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lala-lyx · 1 month ago

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Comfortable

This is a request for -❣ anon. I don't know if it fulfills the request but this idea won the battle over zolpidem so I guess it means it's strong. I wasn't sure of the title so tell me if you approve or have a better title. Content: wanderer x reader one shot. Canon au. Established relationship. Hurt to comfort. Couple fights and breaks up bc COMMUNICATION MATTERS. Even when a couple is established and they think they will stay forever like mind reading twins. And also all the popular "love languages" are important for a relationship, not just one.

He didn't realize. He genuinely didn't realize. At some point in time, or maybe at many points in time, he said something that he shouldn't. Or maybe he didn't say something that he should have. Or he didn't do things that he should have, right?

That's what happens when you're in a relationship for a long time, right? You get comfortable. You assume the other person stays the same as the day everything was perfect and you had your happy ending, because no one is taught what happens during the happy ever after. You just assume that once the couple is settled it will just stay like that, and once the narrator stops narrating, the characters don't talk anymore, right?

That's what people do in long term relationships, right? They get comfortable and mess up.

Right?

He messed up.

And he genuinely didn't realize until he was all alone at night, in bed, staring at the ceiling in silence and you weren't there.

Then it struck him, struck him hard. And he knew he was the biggest idiot alive.

He assumed you would be there. It was always like that. He came home like an idiot, sulking and mumbling nonsense about things that he didn't really care about. Nahida's chores this, the Akademiya that. He didn't really care. He cared about you. But what did he do? He was always taking it out on you, being all pouty, silent, sometimes dry.

Spending countless hours cooped up in the stupid studio working on those stupid papers instead of going to bed with you.

Making you wait.

Going back to bed to you in the dead of night when you were already tired, or already asleep, starved for his attention he stopped giving you. And he didn't even talk to you. Not really.

He thought it was normal, it was enough, a kiss, a goodnight, to scoot over and snuggle in your arms.

You kept sleeping together, cuddled, huddled, well, sometimes giving each others' back, but that was ok, wasn't it? Talking wasn't necessary.

Right?

What was the need for talking?

He had told you every single thing before. How much he loved you, how much he cared about you. Was there really a need to say it daily? He thought you knew. He assumed you knew. He assumed you knew his feelings were unchanged, despite his behavior having changed for the worse.

He assumed you knew you were the love of his life and that he was happy to come back to you each day, and that he loved you more than the first time each night when he kissed you goodnight and went to sleep without saying anything. Without whispering deepest fears and dear longings and hopes for the future between the covers like old times.

Because that's what one does when they're in a long established relationship, right?

Right, that's what he did. He messed up like a goddamn fool. He knew what he was doing was wrong, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. He couldn't bring himself to talk, even if you needed it, even if you insisted, if you tried. He couldn't bring himself to talk, he couldn't find words like old times. They would tie a tight knot in his throat, his mind a jumbled mess, afraid to say the wrong thing, to mess up a beautiful love story that could be ruined by saying the wrong thing because there was no need to say anything else because he had already said how much he loved you and valued you and he didn't need to say it or hear it so many times.

But you did.

And there is where he messed up.

Because a relationship takes two people.

Two people who have needs that sometimes don't align.

And you had needs that he neglected like a damn fool and now he was staring at the ceiling like an idiot, alone in a bed that held no meaning without you by his side.

He cursed himself, cursed every single night he came back to the bed and just gave you a single kiss and a short goodnight to indulge in the endless happiness and comfort that your embrace provided him without making the effort of providing you with what YOU needed.

Because he was selfish and he got comfortable and underestimated how much you needed his words.

You had told him before. You had told him so many things, and he remembered every single one, in detail, he would for the rest of eternity, because it meant the world to him. How you loved his voice, how it was your oxygen, and how his words and his I love yous and your shared moments of connection and vulnerability meant everything to him.

Yet he failed to do something about it.

He slept in the glory of his past courage to talk to you and tell you everything, thinking that life and time had stopped and that he was living in that precious moment forever, and he neglected the present moment, the current life, and you.

He made you feel that you were sleeping with a stranger, just because he didn't feel like talking. Just because he didn't need it, because he was afraid of it. Despite the fact that you needed it.

And the fact that every couple should, dammit! He messed up. He got up from the shared, empty bed and got dressed in a hurry.

You were his world, he didn't deserve you, he knew it, he didn't deserve to be with you. But you were his world and he had to find you and apologize.

And tell you everything.

He flew out the window and searched everywhere. He hoped to find you in the garden, or in one of those places that held significance to your relationship. The place you met, your first date, your first kiss, that night when he told you his deepest fears, the coffee where you decided to move in together.

But he was being damn self-centered for that, wasn't he? You were nowhere to be seen there.

He found you in a bar instead. He looked through the window, and saw that other people were giving you what he had been too selfish to give.

Genuine communication, a real human exchange. You were sitting at a table, everyone was there. Cyno, Tighnari, Collei, Kaveh, hell, even that stupid Alhaitham was there! And even that dry idiot exchanged a few words with you. And he felt like the buggest crap because you could have a coherent, meaningful conversation with that blockhead and not with him, the supposed love of your life, because he was too emotionally constipated and scared to talk.

What joke of a boyfriend, god. He hated himself so hard.

He hid and let you have your fun with your friends. And he was so thankful to them for being so nice to you. He didn't wanna talk to them. But he was glad that they were there for you, and he hoped you felt fulfilled by their friendship.

He waited until Collei was asleep in her bed, because you chose to crash at her place rather than go back home to your stupid boyfriend that might as well be mute, to go beg your forgiveness.

When you saw him perched on the window, you made eye contact and gave him your back, still hurt. But happy that he came for you. If he hadn't come, you knew the relationship was over for good. The least he had to do was to fucking come. And he came, but you wouldn't forgive him that easily.

He felt a pang of pain striking his chest at your cold dismissal, and knew he deserved it. How many times he made you feel the same thing? He wanted to kiss them all better, he regretted so much.

He gently tapped the window sill, insisting with a disraught and expectant expression. You looked back at him with disdain, until you saw the flowers.

He brought your favorite flowers, the ones thst held so much meaning for you two and for your relationship, your past shared moments. The ones you planted on your backyard and he cared for every single day. Because he was a mess with words but he did all he could with his actions, but if you needed words he was willing to give you words, because a relationship is a thing of two and both have to compromise.

And he brought them in a pot, too, ready to plant, because he knew that you hated flowers being cut and lef to die, unless when you dried them and made beautiful art with them, to keep them immortalized. Because he knew. Because you had talked countless times in the past and he knew eveeything about you and he never forget a single detail.

But that was all about the past. He neglected the present, neglected you for a long time already. Does he even know what new flowers you are interested in now? Was he listening when you talked about renovating the garden, fixing the kitchen? Your new projects? Of course he knew, he listened to every damn thing, and he cared. But he didn't say a word, so to you it felt like he was ignoring you. How could you tell the difference between talking to a wall if he never reacted? You respected him and weren't expecting him to change his personality or to overeact or to become a ray of sunshine, you didn't even want that, you fell in love with how he was. You just wanted to be acknowledged. And he hadn't done it out loud in a while.

