fuck, look at you," she breathes, her face flushed, biting her bottom lip as she watches Hanni writhe under the three of you, caught in some endless high.

Minji’s on the other side, leaned over, one hand cupping Hanni’s tit like it belongs to her, squeezing gently as her mouth latches onto the other. You catch the way her cheeks hollow, tongue flicking over Hanni’s nipple as she sucks and hums, her free hand petting down Hanni’s thigh like she’s trying to soothe her through the intensity. Hanni can’t even form words anymore, she just lets out this strangled, sobbing Hhhhnnnn- as her whole body spasms through another round of squirting.

You barely register the groan that slips out of your throat, deep and thick and right from your gut. Her pussy is squeezing the cum out of you, she’s wringing you dry just by twitching on your dick, and you can feel it boiling up in your spine, your balls drawing up tight, the edge rushing you like a freight train.

“I’m gonna cum—” you grunt, head dropping against Hanni’s shoulder, barely managing to hold yourself up on shaking arms.

Danielle doesn’t even hesitate. “In her,” she says immediately, low and breathless, her fingers never stopping. “Fuck, cum in her, she needs it—just look at her—”

“She’s on the pill,” Minji gasps, licking a line across Hanni’s tit. “She told us. Do it. Fill her the fuck up—”

Hanni nods frantically beneath you, her thighs still locked around you, dragging you deeper. “Please—please cum inside me—fuck—I want it—”

You snap.

The orgasm rips through you so hard your whole body shudders, hips jerking as your cock throbs inside her, buried to the base. You swear out loud as the first spurt of cum floods into her, thick and hot, coating her insides. She gasps like she feels every pulse of it, her pussy clenching greedily around your cock. Another spurt, and another, and another, so much cum you can feel it pooling deep inside her, coating her walls, no resistance at all, just warmth and wetness and her moaning like it’s the best thing she’s ever felt.

“Mmm—yes yes yes—fuck me full,” she babbles, arms wrapped tight around your shoulders, her whole body shaking under you. “God—it’s so warm—you’re cumming so much—feels so good… feels so fucking good, babe.”

You collapse against her for a second, chest heaving, forehead resting in the crook of her neck, cock still twitching inside her. You can feel how full she is. You don’t even need to pull out to know you’ve filled her past capacity.

And when you do ease back, sliding out slow with a wet noise that makes Hanni gasp and twitch, the mess you’ve made is instantly obvious. Your cum spills out of her immediately, a thick, creamy line drooling down the split of her lips, smearing across her inner thighs and the ruined sheets below. She whimpers at the loss of you, hips instinctively lifting like her pussy is begging to stay full.

But Danielle and Minji aren’t letting it go to waste.

“Holy shit,” Danielle mutters, eyes glued to the way your cum leaks from her. “Look at that—fucking flooded her.” She doesn’t wait. She leans down, dragging her tongue from Hanni’s slit all the way up to her clit in one long, slow, filthy lick, groaning around the taste. “Mmmff—fuck, that’s good…”

Minji’s already there beside her, bracing one hand on Hanni’s thigh as she leans in from the opposite side. “Save some for me,” she says, then pushes her face into the mess, licking greedily at the slick between Hanni’s folds, tongue flicking in quick, deliberate strokes that make Hanni squeal, hips jerking helplessly. “Oh my god—I can’t—”

Her pussy’s too sensitive now—every touch makes her flinch and whine, her thighs trembling uncontrollably. But she doesn’t tell them to stop. Her hands are fisted in the sheets, pulling tight as she moans through it, a whimpery, overwhelmed sound. “F-fuck—feels—too good, oh my god—fuck—Minji, Dani—” She writhes as their mouths keep working her, slurping the mixture of cum and slick straight from her pussy.

Danielle’s moaning into it, low and needy, like just tasting it is enough to get her off. Her tongue circles Hanni’s clit with practiced precision while Minji focuses lower, licking at your cum as it seeps out in slow, obscene dribbles. Every now and then they pause to kiss each other, mouths shiny and sticky with the mix, tongues sliding together, moaning softly into each other like they’re drunk on it.

And you? You’re leaning back on your knees, dick still half-hard and twitching as you watch it all. Completely transfixed. The scene in front of you is the filthiest, hottest thing you’ve ever seen. Your cum, their mouths, her pussy still fluttering and leaking, Hanni's body jerking with aftershocks, eyes glassy and half-lidded as she pants like she just ran a marathon. The way Danielle and Minji trade licks and moans like it’s the best dessert they’ve ever tasted.

They kiss again, deeper this time, cum-slick lips meeting with soft sounds, tongues tangled, and then Danielle leans down to kiss Hanni, pressing their mouths together gently, almost sweet despite the filth surrounding them. Minji follows, kissing along Hanni’s jaw, then catching her lips in another soft, slow kiss, her hand stroking Hanni’s side like she’s trying to comfort her back down from the high.

Hanni’s whimpering into their mouths, too overstimulated to return the kisses properly but too wrecked to stop them. Her whole body glows, skin flushed, damp with sweat and sex, her thighs still trembling where they’re spread wide on the soaked mattress. Her lips part against Danielle’s and Minji’s in turn, gasping faint little sounds into each kiss, shivering with every touch like her body’s still vibrating with afterglow.

You slide into the warm space between the tangled pile of girls, fitting yourself into the curve of Danielle's back while Minji is practically draped over Hanni’s front. You're all slick, sticky, and utterly spent. Hanni stirs slightly, letting out a long, contented sigh without opening her eyes. "Mmm," she murmurs drowsily. "This... this is life." Minji makes a soft sound of agreement against Hanni's shoulder. "Best spring break," she mumbles, her words slightly slurred. "Already the best." Danielle shifts slightly and props her head up on her hand to look over at you and Hanni. "Seriously," she whispers, “this is... epic. We totally need to remember this." Suddenly, her eyes light up with a typically Danielle-esque, slightly chaotic idea.

"Wait! Selfie!" Before anyone can protest, she's reaching carefully for her phone, which somehow ended up tangled in the sheets near the edge of the bed. She fumbles with it for a moment, squinting at the screen in the dim light filtering from the hallway. "Okay, everyone look... wrecked!" she instructs, holding the phone at arm's length, angling it to capture the messy, exhausted pile of naked bodies. You manage a weak smile. Hanni cracks open one eye, peering suspiciously at the phone. Minji is barely conscious. Danielle snaps a quick picture, the flash momentarily illuminating flushed faces, tangled limbs, messy hair, and the general beautiful disaster zone of the bed.

"Perfect," Danielle declares, reviewing the shot with a satisfied smirk. "Definitely one for the... private collection." Hanni yawns hugely. "You better not be putting that on your OnlyFans, Dani," she mumbles. Danielle laughs softly. "Chill, Han! God no. This one's just for us. A little souvenir of maximum stress relief achieved."

You blink, processing that. "Wait, you have an OnlyFans?" you ask, genuinely surprised again. Danielle grins, completely unbothered. "Uh, yeah? Started it last year. Pays way better than that shitty campus bookstore job." She shrugs. "It's totally anonymous, though. No face, mostly just artsy body shots, feet pics... you know the drill. Helps pay for tuition. And, uh, ridiculously fun spring break trips." She winks. Hanni lets out another enormous yawn, snuggling closer to you. "Okay, fun talk later," she murmurs, her eyes already closed again. "So tired. Need... shower. Sleep. In that order."

Danielle nods. "Yeah, probably a good call. I feel like I ran a marathon." Minji makes a noise of agreement, already half-asleep again. Slowly, reluctantly, the cuddle pile disbands.

Showers are taken, brief and functional this time, washing away the lingering stickiness. Towels are wrapped, weary goodnights are exchanged, and everyone retreats to their respective rooms (or, in your and Hanni's case, collapses back onto the now slightly less chaotic bed, with new sheets, of course). Sleep claims you almost instantly, pulling you down into a deep, dreamless, and much-needed oblivion.

—

The next morning arrives with the subtlety of a jackhammer inside your skull. Your mouth feels like the bottom of a birdcage, and a vicious migraine is pounding behind your eyes. Fuck, that cheap tequila and those endless cocktails definitely caught up with you. You groan, rolling over carefully, and realize the other side of the bed is empty. Hanni's gone. The sheets beside you are cool. You glance down at yourself; yep, still completely naked. Clearly, exhaustion trumped any thoughts of pajamas last night. Hauling yourself upright feels like a monumental effort. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, your head protesting violently. Clothes. Need clothes. You find your shorts and a t-shirt from yesterday crumpled on the floor and pull them on, feeling a little more human.

Leaving the relative darkness of the bedroom, you venture out into the main living area, squinting against the bright daylight flooding in from the balcony. Danielle is sitting at the kitchen counter, slowly sipping from a large mug, looking surprisingly put-together despite the previous night's debauchery. Her hair is damp, and she’s wearing fresh shorts and a tank top.

"Morning, sunshine," she greets you, her voice quiet, sympathetic. "Rough night?"

You grunt in response, shuffling towards the counter. "Something like that. Migraine from hell."

She pushes a mug towards you. "Figured. Made coffee. Black and strong. Should help."

You take it gratefully, the warmth seeping into your hands, the bitter aroma promising some relief. "Thanks, Dani. You're a lifesaver. Where's, uh... everyone else?" Danielle takes another sip of her coffee. "Hanni and Minji woke up disgustingly early. Said something about wanting to hit that little boutique we saw yesterday before it got crowded. Apparently, Minji spotted a dress she 'absolutely needed'." She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "I told them they were insane, but you know Hanni when she gets an idea. I was still half-dead, so I stayed."

You nod, taking a cautious sip of the hot coffee. It scalds your tongue but feels necessary. "Makes sense," you manage. You lean against the counter, the events of the previous night slowly filtering back through the hangover haze. "So, uh," you start, feeling slightly awkward bringing it up in the harsh light of day, "OnlyFans, huh? Still kinda surprised." Danielle just shrugs, swirling her coffee. "Hey, gotta pay the bills, right? College ain't cheap, and honestly? It's kinda empowering sometimes. Plus, like I said, totally anonymous. No one I know knows it's me. It's just... content." She gives you a small smile. "Helps pay for fun shit like this trip, too. Worth it."

You finish your coffee, the caffeine slowly starting to chip away at the edges of the migraine. "So, what's the plan for today? Just wait for them to get back?" Danielle sets her mug down. "Actually," she says, turning on her stool to face you fully. "I already have plans. And I kinda need your help." You raise an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? What's up?" She leans forward slightly. "Remember I told you about my OF? Well, I need new content. And while researching stuff to do here, I found this amazing little beach, super secluded, like, you gotta hike a bit to get there? Supposedly the lighting in the late morning is incredible." She pauses, looking at you expectantly. "And?" you prompt. "And," she continues, a slow smirk spreading across her face, "I need a photographer. Someone I trust. Someone who... appreciates the subject matter." She holds your gaze. "Interested in helping a girl out?"

The implication is clear. A secluded beach, just the two of you, and she needs photos for her OnlyFans. You think about it for a second. It sounds incredibly daring, potentially awkward, but also... intriguing. And she did seem pretty convinced last night you could 'handle the workload'. "Okay," you say slowly. "Yeah, okay. I can play photographer. As long as it's really secluded." Danielle beams. "Perfect! Trust me, it is. I'll grab my phone. You can have breakfast on the way. Let's go."

—

True to her word, the hike isn't trivial, involving a winding path down a jungle-covered hillside, but the destination is worth it. It’s a small cove, maybe fifty yards across, bookended by dramatic volcanic rocks, with fine white sand and impossibly clear turquoise water. And most importantly, it's completely empty. Just you, Danielle, and the sound of the gentle waves.

"See?" Danielle says triumphantly, gesturing around. "Told you. Totally private." She drops her beach bag onto the sand. "Okay, so here's the deal," she says, turning back to you, suddenly all business. "These pics are definitely for the site. Which means... no bikini." She meets your eyes, gauging your reaction. "You cool with that? Just shooting me... all natural?" You swallow, feeling a familiar heat stir despite the lingering hangover. It's ballsy as hell, but she seems completely confident, and the setting is undeniably private. "Yeah, Dani," you manage. "I'm cool with it. Whatever you need." Her professional demeanor cracks slightly, replaced by a genuinely pleased smile. "Awesome. Okay then." She reaches for the hem of her tank top. "Let's make some art." She hands you her phone, then, without further ceremony, she pulls off her top, then quickly shimmies out of her shorts and panties, leaving them in a small pile on the sand.

She stands before you completely naked, bathed in the bright Caribbean sun, her toned, athletic body looking even more incredible than it did last night. She runs a hand through her long hair, taking a deep breath, then strikes a pose, looking out towards the ocean. "Okay, photographer," she says, glancing back at you over her shoulder, a playful smirk on her lips. "Do your thing."

You lift the phone, centering Danielle in the frame. Even through the small screen, she looks incredible. The bright Caribbean sun highlights every curve, every plane of her toned body. The turquoise water and white sand create a perfect, almost impossibly vibrant backdrop. "Alright," you call out, trying to sound professional despite the slight tremor in your hand, "Hold that pose. Perfect." Click. The first shot is captured. Danielle flows smoothly into another pose, turning slightly, tilting her head back to catch the sun. Click. She's a natural. Not just comfortable naked, but seemingly energized by it, owning the space, owning her body. You start directing her a little more, moving around to get different angles. "Okay, walk towards the water slowly," you suggest. She obeys, her tight ass flexing with each step as she walks away from you towards the gentle waves lapping at the shore.

You snap several shots of her back, the curve of her spine, the way the sunlight kisses her shoulders. "Stop there," you call out when the water is just swirling around her ankles. "Turn back towards me." She does. The water sparkles around her feet. Click. Click.

"How about by those rocks?" she suggests, pointing towards a cluster of dark volcanic boulders at one end of the cove. "Yeah, good idea." You follow her as she makes her way over, her bare feet sinking slightly into the wet sand. She leans against one of the larger rocks, the dark, rough texture contrasting sharply with her smooth, pale skin. She tries different poses; leaning back casually, arching her back slightly, running a hand slowly down her own flat stomach, tracing the line of her incredible abs. You capture it all, zooming in sometimes to focus on the details, the way a drop of water traces a path down her side, the taut curve of her small, perky breast, the intense look in her eyes. She's ridiculously photogenic; the camera absolutely loves her.

Every angle seems to work, every casual movement looks like a deliberately sexy pose. And yeah, she's hot as absolute hell. Seeing her like this, completely bare, owning her sexuality so confidently for her 'work', is incredibly arousing, hangover be damned. You take shot after shot, finding interesting angles, playing with the light and shadows created by the rocks. She lies down on the warm sand near the water's edge, letting the shallow waves wash over her legs, arching her back, pushing her breasts towards the sun. You get low, capturing the image from just above the sand, her body stretched out, glistening, utterly captivating. This is definitely prime OnlyFans content. You keep shooting, losing track of time, completely absorbed in documenting every stunning inch of Danielle's naked body against the breathtaking backdrop of the secluded St. Lucian beach.

After what feels like an hour, maybe more, under the relentless Caribbean sun, you finally lower the phone. "Okay," you say, wiping a bead of sweat from your brow. "I think... I think we got it. Seriously, Dani, there's some amazing stuff here." You quickly scroll through the gallery, showing her a few highlights: a dramatic shot against the black rocks, a sensual one of her lying in the surf, a playful one where she's laughing, completely unselfconscious. Danielle crowds close, peering at the screen, her naked body brushing against your arm. "Holy shit," she breathes, her eyes widening. "Okay, yeah. These are... wow. Way better than trying to do timer selfies." She grins, looking genuinely pleased. "See? Told you I needed a good photographer." She gives your arm a grateful squeeze. "Thanks. Seriously. You're a lifesaver... and apparently, a pretty decent cameraman.

