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ponyojada · 7 days ago

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Say it's me you want

Synopsis: You weren’t supposed to feel this way about her. It started with a look lingering too long, burning too deep. You told yourself it was nothing, that she was just captivating like that. You’ve only ever crushed on boys before, but Rafayel made you feel something different. Something sharp and soft all at once. When jealousy stung and curiosity pulled harder, you finally stopped running from what you felt. One kiss turned into something more, and suddenly you were touching, tasting, and learning what it meant to want her, and finally have her.

Content warnings: fem!raf, party girl raf, non-canon rafayel, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, exploration of sexuality, first-time with a woman, internalized insecurity, light alcohol use, jealousy, possessiveness, emotionally vulnerable dialogue, light dominance/submission dynamics, soft praise kink, mutual pining, consensual intimacy between women, kissing, biting, multiple orgasms, emotional sex.

Pairings: fem!Rafayel x reader

Word count: 30k

A/n: in order to celebrate pride month, i posted a poll for you guys to pick one of the guys as fem and rafayel won, hehe. so here it is fem!raf for whoever enjoys this kind of content, and i hope you'll like it.

p.s. i don't condone any type of hateful, homophobic behavior. so if this is not for you, please scroll. i will not hesitate to delete these types of comments and block you :)

that being said, enjoy 🌈

A/n 2: there will be a part 2 to this;)

Rafayel was everything you weren’t.

Where you walked through campus trying not to draw attention, she moved like she deserved it—head high, laugh bright, hips swaying with an effortless kind of confidence that turned heads without trying. University, to her, wasn’t just about lectures or credits; it was a stage, and she was determined to steal every spotlight. If there was a party, she was already at the center of it. If there was music, she danced to it like it was written for her.

She didn’t just attract attention—she thrived on it. A flash of that disarming smile, a tilt of her head, and suddenly everyone was leaning in closer, caught in her orbit. Professors, classmates, strangers—no one was immune. Least of all you.

And honestly, you didn’t even want to be. Because Rafayel was beautiful in a way that felt unfair—like someone had sculpted her with soft gold light and left her to wander among mortals just to see what would happen. Breathtaking didn’t quite cover it. And yet, she wasn’t cold or untouchable, not some high-maintenance queen perched on a throne. No—she was warm. She was easy to talk to, easier to laugh with, and dangerously easy to like.

For her, being a social butterfly wasn’t a learned skill—it was instinct. She floated through every conversation like she’d been born knowing the right things to say, the perfect tone to strike, the exact smile to wear. And you, like the rest, were no exception.

You still remember how it started. Her smile, the way she said your name like it tasted sweet on her tongue. The casual way she draped herself over the arm of your chair during your first week, as if you’d already been friends for years. It hadn’t even taken a month before she’d wrapped herself around your routine, fluttering into every crevice of your day until you started wondering how it felt so natural.

And really, how could it have gone any other way? Because as fate would have it, you were also fortunate enough to be roommates.

Your life on campus had always revolved around rhythm—small comforts folded into familiar patterns. Mornings with coffee from the quiet corner café, afternoons tucked away in the campus studio with paint-stained fingers and half-dried palettes, evenings curled up in the dorm with soft music humming low from your speakers. You liked routine. You didn’t need chaos to feel alive. Spontaneity had its charm, sure—but only when you invited it in on your own terms.

So, on paper, living with someone like Rafayel should have been a disaster. She was color and noise where you preferred silence and softness. The kind of girl who thrived on attention, who found electricity in the pulse of nightlife. Her version of a slow evening was spent preening for a party, glass of wine in hand, eyeliner sharp enough to slice through the air. She was everything the roommate email warning had made you dread.

But strangely, it wasn’t a nightmare. You were different—drastically so—and yet your lifestyles didn’t clash the way you thought they might. Rafayel never tried to drag you into her world, not really. She offered the invitation often, a teasing grin curling at the edge of her glossed lips as she leaned against the doorframe, asking if you felt like crashing a party or sneaking into some underground rave with her latest crew. But there was no pressure behind the ask, and the both of you knew what the answer would be.

Still, she always asked. And you appreciated her for that—for never pushing, never mocking the quiet you clung to. You never complained about the noise she brought back, the soft thud of her heels at 2 a.m., the echo of laughter trailing behind her, mixed with her perfume. She never judged the nights you stayed in, wrapped in oversized sweaters, surrounded by half-finished sketches and barely touched tea.

Somehow, it worked.

There was one night, though—early in the semester, when the air still tasted like fall and possibilities—that you said yes. You’re not even sure why. Maybe it was the way she pleaded, her voice dripping with honeyed charm and half-laughs, telling you you deserved to be reckless for once. Maybe it was how her eyes sparkled when she talked about dancing under bad lighting and kissing strangers and chasing stupid stories. Or maybe it was just the way she looked at you that night—like you were a canvas she’d just been dying to paint.

Whatever it was, you caved. And the moment you said yes, she lit up like she'd won a prize.

She flitted around the room like a stylist on a mission, fretting over your outfit as if the fate of the night rested entirely on what you wore. Clothes flew across the bed, accessories jingled like windchimes in her hands, and she muttered to herself with the kind of focused intensity you usually only saw in her makeup mirror. You sat cross-legged on your mattress, watching her with a mixture of amusement and mild exasperation, your chin resting on your palm as you tried not to smile too much.

She had taste, that much you couldn’t deny. Everything she wore was a work of art—bold, unapologetic, striking. Her makeup was always something to behold: glitter-laced or smokey and sharp, sometimes delicate and otherworldly, like she’d stepped out of a dream. And no matter what she chose, it worked. She wore creativity like a second skin. Her clothes followed no rule but her own, and yet somehow, every look was flawless—raw and expressive, a visual melody that made people stop and stare.

That night, you let her take over your closet with a kind of quiet surrender. Maybe it was the way she moved—confident, radiant, alive—that made you feel like letting go for once wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. Maybe, just maybe, it would even be fun.

And it had been fun. More fun than you’d expected. More fun than you’d ever admit out loud. And really, why should you deny it? There was no shame in the way that night had bloomed around you like something soft and rare. You remembered the outfit she’d pulled together with surprising care—not overly flashy, not exaggerated or attention-grabbing, though you knew she could’ve made it so if she’d wanted. Instead, she’d chosen restraint. She’d paid attention.

She didn’t say as much, but you saw the thoughtfulness in every layer, in the colors she picked and the way the fabric skimmed your figure without shouting for a crowd. When you stood in front of the mirror, you didn’t see someone else staring back. You saw yourself—just a little more radiant, a little more daring. Accentuated, not reinvented.

And you felt beautiful. Not in the loud, dramatic way Rafayel so effortlessly embodied—but in your own skin, in a way that didn’t feel borrowed. You were grateful for that. Grateful that her excitement hadn’t swept her too far, grateful she hadn’t tried to mold you into some echo of herself. She only ever added, never replaced. That kind of care—subtle, unspoken—meant more to you than any outfit ever could.

Then, of course, being Rafayel, she’d gone and matched her outfit to yours. Not identically, but enough to feel like a pair—complementary, harmonious. It pulled a soft, involuntary smile from you. She caught it, grinning triumphantly as she grabbed your hand and tugged you out of your little safe corner of the dorm.

She didn’t let go once. That night, she stayed by your side—not hovering, not smothering, just there. You’d half expected her to disappear into a swirl of friends and admirers, some impossibly magnetic social circle you’d never quite seen up close. But if they were there, she didn’t seem to care. Not that night. That night, she was yours.

She smiled and laughed and leaned in with a conspiratorial wink as she led you toward the drink table, making some joke that had you giggling before the first shot even burned its way down your throat. The second one was worse, and you grimaced through it, earning a bright, delighted laugh from her that warmed you more than the liquor ever could.

And then the music pulled her attention—and she pulled you with it. But not into the chaotic heart of the dancefloor like you feared. No, Rafayel stopped at the edges, in that liminal space between wild abandon and quiet observation. She didn’t shove you into it. She didn’t force your hand. She just turned toward you, her fingers finding yours again, and coaxed you gently—come on, just feel it.

And you did. You let your eyes fall closed, let the beat sink into your chest, let the alcohol soften your bones. You felt the bass ripple through the soles of your feet, the dull thrum of energy in the air, the brush of her fingertips still lightly tangled in yours. And through it all, her perfume clung to you—warm, sweet, intoxicating. The kind of scent that wrapped around your thoughts long after it was gone.

You danced—awkwardly at first, but that didn’t last. Not with her swaying beside you, beaming like your joy was a secret she’d been waiting to unlock. Maybe she thought you’d been too stiff before. Maybe she was just happy you came. Either way, she looked at you like you’d done something right by being here.

And you laughed. God, you laughed. And later—when the night had melted into blurred laughter and flushed cheeks and aching feet—you found yourself lying in bed, replaying it all. The colors. The sound. The look on her face. And not once did you regret saying yes.

After that night, saying yes to her slowly became a rhythm. Not quite deliberate, not yet habitual—but with each passing week, the hesitation dulled. By the time second semester rolled around and the air began to soften with the first touch of spring, you found yourself agreeing to more and more of Rafayel’s spontaneous suggestions. A walk. A coffee. A bookstore detour. No longer did you weigh your silence before answering. Sometimes, your body moved before your mind even caught up.

One morning, unremarkable and quiet, she’d mentioned getting coffee—casually, half to herself as she slipped on her boots near the door. And before she could say another word, you were grabbing your bag.

She blinked at you, surprise flickering across her face like sunlight through leaves. But only for a moment. Then she beamed, bright and unfiltered, and with a delighted skip in her step, she matched her pace to yours as you strolled toward the campus café together.

Later that day, you lay side by side on the freshly mowed grass, coffee cups cooling in your hands, your skin warmed by spring’s gentle return. Rafayel turned her head, arched a brow in amusement, and teased you for leaving your cave, for daring to breathe air that hadn’t been recycled through your dorm room.

You rolled your eyes, naturally—but you were smiling, and she saw it. Because it was easy. Being with her was easy. Strangely, unexpectedly so. Her extravagance, her dramatics, her love of attention—it didn’t grate the way you might’ve once thought it would. In fact, you’d started to enjoy it. Or rather, you’d started to enjoy her. The full, messy, sparkling presence of her. You had your own kind of mischief, sure, but it wasn’t like hers. Hers was louder, brighter, like glitter in motion. And instead of repelling you, it pulled you closer.

It became a pattern—woven in quietly, like a new thread through familiar cloth. She took you to a museum next. An art exhibition she’d been gushing about for weeks, her eyes lighting up with every brushstroke and artpiece she described. And of course she asked you. Because you shared that passion. That hunger for texture and shadow and meaning hidden beneath layers of pigment.

You went. You studied together, sometimes. Pulled chaotic all-nighters with too much caffeine and not enough sleep when she wasn’t out partying. She even convinced you to come to two more parties with her, and each time, her excitement was more infectious than the last.

The first year of university slipped by like a dream—flickering with laughter and late-night talks, unexpected routines, and the kind of quiet companionship that made the days feel lighter. And when the time came to pack your things and head home for the summer, you felt it—that feeling. A dull ache under your ribs. The quiet disappointment that you wouldn’t see her every day anymore. That there would be an empty half of your room. That the beat of your daily rhythm would fall a little quieter without her in it.

But Rafayel? She was having none of it. Distance did nothing to dim her. Even in separate cities, in separate lives, she insisted on being close. She texted you constantly—unfiltered, chaotic, hilarious messages that popped up at all hours. She called, facetimed, sent voice notes that made you laugh in the middle of the night. She’d rant dramatically about things that barely mattered just to make you smile, exaggerate stories to the point of absurdity and then cackle when you finally caved and laughed along.

And you missed her. More than you expected to. There were nights when the house was too quiet, and you found yourself staring at your screen, waiting for her name to light it up. Nights where your playlist played too soft in the background, and you lay curled in bed, realizing you’d started looking forward to her calls like clockwork. Not just because she was loud or entertaining—but because she made you feel seen.

And one of those nights, with the window cracked open and the scent of rain in the air, you let the thought in. She had become part of your routine. A loud, beautiful, insistent part of it. You didn’t know when it happened, but now it was simply true. And you didn’t know if that was a good thing or a dangerous one.

————

You’d always been the organized one. The type who color-coded folders, packed two weeks before moving day, and somehow managed to balance study sessions with social obligations like clockwork. Your summer had been productive—filled with textbooks, late-night reading marathons, and a few familiar faces from your hometown that made the days pass a little quicker. Comfortable. Predictable.

And still, Rafayel lingered in your life like the scent of her perfume—soft but inescapable, present even when she wasn’t there. Always just a text, a call, a ping away. She’d kept you laughing, even from miles apart. And it was obvious—so obvious—that she’d had way more fun than you had. Her summer looked like a highlight reel: beach bonfires, neon nights, strangers turned friends, stories told with stars in her eyes.

You didn’t mind. Not at first. Not until she mentioned her. It started simply enough, folded into one of her sun-drenched ramblings—a story about a girl she’d met at the beach one morning. Apparently, they’d clicked instantly. Laughed too loud over iced drinks, talked like old souls, and then—of course—ended up challenging each other to a swim race.

And that was the moment something in your chest twisted. You remembered all too well how Rafayel talked about swimming—her element, her escape. You’d seen the glint in her eyes when she showed you old videos, when she talked about winning competitions like it was no big deal. You’d always laughed when she teasingly tried to drag you into the pool, dared you to race her. You always refused, knowing full well you’d lose, and she’d just grin at you, playful and smug and shining.

But this girl had said yes. Had raced her. Had done something you never dared to.

You didn’t understand why it bothered you. She had dozens of friends—dozens of stories about random, electric connections with people who came and went like seasons. You never flinched at those. Never cared, not really.

But this felt… different. Because it didn’t stop at that one story. No—throughout the rest of the summer, she kept coming up. A passing mention here, a laugh there. Something she said, something they did, some inside joke you weren’t part of. And with each mention, the feeling in your chest grew tighter, hotter—until frustration bloomed quietly beneath your skin, like a secret you didn’t know how to name.

You tried to rationalize it. Told yourself it was nothing. That you were tired. Sensitive. Maybe even a little jealous of how easily Rafayel connected with people. But those excuses fell flat the moment you realized how often you were thinking about her. How quickly her name pulled your attention. How your mind wandered back to her at night, again and again.

And then came the worst part—the part that made your stomach twist and your thoughts spiral into something messy and impossible. Because the truth started to echo in your mind. You’d felt this before. This ache. This want. This strange desire to be closer, to know what she was thinking, to be the one making her laugh, the one she mentioned in every story. You’d felt it before—just never about a girl. Or rather… never let yourself think you could feel it for one.

It wasn’t that it scared you because she was a girl. That wasn’t the part that rattled you. It was the realization that scared you. The sheer helplessness of it. Of knowing that whatever this was—this thing you didn’t have a name for yet—it had already taken root. It had already changed the way you saw her.

And now, you didn’t know what to do with it. You didn’t know how to act around her. Didn’t know if she could see it in your eyes. Didn’t know if it was something you should say aloud, or something you should bury before it bloomed into something more dangerous.

Because the truth, when you finally let it settle, felt like a wave crashing against your chest. You had a crush on Rafayel. And it terrified you, not because of who she was, but because you didn’t know what it meant for you. For your friendship. For the delicate, perfect rhythm you had already grown so used to.

The thing is, you had never really paid much attention to this particular subject before. Yes, you had crushes on guys before, and when it came to girls, you did think they were pretty. But honestly, neither of them really struck that cord in you. You never found yourself daydreaming about a certain person, and you weren't really the type to do that, if you were being honest. You were grounded, your head on your shoulders and not in the clouds more often than not. You’d always been grounded, feet on solid earth, your head never quite lost in the clouds like others your age. You didn’t write names in margins or imagine fairy-tale kisses behind closed eyes. Your heart never stuttered in your chest when one of your fleeting crushes smiled a certain way or brushed your arm in passing. They just… didn’t have that effect on you.

Your heart didn't really skip when one of your few crushes over the years did a certain gesture or spoke in a certain way that was sure to make you feel at least something. But there wasn't really anything like that. And there wasn't this unexpected and unwelcomed feeling of quiet jealousy stirring in your chest at the mere thought of the person getting close to someone else.

But now here you were, alone in your childhood room, sprawled across your bed in soft sheets, biting your lip and rolling around every few minutes, trying to make an understanding of this feeling. Rationalize it. Trying to convince yourself that this was ridiculous and you shouldn't even feel this way. Rafayel to you, was a friend. Your dramatic and energetic roommate. The one who always found herself orbitating around you in one way or another, trying to make you come out of your shell, slowly but surely. Never pressuring, never being too much to handle, even though she was intense. But she just clicked in the place beside you like it was hers to claim. And if you think about it, maybe Rafayel did see you as a good friend. A pleasant person to hang around, even if you weren’t that similar on the surface.

As time passed, as you grew closer, you did realize she wasn't all that different. She could also be quiet, and intense in a way that felt heavy. She was also often anxious about things, but she was sure to mask it well behind well-crafted smiles and teases.

Your phone was somewhere nearby, silent. And all you could think about was her. Rafayel. She was intense, yes, but never too much. Somehow, her chaos fit beside your stillness like a puzzle piece finding home. She didn’t demand anything from you—didn’t push when you hesitated, didn’t mock when you clung to comfort. She simply existed next to you, radiant and strange and herself, and you had grown used to her presence like breath. Like background noise you didn’t realize you’d miss until it was gone.

And now, she wasn’t here. She was in another city. Maybe laughing with someone new. Maybe texting someone else the way she used to text you every night. Maybe talking about that girl from the beach—the one brave enough to race her, bold enough to earn a place in one of Rafayel’s stories. You hated how often she came up. Hated how the mention made your chest ache with something unnameable. Something sharp.

Jealousy wasn’t an emotion you were well-acquainted with. But that’s what it felt like—quiet and persistent, crawling under your skin like an itch you couldn’t quite scratch. And no matter how many times you rolled your eyes or told yourself it was ridiculous, the truth was always waiting beneath the denial: this wasn’t just friendship anymore. At least, not on your side.

It confused you, unsettled you in ways you didn’t know how to voice. You weren’t scared because Rafayel was a girl. That wasn’t what made your heart race and your thoughts spiral. It was the vulnerability of it, the helpless newness of it. The part of you that didn’t know how to act now, how to look at her without wondering if she could see it inyour eyes.

And maybe it was the fact that you had no idea how she’d feel if she knew. Because you’d heard the rumors, the late-night whispers and drunken hallway drama. Stories about kisses at parties, flirtations that leaned both ways. Rafayel wasn’t known for relationships, but she wasn’t known for being closed off either. You’d pieced the truth together slowly, listening without asking, tucking away small details.