You wanted to be loved out loud. Not that you didn't appreciate his actions, they made you happy, his delicious food, how he cared for the garden, his hand holding, the cuddling at night. But your need for reassurance was valid. And words were a vital part of connection and communication. All the parts were important, and that part that was extra important to you had been missing for a while.

When he made a pleading gesture, in silence not to wake Collei, you crossed your arms and frowned. He insisted, his eyes boring into yours with the love and intensity of yesterday. But it was the regret of today and the sincere promises of tomorrow that shone in those indigo eyes that you loved that made you give him another chance.

You opened your arms, and he didn't hesistate.

He entered, the window of the cottage had no glass anyway. He picked you effortlessly in his arms, still carrying the flower pot and all, and flew out the window again.

He carried you in his arms and crossed the starry sky, observing you like what you were to him: the most glorious flower, the most valuable treasure.

Out of respect, out of genuine regret and an intention to repair his mistakes and the relationship, he didn't kiss you. He spoke. Finally, after that goddamn silence that felt neverending, he spoke.

"I'm sorry." He said, compuncted, holding you gently but firmly as he carried you over the tall trees of Sumeru, under the stars and the moon. He caressed your face "I'm so sorry." His voice was tinged with regret.

"Are you?" You sighed, your gaze shifting between his eyes and the moon.

"I am. I truly am. I was an idiot." He said, biting his lower lip in utter anxiety. Seeing you like this was heartbreaking: you were so tired of his silence that you felt talking to him was a waste of energy and you barely talked at all! He hated it. He wanted to hear you talk about your feelings for hours like usual. He always listened to you. But how would you know, if he didn't say anything? He had to talk, even if he messed up. Because not saying anything at all, the silence, was always worse than whatever he could ever say "You think I don't listen to you. But I do. I listen to every single thing." He began, his voice shaky.

You rolled your eyes, still not willing to talk to him. It had been too many frustrating attempts.

"No, don't roll your eyes at me. It's true." He pouted. He pinched your cheek "All those things you said. About renovating the house. And the project with Collei."

You gave him a distrustful look.

"The art gallery with different flowers from different nations. And the color you want to paint the front door." He insisted, holding you close. You looked at him with more hope.

"You were listening?" You remained in his arms, safe like always.

"To everything. I already talked to the guy who sells the paint and he already told me how much it costs. And I..."

"Then why didn't you say anything?" You interrupted him, tears in your eyes.

"I'm sorry, I was a fool. I should have said anything instead of letting you talk all alone...it's hard for me, and I feel it's unnecessary, and you've told me that you need it, and I didn't do it." He teared up too at the thought of hurting you and losing you.

You sniffled, and he hugged you closer. He hugged you tight, in case it was the last time. He hugged you tight trying to make you feel better.

"I was gonna bring home the paint and paint it for you..." he wiped his tears "...as soon as I finished with that damn paper with the damn Akademiya..." he groaned, scowling at the mete thought "But it's like it never ends. They always wants something from me. I wasted so much time in that when I could have been with you..." he sobbed, finally the dam of emotions was breaking and the words that stuck in his throat came out.

"I don't want you to give up on your projects for me..." you began.

"And I know! You just want me to be a good goddamn boyfriend and be there and answer when you fucking talk to me! And I should." He sobbed, holding you tighter. You hugged him back. He stopped on a big tree and left the flowers aside, you focused on hugging "And I should have told you that I was feeling like crap, I should have like cried or something, or tell you whatever, instead of just hold it all to myself and just go to sleep without saying anything hugging you like you're my emotional support stuffed animal! It wasn't fair! You made me feel safe and loved, and I made you feel like crap, didn't I?"

You nodded, sobbing.

"I'm so sorry, my love. I'm so sorry. I should've say something, anything. I don't even fucking know what to say, because I don't know what the fuck is going on with my life besides you. The Akademiya, Sumeru, Nahida, it's all a mess. I don't even know if I care about the damn oaoer anymore, I might burn it at this point. I just didn't wanna talk about it. I just wanted to hold you and forget about it because you are my peace. But I should've said something." He sniffled, filled with regret "But I couldn't. But when I told you I loved you and kissed you goodnight it was genuine every single time. It was fucking dry, though, I should've said something else. Like, 'thank you for supporting me', or, 'I hope your art project turns the way you want to'. I dunno, something. I'm just terrible with words. I rather not say anything than messing up but I know that hurts you and I don't wanna hurt you, I swore to protect you, and I thought I would never need to talk about our love and pasts and hopes and fwars because we've already done it but now I understand that you need it and...and..."

You hugged his neck tightly, both crying and comforting each other. After some comfortable silence, you kissed his cheek and his tears. And then you merged in a sweet kiss.

"You're my everything. I love you. Sorry for not telling you with words..." he vowed in your ear.

"I love you too...more than anything..." you kissed him back.

"I don't deserve another chance...you won't come home, would you? I won't be able to paint the door..." he sobbed, his tears falling onto his face.

"I do wanna go back home and I do want to paint the door...together." you replied, wiping his tears with your thumbs.

"You forgive me? Seriously?" He cupped your face in his hands.

"Only if we do everything together. Not just paint the door. Share everything. Tell each other things, our days, my art project, your paper, no matter if you keep going or you burn it or you start another one or if you tell me that you wanna run and start a new life at the other side of Teyvat. As long as you tell me and we do it together." You nodded, looking up at him with the hopes of saving this relationship "We lived beautiful things together, and I cherish them, but I don't wanna live from past glories, pretending we're frozen in a painting because we aren't. We live in the present and life goes on and if we're staying together I wanna know what's going on in each other's minds and hearts in the present." You said, determined.

"I'm not saying you should tell me everything every damn day but..." you said.

"I know," he interrupted you "But I spent too fucking long being shut like an oyster and not telling you a damn thing, sometimes I didn't even say goodbye when you left for work. I don't even know how long it was. Months? A year already? Just thinking about it kills me. How many nights have passed since the last night we had a real talk and you felt connected to me? How many nights have I slept being comforted by you when you were tormented instead?" He spurted, mortified.

"I don't know, it has been some time..." you sighed.

"If you come back home, I swear that's gonna change. I don't wanna break up, I love you, really, if you still love me, if you give me another chance..." he said desperately, holding your hands tightly.

"I do. I do love you. I do wanna go back home. And paint the door and plant those flowers." You said, looking at the pot with the beautiful flowers he had brought you "And I wanna talk to you. Whenever and however it comes to you, but no more silence."

"I promise." He pressed his forehead to yours "I swear. I'll be brave again, like I was when I dared open up to you the first time. I don't wanna keep destroying what we've built with my cowardice. I rather mess up with stupid words not knowing what the hell is going on with my life than continuing to hurt you by being silent or dry or mean to you. A boyfriend should never talk like that to her girlfriend, it's like I'm taking it out on you, and it's not your fault, it's just me being an idiot and terrified and stupid." He said with a shaky voice, the pent up words from months now coming out all together.