She starts gathering her clothes. "Gonna take forever to edit these, gotta crop out my face perfectly from every single one, but yeah. Definitely some good material here for the paying customers." She dresses quickly, the easy confidence returning as she pulls her tank top back on. “Okay, now let's get out of here.”

—

Back to villa, the fresh breeze of the forest is a godsend. You push through the door to find Hanni sprawled belly-down across the couch in a striped towel, hair tied up, face buried in the phone, as usual. Minji’s by the kitchen counter, eating sliced mango with a fork straight from the plate, wearing one of those comfortable breezy linen rompers.

“There they are,” Hanni says without looking up. “Did you two fuck on the beach?”

You blink.

Danielle grins and drops the bag on a chair. “Nah. Not this time.”

Minji raises an eyebrow. “So you did something.”

Danielle walks over and steals a piece of mango from her fork. “Only art, babe. Just art.”

You toss your shirt over a chair and drop down beside Hanni on the couch, her legs still damp from a rinse, bare skin sticking to the cushions. She shifts to make room, tucking herself under your arm. The rest of the day? Exactly what vacation should be. Drinks with stupid garnishes. Cheap sunglasses from the tourist shop down the hill. Hanni drags everyone to a food stand she found on Instagram that sells jerk chicken so spicy you end up chugging a full bottle of water before Minji, smug as hell, offers you a frozen guava drink she “accidentally” ordered two of.

You all climb some rocky bluff for photos, Hanni nearly falling off trying to get the angle with the sun behind her, and then hit the beach again—this time, public, packed with bodies, neon umbrellas, inflatable flamingos bobbing in the surf. No one fucks around there, obviously, but you do get to watch Danielle sunbathe topless under the guise of “European energy” while Hanni builds a sand mermaid around Minji’s legs.

By sunset, everyone’s back at the villa, glowing with sunburns and exhaustion, eating too much grilled pineapple from the BBQ stand down the road, and drinking straight from the rum bottle.

And Danielle? She’s been scheming. “Guys,” she says, emerging from her room with a devilish smile and a small, suspiciously plain brown box. “I did a thing.”

Hanni’s stretched across the living room rug in a bikini top and boxers, licking popsicle juice from her wrist. “Oh fuck. What did you buy.”

Danielle drops the box on the table with a thud. “This,” she announces, “is a gift. For Minji.”

Minji looks up, cautious. “That’s never a good sentence.”

Danielle just grins wider. “Trust me. You’ll thank me later.”

She opens the box. Nestled inside is a harness and a thick black strap-on. Smooth. Matte. Very... obvious in intention.

Minji’s eyes go wide. “Dani—”

“You’re always saying you wanna be more adventurous,” Danielle cuts in. “Well. Here’s your chance.”

Hanni perks up immediately. “Wait—wait. Are we doing this? Are we really doing this?”

You just raise an eyebrow. “So, what—four-way? Again?”

Danielle shrugs, already unbuckling her belt. “Obviously.”

—

It only takes one session for Minji to flip the switch.

She doesn’t just “get used” to the strap-on. She fucking thrives with it. Like something dormant inside her wakes up the second she feels the harness hug her hips, the weight of the cock bouncing between her thighs as she moves. At first she still blushes when she straps in—adjusting the buckles, fiddling with the position—but the more she fucks the girls and more she watches you using your cock, the more natural it looks. The way she grips Hanni’s hips now, steady, confident, using slow, grinding thrusts to make her whimper and squirm. The way she plants her feet wide when Danielle sinks down onto her lap, hands clamped hard around Minji’s shoulders, riding the strap until she’s gasping for air.

The first time she makes Hanni cum with it, Minji looks stunned. Hanni's legs are shaking, her body seized up in a full-body tremble, soaking the fake cock and moaning so loud you swear the neighbors heard it. Minji freezes for a second, hands still clutching Hanni's thighs, watching her fall apart.

“I—fuck—did I do that?” Minji stammers, chest heaving.

Danielle, lying sprawled out naked across the bed, just smirks. “You wrecked her, Minji. Fucking legendary.”

Minji starts to grin—huge, uncontrollable—and something settles into her shoulders. After that, there’s no hesitation anymore. She starts owning it, moving with this slow, relentless rhythm that’s honestly almost scarier than being jackhammered—because she knows exactly what she's doing now. How to hit the right angles. How to roll her hips just right so the pressure builds and builds until Hanni's clawing at her back or Danielle’s begging to cum or you're watching in awe, wondering when the fuck she got so dominant.

She talks more too, low and quiet, the kind of dirty talk that makes your dick twitch without needing to shout. Grabbing Hanni by the throat while she’s riding her and murmuring, “Yeah, take it all, baby. Take it deeper. You can take it, I know you can.” Bending Danielle over the kitchen counter and growling, “You’re not done yet. You stay there ‘til I say.”

One afternoon, Minji’s got Hanni pinned against the wall outside the bathroom, towel half-falling off her body, the harness peeking out under the loose shirt Minji never bothered taking off. She's grinding into Hanni’s pussy slow and mean, Hanni’s hands scrabbling at her arms, thighs trembling. You and Danielle just stand there watching like total pervs, fresh out of the shower, dripping wet, unable to look away.

"Fuck, Minji," Danielle says, voice low and breathless, eyes wide. "You're so fucking hot like this."

Minji flashes a shy smile at that—just for a second—before grabbing Hanni’s face in one hand and kissing her hard enough to shut her up mid-whimper. She keeps fucking her against the wall, slow and steady, until Hanni melts into a sobbing orgasm right there, the towel falling to the floor.

Later that night, Minji's sprawled on the bed, sweaty and exhausted, the strap still hanging off her hips, her head turned toward you. "I get it now," she says, voice hoarse. "I fucking love it. Being the one... giving it." She laughs, breathless. "It's... it’s like being drunk on power."

And you grin back, still half-hard just from watching her ruin the girls one by one. "Told you it suits you."

Minji hums, smug now, one hand idly stroking down her own thigh. "Think I'm gonna make this a regular thing."

She does.

It becomes routine, almost. Minji taking the lead, pulling the harness on with slow, confident movements, snapping the straps tight around her waist like armor. Danielle bending over for her without a second thought. Hanni climbing into her lap like it’s her seat. You swapping with Minji sometimes, tag-teaming—her in Hanni’s ass while you fuck her pussy, or you both working Danielle over until she’s crying, too full to move, babbling nonsense.

You and Minji develop this synergy without even having to talk about it. She reads your cues, you read hers. If she pushes in slow, you pound harder. If you slow down to edge one of them, she speeds up, relentless, keeping the pressure high until the girls are shaking and begging to cum again.

One night, you’re double-penetrating Hanni on the couch—Minji behind her with the strap-on buried deep in her ass, you fucking her pussy from the front. She’s sobbing between you, thighs quivering, toes curling into the couch cushions.

"Too much," Hanni whimpers, eyes rolling back.

"You love it," Minji breathes against her neck, thrusting deeper. "You're fucking made for this."

Hanni chokes on a scream when you both bottom out at the same time, the sensation overwhelming her. She squirts hard, drenching both your thighs, her body convulsing violently.

Minji kisses the side of her face, slow and almost tender. "Good girl," she whispers. "Such a good fucking girl."

You pull out after, letting her collapse into a shaking heap, and Minji strokes her hair while you both watch Hanni twitch and whimper through the aftershocks.

Danielle gets it worse the next night—Minji holding her down by the back of her neck, forcing her to stay in position while you fuck her raw. She’s drooling onto the sheets by the time you both finish, legs too weak to even close around you. Minji pulls out first, tugging the dildo free with a wet pop, and you thrust a few more times before cumming inside Dani, filling her pussy with heat and making her moan brokenly into the pillow.

"Fucking ruined," Danielle mumbles, slurred, dazed. "God... best spring break... of my fucking life."

Hanni, half-asleep nearby, giggles and claps weakly. "Praise be... to the stress relief committee..."

Minji just laughs, rolling onto her back, tossing the harness onto the floor like a discarded trophy.

You lie there, muscles sore, cock still twitching faintly, staring at the slow-turning ceiling fan overhead. Listening to the girls’ soft laughter, their satisfied little sighs as they drift closer to sleep.

—

Every single day melts into the next, sharpening your purpose here until it's diamond-hard. You're not just the guy Hanni brought along for stress relief anymore, not just the dude who can fuck them right, though you definitely excel at that. No, you've become something more fundamental to their vacation ecosystem: their favorite tool. Their dedicated service dom. The one who instinctively knows Hanni needs her ass slapped harder without asking, the one who sees Danielle adjusting her position for a better filming angle and holds her steady, the one who helps Minji adjust the strap-on harness until it sits just right across her hips.

You listen; not just to the words, but to the hitches in breath, the clench of muscles, the flicker in their eyes. You read the damn room, anticipating needs, fulfilling fantasies they barely knew they had until you offered them up. You act without needing to be told twice, a silent understanding passing between you, yet you always ask before crossing a new line, checking in with a low murmur, "Like this?", "Harder?", "Tell me what you want." Your entire fucking existence on this island has distilled down to facilitating their pleasure, maximizing their release, ensuring their needs are met above all else. And the crazy part? They’ve leaned into it like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like you were specifically designed and delivered just for them, their perfect, obedient, pleasure-giving machine.

Hanni is, unsurprisingly, the boldest, the most demanding in her casual ownership. She doesn’t really ask for things so much as state facts, her requests delivered with the breezy entitlement of someone ordering room service. She’ll stretch out naked on the sun-drenched sheets after a lazy afternoon nap, legs spread slightly, and just murmur, "Eat me," without even looking up from her phone. And you? You're between her thighs before the words fully register, nose buried in her heat, tongue already tracing patterns against her clit. "Mmm, yeah," she sigh, dropping her phone and tangling her hands in your hair, grinding her hips down against your face. "Just like that, fuck... don't stop." Her tone is always low purr, punctuated by sharp gasps and breathy giggles as you work her over. "God, your tongue is fucking magic... right there..."

She rides your mouth like she owns it, hips bucking, controlling the pressure, whispering filthy encouragements—lick me harder, faster, yeah, suck my clit, make me cum—until she inevitably shatters. She always comes fast and hard when it’s just your mouth, twitching all over, thighs clamping around your head like a vise, hips giving one last desperate jerk before she collapses, panting, demanding you lick her clean until the last aftershock fades. "Good boy," she sigh, patting your head dismissively, already reaching for her phone again.

Danielle, true to her director's eye, is more methodical, more precise in her desires. She knows exactly what she wants, how she wants it, and isn't shy about articulating it. She’ll pause mid-sentence while talking about editing software, catch your eye, then step directly in front of you, blocking your path. "Tits," she state simply, pulling your face towards her bare chest (because clothes are increasingly optional in the villa). "Suck ‘em. Feeling sensitive today, need the pressure." You obey instantly, palming her small, firm breasts, taking a nipple into your mouth, licking, sucking gently at first. She watch your mouth on her skin with unnerving focus, then bite her lip. "Harder," she command, her voice dropping an octave. "Use your teeth a little. Yeah." You adjust immediately, pulling harder, grazing the soft skin with your teeth just enough to make her gasp, her breath catching sharply. "Fuck... yes," she whisper, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

Listening to her is like hearing a porn script being dictated by the star who's also directing—incredibly specific instructions: "Okay, now circle the left one with your tongue, slower... yeah... now bite the right one, just a pinch..." mixed with genuine, breathless reactions "Shit, that feels good... oh fuck, keep doing that...". It's never fake, though; it’s just her being hyper-aware of her own body, meticulously guiding you towards the sensations that make her feel incredible, that get her off exactly the way she wants.

And Minji? Sweet, surprising Minji is all about the exploration, the learning. She watches everything. She observes the way you hold Hanni's hips when you fuck her from behind, the exact pressure Danielle likes when you suck her nipples, the rhythm that makes Hanni scream the loudest. Then, later, when she straps on the harness, and you help her, making sure the straps are snug, applying the lube generously, your fingers slow and firm against her skin as you check the fit—she mimics what she's seen. She’ll look down at you, eyes wide with concentration and a flicker of that newfound dominance, adjusting the thick black cock slightly. "Will you guide me again?" she ask, especially those first few times. You nod, kneeling beside her and Danielle, or her and Hanni, placing your hand over hers on the base of the dildo, coaching her on the angle, the depth. "Slow," you murmur, "Let her take it... yeah, now push deeper... feel how she clenches?" You guide her through the initial thrusts until she finds her confidence, until her hips start moving with a steady, powerful rhythm of her own.

Then you switch, and she watches intently as you take over, pinning Danielle face down, pounding into her just a little rougher than Minji dared, making Danielle shriek and beg for more. Minji studies the angle of your hips, the grip of your hands, the look in Danielle's eyes, absorbing it all. And guaranteed, the next time Minji has Danielle begging beneath her, she'll incorporate that exact move, that specific rhythm, pushing her own boundaries, feeding her appetite for control, the intoxicating power of inflicting overwhelming pleasure.

They ask. You give. Simple as that. Hanni needs a foot massage while Danielle films Minji eating her out? Done. Danielle needs you to hold the camera steady with one hand while fucking her with the other, whispering specific dirty phrases she thinks her subs will like? No problem. Minji wants you to tie her wrists loosely to the headboard with one of Hanni’s discarded bikini tops while she rides you, just to see what it feels like? Absolutely. Your purpose is service, and damn, you're good at it.

And Danielle’s phone camera is practically a fifth member of the group now, always seemingly lurking, always potentially rolling. Her OnlyFans project becomes a collaborative effort, fueled by exhibitionism, alcohol, and a shared desire to capture the raw heat of their vacation. It's her body, her rules, her creative vision directing the shots, but you and the other girls are willing participants on both sides of the lens. One ridiculously lazy afternoon, sunlight streaming into the master bedroom, Danielle drags the big floor mirror from the corner, positioning it carefully near the foot of the bed to capture reflections, different angles. She hands you her phone, already set up on a small, flexible tripod she apparently packed.

"Okay," she says, stripping off her sundress and panties with zero fanfare. "New concept: POV masturbation, but like... make it art." She climbs onto the sheets, positioning herself facing the mirror, legs spread invitingly. "Just film what turns you on," she instructs, meeting your eyes with a challenging grin. "Focus on the details. If it gets you hard watching it, trust me, it'll be hot to them."

So you film. You position the phone on the tripod, focusing tightly. Her fingers, slick with her own wetness, parting her swollen lips. The way her clit peeks out, already hard and glistening. You follow her hand as she starts rubbing, slow circles at first, then faster, more insistent pressure. Her soft gasps, the way her hips begin to tilt rhythmically off the sheets. You pan up slowly, lingering on the taut muscles of her stomach quivering, the rise and fall of her small breasts. You zoom in on her throat as she swallows hard, her neck arched, then her mouth, lips parted, panting softly. Then, needing to be closer, needing to participate, you let the phone carefully on the tripod, ensuring the angle is still good, and kneel on the bed beside her. You reach out, sliding two fingers deep into her wet heat.

She gasps sharply, eyes flying open, locking with yours in the mirror's reflection. "Is this... part of the plan?" she breathes out. A smirk touches your lips. "Say stop if you want me to." She doesn't. Of course, she doesn't. Instead, she arches her hips harder, pushing herself onto your invading fingers. "Fuck..." The shot captures everything, your hand moving rhythmically, her fingers now frantically working her clit, her thighs shaking. "Oh god... yes," she moans, her voice climbing higher. "Keep going... don't stop... fuck, you know exactly what you’re doing—oh yes—right there—" When she finally comes, tipping over the edge with a strangled cry, the phone capture every second. Her whole body clenching, her toes curling, her stomach trembling violently, a final sob escaping her lips before she collapses back onto the sheets, panting, a dazed, blissful smile spreading across her face. Later, showered and wrapped in towels, she watches the raw footage back, legs curled under her on the sofa. "Holy fuck," she whispers finally, looking up at you. "Okay. Yeah. That'll definitely sell."