She might be bisexual. That was the quiet conclusion you reached. And the realization was a strange mix of comfort and terror—because suddenly, the possibility existed. And with it, came every question you’d been avoiding. Every fantasy you didn’t dare name. Every what-if that now had just enough oxygen to burn.

————

The campus was buzzing with life—students hauling duffel bags and suitcases across uneven walkways, laughter spilling from open car doors, voices calling out greetings that blurred together in the sun-soaked air. Some wore the wide-eyed wonder of freshmen stepping into a brand-new world. Others looked like they'd barely survived the last semester and were already dreading the one ahead.

You stood somewhere in the middle of that spectrum. There was a quiet thrill to being back, to returning to a space that had started to feel like your own. You looked forward to slipping back into the rhythm of campus life, to reclaiming the small routines you’d built in that shared dorm room. But layered over the comfort was a thread of unease, one that had tangled itself deeper with every step closer to your door.

Three months. That’s how long it had been since you last saw Rafayel in person. Sure, you’d seen her—her face on your screen, her voice crackling through video calls, her texts chiming in at ungodly hours with chaotic energy and blurry photos. And yet, the distance between you had felt real. Tangible. Like a pause button had been pressed on something you couldn’t quite name.

Her smile still made you grin, even from afar—soft and involuntary, sometimes even exasperated, especially when she went on some dramatic rant or gave you a tour of whatever weird café she had found that week. But none of it had prepared you for seeing her again in person.

You had just started unpacking, hands methodically placing books on the shelf, clothing folded into neat drawers, when the door slammed open behind you with all the grace of a thunderclap.

“Roomie!” she announced, sing-song and smug.

You jolted, nearly dropping the sweater in your hands as you turned—only to find her already stepping inside like she owned the air around her. Which, of course, she kind of did.

Rafayel stood in the doorway, her purple hair pulled up in a messy, glitter-dusted bun, sunglasses perched on her head, and that ever-familiar backpack sliding off her shoulder like it had no weight at all. Her eyes—those sharp, gleaming amethysts—scanned the room and landed on you with a satisfied grin.

“Already at it, huh?” she teased, eyeing your half-organized side of the dorm. “I was gone three seconds and you’re already nesting.”

You didn’t even have time to reply before she was crossing the room with that effortless stride of hers and throwing her arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush against her side.

The hug caught you off guard. Not because it was unfamiliar—but because of how familiar it was.

You scoffed a quiet laugh, returning the hug almost without thinking, your body reacting before your brain had time to catch up. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed this. Missed her.

Despite the way your heart kicked once—just once, sharp and fast—you didn’t pull away. You leaned into it. The scent of her—something floral, something wild—hit you instantly, dizzying in its closeness.

“Well, aren’t you clingy as usual?” you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips as she finally let you go, stepping back with a dramatic gasp.

“Excuse you,” she said, hand on her hip. “I’m being warm. Affectionate. Which, might I add, is very on-brand for someone who was sorely missed.”

“Uh-huh,” you said dryly, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t act like you didn’t miss me.” she tilted her head, eyes glittering, voice lilting just slightly toward the edge of flirtation. “You totally did. Bet you cried into your pillow every night.”

You laughed, but something about the way she said it—the way her voice curled around the words, soft and teasing—landed differently. It tugged at your chest in a way you weren’t prepared for. And your cheeks… well, you hoped to God they weren’t warming, though they absolutely were.

You cleared your throat and smirked, reaching for the safety of banter.

“Please. The only thing I missed was sleeping without your nightly concert of Instagram reels at full volume.”

“Ouch.” she clutched her chest. “Wounded. Betrayed. And here I was, thinking of getting you a welcome-back cupcake.”

“You can still get me the cupcake,” you said, folding your arms. “As an apology for that entrance. My heart’s still recovering.”

“Oh, c’mon,” she drawled with a wink. “That was nothing.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. And inside, quietly, you were buzzing. Because being with her again felt like flipping a light switch—everything was suddenly louder, brighter, more real. The room hadn’t felt full until she walked into it. And now that she was here, throwing her backpack onto the bed and talking a mile a minute about the girl on her train who wouldn’t stop sneezing—you were starting to realize just how long you’d been holding your breath. And now, you didn’t quite know how to let it out.

Falling back into the rhythm of campus life came naturally—like slipping on an old, well-worn sweater that still smelled faintly of summer. The dorm room was exactly how you’d left it, with its too-thin walls and soft hum of traffic from the street below. And Rafayel… well, she fit back into your life like she’d never left at all.

She was sprawled out across her bed, limbs languid and unapologetically relaxed, the ends of her purple hair spilling across her pillow like ink. A half-empty iced coffee sat sweating on the nightstand next to her speaker, which hummed with a song you didn’t recognize—something dreamy and full of bass. She hummed along absently, scrolling through her phone with one hand while animatedly recounting the chaos of her summer with the other.

“So we get to these cliffs, right?” she began, eyes bright as she shifted to prop herself on one elbow. “And my friend Riley’s like, ‘No one’s actually gonna jump, we’re just pretending,’ and of course I’m already kicking off my shoes before she even finishes her sentence.”

You blinked at her. “You jumped first?”

Rafayel gave you a look like you’d just asked if the sky was blue. “Head first into freezing water. I may or may not have screamed the whole way down, but it was iconic, okay?”

You laughed, the sound spilling out of you before you could stop it—genuine, warm, a little disbelieving. “You’re insane.”

“Thank you,” she said, flashing a grin, clearly taking it as a compliment. “Honestly, I think I peaked. It’s all downhill from here.”

She launched into another story—something about a bonfire that turned into a karaoke contest and ended with her getting a makeshift crown made of glow sticks. You listened, smiling as she spoke, her words tumbling over each other in their rush to be heard. It was so her—spontaneous, magnetic, a little chaotic. But charming, always. Effortlessly charming.

And when she turned to you, eyes expectant and voice lilting, it caught you off guard.

“Okay, your turn,” she said, rolling onto her stomach and kicking her feet in the air. “Tell me everything. And don’t you dare say nothing happened, or I’ll cry. Real tears.”

You chuckled softly. “You won’t cry.”

“Try me,” she challenged, narrowing her eyes playfully.

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to share, but because everything you could think to say felt so small next to her stories. But still, you told her about your summer—the quiet moments that felt like home. Lazy mornings with your childhood friends, stargazing on the roof of your cousin’s house, falling asleep in hammocks with a book balanced on your chest. You skipped over the more complicated parts, the restless nights spent thinking of her.

She listened, chin propped on her hand, expression soft and focused. And when you finished, her face lit up.

“That sounds perfect,” she said, almost dreamily. “Like the kind of summer they write songs about. Way better than mine. No cliff-diving-induced near-death experiences. Just vibes.”

You snorted. “You jumped off a cliff. I organized my bookshelves.”

“And I’d still trade,” she said, bumping her shoulder into yours as she passed by, heading to the closet for her slippers.

You watched her move, more out of instinct than intent—and that was the problem. Your eyes followed the sweep of her hair, the delicate arch of her back, the curve of bare shoulders peeking through the strange, flowy tank top only she could pull off. Her shorts were patterned and a little too intricate to be casual, but somehow they worked. Of course they worked.

And your heart did that thing again—that stupid skip that had no right making itself known.

You blinked, forcing your gaze away, pretending to dig through your backpack for something that didn’t exist. You reminded yourself of what you’d decided this summer. You weren’t going to say anything. Not yet. Maybe not ever. It wasn’t fear of how she might react—Rafayel wasn’t cruel. She’d never laugh at your feelings. She’d never belittle something like that.

No, it wasn’t her you didn’t trust. It was yourself. Your certainty. Or lack thereof. Because what if this was a fluke? What if this wasn’t real? What if this whole mess of emotions was just one long, slow unraveling you’d regret later?

So you didn’t say anything. You told yourself there was too much at stake. And if keeping her in your life meant swallowing this new, shaky truth, then so be it.

You moved through the weeks as if nothing had changed. Classes began. Deadlines crept in. Simone and Tara became your weekday constants, swapping notes and coffee orders with you as you pieced together projects in cluttered libraries and overfull group chats. You fell into the rhythm again, predictable and safe.

But Rafayel was the storm you always returned to. She still swept into your life like she was born to exist in motion—bursting into the dorm with your favorite takeout after a bad day, shoving iced coffee into your hand with a breathless “I’m so late, drink this while I change,” as if it were nothing. She still danced in the center of every party, effortlessly lit from within. People were drawn to her, pulled into her gravity.

And somehow, through all of it, she kept showing up just for you.

————

It came out of nowhere. Or maybe, if you were being honest, it had been coming all along—drifting quietly beneath the surface, waiting for a moment like this to finally break through.

It was a Wednesday afternoon, middle of November, the kind where the air had a bite but the sun still clung stubbornly to the sky. You were in that odd lull between classes, walking across campus with Rafayel, who had declared—loudly and dramatically—that she was suffering from "emotional starvation" and needed coffee and sugar immediately, otherwise she would simply perish.

You had rolled your eyes, of course. “You act like we haven’t been living in the same room for the past two months.”

“Exactly,” she’d said, linking your arm with hers like it was the most natural thing in the world. “We’ve been cohabiting, not living. There’s a difference, cutie.”

Her words were exaggerated, but her pout was real, and eventually, with a sigh and a reluctant smile tugging at your lips, you let her drag you out toward the campus café. There was something oddly grounding about walking beside her in the thinning autumn light, your fingers cold from holding your drink, her voice animated and full of unfinished thoughts. She talked about deadlines and professors and the disaster of her last group project—and you listened, letting her energy warm the space between you.

And then it happened. You were walking past the long path that cut through the edge of campus, nearly bare trees standing like skeletons on either side, when Rafayel suddenly gasped.

It was a soft sound at first, surprised and bright, followed by a burst of movement as she darted forward without a word, arms flinging out as she threw herself at a girl walking in the opposite direction.

The girl staggered back with a half-laugh, caught off guard but not unhappy about it. And that’s when you knew—they knew each other. Not casually. Not vaguely. The kind of knowing that came with late-night memories and shared secrets. That easy rhythm of familiarity between them, the way they smiled, the way their bodies leaned toward each other without thinking—it told you more than words ever could.

Your footsteps slowed. Rafayel was beaming, her arms still loosely looped around the girl’s shoulders, both of them laughing over something you couldn’t hear. And then she turned, eyes catching yours like a spark across a wire.

“Oh! This is her,” Rafayel said, voice laced with sudden excitement. “This is the girl I told you about—the girl from the summer camp, one of the cliff jumpers.”

Your breath caught in your throat, though you somehow managed to smile.

“Nice to meet you,” you said, holding out your hand like it didn’t cost you anything.

The girl shook it, friendly enough, but her focus was elsewhere. Her attention hung on Rafayel with a kind of quiet possessiveness, stepping a little too close, touching her arm just a little too long. And Rafayel didn’t move away.

You hated the way it made your chest tighten. Jealousy, you realized, wasn’t as loud as people made it seem. It wasn’t rage or confrontation. It was the quiet panic behind your ribs. The sharp, stupid ache in your throat when someone else stood in a space you thought you’d somehow earned without ever saying so.

You stood there for another moment or two, exchanged pleasantries, let the conversation roll over you like static. And then, thankfully, Rafayel’s hand found your wrist.

“C’mon,” she said, tugging you gently back onto the path. “We’ve got pastries with our names on them.”

You walked beside her in silence at first, sipping your coffee and pretending you weren’t still picturing the girl’s hands on her arms. Her laugh echoing against someone else’s skin. And the memory stayed with you long after.

And what you hadn’t expected—what truly caught you off guard—was the realization that Rafayel had noticed something too.

At first, she didn’t say anything. Just watched you with that tilted head and narrowed gaze she used when she was trying to figure out a painting that didn’t quite make sense. You’d smile, just a little too tightly, every time the girl’s name came up. You’d deflect with a joke, change the subject, or busy yourself with something trivial. You thought you were being subtle. You weren’t.

And Rafayel, for all her flair and theatricality, was exceptionally good at reading people. Especially you. She didn’t bring it up. She knew you. Knew that if she asked directly, you’d laugh it off or dodge the question entirely. Maybe you’d even get annoyed. No—she knew better than that.

Instead, she started noticing the little things. The way your brows furrowed when she mentioned the girl’s name. The way your voice dipped a fraction when you asked how her day went and she casually added, “Oh, I ran into her again.”

At first, she brushed it off. Maybe she was overthinking. Maybe it was just your usual resting frown face. But she kept noticing. Again and again.

And what bothered her more than your reactions was how familiar it felt—this kind of quiet retreat. This kind of guardedness. It reminded her of herself.

Because for all the ways you were different—structured, grounded, quieter—you shared one thing in common: you both hid your real feelings behind carefully constructed façades. You pretended nothing was wrong until it burned.

So Rafayel didn’t press. She just kept watching. And wondered when, if ever, you’d tell her what you were really feeling.

————

One thing about Rafayel—she was stunning even with no makeup on. Unfairly so. The kind of beautiful that didn’t ask for attention but caught it anyway, like sunlight filtering through curtains on a slow morning.

Right now, she was sprawled across her bed in nothing but a towel, legs bare, damp strands of lavender hair sticking to her shoulders as she leaned toward her small mirror. She applied her makeup with lazy precision, flicking her eyeliner with practiced ease, humming something under her breath to the rhythm of the music playing softly from her phone.

You were supposed to be focused. The project open on your laptop demanded it—pages of research waiting for your attention—but your eyes had other plans. They drifted. Again and again. To the curve of her shoulder. The way the towel clung to the tops of her thighs. The delicate motion of her hand as she swept highlighter across her cheekbone.

She looked softer like this, glowing in the quiet light, but you knew that softness would soon be layered over with something bolder. She was clearly preparing for another party—tonight’s look already shaping into something vibrant, dramatic, Rafayel.

And lately, she hadn’t been going alone. That girl—the girl—had started appearing more and more in Rafayel’s stories. Her name, her laugh, some inside joke you weren’t a part of. It had become a pattern. A presence.

And every time she was mentioned, something unpleasant curled in your chest. Jealousy, maybe. Resentment, even. And while you knew you had no right to feel that way, knowing didn’t make it stop. You’d tried to push it down, to smother it with reason, but feelings didn’t care about logic. They simply existed, rising quietly until they drowned you.

You hadn’t said much all night. Too quiet, too still. And Rafayel being Rafayel, noticed. She flicked a glance your way, eyes narrowing just slightly. Then she leaned back on her elbows and tilted her head toward you.

“You’re being suspiciously boring tonight,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. “Like… emotionally constipated levels of boring. Do I need to check your pulse?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

She smirked. “I’ve been talking to myself for the last ten minutes, and I know you’re not working because your screen hasn’t scrolled once. Either you’re dead inside, or you’re mad at me.”

You exhaled a soft laugh, forcing your shoulders to relax. “I’m not mad.”

“Hmm,” she said, clearly not believing you. “Then you’re brooding. Which is worse.”

You tried to muster something light in return, something to deflect, but your words came out a little too flat. A little too practiced. “I’m just tired.”

Rafayel gave you a look—one of those long, assessing ones that made you feel like she was seeing through the spaces between your words. But she didn’t press. Not directly. Instead, she brightened with her usual flair, flipping her brush dramatically between her fingers.

“Perfect,” she announced. “You need to unwind. Come with me tonight.”

You blinked. “To the party?”

She nodded. “Obviously. You’ve been acting like a ghost lately, and I miss your adorable semi-social presence.”

“I—” You hesitated, and she caught it immediately.

Her smile turned sly. “What, you’re too tired and too antisocial now? Damn. The bar is in hell.”

You snorted, and something about the way she grinned at that made the tension in your chest ease, just a little.

“Fine,” you muttered. “I’ll come. But don’t expect me to dance or socialize.”

Rafayel gasped. “You wound me. You come to a party with me and expect to sit in a corner? You know that’s illegal, right?”

You shook your head, but you were smiling now—genuinely. And she knew it.

Normally, you wouldn’t have hesitated. These invitations were familiar by now—spontaneous, chaotic, and very her. You would have sighed, maybe rolled your eyes, and followed her out into the night with a quiet kind of surrender. But tonight, your voice had stilled at the edges. It came out flatter than usual, your smile a shade too polished, like something gently rehearsed. A pause lingered where certainty used to be.

Rafayel noticed, because nothing seemed to get past her lately. But she didn’t ask. She just turned up the volume on her usual charm, laughing brighter, teasing louder, as though she could press her warmth into the quiet spaces and coax you back out again. And eventually, you gave in. You always did.

But this time, you moved differently. You’d slipped away to get ready before she could pick through your closet the way she usually did, before she could spin your reluctance into another dress-up game. When you returned, dressed and composed, something in the room shifted.

Rafayel had always thought you were beautiful. Not the loud, attention-stealing kind of beauty—the kind that people turned around for without knowing why. It was quieter. Something that lived in the curve of your smile when you were amused but trying not to show it, or in the way you concentrated when you were focused, oblivious to the world. It had always been there, just beneath the surface, and Rafayel had noticed. Again and again.

But tonight—tonight was different. When you stepped into view, something stilled in her. You weren’t trying to make a statement, not like she did. And yet, you made one anyway. Not through glitter or shine or bold color, but through the quiet confidence in the way the fabric clung to you. It wasn’t something she’d picked for you, but it suited you—more than she wanted to admit.

She let her eyes linger, just for a moment. Longer than she probably should have.

You looked... stunning. Hot, if she had to put a word to it. But she’d already known that. It just hit different tonight—undeniable in the dim dorm light, like seeing a painting she thought she knew in an entirely new frame.

Her mind flickered briefly, curiously, to the question that had circled her thoughts more than once before. Was it a choice?The way you’d never spoken about anyone, never hinted at crushes or weekend flings. It wasn’t possible that no one had been interested. You were too striking, too sharp, too you for that. Which left only one possibility—that you had kept yourself untouched on purpose.

The thought stirred something in her—part fascination, part something else. Still, she was quick to compose herself, smoothing her features into something more familiar. A smirk curled at her lips, practiced and easy, as she finally turned fully to face you.

“Look who’s finally catching up,” she said, her voice dipped in that usual flirtation—light, effortless, never serious enough to demand a response. Her tone dripped with suggestion without naming the thing at all.

You were distracted, though. Lost in your own mess of thoughts. You hadn’t noticed the way her gaze had softened for half a second before it sharpened again. You didn’t catch the pause in her breath.

Because your focus had shifted too—and now it was your turn to forget yourself.