"I forgive you. Take me back home." You hugged him.

"You're too kind. I love you." He said softly, and kept his lips on your forehead the whole trip back home.

He entered through the window and placed you on the unmade bed. It was cold. It only held meaning with you. He didn't even need to sleep. He only wanted to have a bed and sleep because he wanted to share a bed and sleep with you.

"I thought you wouldn't come back. I'm so lucky. Thank you...I swear it will never come to this again...if I'm overwhelmed I'll just tell you." He swore, holding you tight and pressing his forehead to you.

"You promise?" You hummed, leaning back against the mattress, feeling relief and exhaustion slowly take over you.

"I promise." He said in the hushed whisper of the shared covers.

"I love you."

"I love you more."

"Can we go sleep now?" You yawned.

"Don't you wanna talk?" He whispered.

"I do. But I'm exhausted. We can talk more tomorrow..."

"So it's ok if I kiss you goodnight? And we cuddle? We cuddle for real, all night long? Will you feel connected to me?" He asked with anxiety in his chest.

"Let's try."

You changed into your night clothes, exchanged a sweet kiss and huddled under the soft sheet, holding each other securely.

"Do you feel connected?"

"I do."

"I love you."

"I know now."

"I'll always let you know."

"Really?"

"Really. I'll write you notes and letters if I can't talk. I'll figure something out. For you. For me. For us." He held you tighter.

"A note?"

"With the flowers I'm gonna grow, pressed." He nodded, his forehead pressed agains yours.

The flower pot rested next to the window, the leaves swaying gently with the night breeze.

"And we're gonna paint the door?" You hummed, your eyes already droopy.

"I'm taking goddamn vacations tomorrow and we're painting the door, and planting the flowers, and I'm going to see your gallery. And we're gonna catch up on all the stuff we wanted to do for months and we didn't do because I was doing whatever the hell I was doing and I don't wanna. I just wanna paint the door and talk to you. Mainly hear you talk. But I'll answer, even if I don't know what to say."

"And you'll bake me a pie?" You yawned.

"I'll bake you a hundred pies. If I don't know what the hell to say to you, I'll carve a goddamn answer on it."

"We're gonna communicate through pies now?" You giggled.

"We're gonna communicate through whatever thing that works. Pies, notes, words, or goddamn smoke signals. But we're gonna communicate. I swear." He held you tight.

"Can it be a goodnight kiss and cuddles right now?" You whispered.

"Of course." He smiled.

And you cuddled the entire night.

Knowing that just because you get comfortable in a relationship, it doesn't mean you can stop talking to the other person and assume you can read each other's minds. Because the years go by and you both grow and change, and if you wanna stay in tune you gotta sing together.

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lala-lyx · 1 month ago

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This is the first thing I read in the morning and I am giggling and kicking my feet type shii. I love the contrast between Scara and Kazuha 😭

✦ caught in between

kazuha x fem!reader x scaramouche

cw: soft dom kazu, rough dom kuni, sub fem reader, oral (giving + receiving), fingering, vaginal sex, spit-roasting, overstimulation, possessiveness, jealousy-fueled sex, emotionally charged threesome, praise kink, degradation kink, guilt sex, slight voyeurism/exhibitionism, soft and rough dynamics clashing. modern college au.

you meet kazuha first.

at a poetry night your roommate drags you to.

small room. carpet stained with wine, string lights sagging above thrift-store pillows. someone’s reading about heartbreak into a $20 mic, and you’re halfway through a cup of cheap rosé when you see him.

in the corner. folded into himself.

quiet. thumbing the edge of a crumpled paper like it might disappear if he looks at it too long.

but when he gets up to read, he changes.

his voice is low. deliberate. every word lands heavy and soft, like snowmelt. metaphors that ache in your chest. lines about the sea and bruised mouths and gentleness like it’s a language. like he’s fluent in it.

afterward, you find him near the door.

you say: “that was beautiful.”

he blushes. thanks you softly. says you have kind eyes. offers to walk you home.

you say yes.

and two nights later, he’s in your bed.

it starts slow.

you’re side by side on the sheets, dorm lamp glowing soft yellow, casting gentle shadows on the wall. your fingers brush once, twice — then stay. he smells like flowers and something fresh, like green tea steeped in rain.

he’s watching you. carefully. like you might vanish.

“you make me nervous,” he says, voice barely audible.

you blink. “why?”

his throat moves. “because you’re not afraid to look at me like you want something.”

and you’re not. so you kiss him first.

his lips are soft. hesitant. like he’s writing something and second-guessing every word. one hand finds your jaw, thumb resting just under your ear. the other presses gentle to your ribs, grounding you both.

when you whine softly into his mouth, he deepens it. kisses you like a gasp. like a slow burn.

and then he exhales, like he’s made a decision.

he starts kissing down your neck. open-mouthed, slow. reverent. he murmurs things against your skin, breath hot and ragged — not words, exactly. just sounds. you think he might be humming. or reciting lines under his breath.

his hand ghosts over your hip.

“may i?” he asks, already tugging at your shirt.

you nod, breath caught. he peels it off like something sacred.

his hands find your waist first. warm, steady. then your thighs, thumbs pressing soft circles as he slowly spreads you open.

you shiver under him.

“gods…” he breathes, staring down at you like you’re a miracle. “you’re—”

he doesn’t finish. just kisses your stomach. then lower.

his mouth lingers right above your panties. he noses against the fabric, eyes fluttering shut.

“may i taste you?”

you nod again — too fast. too desperate.

he pulls your panties down so, so slowly. like unwrapping something delicate. kisses the inside of your knee. then the soft skin of your thigh. works his way up.

his mouth finds your cunt with almost painful gentleness. the first lick is slow. long. he groans — like he wasn’t ready. like you taste too good.

he doesn’t start fast. he takes his time.

soft, precise licks. shallow circles around your clit. fingers teasing at your entrance, not pushing in yet. just stroking you open. easing you wider.

you can barely breathe.

“so wet,” he whispers. “so soft.”

his fingers slip in slowly. one at first, then two. he curls them just right — you arch off the bed.

his tongue presses to your clit again. this time firmer. his rhythm steady. like he’s studying you. reading you. learning you one sigh at a time.

you’re whimpering now. legs trembling. hands tangled in his hair.

“please,” you whisper. “please—kazuha—”

he groans into you when you say his name.

his pace picks up. tongue working in slow, perfect circles. fingers pumping deep and steady. every movement deliberate. you swear he’s writing with his mouth. spelling something out against your skin. over and over.

“don’t stop,” you gasp.