Minji even overcomes her lingering shyness enough to get properly in front of the camera, albeit usually with Danielle directing and Hanni providing enthusiastic, often obscene, commentary from behind the lens. One night, after way too much rum, Danielle sets the phone up on the nightstand, framing the bed perfectly. She immediately climbs onto her back, pulling Minji down on top of her, hooking her knees over Minji’s shoulders, already wet and giggling. "Okay, Action!" Hanni yells, hitting record with a flourish. "Make her moan loud, Minji! I want everyone on this island to hear her being a whore!" Minji, strapped securely into her harness, hesitates for only a second before fucking down into Danielle, slow and deliberate at first. Dani whimpers instantly, toes curling. "Shit—Minji—already? Fuck—don’t stop—" she gasps out, arching her back, her small breasts bouncing with every deep thrust.

You’re kneeling beside the bed again, playing your assigned support role, one hand stroking Danielle’s trembling thigh, the other finding her clit, rubbing tight little circles, perfectly syncing your rhythm with Minji’s steady pace. Danielle is shaking, completely overwhelmed, by the time she cums, moaning loud enough to satisfy even Hanni, clenching hard around the silicone cock, the whole raw, intimate scene captured perfectly. Danielle edits it later, adding soft filters, cutting just before faces are fully visible, layering some innocuous indie music over the raw audio. The result is surprisingly beautiful: intimate, intensely sensual, undeniably dirty, and utterly compelling.

You even manage to film the DP scene Hanni keeps drunkenly demanding. It takes coordination, lots of lube, and Danielle being incredibly greedy and wrecked on cocktails. She’s face down, ass up, babbling incoherently, drool dampening the pillow beneath her cheek as Minji carefully slides the thick strap-on into her tight ass while you simultaneously fuck her pussy from behind. It’s intense, borderline chaotic. "Easy, easy," you murmur, coaching Minji on the angle while your own cock stretches Danielle’s cunt. Minji leans over Danielle's back from behind, whispering dirty talk directly into her ear, "Such a good girl for us... taking both our cocks... look how stretched out you are..." Your hands grip Danielle’s waist, trying to hold her steady as she bucks and moans beneath the double penetration.

You manage to keep the phone propped on a pillow relatively steady, switching hands when one starts to cramp, capturing the overwhelming sight of Danielle being thoroughly used, completely filled. She begs you both not to stop. You don't. Not until she’s screaming, coming so hard she probably does forget her own name, her body convulsing violently between you. Capturing that raw, uncontrolled release feels like a sacred, filthy duty.

Sunlight slants through the windows in the mornings, illuminating the beautiful wreckage; bite marks blooming on inner thighs, faint scratches down someone's back from frantic gripping, lube streaks drying on bare skin, discarded clothing forming abstract sculptures on the floor. You clean up together, making coffee shirtless, wandering naked onto the balcony to check the surf. Touch is constant, casual, affectionate, possessive. Hanni grabs your ass possessively every time you walk past the sofa where she’s lounging. Minji presses a soft, unexpected kiss to your cheek while you're both reaching for the orange juice. Danielle sits on your lap without warning, and you automatically wrap your arms around her waist.

They don’t just use you. They like you.

You’re part of the group now. Not just Hanni’s secret hookup. Not just a vacation fling.

You’re theirs. Just like they’re yours.

—

The last couple of days in St. Lucia take on a slightly different energy. The frantic exploration and hedonistic frenzy ease into a slower, more savoring pace. There's an unspoken awareness that the bubble is about to burst, that the real world with its deadlines and responsibilities looms just beyond the horizon. You spend the final afternoon on your favorite stretch of beach, not doing much of anything, just floating in the impossibly blue water, sharing a bottle of lukewarm rosé smuggled from the villa, soaking up the last rays of Caribbean sun. Packing later that evening is a subdued affair. Clothes smell faintly of salt, sand, and coconut sunscreen. Souvenirs are carefully wrapped. Danielle meticulously backs up the hundreds of photos (both SFW and very NSFW) from her phone onto a portable drive. Minji stares longingly out the balcony window, while Hanni seems unusually quiet, a thoughtful expression on her face.

You all gather on the balcony for one last sunset, cheap beers in hand. The sky explodes in fiery oranges and purples over the lush green hills. For a while, no one speaks, just watching the spectacle, lost in thought. "Well," Danielle says finally, breaking the comfortable silence, "That didn't suck." Her tone is light, but there's an undercurrent of genuine emotion. Minji nods, leaning her head against Danielle’s shoulder. "It was..." she searches for the word, "...perfect. Even better than I let myself imagine." Hanni sighs dramatically, taking a long swig of her beer. "Best. Idea. Ever," she reiterates, bumping her shoulder against yours. "See? You guys should always listen to me." She looks around at the group, her expression softening. "Seriously though... this was amazing. All of it." You feel a surge of gratitude, mixed with the bittersweet pang of the trip ending. "It really was," you agree, looking at each of them in turn. "Seriously, guys... thanks. For letting me crash your girls' trip. For..." You hesitate, unsure how to articulate the rest; the acceptance, the adventures, the incredible sex, the unexpected connection. "...For everything. It was fucking incredible."

Danielle reaches over and squeezes your knee. "Are you kidding? You surviving us was the incredible part." She laughs. "Couldn't have done it without our resident stress-reliever slash photographer slash obedient dom." Minji smiles warmly. "Yeah. It wouldn't have been the same without you. You just... fit." The easy acceptance in her voice makes something warm settle in your chest. It feels true. Somewhere between the shared drinks, the tourist traps, the tangled sheets, and the drunken confessions, the dynamic shifted irrevocably. Hanni nods, though a familiar possessive glint enters her eyes. "Okay, okay, group hug, whatever," she says, waving a dismissive hand, though she leans closer against you. "But let's be clear," she adds, poking you in the ribs, her tone mostly playful but with an edge of seriousness, "He's still my property, technically. I found him first. First dibs still apply indefinitely."

Danielle and Minji burst out laughing. "Oh my god, Hanni!" Danielle exclaims. "Still calling dibs? After everything?" Hanni shrugs, trying to look nonchalant but failing. "Hey! Finder's keepers. Sharing is fine, but ownership is key."

You chuckle, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Don't worry, Han. I remember the terms and conditions." The implication hangs there; this isn't just the end of a vacation fling. The connection forged here, the complicated, messy, exhilarating dynamic between the four of you, feels like something more permanent. The promise of future moments, future adventures, future tangled nights, hangs unspoken but palpable in this warm twilight air... Yeah, the trio is definitely a foursome now, whether Hanni wants to admit shared ownership or not.

[bi-writes]

deranged ex husband!ghost thoughts:

he lives up to his nickname. he's not ex husband price who simply Does Not Stop and shows up all the time to demonstrate to your new partners that he is fundamental anatomy to your life.

he haunts you. tampered amazon packages, a room slightly altered when you return from work, he's in your phone, he's in your inbox, he fixes things while you're away just as often as he breaks them.

is there someone in the other room? you bought a travel door lock and replaced every piece of home security tech with something new but you can swear you can hear a window shimmied open, a door lock whirring. you think you're losing your mind. who do you call when you think you're being stalked? when security is your greatest fear? your ex? his friends?

a wriggling and primal part of your mind warns you this is a bad idea. but you unblock his number, you text simon to see if he's still in the area. how are you doing? i know it's been a while, but i need a favor.

oh my goodness............................. (18+)

he says nothing as he does a walkthrough of your new divorcee flat. one bedroom in a nice-enough neighborhood, but you saw the twitch of his eye when he noticed the front lobby doors could be jimmyed open with the edge of a credit card.

the cat greets him like she always does. slender, grey thing that slithers between his thick legs as he moves through your space. you notice his gloved hands ghosting over divots in entryways that he made, flicking the useless lock of your window that he's already broken himself twice. you follow him like a puppy into every room he studies, rocking back and forth, wet eyes and trembling lips realizing as he moves just how unsafe you are.

he says nothing when he stands in your foyer again after doing his thorough once-over, turning to face you silently, where you're already crying. he just stands, not touching you, tilting his head to the side as he watches those glassy, salty tears fall down your puffed cheeks as you sputter through soft breaths that you don't know what to do.

ghost just kisses his teeth and stands there. he's an asshole—he's not going to do anything unless you ask him to. he's mean like that, likes to be wanted. he wants you to open your pretty, wet mouth and ask for it like a good girl. he's not going to assume you want his help; he wants you to put your hands on his thick chest and ask him all pathetic that you need him to do something about the thing that's been breaking into your house.

ghost is not your husband anymore though. when he was, he would've gladly fixed all your things for you. he would've gladly spent the entire day installing cameras, fixing your locks, getting you proper deadbolts, but he's just some man to you now, and his labor isn't for free.

he wants to feel nasty about it, but he can't. you don't even have to ask what he wants—you know what it is. you sniffle, blubbery and whiny, as you put your thumbs into the gusset of your sleep shorts and pull them to the side as you bend over the kitchen counter.

he keeps a big hand tangled in your hair as he fucks you. he yanks your neck back, bending you at the hip, an angle so sharp that your back arches uncomfortably as the edge of the counter digs into your tummy sharply. he barely makes a sound himself, but the slick between your bodies makes up for it.

slap, slap, slap—you're soaked between the thighs, all wound up and hot and breathless after watching ghost be so capable and confident and smart. he's so intelligent. he's so big and brawny and brave. you'd trade anything to feel safe again after living on your own after so long, and honestly, paying for fixed locks for a wet shag with your ex-husband isn't the worst price at all.

the problem between you two was never the sex, that's for sure. in fact, you think the connection alone kept you around longer than you meant to be. ghost would light a cigarette and stick a thick hand down his trousers, and you'd all but fall onto his dick just to placate the heat of attraction that always wound you like crazy.

your eyes roll back in your head when he cups your pussy with a big, hot hand. you grip the counter and grind against his palm, sticking your tongue out as he pounds into you deeper, more forcefully. he's close, you know it by the falter in his breaths, and you can't help yourself.

you just can't.

"inside—" you whine. "don't pull out—"

ghost laughs—why the fuck would he ever pull out?

maybe if he breaks a window next, you'll let him try for a baby.

[unluckilyimnot]

Playing with their hair – aether, kinich, wanderer, rin, sae, sakura

note: i'm just in love with aether and kinich recently and i needed to write something with aether's hair so why not had some of my fav characters along with them. that's probably not really good but i guess it's cute. ooc

m.list | rules

Aether is used to your hands suddenly laying on his hair, running through them when you walk behind him – it’s like an urge, you just have to. You stopped on your track, bowing to kiss his head, inhaling his shampoo a little and hummed at the sweet scent.

“You took my shampoo again,” you mentioned, not in a warning way, more like you appreciate it. He nodded lightly, delighting himself from the feeling of your hands still running through his hair, scratching his scalp a little before kissing it again.

Sensing that you’re about to go away, his hands take yours gently and his head bent down to look up at you. “Already leaving ? We can both take a break…” he said, subtly implying you to not stop yet, making you giggle.

“Sure, we can.”

That’s basically how he ended up sitting on the floor between your thighs, watching a movie while you brush his hair for him, kindly letting your fingers run down his beautifully long hair – trying small, low buns to one high ponytail.

“Having fun ?” You can hear the smile in his voice, amused as always when he let you enjoy his hair more than he does.

“Always.” you said while kissing his nose from above, hiding the tv from his sight for a mere second but he still whines at you for doing so. Such a crybaby.

Kinich sighs as he feels your hands examining his hair again. “Would you stop doing that ?”

He knows you’re not doing this to annoy him, yet it always kind of stresses him to picture you scanning his scalp without any invitation to do so. He also knows that you don’t care about what he says, continuing to play with his hair while you swipe away some dandruff here and there.

“What’s the matter,” you talked back, seemingly frustrated. “You never say anything when it’s to help you fall asleep.” you argued, feeling really satisfied when he doesn’t find anything to say after that. It for sure helps a lot, he can’t argue with that, but he really hoped you could realize that it works all the time and not only when he wants it to – which means he was getting sleepy, slightly closing his eyes while he still had a lot to do.

A satisfied sigh escaped his lips before he could hold it in and you hummed teasingly. Your hands moved from his head to his chest, your arms caging him against you and you laid your head on top of his. “Tired already ?”

“Shut it.” he sounded harsh but he still rested against your chest as well, feeling at peace being so close to you. He wasn’t really tired but if you let him, Kinich would for sure appreciate some quality time with his head in your chest and your hands in his hair. Not that he’ll say it to you.

Wanderer honestly never mind when you ask him if you can play with his hair, he’s usually already busy and not moving so someone touching his hair while studying doesn’t change much for him. He won’t say that it doesn’t make it easy to concentrate since he, sometimes, tends to focus on this more than on the words written in front of him but he still appreciates how peaceful it makes him feel when he’s particularly worried or stressed.

Your hand running through his short strands of hair takes him somewhere else where he doesn’t need to worry as much, he likes it, even if he would never be physically capable of telling you.

“You’re braiding it ?” he asks, half absent in his question – he just wanted to confirm the feeling of your fingers brushing past his cheeks repeatedly. You hummed softly in response, leaving the braid dying the second you let it go since his hair was too short to handle it. It doesn’t discourage you though, and before he can ask what you’ll do next, he can already feel your steady movement back to the same scheme and a soft chuckle left his lips.

“You want me to stop ?” you asked under your breath, probably still concentrated on what you were doing but still caught his sigh.

“No, it’s fine. Go on.” he assured before stepping back again into his study, more than relaxing by this short break.

Rin loves movie dates to his core, but it always gets him when you start touching his hair in the middle of the movie. It's like he's never getting used to it and he's jolting a bit every single time, making you chuckle. But you always kiss his head as an excuse after. 

There's something relaxing when your fingers start to twirl around his short hair, making him wonder who appreciates it the most between you and him. Because he for sure loves it. 

His mind drifts away easily despite himself and how badly he wants to follow the movie. He always finds some way to lean into you, craving for more like a cat and more often than not, he ends up laying on top of you. 

“Don't fall asleep this time Rin,” you joke while scratching his head playfully. He simply nodded, absorbed in the movie more than you gave him credit for. He just didn't want you to stop.

Sae hates it when he feels your hands finding his hair in the middle of the day. He spends quite some time styling his hair in the morning, even if it doesn’t look like it, and you being nearby automatically becomes a danger for that.

Not that he doesn’t like you touching his hair, he’s fond of it, he wishes he could die with you touching his hair, but not during the day. So as soon as he feels it, he immediately gets up and warns you. “Please don’t.”

But he knows it can't be helped and soon your lips meet his, kissing him sweetly – your successful way to distract him – so you can end up with your hands reaching the hair in his neck. Twirling your fingers around it, pulling ever so slightly to annoy him but he still lets you. Not without a sigh against your lips, but he knows damn well he can't hold you back when you're determined to do something. 

He wishes he could keep his hair pretty for the day at least once in a while but he can't blame you ; both of you like it very much. He can forget his image for yet another day if that means he can appreciate the relaxing feint of your fingernails on his scalp. Even if lately it's starting to be everyday, he won't mention it – or not seriously. 

Your smile is more precious than some good hair day. 