You looked at her in the mirror. You told yourself you were used to this by now. The way she dressed, the way she owned her space. But something about the way her shirt clung tonight—low at the neckline, deliberate in its looseness—paired with those jeans that sat low on her hips, framing her body like a sculptor had designed it all by hand—it caught you off guard.

Her waist curved into something unfair. The silver glint of her belly piercing shimmered when she shifted, and your eyes followed the arc of movement before you could stop them. It was a second too long. Just enough to feel it.

You blinked hard and looked away, heart suddenly a little louder than before, as if your body realized something your mind wasn’t ready to name.

To save yourself, you cleared your throat and reached for levity. “Are you planning on causing a scene tonight?”

Rafayel’s smirk sharpened like a blade sliding into silk.

“Sweetheart,” she purred, turning to grab her bag with slow, purposeful grace, “I am the scene.”

She didn’t glance back, but you caught the smile she wore as she said it—knowing, wicked, and just this side of affectionate.

You swallowed a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, barely able to stop your own smile from curling behind your lips. And somewhere beneath all that teasing and laughter, something delicate and dangerous shifted in the space between you.

————

Parties had never been your thing—and Rafayel knew that. But she still looped her fingers through yours with the same breezy confidence she always wore like perfume, and you still followed her into the pulsing noise and swirling crowd of the off-campus frat house like gravity itself had lured you in.

It was packed. Music thrummed through the floors and bodies pressed far too close, but tonight, none of that mattered. You didn’t even flinch at the noise or the spill of light bouncing off cheap decorations. You welcomed it. Needed it. Something—anything—to drown out the thoughts that had taken up residence in your head lately.

Or more accurately, the person.

You’d been trying to ignore it. That persistent hum in your veins whenever she touched you. The way your gaze drifted and lingered—on her bare legs in shorts that never seemed to be long enough, on the soft curve of her lips when she pouted for dramatic effect, on the subtle sway of her hips when she walked like the world owed her applause.

It had crossed into dangerous territory weeks ago. It wasn’t just admiration anymore. It wasn’t even the innocent kind of crush you could laugh off.

Your thoughts were getting bold—the kind that made you flush in the middle of the night when you remembered how it felt to wake up to her warm body sprawled beside yours in bed, her hair tickling your arm, her breath soft and slow. The kind that made your heart race when she stood a little too close. When she leaned in to whisper some biting, flirty remark into your ear just to watch you flinch.

So when her hand found yours again, weaving through the heat and crowd, your breath caught—sharp and sudden in your throat. Her fingers were long and cool against your palm. Elegant. She always held you like she knew you'd follow. And you did.

But as you walked behind her, winding through the music and the laughter and the haze of cheap beer and perfume, your thoughts spiraled again. Why wasn’t she meeting anyone tonight?

That question was meant to stay in your head. But your lips moved before your mind could stop them, casting it out like a careless net.

Rafayel tilted her head as you spoke, her eyes drifting toward the makeshift bar where someone had arranged bottles with questionable labels and an assortment of glowing mixers. She seemed distracted at first, scanning the options like she was choosing artwork for a gallery wall.

Her answer came with the same nonchalance she wore like a second skin, voice lilting, playful. Not even looking at you. But her words hit like icewater in your chest. Because she mentioned her. That girl. The one who lingered too close in every memory you didn’t want to keep replaying. The one with smiles that felt rehearsed and touches that screamed intention. The one Rafayel was supposed to meet tonight. The one she’d chosen before.

You knew it. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you already knew. But hearing it aloud stirred something sharp. Bitter. Not even jealousy anymore—something quieter and just a bit tad too dangerous. Disappointment.

She turned back to you a moment later with a drink in her hand and that familiar smirk blooming on her lips—rosy, effortless, infuriatingly beautiful. She pressed the cup into your palm without comment, like always. Like nothing had shifted between you. But it had.

Your fingers wrapped around the plastic, but your mind was somewhere else—tugging at the edges of your self-control like an unraveling thread. The words came before you could stop them.

“I mean, you don’t have to babysit me,” you said lightly, but your voice came out flatter than intended. “You could still go meet up with them.”

You didn’t look at her when you said it. You took a sip of the drink instead, trying to ignore how your hand trembled faintly at the rim.

Rafayel blinked once. The smirk faltered—not fully gone, but fractured just enough to show the hairline crack beneath it. Her expression didn’t shift into something dramatic or angry. That wasn’t her. But there was something behind her eyes now—a small furrow between her brows, a flicker of confusion, maybe even something close to hurt.

“…Is that what you think I’m doing?” she asked, voice still light, but noticeably slower.

You shrugged, forcing a laugh that didn’t quite make it past your lips. “Just saying. You don't have to stay with me the whole night out of pity.”

Silence. Not awkward, but heavy. The kind that settles in your ribs and makes it harder to breathe.

She stared at you for a beat longer than necessary. And then, as if on cue, her mask slid back into place—smirk tilting upward, lashes low, gaze unreadable.

“You know, cutie,” she murmured, leaning just a little closer, “if I wanted to be somewhere else, I wouldn’t be here.”

You weren’t sure what stung more—her not saying the girl’s name again, or how much you wanted to believe her.

Rafayel turned slightly, the glitter of her top catching the pulse of the party lights as she faced the mess of bodies on the makeshift dancefloor. From where you stood by the counter, you saw the smirk tug at her lips as she sipped her drink, head tilting as she watched a guy nearly drool all over himself while attempting a body shot off a girl too busy laughing to care.

She rolled her eyes with a soft huff of amusement, the curve of her mouth curling higher as if she were watching a poorly written scene unfold in real time.

You followed her gaze, grateful for the distraction, trying to steer your mind anywhere but where it kept circling. The alcohol she’d handed you was sticky-sweet with something sharp buried underneath, burning down your throat like it was punishing you for every thought you weren’t supposed to have.

You leaned back against the counter, letting the low thump of bass vibrate through the room, through your bones. Rafayel looked relaxed again, or at least she wore it well—shoulders easy, one hip cocked as she rested her elbow beside you, the edge of her cup balanced lazily in her other hand. Still, you couldn’t help but wonder if your earlier comment had thrown her off more than she let on.

But before you could spiral further, she turned toward you with that unmistakable glint in her eye—the one that always came before trouble.

“Should I be bold enough to propose something?” she asked, head tilting, her voice syrupy with mischief.

You met her gaze, raising a brow with slow defiance. You’d learned by now not to flinch first—she liked it when you gave her resistance, liked pressing until you bent, just a little.

“That depends,” you murmured, angling closer without meaning to, your voice lower, laced with challenge. “Should I be concerned?”

Her laugh was low and honeyed, a dramatic little whine threading through it as she brought her drink back to her lips. “Ouch. No faith in me at all. How disappointing.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth curved despite yourself. It was always like this with her—this push and pull, teasing and toeing the line of something you didn’t know if it should be crossed.

She tipped the rest of her drink back in one motion, throat working in a way that drew your eyes before you could catch yourself. You looked away too late. If she noticed, she said nothing. Instead, she leaned in, eyes flicking toward the chaos of the living room before turning back to you, voice smooth as silk. “Tell me, sweet thing… ever done a body shot before?”

The words slipped from her lips like a secret. Her tone was light—too light. Playful on the surface, but there was something beneath it, something languid and dangerous, something that made your stomach tighten and your skin prickle.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Not with the image crashing through your mind like a match to gasoline.

Because of course she had. Rafayel was the kind of girl who turned any room into her playground, who was always five steps ahead, daring others to keep up. You’d always been content trailing behind—until lately. Until the way she touched your wrist lingered too long. Until her laughter started to feel like a private invitation. Until her gaze began to feel like it was peeling you open.

So you didn’t respond with a yes or no. You just scoffed softly and let her take your hand again, your skin burning where she gripped you, tugging you through the crowd. The music got louder, the lights blurrier, voices sharper with alcohol and laughter.

Someone whistled nearby. A cheer went up as a guy—half-naked and smug—took a shot off a girl’s stomach with unnecessary flourish. You recognized them vaguely: the usual suspects, the self-declared kings and queens of campus. Always loud. Always extra.

Rafayel barely spared them a glance before securing your spot in the next round like she’d done this a hundred times before—and you suspected she had. She turned to you then, one hand perched on her hip, the other resting on the edge of the table, her smirk curling with amusement. It wasn’t quite cocky. But it was close.

“So,” she purred, leaning in just a touch, “wanna take it off me… or should I go first and show you how it’s done, newbie?”

Her voice danced around the words, casual, playful—but the drop in her tone was unmistakable. Velvet and heat. It wasn't intended to be seductive. Probably. But your body didn't know the difference.

Your mouth went dry. Your brain short-circuited. And your imagination—traitorous thing that it was—offered up an entirely different version of what those words could mean. The tension coiled low, dangerously low. Your stomach twisted with something that felt embarrassingly close to butterflies. Lower still, heat flickered at the base of your spine.

You caught yourself just before you could visibly blush. Tilting your head, you leaned closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume—something floral, warm, her—and offered a smile of your own. One that barely masked how flustered you were.

“How about you just surprise me instead?” you said, tone soft, almost lazy, letting the words hang there. “Or are you too much of a tease to commit?”

Rafayel’s smirk twitched, just slightly—like she hadn’t expected you to throw it back that smooth. Her eyes narrowed in amusement.

“Oh?” she drawled, fingers drifting over the edge of the table as she chose her shot. “Someone’s getting brave tonight.”

You were. But only because the alcohol had blurred your hesitation, and the way she looked at you made it so easy to forget every reason why you shouldn’t be. And you had a feeling this night was only getting started.

Rafayel turned toward the shot table with the same ease she moved through every space—like the world always made room for her. The glass caught a glint of light as she poured tequila, the golden liquid sloshing slightly before settling, and she hummed in approval, lips curving with amusement.

Then, without looking, her hand landed on your shoulder, firm and warm, and gently nudged you backward. Not forceful, but guiding. Protective, even—though she’d never admit it that way.

You let her steer you, stepping away from the rowdy cluster gathering near the drinks, noting how her gaze flicked toward the louder group with a hint of disdain. You suspected she didn’t want an audience—especially not that one. You couldn’t agree more. These moments always felt a little like they belonged to just you and her anyway, whether you wanted them to or not.

You still lingered close to the table, eyes darting to the tequila glass in her hand, then lower—drawn to the wedges of lime nestled in a plastic dish, glistening under the low kitchen lights.

“Go on,” Rafayel said, voice lilting with mischief, “Pick one.”

You shot her a look, already reaching for the lime. “You know I’ve had tequila before, right? I’m not that clueless.”

She laughed at that—sweet and unbothered, the sound warm enough to wrap around you and pull you in. There was no mockery in it, just that syrupy delight she always took when you pushed back a little.

“I know,” she replied, her tone light but edged with something softer, almost approving. “But you’re cute when you act like you’ve got it all figured out.”

You rolled your eyes, but the heat rising in your chest was impossible to ignore. There was something in the way she looked at you tonight. Something different. Not intense, not heavy—but curious. Attentive. Like she was seeing a version of you she hadn’t seen before, and didn’t want to look away.

You turned toward her, lime in hand, one brow raised. “So? How does this work?”

You didn’t expect the way her smile curved smaller, more dangerous. Nor the way she leaned in, her breath brushing against your neck—just barely—and igniting something sharp and involuntary inside your chest. Your pulse skipped instantly. Froze. Raced.

“Just follow my lead,” she murmured.

It was barely audible over the music—but she was close enough that you felt the shape of her words against your skin. And before you could respond, before your brain could even form a coherent thought, her tongue swept slowly over the side of your neck.

Your body jolted, breath caught halfway between a gasp and a prayer. A shiver rippled up your spine, subtle but uncontrollable. You didn’t even realize you’d gone rigid until she pulled back and you exhaled all at once, trying to ignore how warm your cheeks had gotten.

Rafayel said nothing. But the glint in her eyes spoke volumes. She saw everything.

“Head up for me,” she said next, gentle but commanding, and you obeyed without argument. The moment felt suspended in time. Detached from the chaos around you.

She poured a trail of salt over the exact spot she’d just licked, her fingers lingering a second too long on your jaw as she straightened. Then her gaze caught yours again—and something had shifted. The lights played tricks with her features, casting shadows across the edge of her jaw, but her amethyst eyes were unmistakably darker now. Focused. Almost predatory.

“Now,” she said, her lips curling as she licked them absentmindedly, “Put the lime between your lips.”

Her voice was casual, but your body didn’t register it as such. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. Still, you complied—tucking the lime between your teeth, grimacing slightly at the sharp, bitter tang that met your tongue.

Rafayel chuckled lowly, clearly amused by your expression, but didn’t give you the chance to overthink. She stepped closer. One step. Two. Close enough now that her chest nearly brushed yours.

Her gaze never left yours. Not when she leaned in again. Not when her tongue dragged slowly across the salted skin of your neck with deliberate, maddening pressure. The sensation left your knees feeling a little less certain beneath you, left your lungs tight and shallow.

Then she straightened and threw back the shot in one clean motion, head tipped, the line of her throat exposed as she swallowed.

You weren’t sure where to look—her lips, the curve of her neck, or the floor. Anything but the wild thudding in your chest and the heat that had pooled embarrassingly low in your stomach.

But you didn’t have time to process. Because she turned to you again—and now her face was inches away, her breath warm, her mouth hovering. And without breaking eye contact, Rafayel leaned in and took the other side of the lime between her lips, her mouth brushing yours in a way that wasn’t quite a kiss. But wasn’t not one, either.

She sucked on the lime slowly, letting the motion linger. The space between you was charged, electric, and your entire body buzzed from it—frozen, strung tight, painfully aware of every single inch where you didn’t touch but could.

Your lips were so close it was maddening. And your mind, stupid and helpless, started spinning. What if there wasn’t this stupid lime between you? What would her mouth taste like? And why did your body ache to find out?

Then, mercifully—or not—she pulled back, tongue darting across her lips to chase the last of the bitterness. You swallowed hard and removed the lime, tossing it onto the table, your fingers trembling more than you cared to admit.

Rafayel was smirking again—but the look in her eyes wasn’t just teasing anymore. It was sharper now, reading you, cataloguing every twitch of your expression, every breath you hadn’t fully taken.

You didn’t know what to do with that. So you smirked back, because pretending was easier, safer. You leaned casually on the edge of the counter, tilting your head. “So that’s the famous body shot, huh?”

Rafayel braced her hand beside you on the table, trapping you in place without touching you, her breath still laced with tequila and citrus.

“Hope I didn’t disappoint,” she replied with a mock-innocent shrug, eyes dancing with heat and something almost smug.

Your pulse thudded stubbornly in your throat, loud enough that it almost drowned out the music around you. The burn from the body shot still lingered on your skin, but it was nothing compared to the way your heart raced, thundering ahead of your thoughts. A thousand of them, chaotic and conflicting, tripped over each other in your head.

Don’t read too much into it. That’s what you told yourself. That’s what you had to tell yourself. Because Rafayel was like that—flirty, playful, always dancing on the edge of meaning and meaninglessness. Her words were sugar-laced, her touches light, designed more to amuse herself than seduce anyone. You’d seen it before. She flirted with friends, strangers, bartenders, sometimes just to see how red their cheeks would go. And tonight? You were probably just the latest subject of her attention.

The way she’d smirked when your breath caught, how she’d laughed—warm, sweet, and unapologetic—when you tried to play it cool. It was her. It was just her. That carefree, teasing rhythm she carried everywhere she went.

But still, you couldn’t help wondering if there’d been something else in the way she looked at you. A flicker too long. A shift too subtle. Her hand on your jaw hadn’t felt indifferent. Her breath on your neck hadn't been meaningless.

Or maybe you were just losing it. Because the truth—the ugly, inconvenient truth—was that your heart wanted it to mean something. And that was the entire problem. You were smart enough to know better. Smart enough to protect yourself. Or at least you should have been.

But instead, you reached for the bottle. The tequila sloshed slightly as you poured yourself a shot, pretending you didn’t feel her eyes on you. You licked a dash of salt from the back of your hand, welcomed the burn of the alcohol as it scraped its way down your throat, and winced at the sharp tang of lime.

A soft chuckle cut through the bass-heavy music. You didn’t have to look to know it was her. Rafayel leaned in, her breath warm against your cheek, still tinged with tequila. “Wanted a taste for yourself too, hm?”

You didn’t answer, not right away. Then she added, voice lower, almost murmured, “Not brave enough to try what I taught you just now?”

There was a curl of a smile in her tone. Flirty, yes. But deliberately light. As if the moment from before hadn’t registered as anything worth lingering on. As if you were already supposed to have let it go.

You turned to face her, lips parting on a dry response—something sarcastic, something safe—but you never got the chance to say it. Because someone else appeared, cutting through the crowd like she owned the night.

She practically launched herself toward Rafayel, one arm flinging around her shoulders with a practiced ease that made your stomach twist. Rafayel straightened in surprise, blinking once, caught off guard—but not pulling away. And you went still immediately.

Your lips pressed into a tight, polite line, one you couldn’t mask fast enough. Of course it had to be her. That girl. The one who always seemed to orbit Rafayel a little too closely. She’d never done anything directly to you—no insults, no blatant disrespect—but she didn’t have to. The way she smiled at you like she knew something you didn’t, the way she lingered around Rafayel with a sense of ownership, was enough to twist the knife.

And now she leaned into Rafayel’s side like it was routine, like her body fit naturally there, like she belonged. Your insides tensed. Alcohol made everything feel warmer, louder. Emotions you could normally swallow down rose a little too fast, too raw. Still, you forced a smile. Stiff. Fragile.

She returned it with one that didn’t even try to pretend. Her hand, previously looped around Rafayel’s shoulder, casually slid lower, fingers finding her waist like it was second nature.

“Ayel,” she purred, gaze focused only on Rafayel. A small, calculated pout formed on her lips. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up. Why didn’t you look for me?”

Me, not us. The way she said it was intentional—whether she realized it or not. And that nickname… Ayel... it fell from her tongue with too much sweetness, too much history. Like it was hers. Like she was hers.

You swallowed hard, smile frozen in place. It was a mess of feelings. Jealousy? Definitely. Insecurity? That too. But more than anything, it was the sinking realization that, for all the ways tonight had felt different—for all the ways Rafayel had looked at you—you were still probably just another moment in her never-ending string of playful flirtations.

And maybe you hated how much you cared about that.

You turned to her with a practiced ease, meeting Rafayel’s gaze with something light, something that pretended not to sting, but your next words weren’t addressed to Rafayel, but to the girl.

“Sorry for keeping her away from you,” you said smoothly, almost breezily. “Told her she didn’t have to stay with me tonight. She could’ve joined you.”