“never,” he says. voice hoarse. “not until you break for me.”

you do.

you cum with your thighs shaking and your back arched off the bed. eyes screwed shut. his name falling from your lips like a prayer. you’re wet everywhere — thighs sticky, sheets damp, mouth gasping open.

he doesn’t stop right away.

keeps kissing you gently, slowly, coaxing you down.

you’re limp when he finally pulls back. blinking up at the ceiling, lungs burning. he kisses your stomach again. then your chest. your collarbone.

he lies beside you. breath uneven.

you glance down — he’s hard. pressed up against his sweats.

you reach for him, dazed. “kazuha—”

but he catches your wrist.

“not yet,” he murmurs. “i want to remember this. you—like this.”

you blink at him. flushed. panting.

“just let me hold you,” he whispers. “for now.”

and he does.

he pulls you against him, your back to his chest, his fingers still damp from your cunt. he strokes your thigh like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. like this moment might slip away if he doesn’t anchor it to your skin.

you fall asleep like that.

with his breath warm in your hair. with his lips pressed to your shoulder. with your name still stuck between his teeth like a line he hasn’t figured out how to end.

but the thing about softness is that it doesn’t last.

kazuha leaves a poem in your notebook and doesn’t text back for days.

you try not to spiral. try not to read it over again and again and again like there’s some hidden meaning underneath the stanzas. like there’s anything to analyze except the silence.

you need something loud. fast. something that doesn’t feel like holding your breath.

you meet scaramouche the same week.

you’re still thinking about kazuha.

how soft his hands were. how he kissed you like you were made of paper. how he left a fucking poem in your notebook and then disappeared.

you try not to care. you try not to be the girl who catches feelings from one night.

but it’s friday, and you haven’t heard from him, and you’re spiraling, and your friends drag you out to a party with sticky floors and beer that tastes like pennies.

you go anyway. short skirt. winged liner. drink in hand.

someone hands you a shot. someone else spins you in the hallway. you almost feel okay.

you hear his voice before you see him.

loud. sharp. biting.

he’s leaning against the counter like he fucking owns it — black hoodie, half-lidded stare, rings flashing under the shitty kitchen light. he’s got a red solo cup in one hand and is tearing apart three econ majors with the other. something about soft power. maybe sanctions. you’re not listening that closely — not until he says, “you’re already soft in the brain.”

you snort into your drink.

“he argues for fun,” says the girl next to you, mascara smudged halfway down her cheek. she rolls her eyes. “don’t get involved.”

you sip. “he’s not even right.”

he hears you. of course he fucking hears you. his eyes snap to yours — sharp, electric, like a dog scenting blood.

“you got something to say?” he calls across the kitchen, like he’s bored already. like he’s daring you.

you meet his stare. shrug. “just that you sound like a polsci freshman who learned the word ‘hegemony’ yesterday.”

the crowd goes quiet for a beat.

he stares at you. then laughs. low. amused.

“cute,” he says. “wrong, but cute.”

you roll your eyes and start to walk away — but he’s already peeling off the wall, weaving through people like they don’t exist. like this conversation was always inevitable.

you pretend not to see him. down the rest of your drink in one go. laugh too hard at something some guy says in passing. but he’s still following you. still gaining.

you end up near the fridge. cheap tile under your heels, fluorescent light buzzing overhead. you reach for another drink, but his voice cuts through the static:

“so,” he says, “you got a degree in international relations, or are you just this annoying for free?”

you turn. squint at him.

“jesus,” you mutter. “do you ever shut up?”

he leans in — not touching you, but close enough that you feel it anyway.

“not when i’m right.”

you scoff. “you’re not.”

“say that again.”

“you’re not right.”

he steps closer.

barely an inch between you now. you’re backed into the fridge, nowhere to go. he smells like smoke and clean detergent and something artificial — cologne from some dollar store, maybe. his hoodie brushes your bare arm.

his voice drops low. almost a whisper.

“you’ve got a mouth on you,” he murmurs. “big opinions for someone who’s been unstable all night.”

you tilt your chin up. “fuck you.”

he grins, all sharpness and intent. no warmth at all.

“if you’re gonna act like you know everything,” he says, voice dark and close, “maybe i should fuck the arrogance out of you.”

your breath catches. your heart stutters.

but your voice doesn’t shake when you say:

“then do it.”

and that’s it. that’s the trigger.

his eyes flash. his jaw tightens. and then he grabs your wrist. not gently.

you barely register the twist of your arm as he pulls you through the kitchen — past couples pressed against doorframes, past someone throwing up in a sink, past that girl from earlier who gasps and says “holy shit” as you’re dragged outside into the cold.

you don’t resist. not even a little.

your heart’s in your throat. your mouth is dry. you don’t know his name, and you don’t care.

he pushes open the back door. leads you down the porch steps. past the trash cans. through the dark where the porch light doesn’t reach.

the car’s not even his.

he doesn’t tell you whose it is. doesn’t care. just opens the back door and gestures with his head — get in.

you do. like a fucking idiot.

your ass barely hits the backseat before he’s on you, slamming the door shut and pressing you into the leather like he can’t stand the space between you. his mouth crashes onto yours, all teeth and spit and heat. his hands are already on your thighs, pushing your skirt up without asking. you’re already soaked. you can feel it.

his rings are cold when they touch your skin.

“you want me to stop?” he mutters against your mouth, voice low and ruined, fingers dragging up your inner thigh.

you don’t say anything. you just yank him down by the collar, dragging him into another kiss. messier. hungrier. your lip gets caught on his teeth.

he groans.

grinds into you — grinding that hard cock against your panties, where you’re already pulsing for him. he reaches down, rubs you there with two fingers, lazy and smug.

“you’re soaked,” he sneers. “fucking knew you were like this.”

his fingers press against the fabric. slow, firm, spreading your slick over the cotton.

“you act smart,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, “but you get off on this, huh? getting fucked like a whore in the back of someone else’s car?”

you try to say something. maybe deny it. maybe beg.

but then he pulls your panties aside and slides two fingers into you, all at once. your words vanish into a broken moan.

“fuck,” he hisses. “tight little cunt. bet you’ve been thinking about this all night.”

he curls his fingers. pumps them slow. thumb rubbing tight circles over your clit.

you’re shaking already. thighs twitching. his fingers are longer than yours, reach deeper than yours, touch places you can’t. you grind down against him helplessly.

“say it,” he growls. “say you like it.”

you shake your head. too far gone to talk. you’re too full, too close.

he slaps your thigh. hard.

“say it,” he demands again.

“i—fuck, i like it,” you gasp. “i like it, i want it, please—”

he shoves his fingers deeper.

your back arches. you clench around him.

“good girl,” he mutters. “knew you’d beg if i made you.”

you fumble for his belt.

he watches you with half-lidded eyes, like he’s bored, like this is nothing to him — and that somehow makes it worse.

you finally get him free. he’s hard already. thick and flushed, tip glistening.

he leans in close. grabs your jaw again.

“you want it?”

you nod. fast. dizzy.

“then fucking beg.”

“please,” you whisper. “please—fuck me. i need it.”

“again.”

“please, i want you, i want your cock, i want you to fuck me—”

he slams into you in one brutal thrust.

you scream — but his hand’s already over your mouth.