Sakura still isn't used to you touching his hair, he hasn't been used to gentle gestures in his life before coming here  –  especially regarding his looks. The second your hands find his hair, he flinches by reflex even if he knows that it’s only you around him. He doesn’t turn you down anymore though since you always let him know how you love his hair, for the color or the fluffiness ; it’s just the best thing in the word and it got to be your boyfriend’s hair. You must be blessed. 

You still try not to frighten him too much, and start by touching his shoulders then going up to his neck and finally the hair in the nape of it. Twirling it lightly with your fingers and you’re sure to catch him snapping his head to you with a blush. 

“What are you doing ?!” he asked as always, flustered but not telling you to stop anyway which made you smile sweetly. 

“I’m playing with your hair ? You want me to stop ?” you tilted your head to the side, trying to act cute and confused so he doesn’t have the heart to tell you no. And with a resigned look but his brows still frowned, he compiled without adding anything.It’s a win, once again. 

You then slowly but surely brush through all his hair, tossing it one side to another, mixing the two colors together then separating it again like a puzzle. That’s something you grew to love, separating his hair for him and that’s also your best excuse to touch it even when there’s people around. Even if he’s not fond of it.

He tends to lay a bit in your hand when you do so, or when you stop your hand in his hair, quietly liking the feeling now that you’ve given him some time. Not that he’ll say it to you, never, but he doesn’t need to for you to know. It’s just like you to notice how he relaxes around you and when you do it. There’s a small smile on your lips when he tries to catch your eyes but looks away instantly, blushing again, and it makes you wonder when he’ll stop blushing around you. 

“You’re cute, Haruka,” you said, brushing away his bang to kiss his forehead. And without a second of hesitation – when in fact yes, but you tried to ignore it –  he was arguing with you about how he is NOT cute, simply proving your point again and again.

Let me know if you like it !

[sunflowerwinds]

bite it | v.a

summary: you and vi have decided that maybe each others company wasn’t the worst thing in the world. but you lay down some ground rules that you can’t help but break when you get pent up.

prev. part -> try it | next part -> lick it, spit it

pairing: fem!cheerleader!reader x soccer player!vi

contains: modern!au, mature content (MEN & MINORS DNI 18+) — fingering (r! & vi!recieving), oral (vi! & r! recieving), tit-sucking (r!recieving), possesive!vi (if you squint & reader if you squint harder), shower sex, kind of exhibitionism (they’re in the showers in a locker room so it’s open).

word count: 3.9K

a/n: SUPRISE!!!! let’s all pretend that i was supposed to post this over two weeks ago. okay? okay. THANK YOU TO MY VAL, MY GOLDEN GIRL @valeisaslut for editing this for me. ily 4ever <3 ENJOY HORNY FREAKS!!!

You and Vi came to an agreement.

If you were going to be fucking while you were partners for this project, there has to be ground rules. Mostly so that Caitlyn wouldn’t find out about it.

One: Only fuck during your ‘work’ time a.k.a your breaks to avoid being seen around campus together.

Two: Do not tell anyone about this as word spreads insanely fast. You two didn’t need your teammates finding out.

Two easy and simple rules that shouldn’t be hard to not break. Well, at least, that’s what you thought.

For the past two days, you had been feeling an abnormal amount of horniness; an aching feeling that can only be described as animalistic. You zoned out during practice and almost got kicked in the nose.

When Caitlyn asked you what’s wrong with you recently, you gave her a short response.

“I’m just stressed about classes,” you responded as you chug your bottle of water as during your break.

Being the absolute angel she was, she offered a quick solution. “Oh, we could study together down in the library on our free days. I’ve got Monday afternoons open.”

The guilt hit at that moment: reminding you of what she didn’t know and how terrible of a friend you’re being to her.

You couldn’t go five seconds without thinking of Vi’s tongue tracing over your clit or her abs pressed up against your back when she finger-fucks you from behind or the way her hands would tighten on your skin with such a natural dominance.

Then the daunting realization washes over you when you check your period calendar.

It’s ovulation week. And you aren’t going to see Vi for another three fucking days.

You tried to get off on your own but your hands and vibrator aren't good enough. Nothing feels as good as her as much as you hate to admit it.

You suck in a deep breath as you attempt to focus on one of your other courses but your mind desperately lingers to the last photo you remember Vi sending you just yesterday.

Being the absolute pain in your ass that she is, she sent you a photo of her ‘injury’ on her stomach on the toned skin that had been scraped from tripping over the ball when it had been passed to her without her realizing. Her hand had held up her jersey to reveal the miniscule spot of redness, the band of her black sports bra peeking from the top of the photo and the waistband of her briefs from the bottom.

Fucking tease, you had thought as you had texted her back immediately to put her shirt down as you couldn’t bare for her to know how you touched yourself to the sight of it ten minutes later.

You shake your head with harsh blinks as you click your pen on your notebook page rapidly to attempt to shush your arousing thoughts, taking in long stabilizing breaths.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

You’ve been sleeping with this girl for two weeks now and she’s making you feel like you’re slowly losing your sanity.

Should you–

No. No, you agreed. Only your Wednesdays with her.

But maybe she won’t mind one time. Just once, you try to convince yourself that you aren���t acting feral.

You grab your phone from next to your laptop on your desk, opening your messages with Vi to type something and send it before you can take it back.

You | come over, please?

You watch as the bubbles pop up for a moment, anxiously tapping your fingers on the desk. Your phone buzzes in your hand to show her response.

Violet | wow a please? did someone steal your phone?

You | you’re an ass

Violet | that’s not what you were saying last week when you sat on my face

Your face heats up at the memory of her sloppy noises underneath you as your hands gripped tightly to your headboard and her strong forearms holding you down by your trembling thighs on her face.

Fuck, that isn’t helping.

You | well, is that a no?

Violet | as much as i’d love to, i got practice rn.

Violet | but it ends in 30. i’ll hit the showers then head on over, gorgeous.

Part of you wants to just leave it there; ignore her and stand on your ground to yourself on having the patience you claimed to have. But, the more feverish part of you wants to run down to the field and take her right there in front of everyone.

Wait. Why couldn’t you just go down there?

You type on your phone's keyboard screen, setting it aside out of nerves.

You | i’ll come to you. wait in the showers for me

You resume your studying as if you hadn’t just sent that message, your leg bouncing out of anticipation. Hearing the soft buzz of her response coming through five minutes later, you snatch your phone and hold the screen up to your face.

Violet liked your message

Violet | will do, baby ;)

Desperation gains a whole new definition as you wait around the corner, watching as the last of Vi’s soccer team leaves the locker room, but not seeing her come out. So she can listen every once in a while and not be a stubborn pain.

You place a hand on the cold door, pushing it open with a grunt at the weight of it. The moment it was open, you could faintly hear the sound of a shower running towards the back.

Without further thought, you make your way past the tall blue lockers to enter the showers.

“Vi?” You call out, the echo of your voice filling the area.

The sudden squeak of a handle makes you wince before you hear the sound of a shower curtain being tossed open.

“Down here!” She calls back before resuming the water.

You suck in a deep breath to mentally prepare yourself to see Vi, following the sound of her voice, finding yourself standing in front of the only shut curtain amongst the others that were empty. You curse mentally at the sight of her silhouette, shaking your head.

“Are you just gonna stand there or come on in, gorgeous? I don’t bite.” Vi teases through the curtain, a soft chuckle leaving her. “Much.”

You roll your eyes before stripping yourself of the minimal clothing you had on, ignoring how your underwear had stuck to your sopping cunt. You simply set them down on the bench before gripping onto the flimsy plastic of the shower curtain, tugging it back with a harsh screech.

And god, you couldn’t suppress the moan that left your throat the second your eyes landed on Vi.

The steamy water from the shower head trickles down her delectably toned body, highlighting every ridge of her ribs and abs. Her back tattoo glistens in a way that nearly had you dropping to your knees to lick every line of ink. You truly couldn’t tell how much time passed of you gawking at her until you heard her clear her throat.

“Did you ask to come down here just to stare at me, princess? I mean I don’t mind but…” She trails off as her cocky expression somehow grows wider.

You blink as you lock eyes with her, stepping more into the shower so that the scorching water runs down your own bare body.

“Shut up,” you groan, placing your hands on her chest and pushing her up against the cold yellow tile.

Vi’s eyes, for a moment, widen at your eagerness before she smirks down at you. You don’t give her not even one second to say a smart-ass comment as you press your lips to hers with assertion, cupping either side of her neck to keep her steady. You moan into her mouth as her hands find their way to your ass, gripping the flesh with just as much desperation. Your tongue swipes over her bottom lip, humming as she sucks on your tongue with a soft moan.

You press your hips flush against her lower half, almost grinding into her for any sort of relief. Your clit pulses with need as Vi’s left pointer and middle finger tease at your slit from behind as her right hand holds one cheek open for easier access.

“You want my fingers, baby?” Vi mutters as she nibbles at your bottom lip then trailing down to the nape of your neck.

You whine as you nod against her, wrapping your arms around her neck to keep her somehow even closer to you.

“But,” you gasp as she captures one of your nipples into her mouth, distracting your train of thought. “I-I want to taste you first.”

Vi halts her movements for a moment, taken aback by your words. She pants softly against your skin as her hands grip your waist for a moment. You knew you weren’t as experienced with women but, somehow, the mere thought of getting a taste of her sparked that impulse in you.

“...If you’ll let me.” You add for reassurance, a hand cradling the back of her head as she’s still latched to your boob.

The red haired girl slowly releases your hard nipple from her lips, not before making sure to lick over it once more and standing upright. A ghost of a smile lingers on her lips, the water falling past her face in a cinematic light.

“Get on your knees, gorgeous.” She mutters as her hands follow up your body, as if trying to memorize every inch of you, before stopping to settle on your shoulders.

Her grips tightens slightly, doing as you're told, knees digging into the round drain over and jagged title. Your eyes are immediately hit by the streams of water as you attempt to look up at Vi, cursing at the feeling.

“Shit, sorry,” Vi reaches a hand up to maneuver the mounted neck so that it wouldn’t bother you too much.

You can’t help but feel your heart tighten at the simple yet gentle gesture, but still try to push it as quickly as the feeling comes. You wave her off with a chuckle, brushing your hair out of your face as you realize that your face is right in front of Vi’s crotch. Her bush has you salivating as you lean forward.

You press a kiss just below her belly button, her stomach visibly tightening at the feeling of your lips against her skin. Your hands settle on the thick meat of her muscular thighs as you trail the kisses down her v-line to her aching clit. It’s a hot red, calling for you to cool it down.

Finally, your arm hooks underneath her thigh to lift her leg. She gets the hint and rests her thigh over your shoulder, cursing when you lick that first long stripe over her puffy cunt. She gasps softly, her hips bucking into your face, chasing your tongue with a desperate libido.

“O-oh,” a broken soft moan leaves her lips.

Soaking in the encouragement, you continue your eager motions at her slit. You, shamelessly, moan into her cunt from the sole taste of her.

You can't help but think of what you had been missing out on. Was this why Vi would ravish you and ‘could never get enough of you’?

The addicting musky scent that lingers on your tongue along with the sound of her attempting to shield her noises sparks a flame in you even stronger. Your eyes lock on hers as you suck her clit, humming when she jerks her hips against your face. Your ego shoots through the roof as she lifts one of her toned arms to cover her eyes, her mouth falling open to prettily pant into the steamy shower space.

Her abs tighten as her grinding hips follow your tongue eagerly.

What you would give to have this image imprinted in your mind forever.

Sure, Vi would moan and groan softly into your mouth when she fucked you until you couldn’t hear your own thoughts. But these sounds? The quiet begging and endearing whimpers? Oh, they are driving you insane.

You’re relentless with your tongue along her slit as her breathing picks up, signaling you that she’s getting close. Your arm keeps her thigh up on your shoulder as the thick muscle tightens and threatens to fall back to the ground.

“Fuck, fuck, oh, just like that, baby,” she praises through stuttered whines.

You moan against her clit as you raise your free hand to her cunt, teasing the tip of your pointer and middle through the folds. Vi nods rapidly the second she feels your fingers, pushing her hips against your face.

You gently and gradually slide your fingers into her, making sure to not be too rough with her. She grinds down to follow the new feeling, eager to chase her orgasm that you’re pulling out of her. You curl your fingers as you continue to lick and suck on the sensitive bud.

Vi’s moans are growing higher in pitch, her jaw going slack. Keeping your pace with your tongue and eager fingers, you watch as her flushed face contorts, gripping onto your head to shove your face into her cunt harshly.

You weren’t complaining, that's for damn sure.

You feel her thigh shaking on your shoulder as she finally cums, coating your fingers, the warmth dribbling down your hand. You pull away from her clit but slow down your movements, eager to taste her arousal. Her knees buckle as she chases the orgasm, harsh pants leaving her lips as she attempts to recover.

“Well, fuck, princess,” she says with a shaky chuckle.

You peer up at her from your kneeled position, placing a few soft kisses on her clit teasingly. You hold back a cheeky smirk as she bucks her hips before standing on wobbly knees. Vi takes notice of this as her hands land on your waist to keep you upright, tugging you against her as she captures your lips into a hungry kiss.

Teeth clanking and loud panting fill your ears as you pull away slightly to raise the hand that was inside of her, holding up your two fingers to her red bitten lips. She stares at you with blown out pupils, greedily letting you wipe her own cum in her mouth.

“You taste good, huh?” You mutter with a hum.

Vi groans as she licks her lips to show you she agrees.

“Up against the wall and spread your legs for me,” she instructs as she places harsh kisses to your neck all the way down to your tits.

Usually, you would scold her about marking you up, but that lust blinded part of you wants to shamelessly show them off. So you simply do as you're told, licking over your own lips to remind yourself what you just did. Your back hits the cold tile as the shower water is running lukewarm at this point, no longer steaming up the confined space.

Vi’s teeth bare as she bites at your collarbone, digging her canines into your hot skin. You moan softly as her hand travels down to in between your spread legs to feel your slit with her middle and ring finger.

“Fuck, eating my pussy got you all wet for me, baby?” Vi questions.

You nod as you look at her with nothing but desire.

“I—fuck—needed you,” you admit with a soft whimper.

Vi’s baby blues lock on yours as her smile grows eagerly. You press your lips to hers to attempt to conceal that giddy grin (and the fact that her eye contact alone made your heart skip in an alarming way).

She chuckles, sliding her middle finger into you, messily making out with you as you wanted. Her tongue glides over your own as she easily slides in her ring finger next.

You shiver at the stretch as your arms wrap around her shoulders to keep her close. Her tits press against your own as she continues her sloppy kisses, beginning to pump her fingers into your needy cunt. She detaches her lips from your own to watch your furrowed brows and heavy eyes threatening to shut from the titillating feeling.

“So fuckin’ greedy, baby. What happened to only Wednesday’s, huh?” She teases.

You would snip back but you only moan when she asks the taunting question.

The two of you freeze at the sound of the heavy locker room door opening and shutting with an echoing rumble. Rushed footsteps follow along with low curses of annoyance.

The silence that comes over the two of you is deafening.

“Damn, Vi, you still here?” This person, who you assume is one of her teammates, calls out to the girl who has her fingers inside of you.

Vi stares at you with an eyebrow raise, holding her free hand up to press her pointer finger on her lips. You roll your eyes at her cocky smirk but hold your breath as you listen to the footsteps echoing around the locker room.

“Yeah. I’ll be out soon.” Vi calls back as she continues to pump her fingers in and out of you.

“Well, I think I left my phone here. Did you see it?”

Still, you'd be lying if you said the thought of almost getting caught doesn’t thrill you, just a little.

Your body is the one to give that away for you, clenching around her lengthy fingers, and meeting her eyes. Vi mouths a shush that only makes you want to release the moans itching at your throat even more.