Then, before Rafayel could say anyting, you turned back to the table and downed another shot. It hit harder than the last. Or maybe that was just your chest tightening.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Rafayel frown, something unreadable flashing in her expression. But you didn’t linger. You focused on the shot glass, the lime rind, the burning trail of alcohol that numbed things just enough.

The girl laughed softly—one of those feigned, sweet sounds laced with something sharp. She shifted closer to Rafayel again, fingers still teasing at her waist, trying too hard to pull attention back toward her.

“I didn’t think you’d bring your roomie,” she said, voice dripping with a false kind of niceness. “But hey—surprise of the night, right? I missed you. Had no one to keep me company. The guys were unbearable. Drunk and loud and doing the usual dumb shit.”

You could imagine the pout on her face without even looking. And you didn’t want to look. You didn’t want to see any more of her hands on Rafayel. Didn’t want to hear another syrupy word from her mouth. Didn’t want to feel the way Rafayel’s silence stirred something inside you—something that hurt more than you could rationalize.

You just wanted the night to end. Or maybe just for her to go.

But the worst part was that you still weren’t sure what Rafayel was thinking. Not really. Not now, not ever. And that—more than anything—made your chest ache.

Despite catching the flicker in your expression—the way your posture closed in on itself, the way your voice lost just a shade of warmth—Rafayel still turned to the girl with her usual ease. Not flirtatious this time, but playful enough to remain perfectly, frustratingly ambiguous. She didn’t push the girl away, but she did shift, just slightly, her weight leaning toward neutrality. Not quite enough to reassure you. Not nearly enough.

You didn’t wait to analyze it. You poured another shot like it might wash the jealousy from your bloodstream, like the bitterness of lime and the burn of tequila might numb the ache tightening in your chest. It didn’t. But the glass was cold, the salt sharp, and the moment gave you something to do besides watch Rafayel stand there with someone else’s hands on her body.

You turned toward them with a smile so practiced it could’ve passed for real, your lips still tinged with citrus. “No worries,” you said, voice airy, light, sweet enough to crack your own teeth. “I’ll just see you later. Have fun.”

You didn’t wait for her reply. You spun on your heel, disappearing into the press of bodies before her voice could reach you, before her eyes could hold you still.

The music was loud, pulsing deep in your chest like a second heartbeat. Sweat clung to the back of your neck, bodies moved in chaotic sync, and for once, you welcomed the noise, the distraction, the thrum of everything around you. You let your body sway, loose and light, like your heart wasn’t sinking further with every beat of the song.

Still, behind your closed eyes, all you could see was that girl’s hand on Rafayel’s waist. The syrupy voice. That nickname. The unshakable way it all felt intimate. Like you weren’t even there. Like you never were.

You knew better than to take it personally. Knew that Rafayel was always like this—open, magnetic, untouchable. Her flirtation wasn’t a promise, it was a performance. And tonight, you were just another audience member who’d clapped a little too hard.

You didn’t even flinch when a stranger’s hands landed on your hips from behind. He was warm, unsteady, and swaying with the music like he didn’t quite know where his limbs ended and yours began. You let him. You didn’t care. Or you were trying not to. One song bled into the next, and you kept moving, his chest brushing your back, his hands sliding against your waist like he belonged there.

You didn’t stop him when his mouth ghosted along the side of your neck, breath warm, lips grazing the exact spot where Rafayel’s tongue had lingered just minutes before. Your chest constricted at the memory, and maybe that’s why you let him press a kiss there. Maybe that’s why your body didn’t protest when he turned you around and looked at you like he wanted more.

You kissed him. You kissed him because you could. Because his mouth was there and open and asking, and your skin was too hot and your thoughts too loud. His lips were soft, eager, and tasted vaguely of rum. His tongue slid against yours with practiced ease, and your hands curled loosely around his shoulders, grounding yourself in the motion, not the man. But it wasn’t enough.

At one point you made the huge mistake of opening your eyes, half lidded and dazed, lips still entangled with his. And your eyes, as if by a curse, found Rafayel in the crowd of people. She stood just beyond the crowd, unmistakable even in the haze of pulsing lights and moving shadows. Her lavender hair shimmered faintly beneath the lights, her posture as regal and relaxed as ever. And draped across her, with all the subtlety of a stake through the heart, was the girl.

Your heart twisted painfully when you saw that the girl had her arms around Rafayel’s neck and was peppering kisses on her neck while swaying to the music. But what twisted the knife was the fact that Rafayel was watching you, and had been for a while, you supposed. Her eyes locked on yours the second you saw her in the crowd. Her gaze didn’t waver, didn’t flinch when you met it. Those amethyst eyes were darker now, something simmering just beneath the surface. You couldn’t name it, didn’t dare to hope. But it held you still—eyes locked even as her hands rested on the other girl’s waist.

You wanted nothing more than to close your eyes and disappear. Run away from this horrible jealousy, this horrible ache. But something in you twisted painfully, so your eyes stayed locked on her unreadable ones as you kept kissing the guy. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the fractured lighting casting shadows across the curve of her jaw. Or maybe it was just the cruel, glittering lie you’d been whispering to yourself for weeks now: that maybe, just maybe, Rafayel saw you as something more than her occasional companion in chaos. That maybe those looks, those touches, that soft curl of her voice when she used your name—maybe they meant something more.

But then, she moved—slowly, deliberately. Her fingers slid into the girl’s hair, tilting her chin up with all the grace of a puppeteer. The girl leaned into it, willing, eager, and a moment later, Rafayel’s lips were on hers—soft, slow, sensual. But her eyes never left yours.

That was what shattered you. She kissed another woman like she meant it, like it was art, but she looked at you while doing it. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Your thoughts dissolved into static, drowned in heat and confusion and something feral curling in your belly.

You should’ve looked away. Should’ve torn your gaze from hers and buried yourself in the anonymity of this boy’s mouth, his hands, his hunger. Instead, you kept kissing him—because what else was there to do? You let his tongue slide against yours, let his fingers tighten at your waist, let your own nails press into his shoulders. A distraction. A punishment. A plea.

And still, Rafayel watched you. Still, her mouth moved against that girl's like she wasn’t tasting her, but you.

A moan slipped from your throat when the boy bit your lower lip, and you hated it. Hated how your body betrayed you, how your skin prickled with heat, how your thighs pressed tighter together as your imagination twisted everything. His hands on your waist became hers. His mouth on your neck—hers. His lips at your ear became the phantom echo of Rafayel’s voice, velvet-smooth and maddeningly sweet.

The ache inside you unfurled into something darker and heavier. Your body burned, aroused and aching and furious all at once. And still—still—you didn’t look away. Because you couldn’t. Because her gaze had you caged and collared and she didn’t even need to say a word.

And somewhere in that unbearable tension, in the exchange of heat and power and silence, a truth cracked open between you. This wasn’t an accident. Rafayel knew exactly what she was doing.

You couldn’t blame her for kissing someone else. Hell, you were also kissing this random guy. That should’ve evened the scale—made it fair, made it easy. But it didn’t feel fair. And nothing about this was easy.

The difference was that you were overthinking everything, trying to stitch meaning into the silence between glances, while Rafayel…she was impossible to read. Her gaze had never left you, even as her mouth moved against someone else's, and that alone unraveled something fragile inside your chest.

It was stupid, truly, how your body responded not to the hands currently on your waist, not to the lips trailing lazy paths against your throat, but to the quiet weight of her attention. Even now. Especially now.

The guy shifted behind you, encouraged by the soft sound that had escaped your lips—one born of everything except him. He pulled you in tighter, mouth brushing the shell of your ear as his voice dipped low. “Wanna get out of here?”

The question wasn’t a surprise. His voice was warm, his touch bolder now, and the meaning behind his words as transparent as it could be. But you didn’t want him. You never did.

He was nothing but a failed distraction, a bad idea wrapped in cologne and sweat, and not even remotely enough to erase the image of Rafayel’s lips on someone else—or worse, the way she watched you while doing it.

You hesitated just long enough to regret the whole thing. Your gaze flicked up to meet his, and you summoned the ghost of a smile, slurred but soft. Too soft, maybe. “I—uh, don’t think we should.”

The music drowned most of your voice, but he leaned in again anyway, lips grazing your skin, persistence tightening into something more arrogant.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he murmured, breath warm against your neck. “Let me make you feel good, yeah?”

That made your spine go rigid. Not because of the words, but because they weren’t hers. Because they didn’t land the way they were meant to—didn’t stir anything but discomfort and the overwhelming desire to peel yourself out of your own skin.

You shoved him back, not harshly, but firmly enough to draw the line.

“Sorry,” you said, voice tipping toward hoarse, “you should find someone else for that.”

He scoffed, muttered something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch, and then you turned away without asking him to repeat it. You didn’t care. Not about him. Not about his bruised ego. All you wanted was distance—space, air, another drink, maybe something strong enough to wipe Rafayel kissing that girl from behind your eyes.

You shoved your way through the crowd, a little less steady than before, the music pounding in your skull, colors strobing too fast to track. You weren’t drunk, not fully. But the alcohol had settled into your limbs, sweet and stupid, blurring everything at the edges.

And maybe that’s why—when you reached the table again, breathless and half-numb—you reached for another shot without thinking. Or maybe you did think. Maybe you just didn’t care anymore. Not when the taste of jealousy still burned hotter than the liquor ever could.

Your cheeks burned, flushed with heat that had little to do with the thick, suffocating air of the room and everything to do with the scene that kept looping behind your eyes. Over and over. A relentless replay of her mouth on someone else’s skin, her gaze fixed on yours while it happened.

The bass thudded through the walls, vibrating in your ribs, but it was the pulse between your thighs that demanded the most attention now—persistent, aching, humiliatingly real. Your skin was damp with sweat, your throat dry, your body flushed and restless in a way that had nothing to do with dancing or alcohol.

You pressed your legs together tightly, trying to suppress the needy throb, biting down on the inside of your cheek. It didn’t help. Not really.

God, what the hell was happening to you?

You dragged in a shaky breath and closed your eyes, hoping—stupidly—that the darkness would bring some kind of clarity. But it only intensified the heat curling low in your stomach, only made you more aware of how soaked you were beneath your jeans, how your heart was still racing for all the wrong reasons.

Your thoughts weren’t coherent anymore. They were a fever dream of tongue and teeth and glances that felt like possession. You didn’t know what any of it meant—if it even did mean something—or if the alcohol was just dragging you deeper into your own fantasy, making you read into things you shouldn’t. Things that weren’t yours to want.

Still trembling slightly, you reached for a half-empty bottle on the table. You weren’t even sure if it was still tequila, but it didn’t matter. You tipped your head back and downed another shot, the liquor cutting down your throat like fire. You winced, coughing softly into your shoulder as you exhaled, the burn settling into your chest.

Bad idea. You knew it. You knew you should stop. But your thoughts were a mess and the party around you was louder than ever—music pounding like a heartbeat, people brushing too close, bodies moving in waves—and it was all too much. The heat. The air. The ache. The need to get out of your own head.

With a soft, frustrated huff, you reached for your cardigan, fingers fumbling a little as you peeled it from your arms and draped it somewhere near the edge of the table. Your bare shoulders prickled in the overheated air, skin slick with sweat, chest rising and falling a little too quickly.

You leaned forward, palms braced against the edge of the table, trying to ground yourself, trying to just breathe. But even that felt like a losing battle. Your head was spinning from the alcohol and the crowd and the weight of her eyes still branded into your memory.

You didn’t look toward the dance floor. You couldn’t do it. You weren’t sure what you’d do if you saw her still there—if she was still kissing that girl, still pretending like none of this meant anything. You weren’t sure which part would hurt more—that it didn’t mean anything to her or that you’d let it mean too much to you.

The alcohol was warm in your blood now, humming through your veins like static. The music pulsed all around you, relentless, a rhythmic throb that seemed to echo the chaos in your chest. Your thoughts kept circling back—never stopping, never giving you peace—and it was getting harder to tell if the dizziness came from the shots or from the spiraling ache Rafayel had unknowingly carved into you.

You needed air. You needed silence. You needed to be anywhere but here. Eyes half-lidded, your lashes heavy with haze, you turned around—unsteady, your steps slow and uncertain—as you pushed through the crowd, making your best guess toward the bathroom. Your balance wavered with each step, shoulders brushing past others, sweat and perfume clinging thick in the air like static.

When you finally reached the bathroom and slipped inside, the door clicked shut behind you like a mercy. The noise dulled instantly. The world outside fell away.

It was cooler in here. The air kissed your flushed skin like a balm, and you let out a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. For a moment, you just stood there, breathing in that blessed quiet, your hands trembling at your sides.

Then you moved toward the sink, your heels clicking softly against the tile. You braced yourself on the porcelain edge and lifted your gaze to the mirror, and the sight that greeted you made your stomach flutter for entirely different reasons.

You looked unrecognizable. Your cheeks were flushed a soft, petal pink, lips slightly parted as you panted for breath. Your makeup had begun to smudge just barely—just enough to make your lashes look heavier, your eyeliner a little smokier. A lock of hair had slipped from behind your ear and curled against your damp neck, and your eyes—glassy and blown from the alcohol—held a dazed, longing kind of sheen.

You looked like someone trying not to fall apart. Or maybe someone already halfway there.

You swallowed hard and gripped the edge of the sink tighter, as if grounding yourself might keep the rest of you from slipping. But your thoughts weren’t finished with you yet. The image was still there, dancing behind your eyes—the press of that girl’s hands on Rafayel’s waist, her lips trailing along that slender neck you’d thought about too many damn times, and Rafayel’s gaze, fixed squarely on you while it happened.

It was maddening. Cruel. Beautiful. And it made your core throb all over again.

You exhaled another shaky breath, fingertips fumbling to turn the tap. The cold water stung your skin, sharp enough to jolt your nerves—but not enough to silence the thoughts running feral through your mind. You washed your hands slowly, more ritual than need, the chill biting at your wrists as if punishment for thinking too much, wanting too much.

You didn’t dare splash your face, not when your mascara was already hanging by a thread. Instead, you braced yourself against the sink, eyes slipping closed as you inhaled deeply through your nose, trying—and failing—to will away the burn between your thighs, the slick discomfort of your ruined underwear clinging to you like a secret. You hated how turned on you still were. Hated that no amount of cold water or deep breathing was enough to shake her out of your bloodstream.

You didn’t even hear the door open. Didn’t hear the click behind you, or the soft shuffle of footsteps drawing near. The bass from the party throbbed against the walls like a heartbeat, dull and ever-present. So when you felt someone behind you—close enough to taste the heat radiating from their body—your entire frame stiffened.

Your eyes snapped open. And there she was. Rafayel. Reflected in the mirror like a vision conjured from your own delirium, her gaze unreadable and dark, pupils blown wide, lips slightly parted like she might say something—but didn’t.

“Shit,” you breathed, voice unsteady as your heart stuttered violently in your chest. “You scared me.”

She didn’t flinch or smirk. She just watched you through the mirror, the line of her mouth pulled taut, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she stepped closer—close enough that her presence wrapped around you like gravity, the warmth of her body brushing your back, her perfume subtle but unmistakable.

Your throat tightened.

“Where’s your friend?” you asked, each word sliding off your tongue too smooth, too casual, your tone rehearsed, meant to sound careless. It didn’t.

Rafayel scoffed lightly, a breath through her nose, her voice low. “Left,” she said, like it didn’t matter. “Don’t care, really.”

Something in your chest pinched. It shouldn’t have meant anything—it didn’t mean anything, right? But the relief that bloomed low in your belly was a betrayal.

“Then why are you here?” you asked, forcing your voice light, even though you could already feel the answer in the way her eyes hadn’t left yours since she entered. You turned casually, facing her now.

Her expression shifted—something subtle, something tight. “Where else should I be?” she replied, too casually. “With her?”

The words stung more than they should have. The way she said her, as if to see if it would make you flinch.

“Well,” you said, breath catching, “you seemed to have fun.”

You didn’t say kissing her. You didn’t have to. The implication hung there like smoke.

And maybe she was tipsier than she looked, or maybe just tired of pretending—because her patience snapped like a thread. In one slow, deliberate motion, she moved. Her hands planted on the sink behind you, bracketing your hips, trapping you in place. The cool porcelain kissed your lower back, but her warmth was all you could feel.

Your breath hitched. You didn’t move, frozen in place.

“Is that so?” she murmured, her voice still that maddening blend of amusement and bite, her tone dipped in velvet sarcasm. “Should I turn around and go after her, then?”

You blinked up at her, mouth dry, pulse slamming under your skin.

“If that’s what you want,” you replied, trying to match her tone, to stay calm. Detached. You failed miserably.

Her jaw ticked. You saw it—barely—but it was there. The tension. The shift. “We both know it isn’t.”

Her voice was soft now. Dangerous. Something hot unfurled in your stomach. And maybe you were too far gone to stop yourself. Maybe you were sick of pretending, of folding your feelings into polite silence. Your gaze didn’t waver as you pushed forward—just a little, just enough to press your body into the edge of hers.

“Isn’t it?” you murmured, your voice breathy, drawn out. “Then what do you want?”

The air tightened between you like a wire stretched too thin. Her eyes flicked to your lips, and stayed there.

Your mind stuttered—stalled, really—as your tongue swept instinctively across your lower lip. It was dry, parched from too much heat and tequila, but none of that mattered. Because Rafayel’s eyes followed the motion like a predator watches prey—slow, deliberate, hypnotic.

Amethyst gaze pinned you, and for a moment, she didn’t speak. Just studied you with that cool, unreadable focus, like she was cataloguing your every reaction. And then her eyes flicked back to yours. Still calm. Still controlled. But something deeper swam beneath the surface now—something sharper and searching.

You weren’t sure what she was trying to find. But you were sure she was getting close.

“You’re mad at me,” she said, voice low but steady. It wasn’t a question.

The words caught you off guard. You exhaled sharply, a breath shaped more by instinct than thought. “What?”

Her head tilted slightly, the edge of her lip quirking—not a smile, not quite. “You are. Or at something I did.” her tone held that casual lilt she used so well, but there was an unmistakable note beneath it. Curious. Careful.

Her eyes didn’t waver. And suddenly, it was you who couldn’t look away.

Rafayel was always easy to read if you only skimmed the surface—if you mistook the easy laughter and silky quips for simplicity. Most people did. That was the point. She wore her charm like armor, let it sit between her and the world like a polished mirror—reflecting just enough to keep everyone guessing, never enough to be truly known.

But you had seen the cracks. Little ones. Fleeting moments where the stillness behind her eyes slipped through—the hush between sentences, the breath caught too long, the joke delivered just a beat too late. There was more beneath the act. You knew that. You’d been paying attention.