“shut up,” he hisses, hips pounding into yours. “you want people to hear what a slut you are?”

you shake your head. his cock stretches you open. it hurts — it burns — but you love it. you fucking love it.

he fucks you deep. fast. no rhythm, no grace. he holds your hips down, grinds into you like he’s angry.

your moans come out muffled against his hand.

“yeah,” he groans. “that’s it. take it. take my cock like a good little toy.”

your nails dig into his hoodie. your body bounces under him with every thrust.

“feel that?” he growls. “feel how deep i am?”

you nod. sob. your legs are trembling.

he leans in, mouth against your ear.

“i told you,” he says, panting. “i told you i’d fuck the arrogance out of you.”

he means it. every thrust is punishing. like he’s tearing something out of you. like he’s trying to fuck his name into your bones.

you feel the orgasm hit before you can warn him.

tight. sudden. white-hot.

you scream into his palm as your pussy clamps around him, soaking his cock, slick dripping down your thighs.

“fuck, fuck, fuck—” he moans, hips stuttering.

he pulls out fast, just in time, and finishes across your stomach with a strangled gasp. thick, hot ropes of cum painting your skin.

and for a second — just a second — everything goes quiet.

your chest heaves. your skin’s slick with sweat and cum. your panties are still pulled to the side. your legs won’t stop shaking.

he exhales. leans forward. brushes your hair from your face — kind of gentle, for the first time.

“jesus,” he mutters. “you’re a fucking mess.”

you blink up at him. your vision’s gone soft. blurry.

he pulls your skirt down. wipes your stomach with the sleeve of his hoodie, muttering something under his breath about how you “shouldn’t walk around looking like that.”

he pulls your panties back into place. doesn’t even laugh when you wince.

he opens the car door. cool air rushes in. you shiver.

“come on,” he says quietly.

“mmfm…wha?”

he sighs. like you’re stupid.

“you’re drunk,” he mutters. “you’re not walking home.”

and the last thing you remember is the sound of the door closing again.

a hand on your thigh. a voice, half a whisper: “fucking idiot.”

you wake up like you’re drowning.

head pounding. mouth dry. your tongue feels like it’s wrapped in gauze. mascara crusted in the corners of your eyes. glitter dusting your pillowcase like confetti from some party you don’t quite remember.

you blink. once. twice.

everything’s too bright. your bedroom ceiling spins slightly above you.

you try to sit up and immediately regret it — your thighs ache, sharp and sticky and sore in a way that feels too familiar. your skirt’s riding up around your hips, tights rolled halfway down. your shirt’s on backwards. your bra’s gone.

your breath catches.

what the fuck.

you search your body for bruises.

your fingertips come away with smudges of black on them — eyeliner, maybe. maybe something else.

there’s a faint, tacky feeling between your thighs.

and you remember — a voice. dark, teasing.

“i told you i’d fuck the arrogance out of you.”

you close your eyes. your stomach flips.

you sit up slowly — shaking. still not sure if you’re going to puke or cry or both — and reach for your phone, but it’s not on your nightstand.

you find it on the floor, face-down, tangled in your charger cord.

1:43pm. a few blurry photos from the night before. one half-lit snap of you in the mirror, tongue out, glitter on your collarbone.

and then nothing. no texts. no missed calls.

you wrap a blanket around your shoulders like armor. make your way to the kitchen, knees weak, bare feet cold on the tile.

your roommate’s there, hunched over a bowl of cereal. eyes still half-closed.

she glances up when she hears you. “jesus. you look like hell.”

you don’t answer.

she spoons cereal into her mouth, still squinting at you. “you remember anything from last night?”

you wet your lips. they feel chapped. “some of it.”

she laughs. “well. hot guy carried you in. that ring any bells?”

you stop. heartbeat skipping.

“…what?”

“yeah, he dropped you off like two in the morning. bridal style. set you down on your bed, made sure you were breathing, then dipped.”

you just stare at her.

she chews her cereal. swallows. keeps going, casual like it’s nothing.

“purple hair. wore all black. looked pissed off at the world.” she tilts her head. “kind of hot in an emo way. dunno how you landed that.”

your mouth opens. then closes.

your brain finally catches up: he brought you home.

after fucking you. in someone else’s car. without even telling you his name. he carried you home.

your hands shake.

“did he say anything?” you ask, voice low.

your roommate shakes her head. “just knocked. asked me if you lived here. i said yeah, and he just… dropped you on your bed and left.” she pauses. “honestly, he was weirdly gentle. like, you were all limp and glittery and looked like you’d just sobbed through a mitski concert, and he still, like… made sure you were okay.”

you feel like you’ve been slapped.

you sit down on the edge of the couch — legs folding under you, heartbeat trapped in your throat.

you remember how rough he was. how he shoved you back into the seat, fingers already sliding between your thighs. how he laughed when you whined. how he told you to beg.

but you also remember —

a hand on your waist. a breath against your cheek. something brushing your hair back

maybe you imagined it. maybe you didn’t.

either way, you still don’t know his name.

but now? now you know something else.

he could’ve left you there. but he didn’t.

you’re still lying in bed, phone face-down, trying not to die from dehydration or existential dread, when it buzzes.

your head’s pounding. your mouth tastes like old liquor and regret. your thighs are sticky under the sheets, skin still a little sore. you haven’t even changed out of the crop top you wore last night.

you flip the phone over with a sigh, fully expecting it to be your roommate asking if you want waffles.

but it’s not.

kazuha

hey i hope this isn’t weird but i’ve been thinking about you a lot i still owe you that tea if you want to come over

you blink. once. twice.

you sit up too fast. regret it instantly.

because what the fuck.

he just texted you. like that.

you just stare at the screen, heart thudding, nausea curling slow and low in your stomach.

it’s been a week. a full week of silence. seven days of playing it off, pretending you didn’t care, trying to laugh with your friends and sleep it off and rip the poem he left in your notebook like it didn’t mean anything.

you’d practically convinced yourself it was a fluke. a one-night thing. a pretty boy with a soft voice and a talent for leaving before things got messy.

and now he’s texting like he’s been sitting in his apartment thinking about you for days.

like he still wants to pour you jasmine tea and quote rilke under dim lighting. like he meant it.

and you… you fucked someone else.

you let a stranger finger you in the back of a borrowed car. let him talk down to you, press his hand over your mouth, fill you up like he wanted to ruin you.

you let him get under your skin. into you. and you still don’t even know his name.

your chest tightens. your breath stutters. because now you don’t know how to feel. you don’t know what you feel.

guilt? shame? desire?

yes. all of it.

you text back before you can stop yourself.

hey um yeah. okay. i can come over

you stare at your screen for ten more minutes. motionless. buzzing. your palms are sweaty. your heart won’t slow down.

kazuha wants to see you.

after all this time. after a week of nothing, of silence, of overthinking every word he said in your bed. of replaying how gently he touched you. how quietly he made you fall apart.

and yet — despite all of that, all you can think about is him.

the other one.

the stranger in the kitchen with a sharp tongue and purple hair. the one who smelled like smoke and contempt. the one who ruined you with his fingers and didn’t even stay long enough for you to ask his name.

you don’t know who he is. you don’t know if you’ll ever see him again.

but you’re still thinking about the way he looked at you like a challenge. the way he pulled you into the car like he already knew how you liked it.

your thighs squeeze together. you exhale. and get dressed.

because kazuha wants you to come over. and maybe that should be enough.

kazuha buzzes you up without saying anything.

it’s late afternoon. your head still hurts. you almost didn’t come. you almost talked yourself out of it — four times, actually. but now you’re standing in front of his apartment door with your hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands, heart beating like it wants to crawl out of your chest.

he opens the door like he’s been waiting. like he was standing right behind it the whole time.

soft hoodie. loose hair. sleepy eyes.