The sound of lockers opening and closing and shuffling of clothes are reminders that you can’t make a sound.

“Did you check the field or the bleachers?” Vi calls out to her teammate as she continues her feverish pumps.

“Shit, you’re probably right.” The teammate mutters to herself as she slams her locker shut.

Vi curls her fingers to meet your g-spot, a sudden moan slipping from your lips at the overwhelming pressure, but she quickly uses her free hand to cover your mouth, your hips stuttering to chase her fingers.

You whine at the way her natural dominance took over in that moment.

“Stay quiet for me, gorgeous. She’s almost gone,” Vi whispers in your ear with a gentle kiss to your cheek.

You huff as you feel your stomach tighten, your orgasm begging to release.

“Vi, did you say something?”

The red haired girl grins at you before calling back: “No. Good luck with finding your phone.”

A beat of excruciatingly long silence passes.

“Alright. Uh, yeah, thanks. Don’t take too long or else Coach will have you running 100 laps again.”

Your brows furrow at Vi at her teammates' insinuation.

Again?

Has she fucked a girl in the showers before?

“Yeah, okay.” Vi snorts as she presses her lips to yours.

The two of you listen for the receding footsteps before the sound of the large door slams once again. You grab onto Vi’s wrist to push her hand away from your shielded mouth as you bury your face into her neck, freely letting your timid moans out now.

“You’re a d-dick,” you stutter out into her damp skin, nibbling a possessive hickey on her skin.

Vi throws her head back to allow better access for your markings, a grunt leaving her lips.

“Oh, you love it, baby,” she mutters smugly.

And the upsetting thing is you really fucking do.

Her arrogant words draw you closer to cumming all over her fingers. Your clit throbs as you remove one of your hands to reach in between your bodies, rubbing your own aching bud.

“Vi, please. ‘M so close.” You whimper.

Vi takes notice of how you’re touching yourself, shaking her head with disappointment.

“Take your hand off.”

Your brow quips at her tone. She sighs as she leans in more to kiss you deeply, making you hum as she pulls away to ghost her lips over your own.

“Please?” She adds with a cheeky grin.

You hesitantly remove your hand, watching as she drops down on her knees with her fingers still pumping inside of you. You watch her latch her lips around your clit and moan lowly at the relieving feeling of her tongue. Your hands weave into her hair instantly, rolling your hips against her face shamelessly, your orgasm clawing at the base of your spine.

Vi’s eyes are hooded with concentration, and she doesn’t dare let up her persistent thrusts. You fold over, attempting to clench your legs to ease the pressure. The familiar overwhelming feeling rips through your chest and stomach.

“I– oh my god,” you whimper throughout your orgasm.

Your inner thighs shake with sensitivity as you can feel yourself leaking down her toned forearm. You let out soft pants as you come down from the orgasm, pushing Vi’s face back as carefully as you could manage. You can feel your heartbeat in your ears as you lean your head back against the tile, shutting your eyes to calm yourself down.

A few seconds pass of Vi placing kisses up your body before you feel the stream of the lukewarm water hitting your boneless naked body.

“So, now, should I be expecting you to ambush me while I’m in the shower from here on out or what’s our schedule looking like?” She tilts her head at you, brushing your hair out of your face.

“I didn’t ambush you. I let you know I was coming,” you shake your head with an amused grin.

Vi’s smile grows at your accidental innuendo, placing a hand over her own lips to attempt to hide it. Before she can say anything, you roll your eyes as you push her chest slightly.

“Ha, ha. Yes, I definitely let you know I was coming. You are so–”

Vi holds her hands up in defense with a shake of her head. “Hey, you said it. I didn’t.”

You two shared heavy kisses until the water runs cold. Showering together felt eerily domestic; not fitting the dynamic you’ve established.

As much as you insisted on just leaving in the clothes you came in, Vi had the brilliant idea to swap clothes. You left the locker room in her baggy joggers and her black wife pleaser, while she sported your ribbed lace grey cami and Hello Kitty pajama shorts that had her ass nearly hanging out of them.

You giggle at the sight as she reaches behind her to tug the back down, walking down the hall to the exit door.

“Well, this is the sexiest you’ve ever looked, Vi,” you motion to her (your) clothing.

Vi scoffs before ranking her eyes up and down your body. “It’s definitely worth it seeing you in my clothes. You look…”

You finish for her as you fold your arms in front of your chest with a knowing smile. “Douchey?”

“Beautiful.” She says simply, her eyes shining as she tilts her head at you.

The soft comment throws you off guard.

It means nothing, you repeat mentally before you take one step forward to capture her lips into a gentle kiss; too gentle for what you two are. Her hands find your waist, thumbing at your hips.

You pull away, hooking your finger onto the strap of the cami to snap it against her skin. “Have fun walking home in that.”

“Same goes to you, princess.” She kisses you once more, lingering as if she wants to stay here with you. “I’ll see you Wednesday?”

“Sadly.” You sigh dramatically.

Vi’s eyes flicker to your lips again once she detaches herself from you completely, pressing her back against the heavy exit door. You watch her leave into the bright midday sun, making her way to her own dorm room.

But you couldn’t help but wonder as you walked home:

Why the fuck did you miss her so much?

TAGLIST: @sawaagyapong @unear7hly @leeidk87 @childishname @ferxanda @whisperingcherub @rad-radical2 @strawb4kdior @natscloset @aliendustpee @satorix @rosieeteaa @moodient @mars4hellokitty @klallx @skzvilleshi @drunkenrosesluv @fairexy78 @angelynn-nicole @sevikas-baby @milanyas @jajsnjz @oatmatchalatte

[bloomiize]

gooner!jake finally gets pussy and its so much better than his hand

part one two three

gooner!jake was embarrassed for the first time. He usually doesn't care about his perverted, disgusting behaviour — but it's different now. Jake's jerked off to other girls more times than he can remember, but you're the first one who's real. He's talked to you, seen you smile and laugh at his jokes, even hugged you — that fucking hug that led to this.

You heard him fuck his fist and drain all his cum out while saying your name. He basically confessed to you in the middle of it. Jake wanted to end the call and crawl up and die from embarrassment, but how could he when you said his name like that?

"Jakey," you whimpered, and that alone was enough to get him hard again.

Even though Jake is vile — the guy who eats his own cum pretending it's yours and stole your panties to get off — he's a gentleman. He would never leave you alone in a state like this. Especially not when you're moaning like that, thinking about him. So even though his dick is sore and tired, he rubs it again so you’re not alone.

gooner!jake is in heaven. The girl he's been obsessed with for the past year is on the other side of the phone making lewd sounds for him. He never thought this would happen —not for another year at least. Jake hasn't even asked you out yet, and here you are, begging him for more.

"P-p-please, i-i can't take it!" Your pussy is clenching desperately around your fingers begging for more. So close but not enough to tip you over the edge. You can't believe that jake — your project partner— fucked his fist while you were still on the phone. What's even worse? You can't believe how hot it was.

Maybe you did wear extra short skirts when you studied together, and perhaps you did push up against him a little extra when you gave him a hug. Who are you kidding? You knew how he looked at you. You weren't dumb. Besides, jake wasn't exactly discreet with his staring, and he wasn't good at hiding the tent straining against his pants either.

You pushed him just to see if he would break, and he did. You just weren't expecting how wet you would be for him.

gooner!jake couldn’t sleep at all. He kept replaying how you sounded earlier; your adorable moans and whimpers, the way you cried out his name. How you said you wanted him — no, needed him. His overstimulated dick was sore and aching from the ungodly amount of times he'd cum that day. But the thoughts of you still plagued his brain, and his hand slipped into his shorts, gripping his throbbing cock. He couldn’t control himself. It hurt, but it felt so fucking good. He closed his eyes and thought about how desperate you sounded. Would you beg like that for him in person? He could make you.

As he continued pumping his cock, he realized he needed you too. He needed your lips everywhere. He wanted to fuck your tight cunt so good that you'd have his name imprinted inside you. Just one chance.

Jake was holding back tears from how sensitive he was, breaking into a loud, animalistic moan when he finally came. It still wasn’t enough. He turned onto his side and groaned into his pillow.

Jake knew he was a gooner — he knew it was gross. He wasn’t planning on showing you this side of him at all. What if you didn’t want to talk to him anymore? What if you found him revolting?

Because Jake didn’t just like you for his dirty fantasies. He liked you in a way that wasn’t fueled by lust. It was more than that.

How is he supposed to face you after whispering, "Good girl, just like that" and, "Fuck yourself a little harder for me," into the microphone just so you could finish?

gooner!jake couldn't make eye contact with you when he came over. You hung up the phone right after you finished last night but you quickly sent him a text after.

Y/N: um, thanks for the help

Y/N: can you come over tomorrow after class?

JAKE: of course, i'll be there at 6

And now here he is.

"Sorry about last night. It’s just been a while, and you were there, so... asking you for help was a one-time thing. It won’t happen again, I promise—" You stop rambling when you realize Jake’s been staring, looking down at you. When you finally lock eyes, he jerks his gaze away at lightning speed, a red flush creeping up his neck.

"No, I’m sorry. I thought I hung up. You weren’t supposed to hear... me." Jake is struggling to keep his composure. You’re wearing your tiny tank top and shorts again, talking about what happened like it's nothing, looking up at him with those big, innocent eyes. Is this be the angle he would get if you sucked his cock? Even now, he still can't stop thinking about you.

Jake feels a pang in his chest when you call it a one-time thing. "Was my help not good enough for you?" he says, stepping closer, closing the gap between you, pushing you back against the kitchen counter.

If this was his only chance with you, he was going to take it.

"Th-that's not what I-I meant..." You’re trapped now, caged between his arms, the cold counter behind you. He's leaning down so close you can feel his breath on your skin. Your face is burning; your breathing turns uneven.

Jake’s towering over you, waiting, daring you to say something. "I-it was g-good," you finally admit, voice small.

gooner!jake takes that as the only sign he needs. His hands immediately grab your waist, holding you tight and firm, tugging you closer. He’s breathing hard — both of you are — the air thick with tension. His hands roam up from your waist, fingers skimming the base of your chest. You can feel it, his hard cock pressing against you through his sweats. You’re already soaking through your panties.

"Tell me to stop, Y/N," he rasps, nibbling your ear and groaning when you whimper. "You have no idea what I want to do to you. It’s unhealthy. I’m sick."

His mouth trails down your neck, kissing, biting, soothing over the marks he’s leaving. You’re shaking under him, and Jake pauses, his hands trembling but still tucked under your top. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes — big, round, pleading.

"Y/N," he whispers, voice hoarse. "Tell me to stop."

You shake your head.

How could you tell him to stop when you’ve been touching yourself thinking about him for the past six months? When he started as the classmate who stared at you for a little too long, and became Jake, suspiciously strong, ridiculously cute, flustered so easily, always willing to do anything for you?

You liked him.

You really liked him.

gooner!jake is humping into you thigh at a desperate pace. He gave you a way out but you...

You. Shook. Your. Head.

This must be a dream. There's no way that he's palming your your tit and hearing you gasp under him like this right now. He's biting on your shoulder and rutting into you like a dog in heat and you're just letting him.

"F-fuck! I'm disgusting for you. I stole your panties two weeks ago. They're back at my apartment covered in my cum... I'm gross, I can't stop. Tell me to stop. Please." He admits to you, maybe this will snap you back into reality and make you realize he isn't the type of guy you want. He's scared and hides his face in your collar, licking the bruises he just left there. If you're going to say yes to him, he wants you to know him, the true him and what you're signing up for.

Your hands grab his face so he's looking at you, stroking his flushed cheeks with your thumbs. His eyes are glassy and desperate— poor baby. "Jakey," His hips slow down and he lets out a tiny whimper hearing his nickname. "I left those out... for you to see. I-I... i want you too."

gooner!jake nearly cums in his pants. His lips crashing into you. His tongue is finding yours at a rapid pace. Your fingers are tangled in his hair and his hands are groping your tits. Jake is moaning into you like you're his saviour, his piece of salvation.

When you finally pull away for air, a string of saliva connects you two. You glance at the bed and he takes the hint. He refuses to take his lips off your neck and hands away from you as you walk over, him pushing you onto the bed when you eventually make it.

gooner!jake is drinking in the sight of you lying there. Hair messy, tank top and shorts raised up, you're so perfect. He strips your shorts off in one swift move, tossing them somewhere he doesn’t care to look. His heart stutters when he sees the wet patch staining your panties. So fucking cute. His eyes roll back, hips bucking against the mattress like he’s in heat.

"I've thought about this for so long. Please, I'll take such good care of you. Just a little taste, I'll be so good." He whines and mumbles it over and over like a prayer while his fingers ghost over your clothed cunt, teasing you. Your cute little gasps and whimpers drive him fucking crazy. His cock twitches painfully hard in his pants.

When you let out a soft, breathy "Mhm," — barely a sound, but enough — Jake loses it.

He dives in without hesitation, mouthing at your pussy through your soaked panties. Sucking, licking, nuzzling like he's a dog. You can feel the heat of his tongue through the thin fabric, the way he moans against you like he's the one being touched.

It’s messy. It’s desperate. It’s Jake.

But it’s not enough. He needs more.

Without even thinking, he yanks your panties aside and then tears them down your legs. Jake buries his face between your thighs, tongue fucking you like he’s starving. Slurping, moaning, whimpering your name into your pussy like it's the only thing keeping him alive.

His hands are everywhere — gripping your thighs so tight they’ll bruise, pushing your hips down when you start to squirm away from the overwhelming pleasure.

"P-please, Jake — ngh — s’too much—" you whimper, fingers threading into his hair, trying to pull him away.

He shakes his head, lips locked around your clit, sucking hard enough to make your back arch off the bed.

"No, please, please, need more — need you to cum, need it so bad. Fuck, just wanna taste you, wanna drink you — please, please—" he's babbling against you, voice cracking like he's about to cry.

You don’t even get a chance to argue before he slips two fingers into you, pumping slow and deep, curling them just right. His mouth never leaves your clit, tongue flicking and swirling fast and messy. Your fingers never reached that deep; this new sensation has you seeing stars.

Your orgasm crashes down hard, your thighs clamping around his head, your voice breaking into whiny little sobs. Jake groans like he’s the one cumming, grinding his leaking cock against the bed without a shred of shame. There's probably a wet spot on your sheets.

He keeps licking you through it, sloppily, hungrily, tasting everything, like he's trying to burn the memory of it into his mouth forever.

When you finally go limp, trembling, Jake pulls away with a slick, swollen mouth, looking dazed. His pupils are blown wide, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his hairline. He's licking his lips to savour it.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but it’s useless — he’s soaked. His whole body is shaking from how badly he needs you.

"You taste so fucking good," he mumbles, voice hoarse. He presses desperate, messy kisses to your thighs, your hips, anywhere he can reach. "Need you," he whines again, hips bucking helplessly against nothing. "Please — please let me fuck you, I’ll be so good, promise, I swear — I c-can’t, please.”

You grab his face, pulling him up, and whisper, "Jake... fuck me."

You swear you feel his soul leave his body.

He fumbles with his sweats, shoving them down along with his boxers, cock slapping up against his stomach — red and leaking, twitching from how fucking desperate he is. Fuck he is bigger than you thought. You're a little worried about how it'll fit and it shows on your face.

He lines himself up, hands trembling so badly he almost misses, but when the tip catches against your slick entrance, he chokes on a sob.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—" he gasps, pressing in slow, dragging the thick head against your messy cunt, sinking in inch by inch. His head is thrown back and he's already close.

You both moan, loud and filthy, as he bottoms out, his hips flush against yours. You feel full, stretched so good you’re already clenching around him, body trembling from oversensitivity.