And right now? Right now, something about her was off-kilter. Just a little. Just enough to make you wonder.

She was trying to sound amused, like this was all beneath her, like your tension and her kissing the girl and the entire night didn’t press down on her like it did on you—but her voice was clipped. Barely. Her posture just a touch too stiff, as if bracing for something she didn’t want to admit.

You swallowed hard.

“I—I’m not mad, really. It’s all good. I’m fine.” The words tumbled from your mouth too quickly, wrapped in a laugh that didn't quite land. It sounded hollow, even to your own ears.

Rafayel didn’t move, didn’t even blink. She only frowned—subtle, but unmistakable. The kind of expression she wore when a painting wasn’t coming together, when something in the lines didn’t sit right. She stayed close, hands braced on either side of the sink, body angled just enough to trap you between cool porcelain and her heat. The bass-heavy music outside was muffled to a distant throb, and so were your racing thoughts—blurred, drowned, fading beneath the pull of her.

She was too close. Too warm. And gods, she smelled good—some soft, citrus-sweet perfume laced with the bite of her cologne, heady enough that it made your knees feel like they were about to buckle. And it didn’t help—didn’t help at all—that your underwear clung uncomfortably between your thighs, soaked from all the tension you’d been pretending didn’t exist.

“Don’t lie.” her voice cut through you, a soft slash of breath, close enough to taste. There was a low burn beneath her tone—frustration maybe, or something messier.

You couldn't even answer. Your eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling. The scent of her, the alcohol in your veins, the slow, heavy ache coiled low in your stomach—it all blurred together, leaving you suspended in a moment that was too sharp and too soft at once.

She exhaled. You felt it before you heard it, warm breath ghosting over your neck, and then her head dipped.

Your breath caught. Rafayel nuzzled against the side of your throat, her hair brushing your cheek, her mouth maddeningly close to your pulse. You froze like your body forgot how to function, fingers curling around the edge of the sink to stop yourself from melting into her. She was so close. And you didn’t move. You couldn’t and didn’t want to. Not even a little.

She breathed you in, slow and deliberate, as though she had every right to, as if this—you—belonged to her in this moment. Her voice came next, low and cool against your skin, tinged with something sharp at the edges. “You smell like him.”

Your teeth sank into your lower lip hard. Anything to stop the sound—small and aching—that crawled up your throat at the sensation of her breath and the implication behind her words.

She dipped lower. Her lips brushed just beneath your jaw—not quite a kiss, not quite not.

“I hate it,” she murmured, each syllable curling against your skin like heat seeping through silk.

You exhaled, ragged and trembling, and hated how much your body liked hearing that.

She pulled back just enough to look at you, the space between you barely more than a breath. Her eyes searched your face like she was reading the strokes of an unfinished painting—and maybe she was. Your cheeks were flushed, lips parted, pupils wide and glassy with something far stronger than alcohol. You weren’t sure what she saw, but whatever it was, it made her breath hitch.

You opened your mouth to speak—to say something, anything that might anchor the moment—but your voice caught in your throat. It didn’t matter. Rafayel was already ahead of you, like she always was.

“Tell me I’m reading too much into this.”

Her voice was soft, low, carried on a breath that smelled faintly of tequila and lime. But that wasn’t what made your heart stutter. It was the way her voice trembled just slightly, like she already knew you couldn’t say it. Like she needed to hear the lie just to stop herself from doing something reckless.

You didn’t lie. You couldn’t. And gods, you wished you could.

You wished you could laugh it off and lean away, say she was being dramatic, ridiculous even. That none of this meant anything. That you hadn’t imagined kissing her before sleep, or catching yourself looking at her lips when she smiled too long, or secretly wondering what her hands would feel like somewhere other than your shoulders.

Your gaze dipped, unthinking, landing on her lips for the first time that night—soft, flushed, parted just enough to let out a shaky exhale that you felt more than heard. And then she kissed you.

Her lips found yours in a kiss that didn’t ask for permission and didn’t offer an apology. It was slow and sensual, but anything but careful. It tasted like tequila and tension and the weeks of aching silence that led to this moment. And when she groaned—deep and low, like something inside her finally snapped—it ripped straight through you.

You didn’t even think. You just kissed her back. Desperately. Hungrily. Your mouth moved against hers like it had been waiting for this, lips parting in sync, like some forgotten rhythm between you had always existed, just waiting to be played.

Your hands braced harder against the sink, just to keep from falling into her.

She groaned again—low and throaty—and her hands left the sink, moving up—fingertips ghosting along your jaw until they cupped your cheeks with startling gentleness. She pulled you closer, her thumbs brushing your skin like she couldn’t believe you were real. Like she needed proof you wouldn’t vanish the second she blinked.

And you—tangled in the press of her mouth, in the heady, breathless sound of her groaning again against your lips—you forgot to breathe. Forgot what had come before. Forgot everything except the heat and the taste and the terrifying, impossible truth that you had never kissed anyone like this before.

Her tongue brushed yours in a slow, deliberate sweep, and you let her in—mouth parting wider, surrendering with a need that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with her. The taste of tequila lingered faintly on her breath, but it was drowned out by something far headier. Her.

She moaned low against your mouth, the sound shameless and unfiltered, vibrating down your spine like a fever you couldn’t sweat out. One hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers weaving through your hair with startling tenderness, anchoring you to her like she was afraid you might vanish. The other found your waist—barely a touch at first, her fingertips grazing your skin as if testing a boundary.

And then she felt your response—how your body arched into hers, how the quiet moan slipped from your throat unbidden—and her grip tightened. Her fingers slipped beneath the hem of your top, pressing more firmly now, claiming a small patch of skin at your hip and drawing slow, lazy circles. Teasing. Cruel.

You whimpered softly into her mouth, your knees wobbling under the weight of sensation. Your body was on fire—alive and trembling with the kind of ache that only grew sharper with every restrained touch.

She broke the kiss without warning, just far enough to drink you in—eyes half-lidded and impossibly dark, lips slick and parted, her breathing uneven.

And then she leaned back in. But this time, she didn’t go for your lips. Instead, she pressed languid, wet kisses to your jaw, down the delicate slope of your neck, pausing to taste you there—each kiss slower than the last, as though savoring something forbidden. Your fingers finally moved, one curling over the slope of her shoulder, the other slipping into the silky strands at the back of her head. She groaned the moment you tugged gently, her breath stuttering against your throat.

“Should I stop?”

The question slipped out like a whisper into your skin—soft, genuine, but thick with the kind of anticipation that made your whole body tense. Her voice was low, edged in something too raw to name, though her mouth never stilled against your neck.

You swallowed hard, a shallow breath trembling past your lips as you whispered back, “No.”

Your voice barely carried in the thick air of the bathroom, which no longer felt cold. Heat clung to your skin now, to every press of her mouth and drag of her hands. When she bit softly at your neck—just enough to leave the faintest sting—you couldn’t help the broken sound that escaped you.

She cursed against your skin. “Fuck.”

Her hands shifted, gripping your hips with firmer intent now, and in the next moment, you found yourself on top of the sink, her body between your thighs like it had always belonged there. Your legs parted automatically, mindlessly, aching for her. For more.

Her mouth stayed busy at your throat, leaving a trail of heat behind each kiss. Your chest rose and fell against hers, both of you breathing too fast now, too uneven. And then—slowly, deliberately—her hand began to move. From your waist, up, under your top, her fingers grazing the soft skin of your stomach before gliding higher, stopping just beneath the swell of your breast.

But she didn’t touch you fully. Her lips hovered near your ear, her voice a breathy tease, barely there. “Still okay with this?”

The smirk was in her tone, not her words, the way it always was with her. Playful. Dangerous. And gods, it made your head spin.

You’d had enough of standing still—of letting her overwhelm you with every brush of her mouth, every slow, torturous touch that left you trembling but never quite satisfied.

So you moved. Your hands gripped her sides, fingers digging in just enough to earn a startled gasp, and then you pushed her back—not far, just enough to free your mouth from her neck—and kissed her. Hard. Messy. Desperate.

Rafayel made a surprised sound in the back of her throat, but she didn’t hesitate. Her lips crushed back against yours with even more heat, more hunger. A moan vibrated against your mouth as your hands slid up to find her waist, pulling her closer like your body had given up trying to pretend it didn’t need her.

She tasted like tequila and temptation, like something you shouldn’t crave but did anyway. Her thumb slipped beneath the edge of your bra, a gentle graze beneath the soft fabric, and you let out a louder moan—unable to bite it back. Your back arched just slightly, your body leaning into her like it had always belonged there.

She broke the kiss again, just enough to look at you, and the sight of her knocked the breath from your lungs. Lips slick and dark with your kiss, eyes glassy with something that looked far too much like want. She was staring at you like she wanted to devour you and say something all at once—but couldn't quite choose which came first.

You stood there, panting, waiting.

“How about we leave?” she asked, breath rough around the edges, her voice low but tight with tension. Her eyes stayed fixed on yours, searching, like she wasn’t sure if she’d crossed some invisible line.

The words barely registered. Leave? Did she mean stop? Did she regret this? The high from her touch crashed for a moment, and something cold crept into your chest. You blinked at her, uncertain, the confusion—and flicker of hurt—no doubt plain on your face.

She saw it. Because she swore under her breath, quietly, like cursing herself, and pulled you into another kiss—not as desperate this time, but slow and full, like she was trying to erase the doubt from your mind one brush of her lips at a time.

Her mouth hovered against yours when she finally spoke again, breath ghosting over your lips. “I meant,” she said with a soft exhale, her thumb still dragging tender circles beneath your bra, “do you want to leave the party?”

The knot in your chest unraveled just enough for your breath to come again. She wasn’t running from this. If anything, she wanted more.

Your head tipped back slightly, eyes fluttering closed for a beat as the heat between you pulsed. She wanted to go—but with you. And that meant something.

You nodded. Rafayel stepped back, but only enough for you to slip down from the sink. Her gaze never left you, her expression unreadable except for the storm still smoldering behind her eyes.

Then, without a word, her hand reached out. Fingers brushed yours. And when you didn’t flinch, didn’t question it, she laced them together—slowly, deliberately, as if it meant something she couldn’t say aloud.

You blinked at her, startled by the tenderness of it. But she only squeezed your hand once and then tugged you toward the door, her grip firm and warm, pulling you with her into whatever came next.

You slipped through the crowd like a shadow half-formed, the bass thudding through your bones while laughter and glass and bodies collided around you in drunken rhythm. But the party had already faded into something distant, something irrelevant. Your body moved, but your mind was caught somewhere else—still trapped in the heat of that bathroom, in the way her mouth had claimed yours without hesitation, the brush of her hands beneath your clothes, the moan she pulled from you like it belonged to her.

You could still feel it—her breath on your neck, the ghost of her lips on your jaw. It had set something off in you, something deeper than just want. Now every heartbeat was a slow, deliberate ache. Every step you took was soaked in memory.

And maybe it was the alcohol—or maybe it was just you—but now your mind wouldn’t shut up. What if she regretted it? What if she laughed it off in the morning? What if she chalked it up to tequila and impulse and said it was all just fun?

Your stomach twisted as the cab pulled away from the curb, the world outside rushing past in streaks of color and noise. You barely remembered getting in. You didn’t remember climbing out. All you really remembered was the weight of Rafayel’s hand wrapped around yours the whole time—loose, like a secret.

The next thing you knew, the door to your dorm swung shut behind you with a soft click, and you were suddenly, startlingly, alone with her.

Your back hit the door gently, not rough but sure. Her hands found your waist like they belonged there, and her mouth was on yours before you could say a word.

You moaned into the kiss, reflexively, helplessly, as your hands scrambled for purchase on her shoulders. She tasted like everything you remembered—mint, liquor, and something darker, something sweet and a little dangerous. Her lips moved with an ease that made it feel like she’d kissed you a hundred times before. Like she’d always meant to.

The music was gone now. The noise. The lights. It was just her.

Her fingers slipped beneath your top again—more confident this time, more deliberate—and your breath caught in your throat. Your cardigan was long gone, abandoned somewhere at the party, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the heat of her hands on your bare skin and the way she kissed you like she’d been starving for it all night.

Rafayel pulled back just enough to look at you—your chest rising and falling with shallow, trembling breaths, lips parted, eyes glazed with heat and hesitation. The soft lamplight caught the sheen of sweat along your neck, the flushed curve of your cheek. You could feel her gaze as much as see it, dragging over you like silk and fire.

“You’re overthinking,” she murmured, low and taut, as if the words strained something in her to say them aloud.

There was no mockery in her tone. No teasing, no sharp smirk tugging at her mouth. If anything, she sounded… disappointed. No, not at you—at the fact that you were still doubting any of this. That you were still somewhere else when she was right here, touching you like she meant it.

Your eyes met hers in the dim, flickering light, and your voice escaped before your mind could catch it. “Do you really want this?” The question came out softer than you meant, like it had been buried too long under your skin.

The second it left your mouth, you saw something flicker across her expression. Her mouth parted, her brows twitched. And then she kissed you hard.

No hesitation this time. Just heat and teeth and hands gripping tighter at your waist like she couldn’t stand the distance for even a breath longer. You moaned, unable to help it, your thighs clenching at the sheer intensity of it. Her lips left yours only to trail down, hungry and wet, over your jaw, your neck, drawing breathy, helpless sounds from you with every flick of her tongue and every scrape of her teeth.

“Fuck, you don’t get it.” The words broke from her between kisses, between open-mouthed groans against your throat. Then her teeth sank into your skin in a sharp bite that made your gasp twist into something closer to a whimper. “You really don’t get how much—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Maybe she couldn’t.

Instead, she sucked hard on the sensitive skin just below your ear, her breath hot and shaking against your pulse. Your back was pressed harder to the door now, the chill of it clashing with the fever crawling up your spine, and when her thigh pressed between yours—just the barest graze of her knee through your jeans—you shudderedloudly, unapologetically. And Rafayel noticed.

“Oh?” Her voice dropped, amused and hoarse, and she rocked her leg forward just a little, testing. The friction hit you perfectly, and your moan escaped before you could swallow it down.

“Yeah,” she breathed into your skin, dragging her hands slowly up your ribs, fingertips brushing the curve of your bra. “I’ve wanted you for so fucking long… Should I spell it out for you?”

You gasped as her hands wandered beneath your top, sliding heat across your stomach, your ribs. Her knee pressed upward again, slow and rhythmic now, making your breath catch every time. Her lips brushed your ear, voice like velvet frayed at the edges.

“I didn’t think you were into girls,” she murmured, not accusing—just raw. “So I never assumed. Never pushed.”

Her honesty made something twist and unravel inside you. You whimpered, your hips involuntarily rocking into the press of her leg, desperate for more. “Fuck, Raf…”

At the sound of her name falling from your lips like that—high, breathy, desperate—she groaned low in her throat, almost feral, and buried her face against your shoulder.

“God. Don’t say my name like that.” She sounded ruined, hungry. “Fuck, you sound so pretty when you moan.”

She pulled back just far enough to look at you, and her eyes were dark now, wide with heat, pupils blown open so much you could barely see the violet. And yet still, she held back. Still, she waited.

You reached for her with shaking fingers, dragging her mouth back to yours, and when you kissed her this time, it wasn’t messy—it was needy.

“Touch me more,” you whispered into her lips, the words trembling but no longer shy. “Please.”

And Rafayel smiled against your mouth—slow and wicked and almost reverent. Like she’d been waiting to hear that forever.

Her fingers ghosted up your sides with the hem of your top, a silent question written in the brush of her knuckles. You answered without a word, arms lifting, spine arching just enough to let her pull it over your head and toss it aside. The cool air kissed your skin, goosebumps rising—but it was nothing compared to the way she looked at you.

You barely had time to register her expression before her hands found the clasp of your bra, undoing it in one smooth, practiced motion, as if she’d been waiting for this—planning for this.

The garment slid off your shoulders, and the sharp inhale she took was almost a reverent sound. Her gaze raked over you slowly, hunger simmering beneath the surface, but her face stayed calm—composed in that way only Rafayel could manage, even when her eyes were dark with want.

Then her tongue swept out across her lips, and that composure cracked just a little.

One hand slid to your lower back, splaying wide as she coaxed you into a gentle arch beneath her. The moment your spine lifted from the door, she leaned in—slow and deliberate—her mouth closing around one of your nipples with a sigh that sent shivers down your legs.

Your cry wasn’t gentle. It ripped out of you, half-moan, half-shock, because God, she was good at this. Her tongue swirled with maddening precision, the suction just enough to send your head spinning, and all the while—all the while—her knee was still pressing between your legs, a rhythmic pressure you were beginning to lose your mind to.

She didn’t say anything as your hips bucked, as you instinctively arched further into her mouth, chasing more friction, more heat. But she could feel it. She could feel the desperation coiled tight in your body, the way you trembled against her, the wet heat pulsing against her thigh.

And then she smiled. “Let me take care of you, cutie.”

The pet name sounded devastatingly different now—lower, huskier, laced with something far more dangerous than teasing. You whimpered at the sound of it, and that was all she needed.

She pulled back, lips slick, eyes half-lidded as she took your hand and led you to the bed without letting go. The sheets felt impossibly soft against your back, though you barely registered the texture. All you could feel was her—her body following yours, her presence crawling into every heated breath, every flutter in your chest.

She climbed over you, slow and deliberate, straddling your hips like she owned them. And maybe, in that moment, she did. Your hands reached for her on instinct, dragging her down into a kiss that stole what little breath you had left. She moaned softly into it—low and approving—and let her weight settle just enough between your legs to draw another shaky gasp from you.

One arm braced beside your head while the other moved with aching care—from your jaw, down the line of your throat, pausing at your breast where her fingers cupped and lifted it again. Her thumb brushed teasingly over the sensitive peak, eyes locked on yours with a gaze that felt like it could split you open.

She looked so beautiful above you—hair mussed, cheeks flushed, lips slick from your skin—and it finally hit you. This was really happening. She was really here, and the way her fingers pinched your nipple made your back arch with a soft, broken mewl.

Her breath stuttered. She cursed under it, lips dragging featherlight over your ear. “If you want to stop, just tell me.”

The words were quiet, serious in a way most things from Rafayel weren’t. Not a challenge. Not a tease. Just a line drawn for you to cross—or not.

But you didn’t even think. You turned your head, brushed your lips against hers in the barest whisper of a kiss, and exhaled the only answer she needed.

“Don’t stop.” And she didn’t.

Her mouth drifted from your lips to your neck with a slow, languid hunger, her tongue tracing heat into the skin before her lips sealed over your pulse. She sucked gently, just enough to make you squirm beneath her, and her fingers—still twisting and teasing your nipple—coaxed another arch from your body.