“hey,” he says, almost a whisper.

you swallow. “hey.”

he steps back to let you in.

the place smells like green tea and rain through the window. warm. lived-in. books stacked on every surface. plants in chipped ceramic pots. a record player humming something slow and instrumental in the corner. a kettle whistling on the stove.

you step out of your shoes. your legs feel shaky.

kazuha watches you. quietly. eyes flicking down like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to look.

“you really came,” he says, almost to himself.

you smile — small. nervous. “i said i would.”

he nods. drifts toward the kitchen. “i kept thinking maybe you wouldn’t. after…”

“after what?”

he doesn’t answer. just turns the burner off and pours the tea.

when he hands you the mug, your fingers brush. his linger.

“i missed you,” he says.

you look at him. really look at him. his expression’s unreadable. soft, but hesitant. like he’s scared to spook you. like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to want you.

your chest aches.

you still have feelings for him. of course you do. he made you feel seen. held. kissed. like you mattered.

you sit down on the couch. kazuha follows.

it’s quiet. painfully quiet.

you take a sip. stare down at the tea. “this is nice.”

he nods. “i thought about what kind you might like.”

you don’t know what to say to that.

you wish he’d kiss you. you wish he’d pull you into his arms and pretend nothing changed. but he doesn’t.

instead, he just says: “i meant to text you sooner.”

“why didn’t you?”

he pauses.

and then, just as he opens his mouth — a door creaks open down the hall. a shadow shifts behind the cracked bedroom door.

and then — he steps out.

purple hair. black hoodie. bruised mouth.

you recognize him immediately. every nerve in your body goes electric.

it’s him.

you freeze. you don’t breathe. don’t blink. don’t move.

scaramouche steps into the light like he was waiting for a cue. hoodie slouched off one shoulder, drawstrings tangled, purple streaks falling into his eyes. there’s a split on his lip now — fresh or maybe not — and he’s watching you like he already knows how this ends.

he cocks his head.

“oh,” he says. “it’s you.”

you clutch the tea mug tighter. the ceramic’s too hot, practically burning into your palms, but you barely feel it. your pulse is louder than everything else.

kazuha glances up from the couch, voice soft and unbothered. “you’re up.”

your head whips toward him. “…he’s your roommate?”

kazuha blinks. “yeah. sorry—did i not say that?”

and behind you, scaramouche fucking laughs. low. amused. cruel.

you turn back, throat dry. “no,” you manage. “you didn’t.”

“thought maybe you’d met at one of those campus parties,” kazuha continues gently. “he always wanders off and starts fights in kitchens.”

he says it like a joke. like this is nothing. like you’re not spiraling.

you feel like the floor’s giving out beneath you. like you’re in a dream, or a joke, or a punishment.

and he doesn’t stop staring.

“so you’re the one he’s been writing about,” he says, mouth twitching like he’s tasting it.

your head snaps up. heart stuttering.

kazuha blinks again. “oh. um—right. you two haven’t been introduced, huh?”

you can’t speak. your lips won’t work. your lungs won’t fill.

“this is my roommate,” kazuha says, quiet. “kunikuzushi. everyone just calls him scara.”

the name hits you like a punch.

kunikuzushi.

he finally has a name.

you look at him, sharp and crooked and slouched like he owns the room.

he’s smirking. not kindly. not sweetly. like he remembers everything.

the way you clawed at his hoodie. the way you begged. the way you cried when you came.

“nice to meet you,” he says, syrup-thick.

“yeah,” you whisper. “you too.”

you sit stiff as a corpse.

and scara just drops onto the couch beside you like it’s his throne.

sprawls out, legs spread, arm stretched over the back. his thigh presses into yours, casual and close, like it belongs there. like you belong there.

kazuha’s still warm on your other side — too close, too trusting, too soft.

your stomach twists. you’re boxed in.

you can feel your skin buzzing. you’re too hot, too aware of every inch of your body. of every breath. every glance. it feels like a trap and you walked straight into it.

kazuha doesn’t notice.

or maybe — worse — he doesn’t want to.

“so,” scara says, easy, “how do you two know each other?”

his voice is light, but his eyes aren’t.

you can feel him looking at you. feel the way his smirk stretches, just a little.

like he already knows the answer. like he’s daring you to lie.

kazuha answers first. of course he does.

“she came to a reading last week,” he says, voice soft. “we talked after.”

he turns to you, smiling a little. “she said she liked my poems.”

you manage a nod, lips pressed thin. you can feel your pulse in your throat.

“huh,” scara says.

he doesn’t add anything. doesn’t need to. because a second later, his fingers brush your thigh. barely there. but enough.

enough to make your breath catch. enough to send your stomach flipping.

he knows what he’s doing. and he’s doing it anyway.

kazuha glances over, concern flashing briefly behind his eyes. “you okay?”

you smile too fast. “yeah,” you say. “just hot.”

scara exhales softly through his nose. a laugh, low and smug.

you want to punch him. or kiss him. or cry. maybe all three.

he leans in.

close enough for his breath to brush your cheek. for his words to curl against your ear like smoke.

“you always get this squirmy when someone touches you?”

you flinch. it’s not subtle.

kazuha doesn’t seem to notice. but scara does.

his knuckles press in, slow and deliberate, dragging just a little higher on your thigh.

your breath stutters. you don’t move. you should. but you don’t.

“what would he think,” scara murmurs, voice like venom, “if he knew how wet you got for me?”

your skin goes cold. then hot. then cold again.

you want to shove him off the couch. you want to bury your face in your hands. you want to disappear.

but you don’t do anything.

you just sit there. silent. frozen. and then he says it. too sharp, too fast, like he’s slicing through you —

“you gonna let him make you cum next?”

and this time, kazuha hears it.

“…what?” he says, startled.

you stiffen. you feel like you’re going to be sick.

scaramouche doesn’t even blink.

“we hooked up,” he says plainly, like it’s a fun fact. like it doesn’t mean anything. like he’s not holding the knife and twisting it.

he looks at you. grinning.

“you didn’t mention that?”

your mouth opens. no sound comes out. you’re drowning.

“i didn’t know you were roommates,” you finally choke. “i didn’t know.”

kazuha doesn’t respond right away. he stares at the floor, quiet. then he nods. slow. once.