"F-fuck, you’re so tight — 's perfect, made for me —" Jake whines against your neck, rutting his hips shallowly, not able to stop himself even for a second.

"Please — please relax for me" he gasps out, voice cracking as he presses desperate kisses along your jawline. "I can’t — you’re so warm, fuck, just a little looser, please, I can’t—"

He’s needy and messy, thrusting into you in short, desperate snaps of his hips, each movement punching a gasped moan out of you. You’re already fucked out, clawing at his back, tears brimming in your eyes from how good he feels, from how full you are.

"Jakey — ngh — slow down —" you whimper, but he can't.

"Can't — can't stop—s-sorry, you're too good —" Jake babbles against your skin, biting and licking at your collarbone. He’s holding your hips, pounding into you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets up for even a second. Every time he bottoms out, he grinds his hips down, stuffing his cock as deep as he can, dragging the most pathetic little sounds out of both of you.

"I love you, I love you, i can't believe you're letting me do this —" Jake whimpers like a broken record, words spilling out without him even realizing. You’re squeezing him so tight he’s losing his mind. Jake’s cock twitches violently inside you, and he presses his forehead to yours, voice cracking. "Please — please let me cum inside — need it, need it so bad — please, fuck, please, y/n—"

You nod through the haze, too fucked out to even form words. Jake sobs when you nod, hips stuttering, and then he’s slamming into you hard, once, twice — before spilling deep inside, thick and hot, filling you so much you feel it pooling inside.

But he doesn't stop.

Even after cumming, Jake keeps fucking into you, desperate little thrusts pushing it deeper, his cock still painfully hard from how ruined he is. "S-sorry — can’t stop — need you, need you, fuck—" he's whining and broken, face buried in your neck, breath hitching on every thrust.

You're gasping, trembling under him, brain fuzzy, body overstimulated and twitching from the relentless pace. Your pussy flutters around him helplessly, milking every last drop out of him.

"J-Jakey — ngh — too much—" you sob, clinging to his back.

"I know, I know. Fuck — just a little more, just a little more, wanna stay inside you forever —" he cries against you, hips still moving, slower now, grinding, as if trying to mark your insides.

Your bodies are a mess of sweat, cum, and desperate sobbed praises, and Jake doesn't even know where he ends and you begin anymore. His whole body is trembling. When he finally slows down enough to pull out — whimpering when he sees your pretty cunt leaking with his cum and immediately tries to grab a tissue from your nightstand with shaky hands.

You watch him, heart pounding, still dazed, still aching from how good he fucked you. Jake wipes you down so gently, biting his lip so hard he might draw blood, too scared to hurt you even though he just ruined you. He tosses the tissues in the trash and hesitates by the edge of your bed, eyes darting everywhere but at you.

Then he turns to leave. He actually turns, like he’s going to go.

Your sleepy hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist and pulling him right back into your chest. Hugging him close. He lets out a little "oof," stumbling onto the mattress, cheeks flushed bright red. He’s stiff against you, nervous, breathing shallow like he thinks you’re going to kick him out or regret this. You wrap your arms around him tighter, burying your face into his hair.

And that’s when he speaks, voice cracking adorably, "Um... y/n, I, uh... I like you. Like, like-like you. A lot. Um... Do you maybe wanna go out with me sometime? No pressure, though.. If you don't want to, that's fine, I totally get it, I just, I just wanted to say it, so you knew—"

You pull back, glaring at him, completely fed up with how stupidly oblivious he is.

"Jake," you say, voice low and threatening.

He freezes. You called him Jake and not Jakey. A million thoughts go through his head, he's panicking, he's about to be rejected.

"If you don't get it through your head that I like you too, I swear to god I’ll suck you dry right now until you can't even think anymore."

Jake short-circuits. He makes the stupidest whimpering sound you've ever heard and immediately buries his face into your chest to hide. "F-fuck — y/n. You can’t — ngh, you can’t just say shit like that." Jake whimpers, voice wrecked and desperate, rutting his hips subtly against you like he can’t help it. "I can cum again if you want me to, fuck—"

You giggle breathlessly, running your fingers through his messy hair, pulling him even closer until he's basically lying on top of you like a big, whimpering puppy.

"I mean it," you whisper into his ear, smiling. "I like you, Jake."

He clutches you tighter, breathing a shaky sigh of relief.. Jake's heart is pounding so loudly that you can feel it through his chest. He nuzzles into you deeper, mumbling something incoherent, completely melted against you.

gooner!jake still can't believe you're dating him. Months later, not much had changed. He's moved out and said goodbye to his roommate but he still goes over to hang out all the time. He was still hopelessly obsessed with you, still got hard at the smallest things, still stole your panties when he thought you weren't looking, just to jerk off like a desperate freak. Except now?

Now, you always catch him.

Like tonight, you caught him red-handed again, laying back on your shared bed, your baby pink lacy panties fisted tight in one hand, his cock leaking against his stomach, whining your name into the fabric like a lovesick puppy.

"Jake," you scold softly, arms crossed, but your voice is fond.

He jolts, face flushing deep red. "I-I was gonna put them back! I swear!" he stammers, cheeks burning, cock twitching in his hand like it had a mind of its own. His eyes glisten like he's about to cry from the embarrassment. You sigh and walk toward him slowly, watching the way his eyes widen and follow your every move like he doesn’t deserve to touch you.

"You really can't help yourself, can you?" you murmur, climbing into his lap. His hands immediately fly to your waist like instinct, needy and trembling.

"Can't — you're too pretty," he whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut like it's physically painful to look at you. "You're perfect, and you're busy and — f-fuck, just wanna stuff you full all the time — wanna ruin you. Please, baby, let me —"

Jake's cock twitches violently between you, smearing precum against your thighs. You can feel how badly he's shaking underneath you, how he’s basically vibrating with the need to touch, to fuck, to have you. You roll your hips and he lets out the filthiest, neediest moan, hips jerking up against you helplessly. His knuckles are white where he’s gripping your waist, and he’s babbling again without realizing it. He never had to hide his disgusting behaviours with you, and for that, he's grateful. So fucking grateful.

"Thank you, thank you," he mumbles into your skin, hips stuttering up helplessly, "I’ll be good, I'll be so good for you."

And you just smile, knowing he already is.

from bloomiize: I'M FINALLY DONE!! I like this one a lot so hopefully you guys do too!! A lot longer than I intended whoops. this might be the last piece I do for gooner!jake but idk yet, maybe, maybe not LOL! I've grown quite fond of him. Thank u for reading and ur support! pls lmk what u think :3 reblogs and comments are appreciated ^^ love u guys <3 ALSO IF U WANT MORE GOONER!JAKE, CHECK THE TAG bloomiize: hardthoughts

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[nhmkhnh]

PAIRINGS: VI X FEM!READER

PREFACE: she ran every calculation, analyzed every outcome— but still couldn’t predict how fucking wrecked you’d make her feel.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: haha i'm back, but nah i remake that loser!vi draft into this thang, yeah.

TAGS: nsfw content · nerd!vi · loser!vi · pervert!vi · possessive!vi · subtext turned explicit · sexual tension · lap sitting · wet dreams · public horniness · accidental touching · strap-on use · vi has zero chill · dirty thoughts and dumber reactions · from moans to mayhem · reader teasing turns vi feral · first time breaking point · horny academic breakdown · dom!vi activation · glasses stay ON · vi says “fuck it” and fucks you.

vi always volunteers to help you review for finals—not because she’s a genius, but because she wants an excuse to sit close. she's that type of nerd who prints out a whole custom cheat sheet in color-coded tabs, highlights things that "might come up," and lowkey loses her train of thought every time your hand brushes hers while reaching for a pencil.

you don’t even notice what she’s doing half the time—but vi? vi is dying quietly.

she’s perched on the edge of her bed, glasses slipping down her nose, hoodie sleeves half-pulled over her fingers as she tries to explain the difference between two formulas. but you lean over to look at her notes, and your shirt slips just an inch. just enough to show your collarbone.

her mouth goes dry.

her voice cracks halfway through a sentence.

“…so if you, um… you d-derive it here…” she coughs and violently turns her face away, pretending to look for her water bottle. “shit. uh. sorry. lost my place.”

you giggle. "you're so red right now."

vi literally cannot breathe. she’s gripping her pen like it’s a lifeline and trying not to imagine things she should not be imagining while you sit there looking like that in her room.

if only you knew the shit she writes in her private notebook later. like how she described your laugh as "effortless dopamine" and rated the way you chew gum a 9.5 on the vi-can’t-focus scale.

oh, and every time you call her smart?

she walks into a wall within the next 15 minutes. without fail.

okay no, listen—vi's not a total creep (or so she tells herself). she’s just… a victim. a victim of your instagram story from last summer, when you were lounging poolside in that sinfully tight two-piece, sipping iced tea with your sunglasses slid low on your nose.

she screenshotted it. without hesitation. then panicked and threw her phone across the room like it burned her fingers.

then… she picked it up. opened it again. zoomed in. cropped out the background. stared for like, a solid minute.

and renamed the file “notes3.pdf” to hide it in her study folder.

vi knows it’s wrong. she knows it’s bad. but gods, it’s 2am and she’s lying in bed, sweaty and flushed and biting the edge of her pillow because that picture of you won’t leave her head. she’s got one hand shoved under the waistband of her sleep shorts, muffling her whimpers with her hoodie sleeve like you’ll hear her through the walls.

the image is so burned into her brain she doesn’t even need to open the folder anymore. all she has to do is close her eyes and pretend your thighs are around her head, your voice breathy and teasing: "what would your little nerd friends say if they saw you like this, huh?"

and every time she comes? she whispers your name into the dark like a secret. like a prayer. then immediately opens a new tab to delete the image. (but she never does.)

she swears she didn’t mean to do it.

you left it behind one day—just a little pink tube, tossed at the bottom of her bag after study group. you’d even said, “you can keep it, i’ve got like five.” but vi didn’t throw it out. she didn’t return it. she just… looked at it. a lot. thumbed the cap. rolled it up to see the worn-down curve of the balm where your lips had pressed.

then she opened it.

took a deep breath.

it smelled like strawberry and sin.

the first time she tried it, she was alone in her room, curled up in her hoodie, laptop on her thighs—but she couldn’t stop staring at the tube. like it dared her. so she twisted it up and dragged it across her lips, slow. pretending it was you doing it. pretending you were leaning down, whispering, “hold still, baby, let me take care of you…”

she got so worked up from just that thought, she had to shove her laptop off her legs and grind into her pillow like a desperate, useless virgin who’d never been touched before. and let’s be honest—she kinda hasn’t.

now it’s routine. every night. lights off. chapstick on. fingers in. you in her head.

sometimes she gets bold—leans back in her desk chair, spreads her legs, one hand down her sweats and the other gripping the damn chapstick like she’ll die if she drops it. whimpering out “fuck—fuck, please, please—“ to no one but the air.

when she comes, her thighs shake. and the chapstick’s still there. resting on her chest like a trophy. like it owns her.

and it kind of does.

vi thought she was being quiet. thought the pillow stuffed against her mouth and the gentle whirr of her desk fan would cover it. she was wrong.

it was just another night—2:43am, hoodie halfway stripped, the room dim and warm, the air tasting like sweat and shame. she was on her back, legs bent, one hand down her sleep shorts, the other gripping the edge of her blanket like it could keep her from falling apart.

you’d texted her earlier: “sleep tight, nerd 💛” and that was it. that was all it took.

now every time her fingers slip against her clit, her brain plays out imaginary scenes of you calling her that—“nerd”—but in a voice all breathy and mean and teasing. like you’re on top of her, straddling her, watching her fall apart.

and this time?

this time she just… lost control.

she was so close, she didn’t even realize her voice was rising— didn’t even catch it when her lips parted and she moaned, "f-fuck—… please—don’t stop—"

then a cough. a loud-ass, unmistakable cough from the other side of the room.

her whole body locked up. wide-eyed. palm still buried between her legs.

roommate: “…you good, dude?”

vi: "…yep. just—bad dream."

the silence that followed was biblical.

she didn’t move for ten minutes. just laid there, hand still wet, face on fire, heart slamming so hard against her ribs she thought she might throw up.

next morning? roommate didn’t say a word. but vi swears she caught them smirking when you came over later, all sunshine and oblivious charm, giving vi a hug while she stood stiff and red and sweating.

it started off innocent—summer heat, library ac busted, both of you sweating through your shirts after walking across campus. you stopped by a corner shop, bought two cones, handed one to vi without a second thought.

she didn’t even lick hers.

because the second she turned to look at you, you were already dragging your tongue up the side of yours, slow and absent-minded, eyes somewhere off in the distance, lips parted slightly like you didn’t even notice what you were doing.

vi did.

she noticed everything.

your lips wrapping around the tip. the way the ice cream melted and slid down your wrist. how you licked it off with one long stroke, then sucked your finger clean like it was nothing.

her cone melted in her fist. she didn’t take a single bite.

she just stood there in stunned, boner-deep silence, heat flooding her body in places that had nothing to do with the weather. her thighs clenched. her ears burned. her heart was punching holes in her ribs.

all she could think— that could be me. fuck, that should be me.

she walked into a street pole two minutes later. didn’t even notice until you gasped and ran over. she blamed the sun. you bought her a new cone.

later that night, she stared at her ceiling with a hand between her legs, moaning your name into the darkness while whispering, “just like that. just like that—f-fuck, yeah, eat me like you ate that cone—”

it happened while you two were packing for a weekend trip—just a casual little beach getaway with friends, nothing serious. vi was helping you toss stuff into your duffel bag while pretending not to stare every time you bent over in your shorts.

and then— you flung a whole handful of clothes her way and said, "can you fold those for me real quick? thanks, babe!"

her brain short-circuited at “babe” alone, but then her hands sank into the pile— and wrapped around something soft, thin, lacy.

it took her half a second to realize what she was holding. another half second to look down and see— your panties. your favorite black lace pair.

vi didn’t move. didn’t breathe. just stared.

they were still warm.

she went rigid, every single muscle in her loser nerd body locking up like a corrupted file. her ears turned red. her lips parted. and before she could stop it— a tiny whimper escaped.

just—“ah.” soft. pitiful. broken. like she’d just been stabbed by horny.

and then?

she bolted.

mumbled something like “gotta pee real quick!” and sprinted to the bathroom like her life depended on it. the door slammed. the lock clicked.

and she collapsed against the sink, clutching your underwear in both hands like it was a sacred object, forehead pressed to the mirror, whispering— “you’re so fucked up, violet. so fucking sick. but gods, they smell like her. fuck—”

she didn’t even make it to the toilet. dropped to her knees right there on the bathroom rug, panties clutched in one hand, the other between her legs, hoodie sleeves rolled up and teeth biting down on the fabric to keep quiet.

came fast. came hard. tried to wash her face like nothing happened. came out five minutes later looking destroyed.

you: “you okay?”

vi: “yep. super good. hydrated. thriving.”

you: “…why are your ears red?”

vi: “sunburn. shut up.”

the lecture was boring. the lights were dim. the professor was talking about something vi didn’t care about—maybe economic theory, maybe planetary motion. who knows.

because in front of her? you were chewing your pen.

and not like a normal person. no. you had your lips wrapped around the end of it—slowly. you’d suck for a second, then bite gently. then drag your teeth down the plastic shaft like it owed you money.

vi’s entire consciousness evacuated her body.

she blinked. once. twice. and then just… froze. pen halfway in her mouth, tongue poking the inside of her cheek— you looked like a whole fucking wet dream and didn’t even know it.

vi’s thighs clenched under the desk. her grip on her notes turned deathly. her glasses started fogging up and she swiped them off, pressing her face into her sleeve, “fuckfuckfuck—” under her breath, shaking like a damn leaf.

every time you twirled the pen or bit it harder, she swore she could feel it. in her stomach. in her chest. between her legs.

and then you stretched.

arms over your head. shirt riding up. vi saw a sliver of bare back and nearly came on the spot.

she had to excuse herself.

muttered something about needing to print slides, rushed out of the lecture hall and into the first empty bathroom, slammed the stall door, and buried two fingers into her soaked panties with the desperate grace of someone not okay.

panting, head back, she came whispering your name and the word “pen” like it was a sin she couldn’t stop committing.

she went back to class 20 minutes later with shaky legs and didn’t remember a single word of the lesson.

vi was halfway through a ranked match—keyboard clacking, headphones on, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. she didn’t even notice you approach until you laughed and said:

"ugh, i’m tired. let me sit here for a sec."

and before she could ask what “here” meant—

you sat. right on her lap. facing the screen. wiggling to get comfy.

vi flatlined.

like, physically short-circuited. her hands froze. her headset slid crooked on her head. every neuron in her brain screamed what the fuck while her body screamed don’t move or you’ll die.

because you weren’t just sitting. you were squirming. and you had no fucking clue you were grinding down onto her lap like a tease with zero self-awareness.

her thighs tensed. her breath stuttered. and her dick— (her strap, tucked under sweats because she was feeling a lil fruity that day) shifted. pressed. throbbed.

right beneath you.

her voice cracked.