The reaction pulled a low, amused chuckle from her throat. It wasn’t mocking—no, it was rich and indulgent, laced with satisfaction, like the sound of someone savoring something rare and sweet. That soft laugh alone sent a shiver down your spine.

Her kisses trailed lower, dipping to your clavicle, then further down to the curve of your breast. She drew a slow mark there, a small bruise blooming under the press of her mouth, and all the while her eyes were locked on yours—watching your face the way an artist watches canvas for the first flicker of color. Like she was memorizing your reactions with every brush of her lips.

You gasped sharply when her mouth wrapped around your other nipple, tongue circling with slow, unrelenting attention. The stimulation was too much, too good—you moaned helplessly, hips twitching beneath her. And then she bit, just enough to sting, just enough to make your whole body jolt. Her lips came off with a soft, wet pop.

“You’re so responsive,” she murmured, voice breathy and low, slipping through her smirk like silk.

The words shouldn’t have made you clench your thighs tighter around her hips, but they did. God, they did. And her expression told you she felt it too—the little twitch of pressure, the way your body answered hers without hesitation.

Her hand released your breast and glided up, fingertips brushing the side of your neck before curling around the back of it, pulling you up into her again. You met her halfway, mouths colliding in a kiss that was nothing short of messy—wet, open, tongues tangled and gasps shared between breaths. Your hand buried itself in her lavender hair, pulling gently, and the sound she made—somewhere between a moan and a sigh—told you exactly how much she liked that.

It gave you the confidence to push further. Your other hand crept under the hem of her shirt, finally tracing the warmth of her skin. Her stomach tensed at your touch, a soft intake of breath breaking between your lips. So you bit down gently on her bottom lip, teasing her, and the groan that rumbled in her chest made your skin burn.

You flipped the script, trailing kisses down the elegant column of her neck, finally tasting her skin for yourself. She tilted her head for you almost instinctively, one hand sliding up into your hair as your mouth placed open, wet kisses along her pulse.

“Mm… you’re learning fast,” she whispered near your cheek, her voice a little breathless now, a little ragged. “Playing now, aren't we, cutie?”

The pet name dripped like wine from her lips—warm, familiar, possessive. And the way she moaned again when you sucked softly at the base of her throat told you she wasn’t in control anymore—not entirely. Not when your lips were on her. Not when your fingers were drawing slow paths over her stomach, your body pressed so close she could feel every throb of heat between your legs.

You smiled against her skin, feeling bold, tasting the edges of power between the pleasure.

“Then stop me,” you murmured.

“Oh, god…” The words slipped from her lips as you sucked at her throat, and she tilted her head back, baring more skin to you like an offering.

You didn’t hesitate. Your mouth grew bolder, lips and tongue trailing the delicate line of her neck. When you found the tender spot just beneath her ear—where her pulse fluttered wildly—she mewled softly above you, hips stuttering against yours.

That sound alone made something coil tight in your stomach.

And yet, the jealousy still lingered, bitter and stubborn, crawling up your throat despite how close she was—despite how she moaned for you.

You murmured against her skin, barely louder than your breath. “You still smell like that girl.”

The words were petty, broken by the way you were panting, but they slipped out anyway—half-buried beneath heat and insecurity. Your lips didn’t stop moving, even as you said it.

You felt her stiffen slightly, just enough to notice, but before she could speak—before she could twist the moment with one of her glib, too-clever remarks—you pushed her back. Not hard, but enough to make her shift off you, her expression flickering between confusion and hurt.

She probably thought you were done. But then you moved, closing the distance in one heartbeat—both of you now on your knees on the bed, facing each other in the low light. Your hands reached for the hem of her shirt, fingers curling around it in silent question. You didn’t look at her face—you couldn’t—but you waited all the same.

A beat passed. Then another. And then she chuckled, soft and breathless. She caught your hands in hers, her smirk lazy, eyes dark and gleaming. There was hunger in her gaze now—no mask, no teasing deflection. Just want.

She guided your hands upward, slow and steady, raising her shirt inch by inch until it caught beneath her arms and revealed the smooth line of her torso, the swell of her breasts rising in the cradle of her black bra.

“You can touch me as much as you want,” she said, her voice husky with desire.

It wanted to be playful, light—but she was breathless now, too, cheeks flushed deep rose, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven waves. Her bravado was starting to crack under the weight of what was building between you. Still, she held your gaze like a dare.

And god, you wanted to rise to it. Your fingers trembled slightly as you touched her again, this time more boldly—fingertips trailing up her sides, mapping the heat of her skin like it might vanish if you didn’t memorize it. Her muscles tensed under your touch, but she didn’t stop you. She only leaned in closer, her lips brushing your ear in a whisper that sent shivers crawling down your spine.

“But if you're going to be jealous,” she murmured, her voice like honey and smoke, “you’ll have to make it up to me.”

Your eyes locked with hers again, breath catching at the flush coloring her cheeks, the way her lips were slightly parted like she couldn’t quite catch her breath. And gods, you didn’t think you’d ever see her like this—eyes blown wide with want, shoulders heaving, trembling slightly under your touch.

Not unless it was in one of your daydreams.

But this wasn’t a dream, and the smirk that tugged at your lips said as much. You exhaled slowly, pushing her shirt higher, watching her shift to help you pull it over her head. She stripped it off in one smooth, sinuous motion—and the second it was gone, her hands cupped the sides of your face and dragged you into a kiss like she couldn’t stand another second of not having you.

There was no room for hesitation anymore. Your arms slid around her waist, drawing her in, your fingers fumbling slightly with the strap of her bra until she groaned softly against your mouth. The sound made your stomach flip, heat blooming in every nerve. You undid the clasp, finally, and she shrugged out of it without fanfare, tossing it somewhere behind her as if it didn’t matter in the slightest.

And then she pulled you close, fully. Her bare chest pressed against yours, breasts soft and warm, and the sudden friction of your nipples brushing made you gasp into her mouth. You moaned, loud and sharp, the sensation too much and yet not enough. You kept moving, chasing it, rubbing instinctively against her with every shift of your hips.

Rafayel swallowed every sound you gave her like they belonged to her. Her hands slid lower—waist, hips, then finally settling at the curve of your ass, fingers splaying with intent. She didn’t squeeze yet. Just held you there. Let you move.

“Oh, God… this is—” you couldn’t finish. The words fell apart on your tongue, dissolved into breathless moans and whimpers that clung to her mouth like a prayer.

But Rafayel understood anyway. She pressed a kiss just beneath your jaw, her voice a murmur against your skin, rough with restrained want. “Feels good, yeah?”

You barely managed a nod before she shifted again, lowering herself into the pillows and pulling you over her, guiding you until your thighs framed her waist. You followed without thought, lips finding hers once more as your body molded into hers.

Your bare chests slid together with every kiss, every stolen breath, nipples brushing with every movement, and you swore you could drown in it.

Rafayel’s hands moved again, one braced at your hip while the other guided you gently, deliberately, rocking you forward against her. The friction of denim against the soaked fabric of your panties made you whine, hips moving before you could think.

“God, just like that…” she whispered, her tone soft but frayed with heat. Her eyes were half-lidded, hooded with dark want, watching the way your body moved atop hers.

The rhythm was slow, torturous, your body begging for more even as you clung to the delicious tension. And Rafayel—of course—was content to take her time.

“Don’t rush, cutie…” she breathed, her hands tightening just slightly on your hips as you rolled against her. “I want to feel you come apart right here.”

And the way she said it—low, sultry, like she already knew she had you—you moaned again, desperate, undone, pressing yourself closer like you could melt into her.

You couldn't stop the tremble that rippled through your body—couldn't bite back the moan that spilled from your lips, raw and unfiltered, as your hips rocked instinctively against her. The friction, maddening and just shy of enough, made your breath catch in your throat. You were moving without thought now, lost to the slow rhythm, chasing the edge she kept you dancing along.

Rafayel watched you like you were a painting coming to life. Her eyes were wide and heavy-lidded, fixed to your every movement like she didn’t dare blink. Her gaze trailed from the flush on your cheeks to the way your parted lips trembled with each breath, and when your eyes met hers—hazy and hungry—it was like something in her unraveled entirely.

“You are so gorgeous like this,” she murmured, her voice a breathless rasp, reverent and frayed. “I’ve imagined you on top of me so many times… trembling in my arms, taking whatever you wanted from me.”

There was no flippant edge to her tone—no teasing remark to soften the blow. Just pure, unfiltered desire, spoken like a confession pulled from the deepest part of her.

Your lips parted in surprise, teeth catching your bottom lip as your hips rolled again, slower this time. The words lingered in your mind like a spark catching fire, and your body answered for you—a low whimper escaping you as your head dropped to her shoulder.

“Fuck,” she hissed, her breath shuddering as you moved just right, her fingers digging into the curve of your ass like she was trying not to lose herself completely. “Just like that…”

You lifted your head, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “What else did you imagine?” you whispered, your voice low and velvet-soft as you pressed a kiss beneath her jaw, then another just beneath her ear.

She shivered beneath you. Your teeth found a patch of skin there, nipping lightly. She cursed under her breath and pulled you tighter against her, her nails scraping lightly over the back of your thigh.

“I imagined a lot,” she said finally, her voice barely above a breath—hushed and almost pained from how much she wanted you. “But most of all… I wanted to make you feel good. So good you’d forget anything that wasn’t me.”

Her hands guided your hips once more, the drag of your clothed core against her thigh making you moan again, your forehead resting against hers.

“I want to taste you so badly,” she whispered, lips brushing yours, voice shaking with restraint. “You have no idea how long I’ve been thinking about it.”

And the way she said it—like it was both a sin and a promise—you knew you'd never forget it.

You kept grinding down on her thigh, caught in a rhythm that made it hard to breathe, let alone think. Every roll of your hips drew a sound from her that echoed your own—low, drawn-out moans that vibrated between your bodies like shared heat. You didn’t know what to do with your hands, not really, but that didn’t stop you. The haze was thick in your head, and you were bold with it—your fingers drifting upward, cupping one of her breasts before gently pinching her nipple between them.

She groaned at that—deep and wrecked—and bit down against your neck, just enough to make you gasp. Her voice came like a breath dragged through smoke, rasped and dripping with need. “Fuck, cutie…”

The pet name, usually tossed out like a lazy tease, sounded ruined now—like it barely held together under how much she wanted you.

Her grip on your hips tightened, possessive and unyielding, guiding your rhythm until your movements faltered—until you trembled in her arms, thighs quivering from the edge you were so close to spilling over.

Then she stilled you. You whimpered, lips parted in confusion and want, but she was already watching you—eyes dark and greedy, lips wet and slightly swollen from the way you'd kissed her. Her tongue darted out to wet them again as she leaned closer, her voice lower now, almost reverent.

“Let me taste you,” she murmured, like it was both a plea and a promise.

The words landed like a spark to dry kindling, and you cursed without thinking—your hips jerking slightly as a soft, involuntary mewl slipped from you. You hated how easy she made you fall apart. But Rafayel—oh, she lived for it. She heard that sound and smiled like someone who’d just won something expensive and rare.

She didn’t wait for a clearer answer. She didn’t need to. That sound had said everything.

In one smooth movement, she eased you off her lap, laying you back against the mattress, your legs trembling beneath her. She kissed you once—slow and deep, like a promise sealed—and then began her descent.

Her lips traced a path down your body, unhurried, leaving a burning trail behind. When she reached your stomach, she paused to mouth at the skin there, teasing you with just her breath, her fingers already working open the button of your jeans. You squirmed beneath her, more plea than protest, your hands fisting in the sheets when her touch ghosted just above your waistband.

“God, you're so eager,” she murmured with a soft laugh—half groan, half worship.

You couldn't help the soft, desperate mewl that slipped from your lips as her mouth pressed warm and slow against your stomach.

“Please…” your voice was trembling, cracked open with need. “I need to come so badly.”

That made her groan—low and deep in her throat, like she felt it everywhere. Her eyes found yours, sharp and dark and glittering with heat. Your jeans were already undone, her fingers slipping under the waistband with a confidence that made your breath hitch.

She leaned back just enough to give herself space, voice dipping into something rough and coaxing. “Can you lift your hips for me, cutie?”

You didn’t even wait for the end of her sentence. Your hips were in the air before she could finish, shameless in your need. She chuckled, clearly pleased with the response, and eased your jeans down your legs, slow and deliberate, like she wanted to savor the sight of you. When they were gone, she sat back on her heels for a moment, her gaze sweeping down your body until it landed on the soaked fabric clinging to you.

“Fuck…” she breathed, more to herself than to you. And then, with a sinful sort of reverence, she lowered herself between your thighs, settling there like she was made to live in that exact place.

Her fingers brushed softly along your inner thighs, featherlight, until she pressed her lips to the skin there in a kiss that burned. You trembled beneath her.

“Good girl,” she murmured against your thigh, her voice all velvet and heat. “You’re so wet for me. Look at you.”

You gasped, the compliment hitting somewhere deeper than it should’ve. Your eyes fluttered open, and you looked down to find her already staring up at you—absolutely breathtaking in that moment, all lavender hair and flushed cheeks, a little smug, a little reverent, and still entirely her. That knowing look in her eyes, like she already had your body memorized.

“Don’t tease,” you whispered, voice cracking as your hips shifted, desperate. “Fuck, Raf…”

She didn’t answer right away, just leaned in and pressed her mouth to the inside of your thigh, her lips parting slightly against it in a kiss that was all promise and no relief. You arched into it, chasing the pressure, needing more—but she didn’t give in just yet.

Another kiss, this one slower. Her breath just barely fanned out, teasing the wet fabric like she could draw pleasure from just that alone.

Instead of diving in, she lingered—her lips barely brushing your thigh, her voice murmuring against your skin like a secret she didn’t mean to say out loud.

“I suppose,” she said softly, breath ghosting over the damp heat of your panties, “you’ve never done this before?”

The question made your breath catch, heart pounding against your ribs. But it wasn’t the question itself—it was the way she asked it. Casual, almost curious. But the flick of her tongue on her teeth and the quiet tension in her grip gave her away.

You swallowed down your nerves and found your voice, trying for nonchalance despite the way your hips were already twitching beneath her. “I—I mean, I’ve been eaten out by guys before.”

And then it happened. Her teeth grazed your inner thigh before she bit—just hard enough to make you jolt, your back arching in startled pleasure. A shocked moan ripped from your throat, the sting of it sharp and gone too quickly, replaced by the soft kiss she pressed to the mark.

She didn’t say anything for a beat. But when she finally spoke, her voice dropped—low, rough, and undeniably tinged with something else. Not quite irritation. Something darker, hotter.

“Yeah?” she muttered, mouth brushing the edge of your underwear, warm breath curling over you. “Did they make you come?” a pause. “Or did you fake it and let them believe they were gods?”

You didn’t have the breath to respond. Not when she kissed you there again, firmer this time, lips pressing right where you were wettest through the fabric. A desperate whine slipped from you, hips buckling up, chasing her mouth. Her fingers flexed against your thighs, holding you down.

She noticed. Of course she did. Rafayel always noticed everything. A low chuckle vibrated from her throat, rich and pleased. “Mm. Thought so.”

You tried to wriggle against her again, but she just hummed, amused and maddeningly patient.

There was something possessive about her now—the way she held you open, the way she stared at you like you were hers already, like the thought of someone else touching you had no business existing in the same universe.

And god, that shouldn’t have made you wetter. But it did. Her tongue licked a slow, deliberate stripe up the center of your panties, and your entire body jolted with it.

“Let me show you how it’s done, hm?” her voice was honeyed and edged with heat, like she was already drunk on the thought of making you unravel.

“F-fuck—please,” you gasped, your fingers fisting the sheets. “I can’t take this anymore…”

She smiled against you. You didn’t see it, but you felt it. The smirk in the press of her lips. The delight in your desperation.

“You’ll take it,” she whispered. “You’ll take all of it, cutie.”

Her tongue only flicked against the soaked fabric a few times—lazy, exploratory laps that made your hips twitch and your breath stutter—before she drew back with a sound of quiet approval. Then her fingers slipped in, graceful and deliberate, hooking into the waistband of your panties. She tugged them down in one smooth pull, dragging the damp material down your thighs with a casual ease that made your face burn.

You barely had time to register the chill of air against your soaked heat before she was back between your legs—settling like she belonged there, like she had all the time in the world to ruin you.

And then she licked. Not gently. Not teasing anymore. Her tongue found your clit with startling precision, a firm lap that tore a cry straight from your throat. Your whole body jolted from the shock of it, your thighs trembling around her shoulders before you could even catch your breath.

Rafayel hummed against you, and you felt her smirk before you saw it—low, smug, utterly pleased with herself. The sound vibrated against your core, and your hands flew to her hair, fingers tangling in those soft lavender strands without thinking. She let out a low, satisfied moan at the sensation, the noise sinking straight into your spine.

Her eyes flicked up at you as her tongue dragged slowly through your folds—watching you unravel, cataloging every twitch, every gasp. You were utterly at her mercy, and she knew it.

Your hips jerked again, chasing more, desperate now. Needy.

“God, please—” you gasped, barely aware you were even speaking. “Raf…”

She didn’t answer with words. She just wrapped her lips around your clit and sucked. Sharp. Gentle. Then again. Alternating between soft licks and firmer suction, her rhythm unhurried but devastating. Every movement was maddening in how precise it felt, like she had mapped you already, like she knew exactly how to make you fall apart.

Your thighs tried to clamp around her again, body trembling under the weight of pleasure, but her hands slid up to pin your hips down with a firm, almost lazy pressure.

“Oh,” she murmured against you, breaking only long enough to flick her tongue again, “don’t rush me.”

And then she went back to it—lips hot and wet and relentless.

You choked on a moan, the pressure building so fast it was dizzying. She was too good. Too controlled. And you were already starting to lose that control entirely.

Your eyes rolled back as a moan tore loose from your throat, raw and helpless. Your spine arched sharply off the bed, every nerve lit up with pure, unfiltered need. Your hands fisted tighter in Rafayel’s hair, tugging with desperate abandon—and the low, wrecked moan she let out in response vibrated straight into you, reverberating deep where you were already aching.

That sound alone made your legs tremble.

Her mouth didn’t falter—if anything, she seemed to thrive on it. On the way you bucked under her. On the way you gasped her name like a curse, like a prayer.

“Ohhh, fuck—I'm gonna…fuck, I’m close—” The words tumbled out of you, breathless and broken, your chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm.