“…okay.”

it’s the softest thing in the world. and somehow, it cuts the deepest.

your fingers curl around your mug, white-knuckled. your hands won’t stop shaking.

the silence drags. painful. unbearable. thick.

you reach for him. instinctive. desperate.

“kazuha—”

he cuts you off, but gently. always gently.

“it’s okay,” he says, voice tight. not angry. not sharp. worse.

like he’s trying not to let it hurt. like he’s swallowing it down.

“you don’t owe me anything.”

and the way he says it — it shatters something in you. because it’s true.

but god, you wish it wasn’t.

he stands. quietly. slowly. like the air’s too heavy now.

his hands curl at his sides. his voice is small. careful.

“i think i’m gonna go to bed.”

he doesn’t look at you.

“you can let yourself out.”

then he turns.

walks down the hall.

soft steps. soft goodbye.

he doesn’t shut the door, but he might as well have.

and scara?

he doesn’t say a word. doesn’t flinch. doesn’t move. just leans back, all smug and spread out on the couch.

like he won. like you’re not falling apart beside him.

and you just sit there.

it’s been four days since that night.

four days since you watched kazuha’s face fall. since you walked out with your chest caving in. since your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

you couldn’t stop thinking about it. about him.

his soft voice. the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room. how he curled his fingers around a mug like he was scared it might break. how he might.

you didn’t mean to hurt him. you never meant to hurt him.

and you can’t take it anymore.

so now you’re standing in front of his apartment door at 8pm, knuckles raised, heart in your throat.

you don’t even knock. you just twist the handle. it’s unlocked.

and he’s on the couch. hair tied back, sweatshirt too big, book in his lap.

he looks up. blinks.

“…hey,” he says, quietly. like he’s not sure you’re real.

you don’t speak. you just walk over. slow. trembling.

and then you kiss him.

hard. messy. open-mouthed. hands gripping his jaw like you’re trying to say everything at once.

he gasps against your mouth.

“wait—what—”

“i’m sorry,” you breathe, breaking the kiss just long enough to speak. your forehead pressed to his. your hands in his hair.

“i didn’t know. i didn’t know, and i was stupid and drunk and i can’t stop thinking about you—”

he pulls you back in. wordless.

you stumble into his lap, straddling him, fingers tugging at his sweatshirt. your lips drag across his jaw, down his throat, mouthing apology after apology into his skin.

“i missed you,” you whisper, voice cracking.

he kisses you like he believes it.

his hands slide under your shirt, reverent, trembling a little. like he’s still not sure this is allowed. like he’s scared it’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

but you want fast. you want messy. desperate. fucked-up. you want to feel again.

you grind down into his lap and feel him gasp against your mouth.

“fuck,” he mumbles. “you can’t just—just show up like this—”

“why not?” you say, nipping at his bottom lip. “don’t you want me?”

his eyes flutter shut.

“…i always do.”

you rock against him again, and he groans.

hands under your thighs now, pulling you closer, guiding your hips. there’s no rhythm, no thought — just friction, heat, want.

you grab the hem of your shirt and tug it off. your bra goes next.

his breath stutters.

you swear he says your name like it’s a prayer.

his mouth finds your chest. kisses soft, open, shaky. his hands shaking as he palms your tits, thumbs brushing your nipples until they pebble.

“kazuha,” you whimper. “please.”

he flips you before you can blink.

lays you out on the couch. gets on top of you like he’s starving. like he’s waited a lifetime.

his hands drag down your waist. unbutton your jeans. he looks up once, checking.

you nod.

he tugs them down. your panties with them. and then his mouth is on you.

tongue soft and slow at first, then deeper, faster, firmer — his fingers gripping your thighs open, holding you steady, licking through your folds like it’s all he wants.

you moan — loud. head tipped back, hips rocking up into his face. he moans into your cunt like it’s divine.

and then — just as you’re close — he slips a finger in. then two. curling them just right.

“kazuha—oh my god—fuck, right there—”

his eyes are wild when he looks up. cheeks flushed, mouth wet, hair sticking to his face.

you cum with a cry, back arching off the couch, thighs trembling.

he doesn’t stop until you’re gasping.

until you’re pulling him up by his sweatshirt, mumbling “fuck me, please, fuck me—”

he fumbles with his sweats, hard and flushed and leaking as he lines himself up.

“you’re sure—?”

“yes,” you breathe. “i want you. i want you.”

he pushes in.

you both moan.

it’s so deep. so thick. he fills you like he belongs there.

his mouth drops to your shoulder. his pace stutters. he’s so gentle, even now — hips rolling slow, trying not to break you. trying not to lose himself.

but you’re already gone.

“harder,” you beg. “please, harder—i can take it—”

and he does.

he thrusts harder. faster. lets himself feel it — years of restraint crumbling in your arms.

the couch creaks beneath you. skin slaps. your name, over and over in his mouth, like he’s thankful for you.

you’re so close again — hips jerking, nails digging into his back, gasping his name when —

the door creaks open.

you freeze. kazuha freezes. you both turn your heads.

and there — bag slung over one shoulder, keys in hand, jaw tight — is scaramouche.

he stares. expression unreadable.

and then?

he shuts the door behind him.

“…should’ve known,” he mutters, deadpan. “you only get this loud when you’re trying to prove a point.”

his voice drips mockery.

you tense under kazuha — your fingers curling into the cotton of his sweatshirt, knuckles white. he’s still inside you, still trembling, still trying to breathe through the impossible weight of what’s happening.

but it’s real. the couch is real. kazuha’s cock still buried in you is real.

and scaramouche — kunikuzushi — is standing there, dropping his jacket on the chair like this is normal.

“k-kuni—” kazuha stammers, trying to pull out. “i didn’t know you’d be—”

“spare me,” scara cuts in, already toeing off his boots. “i live here.”

you flinch.

he says it like it’s obvious. like you should’ve known.

but how could you? kazuha never said his roommate was the same man who had fucked you in the back of a car, told you to shut up, called you a know-it-all brat with your skirt pushed up to your waist and his fingers choking off your moans.

but now you know.

and he’s still looking at you. eyes dragging down your body — your bare chest, your fucked-out cunt, the way kazuha’s cock twitches inside you like he doesn’t know what to do next.

“so this is what we’re doing now?” kuni asks. his tone is flat, but there’s something gleaming in his eyes. sharp. greedy. like he’s daring you to answer wrong.

kazuha tries. bless him.

“it’s not—she’s not—”

but you’re already nodding.

your lips part. nothing comes out at first. then —

“yes.”

scara’s smirk spreads like wildfire.

“knew you were a little freak,” he says, low, dragging the hoodie over his head.

his shirt follows. then his belt. your breath catches.

his cock’s already hard. flushed dark, curved, glistening at the tip. and thick.

kazuha pulls out slowly — still holding you, still touching like you’re delicate. like you won’t break. and you miss the stretch immediately. your cunt clenches down on nothing. sticky with both your slicks. aching for more.