“uh—fuck—b-babe, wh-what are you—”

you shushed her. “you’re playing, right? don’t mind me.”

and you leaned back. all the way into her chest. let your arms rest on hers. melted into her like you didn’t just turn her into a human vibrator.

she didn’t even finish the match.

dropped the mouse. let out this pathetic little moan in your ear— and grabbed your waist with both hands, fingers digging in.

“i—i can’t fucking take this,” she whispered.

you froze. and felt it. the outline of the strap. rock hard under you. the way she was breathing—so heavy, so fucking desperate.

her voice rasped, low and ruined: “you’re gonna sit here and be good, yeah? or i’m fucking this into you. right now. on this chair. don’t care if the door’s open.”

the skies opened without warning. vi was already seated when you burst in—out of breath, soaked to the skin, laughing.

“fuck,” you huffed, brushing hair out of your face. “i didn’t bring an umbrella.”

and that’s when she saw it.

the white shirt. soaked. transparent. clinging to your chest like a second skin. every. damn. curve. the lace of your bra outlined in full definition. drops of water trailing down your collarbones. your thighs shining with rain and sweat.

and vi?

vi died.

her eyes went wide. her mouth dropped open. she blinked so hard her glasses fogged up just from body heat. her throat went dry. her brain emptied like a deleted word doc.

you waved at her.

she waved back. missed. hit the edge of her chair.

you sat beside her. legs crossed. shirt still soaked. and every time you shifted in your seat, the fabric pulled across your chest just enough to make her pulse spike.

she couldn’t think. couldn’t breathe. couldn’t stop imagining things.

how your skin would feel under her hands. how that soaked shirt would peel off with a sticky sound. how her tongue would follow every drop down your stomach until—

"vi."

she jumped. looked up. the professor was calling on her.

vi stammered. “i—i didn’t—um—sorry, could you repeat the—yeah. just—sorry. my brain’s—um—rain.” everyone laughed. you leaned over and whispered: “you okay, nerd?”

her legs clenched so tight under the desk she might’ve bruised herself. and then, after class, she disappeared into the bathroom for a solid twenty minutes.

no one asked.

no one needed to.

the sigh she let out behind that locked stall door said it all: “holy fuck, i’m gonna die for this girl.”

it started slow.

just a dream. warm, hazy, too good to be real.

you were on top of her, hips grinding into hers, thighs caging her in, hair messy, lips parted. you were panting. desperate. fucking gorgeous.

and you were saying her name. over and over. "vi. vi. god, vi—right there, right there—don’t stop—"

her hands were on your ass. your nails were clawing down her chest. her strap was buried deep in you and your walls were so tight and you were so wet and— fuck. she couldn’t hold it.

in the dream, she grabbed your hips, slammed up into you, and came with a broken, ragged moan.

and in real life?

she came too.

in her fucking sleep.

body shuddering. thighs trembling. sweat slick on her forehead. hand still in her panties. your name slipping from her lips in a soft, gasping whisper: "fuck—"

and her roommate heard it. of course they did.

“…vi? dude, you good?”

vi jolted upright like she’d been electrocuted. soaked through. blanket kicked off. hair a mess. pussy still pulsing.

she couldn’t even lie. just sat there like a broken sim with her hand still halfway in her sweats.

"…yeah," she croaked. "i'm great."

BONUS: BREAKING POINT

you were sitting on her lap again. like nothing. like you didn’t know what you were doing.

your ass—warm and soft—pressed snug against her thighs. you giggled, wiggled, threw your arms around her shoulders, and leaned in like this was just another game. "hey, cutie nerd."

vi gripped your thighs. tight.

her jaw tensed. her glasses slid just a little down her nose. you were facing away, oblivious, the hem of your skirt brushing her knees, your scent everywhere—like sunscreen and body lotion and danger. vi had been keeping it together. she’d tried. gods, had she tried. all those months of being your sweet little nerd—tutoring you, stammering when you bent over, blushing when you called her pretty.

but today?

today you fucking whispered:

"does sitting on you turn you on, vi?"

right into her ear.

click. that was the sound of something inside her snapping. a line that had been stretched way too thin—too many nights of your casual teasing, too many dreams soaked through with your name on her tongue.

she stood up. lifted you. just—grabbed your waist like it was nothing and hauled you into her arms, like you didn’t weigh a thing.

“vi—?”

you barely got the word out before she dropped you onto her bed. sheets soft beneath your back, knees still apart, skirt pushed up.

vi was on top of you in a second. breathing hard. glasses still on. eyes wild. voice low and dangerous.

“you wanna tease me, baby?” her hands were on either side of your head now. “call me a nerd? sit on my lap like you don’t know what you’re doing?”

you blinked up at her. wide-eyed. silent.

that look broke her too.

she grabbed your wrists. pinned them to the mattress. her breath came out sharp, heated. her thigh slotted between yours and pushed—firm, slow, right up into your center.

you gasped.

she grinned.

“then fucking take it.”

her mouth slammed into yours. nothing sweet. all teeth and heat and desperation. her tongue curled against yours, hands squeezing your wrists so hard you whined into the kiss. and vi— vi moaned like she’d been starving for this.

like she needed you to breathe.

“gods,” she muttered, lips against your cheek, then your jaw, then your throat. “you don’t know what you do to me. you think i’m stupid, don’t you? think i didn’t notice when you bent over in that skirt on purpose? you think i didn’t see that lacy shit you wore yesterday?”

she bit your neck. not enough to mark. but enough to make you gasp.

“you really want me to snap, huh?” she growled the words as her hand slid up your thigh. fingers dragging your panties down, slow and messy. “you want your pervy little nerd to go feral on you?”

you didn’t even get the chance to answer. her fingers dipped between your folds—just once, slick and lazy—and she groaned.

“fucking soaked,” she breathed. “you sat on me like this? fuck—”

she pulled back. stripped her hoodie and shirt in one movement, still panting. you saw the strap—thick, already strapped in tight beneath her sweats—and your whole body arched.

vi saw the way you looked at it.

“yeah?” she murmured. “want it?” she climbed back over you, grinding the strap against your bare cunt. “beg.”

you whimpered. “please…”

“please what, baby?” her hand was back on your neck now, not choking—just firm. just reminding you who was on top. “say it. say you want me to fuck you.”

you swallowed. “i want you to fuck me, vi—please, i need it, i’ve been teasing you because i—fuck, i want this—”

she didn’t wait. didn’t give you another chance to speak.

she grabbed your thigh. hooked it over her arm. lined up the strap and slammed in.

you screamed.

in the best way.

it was deep. unforgiving. her hips snapped forward, again, again, her hand covering your mouth to muffle the way you were falling apart.

she leaned down, forehead against yours, fucking you harder than you ever imagined this awkward, stammering nerd could.

“you’re so tight,” she groaned. “so fucking good—fuck—why didn’t i do this sooner? you wanted this. you needed this.”

you nodded desperately under her. legs shaking.

she pulled out halfway—then slammed in again, harder. you cried out, body clenching, back arching.

vi snapped her hips again. “was this what you wanted, huh? your little nerd to break and ruin you?”

you whimpered into her palm.

“then don’t you dare fucking tap out, pretty girl.” her rhythm got faster. rougher. “i’m not done with you yet.”

your orgasm hit so fast it shattered you.

she didn’t even slow down.

kept fucking you through it—eyes locked on your face, watching the way you fell apart under her, shaking and sobbing and trying to breathe.

when you moaned her name—broken, pleading—vi moaned back. whispered, “i love it when you say it like that…”

then she kissed you. deep. slow.

and started fucking you all over again.

[heavensenteden]

✎ caught you! | nsfw fic 🔞

☆彡

i finally pulled myself up to write a TKaTB fic.

i wanted a reader who was freaky like sol and matched his freak LOL, so we have reader who is aware and not a complete airhead!!

i’m also brain rotted about this man sooo bad it’s insane guys help!

enjoy ;P

link to ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62611723

word count: 3747

pls minors dni and dnr ⭐️

cw: stalking, semi-public sex, blowjobs, manipulation

🌱˖ ִֶָ 𓂃⭒

The library was quiet today, save for the soft rustle of pages from students studying diligently and the occasional creak of the old bookshelves that your university so desperately needed to replace.

You liked it this way, a nice, quiet place far away from everyone, where you could just relax and be alone, and where Solivan’s eyes could follow you without drawing much attention. He was sitting nearby, alone at the end of the big oak table tucked away in one of the library’s four corners.

You had purposefully chosen a spot where he could watch you, presenting yourself out in the open for him. Pretty generous of you, honestly. You could feel it. Sol’s gaze, always lingering on you, his presence a shadow at the edge of your peripheral vision.

Occasionally, you’d glance up on purpose, just to catch a glimpse of his eyes meeting yours before he buried himself back into whatever book he had open, his face flushing that pretty red colour.

It was comforting in a twisted, intoxicating way. You already knew he was infatuated with you. It started off quite tame, to be fair; you hadn’t really noticed him before since he always sat at the back of the class, away from judgmental eyes.

But then the little things started. A shadow following you home, or that burning feeling of being watched.

Then one windy evening, you came back home to your apartment to find your window lock broken, and the place freezing because of it. Naturally, you freaked out. You called Crowe to come assess the damage, check if anything was missing, and to keep you company while you tied a flimsy ribbon around the latch, hoping it would be enough to keep your stalker out.

Unfortunately, Sol needed a lot more than ribbon to deter him.

That same night, he oh so easily undid your makeshift lock and slid right up next to your unconscious sleeping body, stroking your hair and holding your hand as if you were lovers.

Unlucky for him, you were a light sleeper, and the slight brush of his hand woke you. The room was so dark, save for the beams of moonlight streaming through the same window Sol had crept through not too long ago. You could only catch pieces of green and black hair shuffling around as you lay, somewhat petrified, in bed.

Then he spoke.

“My sweet pumpkin… sorry about your lock. I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear as he whispered to you sweetly.

You felt him shift, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek before sliding out of your bed, bidding your “sleeping” self goodbye as he slipped back out through your window. By the time you scurried to see his figure outside, he was already gone.

The next day, his actions couldn’t have been more different. You met him face to face in your art class, where you were paired as new partners for the upcoming project.

“My name is Solivan Brugmansia. Sol for short,” he said.

It was the same voice.

At the time, your blood ran cold as you realized the tall, brooding man in front of you was the same one who’d been lying next to you in bed the night before, breaking into your apartment just for a few moments of bliss with you. You.

Were you creeped out? Of course. Scared? Maybe a little. But for some sick reason, you were flattered that he’d taken such a liking to you.

“Sol… like the sun? That’s so cute, considering you’re dressed so… alternatively,” you said, deciding to experiment a little.

You stepped closer, your hand brushing against the thick black-and-green choker he wore. Your fingers moved lower to lift the key necklace around his neck, examining it carefully. Hmm. It didn’t look like a key to your apartment, so that was good.

You looked up at him, offering a sweet smile as you stepped back. You noticed how red he’d gotten and how he murmured under his breath about how pretty you were, clearly under the assumption that you hadn’t heard.

Oh, you were going to have fun with this one.

-

Today, you decided to push him further and tease him a little to see how he’d react.

Standing up from your seat, you knew Sol’s eyes would already be on you, watching and studying your every move as you walked over to the English section. To be fair, you actually did need some books for an upcoming research paper but you grabbed one at random in all honesty.

As you scanned the shelves, you found the perfect target: a book just out of reach. You stretched your arm dramatically, fingers brushing the spine but never quite making contact. You let out a dramatic, frustrated sigh, even pouting a little as you looked up at the book, knowing full well Sol was watching.

“Having trouble?” His voice was velvet, smooth and dark, as he appeared from nowhere. His tall figure loomed just behind you, towering over your own, and close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his body.

You turned to him, feigning surprise. “Oh, Sol! I didn’t see you there. Could you help me, please?” You looked up at him with pouty lips and big eyes, clasping your hands together as you played the damsel in distress. And he was eating it up.

His pierced lips curved into a small smile, but his eyes, those intense, bright eyes, burned with something else. “Let me help you.”

He reached over your shorter body, effortlessly pulling the book from its place. His arm brushed yours, and you shivered, allowing the reaction to linger longer than necessary. He noticed. Of course he did.

“Oh, thank you, Sol,” you said softly, looking up at him through your lashes. “God, you’re such a lifesaver for me!”

Something flickered in his gaze. Satisfaction? Possessiveness? Maybe it was a bit of both. “Anything for you,” he murmured.

You took the book from his hands, letting your fingers graze his. A deliberate move, subtle but effective. His breath hitched, barely audible, but you caught it.

“Are you studying by yourself?”

Holding the book he’d just grabbed for you close to your chest, an idea popped into your head.

“Yeah, I was uh… sitting over there.”

Sol’s gaze shifted as he gestured to the big oak table he’d been seated at earlier. Thank god he’d picked a more isolated area to reside in.

“Oh my god, perfect! I’ll come sit with you!”

Before he could get an answer in, you zipped back to your study area to gather your bag and papers, carrying it all over to the empty table, save for Sol’s setup, and dropped it all on top.

“You don’t have to stay with me, you know,” he said, glancing at you as he slipped back onto his chair. “I’m fine on my own.”

“I like being with you, though,” you replied, your voice now more quiet since, well, you were in the library. “With you.”

He blinked, his cheeks flushing as he tried to focus back on his book, but you weren’t about to make it that easy for him. You slipped into the chair beside him, leaning slightly over the table as you pretended to skim through the pages of the book he’d grabbed for you.

“Hey, Sol,” you said, your tone sweet but laced with mischief. “Do you think Edgar Allan Poe was really that depressing, or do you think he was just dramatic?”

He looked at you, clearly caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. “Poe… was a complicated man,” he began. “His life was filled with tragedy, but I think he used his writing as a way to… cope.”

“Hmm,” you mused, tilting your head as if deep in thought. “I don’t know, some of his stuff just seems so… intense. Maybe I’m just not smart enough to get it?” You leaned in closer, your shoulder brushing against his as you gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look.

“That’s not true,” he said quickly, his voice firm. “You’re incredibly intelligent.”

“Aww, you really think so?” you cooed, leaning even closer until your face was mere inches from his. His breath hitched, and you swore you saw his grip tighten on the edge of the table.

Before he could respond, you shifted, swinging a leg over to settle yourself on his lap. His entire body went rigid beneath you, and his face turned a deep, furious red.