She heard you, and the glint in her eyes was nothing short of devilish. Without warning, her tongue slid down again, past your clit, sinking into you with aching precision. The wet, sinful press of it made your hips jerk violently. The cry that left you was strangled and high, your thighs clenching helplessly around her.

It was everything. The alcohol. The hours of want. The month of unbearable tension. All of it unraveled in that moment, snapping loose inside you like a breaking tide.

You shattered. Your body convulsed against her mouth, trembling hard with every aftershock as your orgasm crested and crashed through you in violent waves. You cried out again, her name caught somewhere between a sob and a moan, the pleasure dizzying and all-consuming.

Your fingers curled in her hair, pulling hard enough that it should’ve hurt—but Rafayel didn’t even flinch. If anything, she moaned into you again, low and satisfied, drawing the last of your climax from your body with slow, languid strokes of her tongue.

Her eyes found yours as she coaxed you through it—hazy, heat-drunk, dark with something unspoken. Possessive. Worshipful.

You were panting hard, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven heaves, your head tipped back against the pillow, eyes fluttering with the aftershocks that hadn’t yet let you go. Your whole body trembled in the aftermath, legs still parted and twitching from oversensitivity, when Rafayel finally pulled away with a low, throaty groan.

She dragged her mouth up the center of your body in slow, reverent motion, every kiss damp and lingering. By the time she reached your lips again, she was breathing just as hard—flushed, wrecked, utterly drunk on you.

And when her mouth met yours, it was desperate. You could taste yourself on her tongue, unmistakable and intoxicating, and the sound you made was high and helpless, a soft, mewling whimper that only spurred her further. Her hand slid low, fingers trailing with purpose as she kissed you again—wet, open, claiming. Then lower still.

She found you again—sensitive, pulsing—and her fingers dipped between your slick folds. You whimpered into her kiss, jerking slightly as she teased, barely brushing before slipping one finger inside you with practiced ease.

“Fuck, yes,” she whispered against your mouth, voice completely wrecked, a low rasp that made your core tighten again. “You were so good, cutie… tasted so sweet…”

The endearment curled something in your chest. You barely had time to react before she slid in deeper and pressed another kiss to your jaw, her hips shifting against yours with aching restraint.

“God, you're so tight,” she groaned, her voice almost delirious now. “Perfect. Just… taking everything I give you like you were made for it.”

You moaned, arching into her, your hands rising to curl around the back of her neck, pulling her close. Your breasts pressed together again, soft friction that made you gasp. You bit at her jaw, trembling when she added another finger, and your thighs clenched instinctively around her hips.

“R-Raf…I don’t—” your voice broke as her fingers curled deep, finding a spot inside you that made your entire body jolt. Your back arched off the bed, your mouth falling open with a soft cry. Her eyes lit up, wild and hungry, pleased with the raw honesty of your reaction.

“Mhmm… right there, huh?” she breathed, and then she bent to your throat, sucking at the skin until you knew you’d wear the mark tomorrow. Her voice was smug, but beneath it, there was something gentler—wrecked and tender at once.

“You don’t… what, baby?” she murmured, her tongue flicking against your pulse as her fingers pumped into you, steady and unrelenting.

You fought for breath, the build rising again too quickly, and the words came out ragged, half-whimpered between gasps. “I’ve never… done this before. With a woman. So I… I don’t know…”

You didn’t need to finish. Her rhythm slowed slightly, and for the first time since her mouth had touched you, she paused—just enough to lean back and meet your eyes.

Even through the haze, her expression shifted. Something warm and sincere flickered across her face, quieting the rougher edge of her desire. Her voice softened, low and careful, like she didn’t want to break you open any more than she already had.

“Hey,” she murmured, brushing her nose along your cheek. “You don’t have to know. I’m not here for that.”

You blinked up at her, lips parted, your walls clenching around her fingers at the intimacy of her words—at the way she held you, not just with her body but in the space between each breath.

“I just want to make you feel good, yeah?” she whispered. “We don’t have to go any further. Don’t worry your pretty head.”

The tenderness gutted you more than anything else had tonight. Not the pleasure, not the kisses—this. The way she looked at you like you were fragile and beautiful and deserving of being held right there, in that ache.

You didn’t have to answer aloud. You kissed her instead. And Rafayel kissed you like she’d wait as long as you needed.

You wanted more—more of her, more of this—but somewhere between the rise of your hips and the way your chest heaved for breath, a flicker of doubt stole in. It slipped uninvited into your bloodstream, quiet but sharp, and your brows knit slightly without meaning to.

What if she didn’t enjoy this? What if the idea of you—new, unsure, trembling beneath her—wasn’t enough?

That frown tugged at your lips, not quite erasing the lust in your eyes, but softening it with something fragile, something you couldn’t quite hide.

Rafayel saw it immediately. Her fingers were still moving inside you—slow, curling, coaxing moans from your throat without effort—but her attention locked on your face, and her expression shifted. Not annoyed. Not even impatient. Just—pained. A little wrecked.

“Fuck,” she breathed, eyes dark as she leaned in closer, her forehead falling gently against yours. Her voice was ragged, husky at the edges, full of tension that vibrated just under her skin. “Don’t look like that, cutie. Please.”

Her lashes fluttered, brushing against her cheeks as she exhaled—long and shaky. “I want you. So fucking badly I can barely hold back. But you’ve never done this before and I—” she faltered, voice dipping, “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to overwhelm you. So don’t… don’t think I’m hesitating because I don’t want this.”

She opened her eyes again, and they were raw with restraint, amethyst depths burning with barely leashed desire. “The problem is I want this too much.”

The vulnerability in her voice pierced something inside you. You leaned up instinctively, closing the space between your lips, catching her mouth in a kiss that was soft but certain—an answer. A promise.

When you pulled back, your breath was warm against her cheek. “I’ve wanted you for months,” you murmured, the words falling out like truth finally unshackled. “Please… take me, Rafayel. I need you.”

You looked up at her then, a little hesitant, the edge of uncertainty still there. “But if my inexperience is going to be a problem, we can stop. I don’t want to ruin this for you.”

Her reaction was immediate. A groan, almost guttural, tore from her throat, and then her mouth was on yours again—hard, hungry, desperate in a way that made your toes curl and your fingers cling to her back.

“Don’t say that,” she whispered between kisses, every word landing like a vow. “Don’t you ever say that again.”

Another kiss. Fierce. Dizzying.

“I don’t care in the slightest,” she breathed, and this time her voice was shaking with how much she meant it. “Fuck, I want you. All of you.”

And the way she looked at you, like she’d been starving for you and had only now been allowed to taste. There was nothing performative about it. No pretending. No pressure. Just Rafayel wanting you exactly as you were.

She slipped her fingers from inside you, slow and wet, and the sudden absence made you gasp—a soft, startled whimper catching in your throat as your hips instinctively chased after the sensation. The cool air kissed your heat in her wake, and you blinked up at her, dazed.

Rafayel moved away only slightly, enough to lean back on her knees and begin tugging at the waistband of her pants. The room filled with the quiet rustle of fabric and breath, the sound of your heartbeat pounding loud in your ears. Her gaze never once left you—dilated pupils, dark lashes, lust simmering low and thick behind her amethyst eyes. But there was something else layered beneath it too. Something that made your breath catch.

Need. Reverence. Want wrapped in affection so intense it felt like gravity pulling you closer.

You reached out for her—an instinct, not a thought—and it earned you a low, amused chuckle as she crawled back toward you. Her mouth found yours again, this time slower, deeper. She kissed you like she knew you were nervous. Like she could feel the tremble in your breath, the rise and fall of your chest trying to find rhythm.

Her voice brushed against your lips, warm and hushed, edged with heat but anchored in something more tender. “Do you trust me?”

Your nod came without hesitation—your body moved before your voice could.

That seemed to be all she needed. She coaxed you back onto your spine, hands guiding without pressure, until you were sprawled beneath her again, open and waiting. The bed shifted slightly as she rose to her knees, and then her fingers curled around your right leg, dragging it slow, deliberate, over her shoulder. You watched the movement—your breath caught somewhere between awe and anticipation.

Her palm slid along your calf, squeezing gently, and her lips pulled into a grin that was equal parts wicked and reassuring.

“Relax,” she murmured, nuzzling the inside of your knee with her cheek before she shifted again.

This time, it was her turn to curl a leg around you. Her right thigh looped around your waist as she settled in close—closer than you thought possible—and the moment your eyes flicked down between your bodies, your entire breath seized.

She was glistening, dripping onto the sheets. Want slick between her thighs, glistening in the low light. And it was so close to your pussy, so ready to touch, to slide against yours, that you couldn’t stop the moan that slipped from you—raw, needy, involuntary. Your hips jerked upward, trying to close the space.

You heard her inhale at the sound. Heard her smile. Felt her hand stroke your outer thigh again as she murmured, playful but low with need, “Mmm, you're eager, aren’t you?”

You couldn’t answer with words. Not when your whole body was burning, already aching for the press of her against you. You could only nod, biting your lip, eyes glazed as she moved just slightly.

She groaned low in her throat, the sound curling around your ribs like smoke. Her hands found your waist with an aching sort of reverence, fingers pressing into your skin as she inched closer—agonizingly slow, deliberately restrained. Her body hovered just shy of yours, a breath away, the tension between you almost unbearable.

Her eyes, half-lidded and dark with lust, swept over the flushed rise of your chest, drinking in every tremble, every inch of your need. And when her fingers ghosted down, grazing your soaked folds with featherlight curiosity, your breath caught in your throat, a soft mewl slipping out before you could stop it.

“Relax for me, pretty,” she murmured, her voice a breathless rasp, as if she were already halfway undone. Her thumb traced soothing patterns into your thigh, and her lips curved—playful, fond, heat-drunk. “Follow my lead. I’ll make us both feel good.”

The words slid down your spine like warm honey, and then her fingers dipped between your legs—just one slipping inside, shallow at first, then withdrawing, teasing, coaxing your walls to flutter and tighten with every pass. You whimpered, hips shifting instinctively, chasing more.

Then Rafayel shifted again, planting one arm behind her for balance as her other hand remained possessive on your thigh. And just as you tried to inhale, to steady yourself, her eyes met yours.

That look—like the whole galaxy had narrowed to this one moment between your thighs—hit you harder than her touch.

And then she moved, her hips rolled forward, slow and deliberate, her pussy sliding over yours in one seamless, molten grind.

The sensation made your back arch off the bed with a startled, broken moan—so loud and raw it barely sounded like you. Her own groan met yours, deep and shaking, pulled from somewhere far below the surface. She did it again, slower this time, letting the slick friction of your bodies melt together—wet, warm, aching.

It only took a few more rolls of her hips before your body understood, matching her rhythm instinctively. Her thigh flexed against yours, her fingers digging tighter into your leg as your clits caught on each other with every motion, drawing moan after moan from both of you.

You couldn’t think, couldn’t form words—your thoughts scattered and fevered, drowned beneath how good she felt, how real it was, how impossibly right.

Rafayel was flushed—gorgeous and flushed—her lavender hair falling across her face, strands sticking to her cheeks as her mouth parted on a quiet gasp. Her eyes were locked on yours, hungry, reverent, mouth twitching up at the corners like she couldn't believe it either. Like she’d wanted this just as long.

Her hips rocked forward again, and you cried out, voice catching on a moan that tangled with hers, the rhythm between you growing more frantic, more desperate.

You didn’t even have room in your mind to wonder if you were doing it right—because the look in her eyes answered everything.

She was wrecked. She was beautiful. And she was falling apart on top of you, just as much as you were for her.

“You’re doing so well,” Rafayel gasped, her voice tight and wrecked with pleasure, and the sound of it alone sent your eyes rolling back. Her grip on your leg tightened, fingers digging in like she needed the anchor, needed you. Her breath shuddered across your skin as she rasped against your leg, barely able to hold the words together. “Perfect—just like this. Fuck, cutie… you feel so good. I’m—damn, I’m close.”

Her hips dragged against yours again, slow at first, then faster, grinding down with increasing desperation. Every slick roll of her body sent pleasure shooting straight through your core, making you gasp and cry out and clench helplessly around nothing.

“I’m close too,” you breathed, eyes fluttering shut as you arched into her, trying to match her pace. “God, Raf—I wanna come with you.”

The words tumbled out in broken gasps, your body trembling, every muscle drawn tight with the edge of it. You tried to move faster, to chase the release pooling in your belly, but it was too much, too good—especially when her hips pressed down again, harder this time, slick and perfect.

“Please,” you whimpered, “I’m so close, I need—”

“Oh, fuck, cutie—” she groaned, her voice cracking, “don’t beg like that.” She was unraveling above you, her whole body trembling with restraint.

“You’re so wet,” she muttered, almost to herself, looking down between your bodies with a dark gleam in her eyes, “Look at that… how good we fit… how easy it is to slide against you…”

You moaned brokenly, biting down on your lip as heat surged through you like wildfire. The tension was unbearable—right there, teetering on the edge—and Rafayel wasn’t helping, her own voice thick with need as she pushed you closer and closer.

“C’mon, angel,” she breathed, hips stuttering against yours as she breathed out, voice rough with heat and coaxing. “Let go for me, yeah? Come apart. Let me feel it.”

That did it. Just a few more slick, desperate rolls of her hips and the dam inside you broke. Your body convulsed, a high-pitched cry tearing from your throat as you came hard, clinging to her like your life depended on it. Her name caught on your tongue, broken and trembling.

Rafayel didn’t last a second longer. She chased the sound of her name from your lips and followed you over the edge, her own moan low and syrupy as she came with you, her body jerking in rhythm with yours as your slicks mixed and made a mess of everything between you.

You were both gasping for air, trembling, wrecked and glistening—but she didn’t pull away.

Instead, she slumped forward, mouth catching yours in a heated, messy kiss, tongue dragging over your lips like she couldn’t stand even a second of distance. You moaned into her, still so sensitive, but you kissed her back just as desperately—hungry and languid, lips sliding together in the haze of afterglow.

“You did so well,” she murmured against your mouth between kisses, voice a breathless hum of praise. “Fuck, you were perfect.”

You couldn’t even speak. Your breath was still trying to come back to you, your skin still tingling, your body still wrapped in hers—and her mouth was on you again, claiming you with slow, reverent kisses. Like she needed to memorize you. Like she didn’t want to let you go.

The air between you was thick with warmth and want, the kind that lingers long after the pleasure has passed. And from the way Rafayel held you, lips dragging slow and lazy down your jaw, it was clear the heat between you wasn’t over just yet.

You stayed like that for a while—tangled in each other, skin to skin, your bodies still humming with aftershocks neither of you dared to name yet. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, softened only by the slow rise and fall of your breaths syncing, like waves finally retreating from the shore. You were dizzy—buzzed from the alcohol, sure, but mostly from her. From the weight of her draped over you, from the way her lips still lazily explored your neck as if she couldn’t quite stop.

“I think the hangover is creeping up on me,” she murmured into your skin, voice low and petulant, like she was mourning the end of your high already. A tiny whine slipped through her lips, so unlike the composed, maddeningly theatrical girl the world knew. It made you chuckle, even though your head throbbed too.

You didn’t talk about what had just happened yet. The words hadn’t caught up to the moment. So you let yourselves fall into quiet comfort instead. She clung to you shamelessly, splayed out across your body like a lazy cat, her limbs tangled with yours, and no apparent intention of moving.

She heard your soft laugh and lifted her head with a mock pout, strands of damp hair clinging to her flushed face. “Don’t laugh,” she grumbled. “You’ll be suffering right alongside me soon enough.”

Her makeup was ruined—smudged by heat and sweat and the brush of your bodies—but you thought she’d never looked more beautiful. Her cheeks still glowed with afterglow, her lips swollen, her violet eyes a little dazed. There was something almost unreal about her like this, half-drunk on lust and barely holding onto her usual theatrical armor.

She caught you staring. And naturally, she couldn’t help herself. “Someone can’t take their eyes off me, huh,” she cooed, her smile slow and feline. “Cutie, if you keep looking at me like that, I might melt right here before the hangover even hits.”

You flushed, scoffing under your breath and glancing away, but she wasn’t having that. She gently turned your chin back toward her with two fingers, eyes locked on yours with something softer now—less teasing, more real.

“Don’t get shy on me now, hm?” her thumb brushed your jaw. “Look at me.”

So you did. And for a second, it all caught up with you. What you’d done. What you’d said. The taste of her still on your tongue. You didn’t even know if it had really happened, or if it was just a beautiful illusion crafted by alcohol and desperation and months of buried want.

Rafayel saw the spiral in your eyes before you could voice it. Her lips pressed to yours in a slow, grounding kiss, coaxing you gently back into the present. Her hand settled on your jaw, steadying you, thumb stroking your cheek with the kind of reverence you hadn’t expected from her.

“You should get out of that pretty little head of yours,” she whispered against your lips, voice quieter now, velvet-soft. “I meant everything I did tonight. Everything I said.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. Her smile grew, warm and unguarded, and she kissed the tip of your nose.

You winced slightly, the gesture catching you off guard—and of course she noticed.

“Oh, so now you’re bullying me?” she huffed dramatically. “I see how it is.” her voice dropped into a playful murmur as she trailed kisses down your neck. “You didn’t seem so mouthy when I was between your legs, cutie. You were moaning so sweetly. Being so nice to me. And now you’re bullying me?”

Your cheeks burned, and you gave her a light smack to the side. “Can you not say things like that? Jesus, Rafayel.”

She just laughed, unbothered, and nuzzled into your throat like she owned the space there. Then she shifted, squirming her way up until she hovered above you, her violet eyes catching yours—bright, watchful. The smirk faded just enough for you to recognize the shift in her. She was about to ask something real.

“How long?” her voice was soft, almost curious. But not quite.

You blinked. “How long what?”

Rafayel tilted her head, her expression unreadable for once. No sly grin. No sharp quip. Just raw amethyst eyes, rimmed in smudged liner and open in a way you rarely saw.

“How long have you wanted this?” she asked, then hesitated just for a beat, as if she decided if she was really gonna go for it and say it. “Wanted… me.”

The question didn’t carry the weight of accusation, but something in it still made your breath catch. She was trying to sound nonchalant, casual even, but you could hear it. The crack in her voice. The part of her that needed to know.

You looked away for a moment, then forced yourself to meet her gaze. You couldn’t lie to her. Not now.

“Since before tonight,” you said, voice quiet but sure. “Since before the party. Before… her.”

You saw the flicker of amusement tug at her lips, soft and a little smug.

“So you were jealous.” she grinned wider when you rolled your eyes. “I knew it. You always frowned when I brought her up.”

You smacked her arm again, and she just beamed, undeterred. She kissed you again—quick, playful, a little breathless—and then murmured against your lips, “So… is that why you kissed me tonight? Because you saw me with her?”