“get her ready,” scara says, stroking himself. “since you’re the nice one.”

kazuha just stares. wide-eyed. dazed.

but you’re already whispering: “please.”

he moves.

fingers slipping back inside you, slow and reverent, curling in that sweet spot that makes your thighs twitch. he’s still so gentle. too gentle. like he doesn’t realize you’re past the point of careful. you’re wrecked. ruined. and still hungry.

then scara kneels beside you. strokes your cheek with one calloused thumb.

“open,” he commands.

you do.

and he doesn’t wait — pushes into your mouth fast, groaning when your tongue wraps around him. when your lips close tight.

kazuha’s fingers are still working you open. slow, precise. you gasp around scara’s cock, trying not to choke. he’s too big for this. you can barely take him. but he doesn’t care.

“fuck,” he hisses. “she’s still tight?”

“she came twice already,” kazuha murmurs, dazed. “and she’s still so—”

“that’s cause she’s fucking starving for it.”

he grips your hair, starts fucking your throat. deep. rough. wet sounds filling the room.

you gag, tears spilling down your cheeks.

kazuha pulls his fingers out. lines up again. and god — you’re not sure you can take it, but your hips roll toward him anyway.

then he’s inside. deep.

the stretch makes your whole body arch. kazuha moans against your back, and scara curses low, staring down at your glassy eyes.

“shit,” he mutters, snapping his hips. “i can feel him in your throat.”

your arms shake. your cunt clenches. you’re crying. drooling. babbling around his cock.

you’re nothing. just a body between them. a fucktoy they’ve decided to share. and fuck — it feels so good.

kazuha’s thrusts are slow again, holding you open, whispering your name in your ear like it means something. scara’s pace is merciless, fucking your throat like it’s his right, like your mouth belongs to him.

and you? you can’t stop.

you choke. sob. cum again so hard it feels like lightning in your spine — your walls clenching around kazuha so tight he gasps, hips jerking. he spills inside you with a stuttering breath, holding you so close it’s like he’s scared you’ll vanish.

but scara pulls out.

strokes himself twice.

and finishes across your lips. your cheek. your chin. hot and sticky and everywhere.

you’re still shaking.

and they’re still watching you.

you can barely think.

your face is sticky with scara’s cum. your throat’s sore. your thighs won’t stop twitching. kazuha’s still catching his breath somewhere behind you, and your cunt’s leaking so much you don’t know who you’re dripping.

you’re a mess.

you should be done. this should be the end. but then —

“i made her cum first,” scara says.

like it’s obvious. like it’s fact. like it’s important.

your mind stutters, sluggish and cloudy, barely registering his voice over the dull throb between your legs. you’re flat on your back on the couch, eyes half-shut, heart still racing. you feel like static. boneless. high on everything.

kazuha lets out a soft snort beside you, pulling his sweats back on with shaky hands. “you mean just now?”

“obviously.”

scara stands over you, all smug satisfaction — one hand still in his hair, the other dragging his thumb across your jaw to wipe off the mess he left there.

you whimper faintly at the touch.

kazuha just raises a brow.

“if we’re counting real firsts,” he says calmly, “i made her cum days ago. with my mouth. in her dorm. she was shaking.”

scara freezes. just for a second.

“are you serious.”

“very.”

“that doesn’t count.”

“why not?”

“because you had her alone. if she’d had the option of me, she would’ve picked me.”

you groan. weakly. “guys—”

“shush,” they both snap.

you shut up.

kazuha looks unnervingly serene. the picture of quiet confidence. “i didn’t realize this was a competition.”

“it is now.”

and before you can protest — before your brain catches up — you’re being lifted. sat upright. dizzy. sore. you feel like jelly. your whole body aches.

your back hits kazuha’s chest as he settles back on the couch, arms around you. his lips find your shoulder again. soft. tender. his fingers trace slow shapes down your thigh.

and scara?

he’s kneeling between your legs. again.

“round two,” he says, voice a low purr. “let’s settle this.”

your whole body tenses.

“wait—i can’t—i’m still—”

kazuha hushes you. strokes your hair. kisses your cheek like it’ll fix the way your thighs are still shaking. “we’ll go slow.”

“i won’t,” scara mutters.

he doesn’t.

his fingers slide back inside you first — two at once, fast and rough. your back arches, sharp pain mixing with something darker, deeper. your whole body jerks.

“fuck—she’s still clenching,” he groans. “so needy it’s fucking embarrassing.”

you don’t even get to argue.

because then he’s inside.

his cock slams into you with one brutal thrust. your hands scramble for something — anything — but kazuha’s already gripping your wrists, holding you still, letting kuni take what he wants.

you scream.

kazuha kisses your temple, murmuring soft nothings while scara ruins you again. his thrusts are vicious. relentless. wet sounds echo off the walls. you can’t even think.

“you close already?” scara sneers, watching your face twist. “you are. fuck, that’s pathetic.”

“don’t be cruel,” kazuha says gently, brushing hair from your face. “she’s trying.”

“she’s a slut,” scara growls. “a messy little whore who likes getting fought over. that’s what you want, huh?”

you sob. your body trembles. you want to deny it. say it isn’t true. but it is.

you cum again — harder than before. your cunt clenches tight around him, and scara moans like he’s vindicated. like he’s won.

he doesn’t even stop.

fucks you through it. drags every last shiver out of your body until your brain fizzles out and your breath stutters into nothing. then — finally — he pulls out, panting, spent, and absolutely pleased with himself.

“that’s one,” he says smugly. “your turn.”

kazuha shifts.

moves you slowly — gently — onto your hands and knees, your whole body shaking like you’ve never been touched before.

“you okay?” he whispers.

you nod. barely.

and he’s inside you. slow. sweet. almost careful.

his cock stretches you all over again — but this time it’s different. like he’s pouring himself into you instead of fucking you apart. his hands curl over your hips. his lips ghost along your spine.

“you’re doing so well,” he whispers. “i’ve got you.”

you whimper.

you don’t even realize you’re crying again until he kisses the tears away.

his thrusts are deep. rolling. steady.

your cunt’s raw. swollen. slick with too much. but he still finds a rhythm that pulls the pleasure back up from the ache. still finds the softness under the wreckage.

your fingers clutch at the couch cushion.

“ka—kazuha—i can’t—”

“you can. just breathe.”

and you do.

you breathe. you break. you cum again.

quiet this time. all soft gasps and shaking thighs and tears on your cheeks. your hand finds his. you squeeze it when you come, clenching around him like you’re scared to let go.

he groans. spills inside you with a kiss pressed to your neck.

and you collapse in his arms. limp. barely breathing.

but then — you hear it. again.

“that one was mine,” kazuha says, still panting.

scara scoffs. “barely. she was already there.”

“still counts.”

“you’re such a fucking bitch.”

“and you’re a sore loser.”

you groan into the couch cushion. “guys.”

they don’t answer. you lift your head. barely.

they’re both still standing over you. flushed. fucked out. proud. and still arguing.

“shut up,” you mumble, dragging the pillow over your face.