“What are you doing?” he stammered, his hands hovering awkwardly near your hips, unsure of where to place them.

“Getting comfortable,” you said simply, wrapping your arms around his neck as you leaned in close, your lips nearly brushing his ear. “Is that okay?”

He swallowed hard, his hands finally resting on your waist as if he couldn’t help himself. “Y-yeah, it’s okay,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You could feel the tension in his body, the way his breaths came out more quickly, staggered, and you knew you had him exactly where you wanted him. The hard press of his cock hidden beneath the layers of clothing between you only confirmed it, and you smiled to yourself, savouring the bit of power you held over him.

You hummed, pretending to be clueless about his… growing problem as you skimmed your books, jotting down notes here and there, while Sol struggled to even get through one paragraph of the book he was reading, your body on top of his becoming too much of a distraction.

The girl of his dreams, the one he snuck out to see every night, the one he studied so closely and had fantasies about, was, right now, in this very moment, sitting on his lap. Her plush ass perfectly slotted against his body. And it was driving him insane.

“Sol?” you asked suddenly, your voice cutting through his haze. “You haven’t turned the page in a while. Is it boring?”

His eyes darted to yours, wide and panicked, as if you’d caught him doing something forbidden. “N-no, it’s fine,” he stammered, his hands flexing against your waist. “Just… distracted.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Distracted? By what?” You leaned in close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered, “Is something on your mind? You can talk to me, you know…”

His breath hitched again, and he clutched you tighter as if grounding himself. “No,” he whispered, voice low and strained. “I-I’m okay.”

You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, savoring the way he froze beneath you. “If you’re so sure,” you murmured, your voice laced with a little bit of concern. “Because if you need to talk I’m always here for you sweetness.”

Yeah that did it.

Sol’s pants felt so tight as the curve of your ass shifted on and off his hard, clothed cock, and he bit his lip to try and stifle any noises as you moved around. His hands gripped your waist as he spoke into your ear, low and raspy.

Sol’s hands trembled as they clutched your waist, his knuckles whitening with restraint. “Please… sit still,” he begged, his voice strained and heavy with need.

You tilted your head, pretending to consider his plea, your lips curling into a wicked smile. “Hmm, I don’t know,” you teased, shifting just slightly, enough to make him suck in a sharp breath. “You seem a little tense, Sol. Are you sure you’re okay?”

His eyes darted to yours, wide and desperate. “I-I need… I should go.”

Before you could respond, he gently lifted you off his lap and bolted from the table, his long strides carrying him toward the exit of the library and to the left, down the hall to where the bathrooms were tucked away.

You watched him disappear through the library exit, a slow grin spreading across your face. How adorable. He thought he could hide from you.

Leaving your things behind, you followed. The hallway leading to the bathrooms was dimly lit, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above, reminding you for a moment of how shitty this university could be.

You pushed the door open silently, locking it behind you with ease and stepped inside, finding Sol leaning over the sink, his head bowed, gripping the edges so tightly his knuckles were pale. He was panting, looking as if he might pass out from just being teased by you, his hard-on visible to you as it strained against his pants.

“Running away from me, Sol?” you asked, your voice lilting as you closed the distance between you.

He froze, lifting his head up instantly, his reflection in the mirror staring back at you, panic swirling in his bright eyes. “W-What are you doing here?” he stammered, his voice cracking slightly as he turned around to face you.

You stopped just behind him, close enough that your breath brushed along the nape of his neck. “You ran off so suddenly… I got worried,” you murmured, your fingers trailing lightly along the edge of his sleeve, brushing his fingers with yours. “What’s wrong, Sol? Did I do something wrong?”

“N-no,” he choked out, refusing to meet your gaze. His hands flexed against the sink, and you noticed the way his shoulders tensed, his whole body tense with barely-contained frustration.

“You’re lying to me,” you whispered, stepping closer, your chest now pressed flush against his. You slid your hands up his arms slowly, feeling him shiver beneath your touch. “You’re so worked up, Sol… what were you planning to do while you're here?”

“I—I wasn’t going to–” he stuttered, but the words died on his lips as your hands moved to his waist, your fingers brushing along the waistband of his pants.

“Shh,” you cooed, standing on the tips of your toes and brushing some of his hair out of the way to press a gentle kiss to his neck. “No need to lie to me sweetness. I already know.”

His breath hitched audibly, and his hands clenched the sink harder as he fought to maintain control. “You can’t just… do this to me,” he rasped, his voice breaking with desperation.

“Do what?” you asked innocently, your lips trailing to his ear. “Help you? Because it seems to me like you need it, Sol.”

You let your fingers dip lower, teasing the button of his pants as you whispered, “So tell me… do you want my help?”

His resolve crumbled in an instant. “Yes,” he breathed, his voice barely more than a whimper. “Please.”

Sol’s hands gripped the edge of the sink so tightly, his knuckles were turning white with restraint, but his body was betraying him. He was trembling with need, his chest heaving, every breath shallow and hitched. You could feel his thighs tremble as your hands deftly moved to unzip his pants, undoing some buttons along the way.

You took your time, savoring the moment with this gorgeous man crumbling under your touch and gaze. Slowly, you pressed your body flush against his, feeling the heat of his skin against yours. You could feel the stiffness of his arousal, throbbing against the confines of his boxers, and it made your own… area pulsate in response.

“Sol…” you whispered against his ear. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. So desperate for me.”

He sucked in a sharp breath, his hands still resting against the sink, his body shaking as if he couldn’t decide whether to push you away or pull you closer.

“I can’t… I can’t take it anymore,” he groaned, his voice cracking. “I need you… now.”

You smiled, a wicked grin spreading across your face. You knew exactly what he wanted, what his body was begging for. You slid your fingers down the waistband of his boxers, barely grazing his skin, and Sol’s breath hitched, his hips jerking forward in anticipation.

“Patience, Sol,” you teased, your fingers circling his cock gently, slowly, barely touching but just enough contact to make him shudder. “You’ve been so good for me so far, haven’t you?”

His hands flexed against the sink again, and he let out a low, guttural moan. “I need you,” he whispered again, more urgently now, his voice raw with desperation.

You didn’t make him wait any longer.

With a swift motion, you freed him from the remains of his clothing, your hands finally wrapping around his cock completely. Sol’s body jerked at the contact, his head falling forward onto your shoulder as a sharp gasp left his lips. He was so sensitive, so responsive, and it made your heart race.

“You’re mine now,” you murmured, your voice low and commanding. You began to move your hand slowly, torturously, teasing him just enough to make him squirm, but never enough to let him find release.

Sol’s breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling with need, his hands gripping the counter as if it was the only thing keeping him from completely falling apart. “Fuck…” he muttered. “Please… I can’t take it.”

“You can take it, Sol,” you whispered, your voice dripping with satisfaction. “You’ve made it this far, haven’t you? You’re going to finish when I tell you to. Understand?”

He nodded his head, never disagreeing with your demands, his eyes were glazed with lust for you, his body twitching with every slow stroke from your hands. “Yes… Yes, I understand.”

Sol whined softly to himself, as you jerked your hand up and down. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard, only for you to sweetly tell him to open them back up, of course he obeyed, watching your slow, deliberate movements. The way you were hovering over him right now, your eyes boring into his, as your hands were wrapped around his cock, applying more pressure.

“You’re being so good for me Sol…” you purred, slowly sinking towards the ground, not caring about being in a bathroom, or even caring that you were doing this at your university. You looked up at him sweetly, asking him politely to hold your hair back, and he did it right away, after all how could he refuse?

He gently pulled all your hair back, somewhat neatly wrapping it around his hand, careful to not pull too tightly. He felt your warm hand gently stroke his cock, your lips just inches away, so so close.

Then you started to tease him. Licking up the underside of his length, gently pressing kisses from the base to the tip, your tongue teasing him as he whimpered and started to shake underneath you, completely submitting himself to you.

He could feel your hot breath as you hummed and toyed around with him. You slowly started to take his whole length into your mouth, inch by inch until your nose was pressed against his pelvis. He was in heaven.

Sol gasped at the sensation, his hand tugging at your hair as he watched you bob your head up and down, your hot, wet mouth, and shivered at the way his cock hit the back of your throat.

“P-Please… hah… pumpkin…” Sol called out for you. His legs shook gently as his climax slowly built up, soft moans and whimpers escaping his lips as he bit down on one hand to muffle his noises, your tempo never letting up as you continued to suck on him.

“Can I cum? Please… let me cum for you pumpkin.” He was begging quietly in the bathroom, watching you suck and hearing you make a muffled ‘mhm’ noise with your pretty plump lips wrapped around him, granting him permission without words.

Within seconds, his hands flew to the back of your head, pushing you down as he came into your mouth, moaning softly as he did, and you graciously let him, taking it all as you felt his fingers dig into your scalp. After a few moments he took a deep breath, releasing his grip on you, and falling back against the cool countertop of the bathroom sink.

You looked up at him sweetly, sticking your tongue out to show him that you had swallowed it all.

Freak.

Slowly, you started to stand up with a satisfied smile, your eyes meeting Sol’s pretty red-orange ones. He was still catching his breath, his chest rising and falling, his skin flushed with heat.

You took a step back, eyes never leaving his, and fixed your own clothes with a bit of deliberate slowness, just to tease him. You tucked your shirt back into your uniform skirt, your fingers trailing over the fabric that dipped between your breasts, noticing that Sol’s gaze followed your every movement, still dazed, and still processing everything that had just happened in the bathroom.

Once you were finished, you stepped closer to him, your body just inches away from his. You tilted your head slightly, studying him with that playful glint in your eyes.

“Guess we’re even now, huh?” you whispered, your lips curling into a sly grin.

Sol’s eyes flickered to yours, his confusion evident even with that lingering haze of pleasure clouding his mind. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse.

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “I know you’ve been sneaking into my apartment at night, Sol… I can hear you when you’re outside my window, and well… playing with yourself in my bed.”

You pulled back, eyes locking with his as you saw the way his pupils dilated, the sudden panic flashing in his gaze. “I’ll make it easier for you though and leave the window unlocked for you tonight, darling,” you purred, your voice dripping with both sweetness and mischief.

A smirk tugged at the corner of your lips as you straightened up, straightening your clothes one last time, watching as Sol stood frozen, his expression a mixture of disbelief and awe.

“Don’t keep me waiting, okay?” you teased, giving him a quick kiss, before turning away and walking towards the door.

You pulled it open, leaving him standing in the bathroom alone to process what had just happened, as you stepped out into the hallway. The last thing you heard before the door clicked shut was his soft mutter, “Damn… she knows?”

You couldn’t help but giggle to yourself as you walked away, knowing exactly what would happen that night. He was yours from now on.

🌱˖ ִֶָ 𓂃⭒

[itelya]

pervert. nerd bf! gojo satoru x fem! reader (+18)

You're sitting in the study hall with Gojo, your boyfriend, studying for next week's exams. The atmosphere is studious, or at least it was until he asks you to re-explain a concept he didn't quite grasp. You begin to explain, focused, patiently detailing each point, but very quickly, you notice that he's not really listening to you.

You turn your head towards him, intrigued, and see his face red, his breath short. "Gojo? What's—" You stop abruptly, looking down.

You see him. His hand, slowly sliding over his straining cock, barely hidden under the table. Your eyes widen in surprise. "Bro, what the hell? Are you serious?"

He nods slowly, visibly embarrassed but unable to stop himself. You know he gets turned on easily, but this time, you're shocked. He's a pervert, but it makes you laugh.

"What put you in this state?" you ask, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

He looks at you, feverish, his cheeks flushed with desire, his glasses sliding slightly down his nose, and his lips parted, as if he's struggling to breathe.

"Your voice... You. Just you. I need you, baby... please..." His voice is low and raspy, filled with desire for you. He's so needy for you.

How could you say no when he's begging you with a face like that? You slide your hand under the table, down to his crotch, and the heat emanating from it makes you shiver. His cock is hard, swollen, the head reddened and already glistening with precum. You laugh softly, your hand molding to his shape.

"You dirty nerd pervert..." you whisper, moving closer to his ear. You feel his cock throb beneath your palm. Your hand continues its slow strokes along his hot length.

You feel him shudder beneath your touch, his fingers clenched on the edge of the table, as if he's fighting not to moan too loudly. The room is deserted, but the slightest noise could attract attention... and that's perhaps what makes the scene even more exciting. The thought of possibly getting caught excites you.

"You really have no self-control, Gojo... This is a study room, pervert," you breathe with a mocking smile. He doesn't say anything, barely moans, his pleading eyes fixed on yours. His hips lift slightly, seeking more contact.

"Fuck... your hand is so soft..."

You stroke him slowly, savoring his expression, his cheeks reddening and reddening, his breathing quickening with each stroke of your palm.

"Are you turned on just by my voice? I didn't think you were like that, gojo."

"It's... it's stronger than I can help. You're talking and I just want to take you against the table..."

He moans at the same time without holding back, his words making you shiver, and yet you maintain control. He's the one losing it, not you. At least, not yet.

"Shh..." you say, placing a finger on his lips. "You don't want anyone to hear us, do you?"

You pick up the pace a little, and he bites his lip, holding back a deep moan. You feel his thighs tense, his stomach tightening with the effort of containing himself.

"Are you going to come for me right now? Just like that?" you whisper, your eyes shining with desire. "You're such a naughty boy, Gojo..."

"I... I'm going to..." His words get tangled in his throat, feeling his release coming, but you abruptly pull your hand away. He looks at you, stunned, panting, his dick swollen and twitching in the open air.

"Did you think I'd let you come that easily?" you whisper with a small laugh. You stand up slowly, walk around the table, and kneel in front of him, looking up at him.

"Do you want me to make you come? Ask nicely... Be good for me."

You look up at him from the floor, your knees barely touching the cold wooden floor of the study room. Your hands on his thighs, your head slightly tilted, and that look, the one that drives him crazy. Gojo struggles to speak, breathless, his face half hidden by his crooked glasses.

"Please..." he murmurs, his voice almost breaking.

"Please what?" you whisper with a slow smile.

"Keep going... I can't take it anymore. I want to come. Please baby... please."

You let him stew for a second longer before leaning in. Your mouth just brushes the tip of his cock, barely grazing the hot, taut skin. He moans, almost too loudly, and you lift a finger to your lips.

"Shh... we're supposed to be studying, aren't we?"

You don't torture him any longer. You place a kiss on the glistening tip, then another lower down, before slowly sliding your tongue along its length, savoring his reaction. He tilts his head back, his hips shaking slightly. You swallow him slowly, with your usual gentle, sensual way.

He murmurs your name like a prayer, his fingers finding refuge in your hair, never forcing you, but pleading in their own way. You vary the rhythm, sometimes slow, deep, then faster, hungrier. He's on the verge of exploding. You can feel it. His whole body trembles beneath you.

"I'm going to... baby- ngh..." he begins in a broken breath. You don't stop him. You go with him all the way, welcoming him completely, without blinking. His body tenses, his thighs contract, and he spills into you with a stifled moan.

You stay there while he comes back down, before slowly rising again. You swallow hard because he's come so much and wipe the corners of your lips with a playful smile.

"There. A good break between two studies, right?"

He looks at you, still catching his breath, then laughs softly, still flushed with pleasure. He straightens his clothes and looks at your entire body.

"You're lucky there are people around." His voice is low and still hoarse. You shrug as you sit down next to him again, grabbing a sheet of notes.

"I'm always lucky. Can I repeat my explanation?"

"Of course, my love." He smiles at you and adjusts his glasses before focusing. On you. Obviously.

a/n: first smut of the series yummyyy 🤭

nerd gojo series - masterlist