You frowned, chest tightening. “No. I didn’t have any right to be jealous.”

“No,” she agreed. “But you still were, weren’t you?”

You looked away, cheeks burning. Her voice had dropped to something slower now, more thoughtful, as she traced idle patterns across your bare hip.

“And you still didn’t answer me, cutie,” she added softly. “Is that why you let this happen?”

You knew what she meant. She wasn’t asking if you’d done it to hurt her. She was asking if it had been real.

So you reached for her hand, fingers threading between hers. She glanced down at the movement, then back up to your face, her expression unreadable—but no longer guarded.

“I think you know me better than that, Raf,” you whispered. “I’m not that petty. I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time. I just… didn’t know if I should.”

Rafayel stared at you for a moment longer—then leaned down and kissed you again. This time, she didn’t rush. She just lingered there, warm and steady, her thumb brushing over your knuckles like she could memorize every piece of you by touch alone.

And in that quiet, with her body wrapped around yours and her kiss still warm on your lips, you knew she believed you.

Your kisses deepened, no longer tentative, no longer testing—just hungry, lazy, unhurried. You melted into the warmth of her body, the press of bare skin against bare skin. Rafayel lay draped over you, her thigh slung possessively over your waist, her limbs loose and content like a cat in a sunbeam. The room was still—thick with the scent of sweat and skin and the faint remnants of perfume—and somewhere beyond it all, the dull weight of the oncoming hangover loomed like a storm cloud waiting to break.

But you didn’t care. You were tired. A little dazed. A little tipsy still. But there was something else—something low and curling, gathering again in your stomach with an ache that had nothing to do with thirst or headache.

She shifted slightly, brushing against you in that unconscious, intimate way she had. And you felt it again. Desire. Heat, slick and growing. And the curiosity that had been haunting the back of your mind for months crept forward like a secret you’d tried to ignore. You'd never gone down on a girl before. You’d been with boys who expected you to lie back and be quiet, who never asked what you wanted, let alone what you wanted to give. But Rafayel was different. And for all your nervousness, the idea of tasting her made your pulse stutter.

You wanted to. You wanted her. But how the hell were you supposed to say that?

You stayed quiet, letting your hands speak instead—sliding through the silky strands of her purple hair, tugging gently until she let out a pleased, indulgent little moan.

“Mmm… you’ve really got a thing for pulling my hair, don’tcha?” she hummed, lips brushing yours as she smiled lazily.

“You talk too much,” you murmured against her mouth, trying to sound teasing, not shaky.

She laughed—light and amused, like velvet against your chest—and you kissed her again before you could lose your nerve. This one was hungrier, bolder. She opened for you easily, tongue meeting yours like she'd been waiting for it, like she knew this was coming.

You rolled her beneath you in a tangle of limbs and covers, your bodies sliding together as you shifted. She let you, delight flashing in her half-lidded eyes even as she blinked up at you in surprise.

Your lips found her neck again, the space just beneath her jaw, and she moaned as her fingers curled into the sheets. Your hand trailed downward, fingertips skimming the slope of her ribs before closing around her breast, soft and warm and yielding. You kneaded gently, listened to the way she gasped, the way her thighs flexed around your waist in a wordless plea.

Then her hips moved—subtle, almost shy. But it was there. A quiet lift. A silent please.

You bit her neck, just hard enough to mark, and she shivered beneath you.

“O-oh… do that again,” she breathed, head tipping back to bare more of her throat for you. Her voice was high, near-whimpering now—so unlike the smug, self-possessed girl she’d been before. This Rafayel was different. This Rafayel was undone. Yours.

So you did. You bit her again, a little lower this time, and her back arched with a soft cry, her hands fluttering helplessly against your arms. Her nipples peaked under your fingers, and when you brushed one with the barest graze, she gasped—louder now, almost desperate.

Underneath you, Rafayel wasn’t teasing or taunting. She wasn’t in control. She was open. Responsive. Beautifully unraveled. And she had no idea what you were planning next.

But still, your hands didn’t drift. Your lips stayed fixed to her neck, marking her in slow, possessive kisses, as your mind whirled, trying to work up the nerve to go lower. To tell her what you wanted without falling into silence or embarrassment. Her thighs shifted again, restless against you. Her breaths came faster, broken and hot, her fingers twitching against your shoulder.

“Cutie,” she breathed, a little impatient now, hips shifting again under yours. “You trying to drive me insane on purpose?”

She noticed you didn’t really respond, or that you were not 100% present. Rafayel’s fingers curled beneath your jaw, gentle but firm as she guided your face away from the crook of her throat, just enough to see you properly. Her brows were faintly drawn, eyes wide and dark with heat, but behind that was something softer. A thread of concern, even in the middle of all that breathless pleasure.

“Hey…” Her voice was hushed, velvet-soft. “What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

You shook your head quickly—too quickly, maybe. Her touch lingered on your cheek, and she didn’t press, but the question remained, written across her features in unspoken script. You didn’t want to explain. So you kissed her instead, harder this time. Not rushed, but urgent—an attempt to swallow the nerves crawling up your throat.

Rafayel gasped softly into your mouth, surprised, her lips parting beneath yours, but she responded instantly, always eager to meet you in your madness. When you pulled back, your cheeks were flushed, your breath shaky, and you didn’t need to look at her to know she was studying you.

“I want to try something,” you said, your voice roughened by restraint, trying too hard to sound nonchalant.

Her expression flickered. You could feel her curiosity sharpen, her gaze searching yours like she was trying to solve a riddle before you gave the answer. But when she tilted her head, when she didn’t press you with words, you took it as a cue. You dropped your gaze and let your lips return to her skin—this time lower. A kiss to her jaw. A slow drag down her throat. Her breath hitched.

Then lower. Your tongue circled a nipple, experimentally slow, and Rafayel let out a moan, sweet and sharp and trembling. Her head fell back into the pillows, lashes fluttering, hair spilling wild around her like a storm.

“Oh, fuck… cutie,” she breathed, laughing a little breathlessly even through the pleasure. “What exactly are you trying to tell me right now?”

You didn’t answer. You just kept going, trailing kisses down the line of her ribs, over the soft curve of her stomach. Your hands were gentle, bracing her hips, and as you lowered yourself between her legs, you looked up.

You could feel your own hesitation in the tightness of your shoulders. Not because you didn’t want to—god, you did—but because this was uncharted territory. Because you wanted it to be good for her. Because you didn’t know what the hell you were doing.

Rafayel’s breath caught when she met your gaze. You saw it in her face—the realization dawning, a bloom of pink spreading across her cheeks like rising heat.

Still, she didn’t say anything right away. She just smiled softly, a little crooked. Then she tilted her head, amusement and fondness flickering in her gaze. “…Go ahead.”

You swallowed, heart hammering, but something still made you pause, even if just for a second.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admitted, voice quiet, barely more than a breath.

Her expression didn’t shift. If anything, it deepened into something more tender—warmth, ease, maybe even pride. Her hand found your cheek again, thumb stroking the skin there in soothing circles.

“Then don’t think so hard,” she murmured. “Do whatever you think’ll feel good. You’ll figure it out.”

And with that, she reclined slowly, giving herself to the moment, to you. Her body relaxed under your hands, and she smiled again—open, ready, trusting.

For a girl who always had a witty comeback, always had control of the room, she had never looked more beautiful than she did now—laid out for you, gaze soft, lips parted, breathing just a little faster than before.

You took your cue, inhaling softly as you lowered yourself between her thighs, letting your courage take the lead before hesitation could anchor it down. Rafayel gasped when she felt the first brush of your breath against her—so soft, so tentative it made her twitch. Her hips lifted slightly, as though coaxing you closer without words.

The sight of her was enough to make your mouth water. She was already slick again, flushed and pliant from the heat winding between you. You swallowed, steadied yourself, and turned your head instead—not yet brave enough to taste her, not yet. You started with the softest kisses to her inner thigh, reverent and lingering, as though mapping your way forward with your mouth alone.

A breathy, approving moan slipped from her lips.

“Don’t get shy on me now, cutie,” she murmured, voice warm and low, like silk pulled over bare skin. “You’ll ruin the anticipation.”

But she didn’t rush you. Didn’t push. Just let herself sink back into the mattress, limbs loose and gaze half-lidded as she watched you explore.

And when you finally looked up, she was already looking down at you. Eyes hazy, lips parted, her chest rising and falling with slow, measured breath that stuttered as your gaze locked. She didn’t say a word—but she didn’t need to. The invitation was in every inch of her expression, in the quiet flex of her thighs, the gentle rock of her hips.

So you took it. You leaned in and let your tongue part her folds, just once, slow and unpracticed—but the sound she made in response ignited something in you. A soft, broken moan, her back arching as if her body wanted to chase the warmth of your mouth.

So you did it again. Long, languid strokes of your tongue that dragged along the soft slickness of her, tasting her. Learning her. With every pass, her breathing grew more ragged, more erratic—until you circled your tongue around her clit, experimentally light, and her hips jerked.

“God—fuck.” her voice rasped through the air, threaded with disbelief. “Right there… just like that.”

The praise made your cheeks burn, but you didn’t stop. If anything, you doubled down, watching the way her body reacted to every shift in pressure, every flick of your tongue. Her fingers curled into the sheets, white-knuckled, and the other hand tangled into your hair, guiding you gently, keeping your face close like she never wanted you to leave.

You moaned into her from the sheer intimacy of it, from the way her thighs bracketed your head so trustingly, so needily—and she answered that sound with a deeper one of her own, almost guttural.

Whatever you were doing, you were doing it right. She wasn’t the type to fake her pleasure, and she certainly wasn’t doing that now—not with the way her body trembled, with how her voice cracked around half-sobs of your name.

So you kept going. You changed the rhythm, played with pace—lapping and sucking until you could map her reactions, know what each twitch or gasp meant. And when she moaned your name again, voice shaking, you slid one finger inside her, curling it carefully.

That did it. Her whole body jolted under your touch, a strangled moan tearing from her throat. “Oh my god—fuck, there. Cutie… please—”

The way she begged, breathless and undone, made something bloom deep in your chest. You did it again, curling just right, tongue never ceasing, and she bucked into your mouth with a cry, loud and raw. The desperation in her voice undid you completely.

“Shit—don’t stop. I’m gonna—fuck, I’ll come if you—” Another moan swallowed the rest of her sentence, and you pushed a second finger in, feeling the tight clench of her walls and the heat threatening to spill over.

You pulled back just enough to whisper against her soaked core, voice hoarse with want. “Wanna make you come.”

And then you dove back in, lips slick, tongue greedy, fingers stroking her just right—just like she needed.

You didn’t think you’d ever see Rafayel like this. So flustered. So flushed and gasping. So thoroughly ruined by your mouth. She moaned your name again and again, high and broken, while her hips rocked instinctively against your face, chasing the release building under your touch.

And then, suddenly, she froze—every muscle tense, her thighs trembling as her voice cracked. “Mhmm—fuck, I’m… oh, I’m coming. Shit—cutie—”

You felt it. The shudder that rippled through her, the sweet rush of wet heat on your tongue as she came with a choked cry, head thrown back and fingers gripping your hair like it grounded her.

You coaxed her through it, slow and steady, the way she had done for you not so long ago. Every flick, every swirl of your tongue softened, easing her down from the high, and when she finally collapsed back against the bed, breathless and glowing, your heart nearly burst from how beautiful she looked.

Rafayel—undone and utterly yours in that moment—exhaled a shaky laugh, eyes glazed and lips pink from biting back more moans. “…You’ve been holding out on me, haven’t you?”

Her voice was hoarse, teasing, laced with the remnants of her pleasure. You looked up at her, flushed and trembling, lips slick and heart thudding.

“Guess I’m a fast learner,” you managed.

She grinned, lazy and satisfied, eyes twinkling as she tugged you up by your hair. And when she kissed you, she moaned again into your mouth, tasting herself on your lips with zero shame.

“Mm,” she whispered, nose brushing yours, “we’re definitely doing that again.”

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple

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ponyojada · 7 days ago

Text

love & company - r. sukuna

❦ biker!ryomen sukuna x biker!f!reader [non-curse au]

❦ oneshot

❝ you're beginning to lose hope of ever fixing your bike as the moon rises over the horizon when a man built like a brick wall and covered in tattoos stops to help you out. he's standoffish and his words are cold - but as it turns out the version of him you see is soft. who knew this man could ever become your best friend, let alone something more? ❞

❦ cw ; 18+ only. contains explicit content. friends to lovers. fluff. hurt/comfort. p in v. fingering. oral (f! and m! receiving). degradation (slut). choking. pet names (princess, brat, woman, girl). size kink. rough sex. unprotected. biting. hair pulling. manhandling. toxic relationship (not sukuna). manipulation (not sukuna). reckless driving. use of alcohol and cigarettes. reader is implied to be short/small mostly in comparison to sukuna but he's huge so. ooc warning for sukuna given that this is modern and i want him to be more realistically human. i probably got some of the bike information wrong.

❦ words ; 24.2k.

main masterlist || love & company masterlist

A cool evening wind chills your skin as you hunch over your bike on the side of the road. You’re thankful for your thick leather jacket to protect you from the brisk winds, but it doesn’t make it easy to work when your thoughts continue to stray to the fast-approaching night.

Your Kawasaki motorcycle puttered to a stop an hour ago and you’ve been on the side of the road ever since. Of course it would happen today of all days, where your patience runs thin and you want nothing more than to be curled up in bed.

Your small array of tools that you keep for times like these are finally proving useful, but you can hardly bring yourself to care as you run out of things to check. You’re almost certain the issue is a clogged fuel line at this point but without the necessary tools to check, you’re fresh out of ideas on what to do aside from calling a tow truck.

The sound of another passing motorbike is grating on your ears as someone speeds by on a bright red Ducati and you want to curse them out just for having a working bike, but to your surprise, they circle back a minute later and pull up next to you.

A broad-shouldered figure steps off the bike, pulling a dark helmet off and giving his head a shake, running a hand through his pink hair to give it a naturally windswept look. Tattoos line his sharp jaw and scars litter his right eye. Deep near-crimson eyes lock on you, a mildly cold expression spread over the tall man’s features. He’s just about the textbook definition of what you would think of as a ‘bad boy’.

He looks you over before taking in the state of your bike. The sight of you covered in grease and oil sitting in defeat on the ground is amusing to him to say the least- you don’t much look the part of a biker between your small figure and approachable stature but one look at your bike and attire tells him not to judge a book by its cover.

“Need a hand?”

Unfortunately for the tattooed man, he’s caught you in a bad mood.

“No,” you grumble, picking up your wrench and dipping back into a rhythm of checking everything.

“I’ve got more tools than just a wrench,” he offers. Your intense gaze looks him over again, surveying the black leather hanging off his shoulders and red helmet that matches his bike tucked under his elbow.

“I can handle myself,” you insist, not keen on accepting a stranger’s help, especially given his cold expression.

“Didn’t say you couldn’t,” he retorts with a click of his tongue. “Just askin’ if you want a spanner or pliers.” His eyes flicker to the moon rising in the sky. “Or a flashlight.”

You follow his gaze out to the rising moon, its light not offering enough of a look at your bike to be all that helpful as night begins to fall.

You sigh, wiping perspiration from your forehead with the back of your hand. The man’s lips quirk upwards in a minute smirk at the sight of the grease you accidentally wipe on your head. He thinks it’s cute.

“A spanner would be helpful,” you give in, pulling a pair of pliers from where you’d set them down beneath your knee to show you did at least have a couple of tools handy.

Pulling his hands from his pockets, the tall man turns to the backpack he’d set on the ground behind him. He sets his helmet on the seat of his bike and pulls out a spanner, handing it to you in place of the torque wrench you’ve set at your side.

He’s silent as you thank him and begin adjusting the spanner’s size to detach the fuel line. Standing in silence, he does little more than watch given that you don’t seem to want his help.

When the fuel line finally detaches, you groan as you realize you’d been right about the problem the entire time and the line is blocked. Without an air compressor, there isn’t much you can do to get your bike running again and your shoulders slump in defeat.

“Now d’you need a hand?” He asks with a raised brow and a small smirk.

The look you shoot him is fiery and he’d be a liar to say he doesn’t think your attitude is cute. It suits the strange vibes he gets from you in the best of ways.

“I’ll just call for a tow,” you insist, still refusing the help of the stranger you know nothing about, aside from the fact that he has just about the most high-end street legal sports bike in pristine condition and you find it to be pretentious.

“Suit yourself. I can fix it for free, though.”

You press your lips into a thin line, brow furrowed as you look over his features. The man practically towers over you, he’s built like a tank and dwarfs you in every sense. His expression is aloof, giving away very little about him. You have no reason to believe he’s lying though, so with a sigh, you give in and hand him the spanner he’d lent you.

The man lowers himself beside you, disconnecting the other side of the fuel line entirely as he begins pulling apart the carburetor. You sit back, watching your bike attentively as though he might do damage to it, but his fingers move deftly as if this is all muscle memory to him.

“What’s your name?” You ask as the silence stretches on. It’s a surprisingly comfortable silence, as he grabs a rag and water bottle from his backpack. He glances at you as he wets the rag and begins cleaning the carburetor.

“Sukuna.”

“You know your way around a bike.”

“Been riding for a while.”

You nod. Despite his kind actions, his words are distant and frigid, so you decide not to push the subject.

It’s silent for a while as you sit with your hands splayed on the asphalt behind you, watching his actions. Your eyes survey the man hunched over your bike, admiring the smooth lines of the tattoos that line his jaw, more ink just barely visible along his neck from beneath his jacket. His hair looks freshly dyed and his right eye is dotted in long scars that have you wondering what happened.

If the situation were any different, you might be hesitant to accept his help, but in truth you’re too tired to complain.

It’s not much longer before your bike is back together. Wiping his hands with the rag, he nods to the bike.

“Give ‘er.”

Pushing yourself to your feet, you turn the key. The engine flips once, twice, three times, before finally sputtering to life.

“Oh my god, thank you so much,” you sigh in relief, shaking your head. “I thought the issue was the fuel line,” you groan over the sound of the engine.

“It is. You need to replace it, this should get you a few miles away though.”

You nod affirmatively, reaching down to hand back his tools. Sukuna dumps them in his bag and throws it over his shoulder.

“You’re a lifesaver, I don’t know how to thank you,” you tell him, your mood no longer sour as your bike continues to roar, thankfully not dead on the side of the road anymore.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” He simply shrugs.

“Let me buy you a drink, or something,” you insist in spite of your exhaustion, though his cold demeanor doesn’t give you much hope that he’ll accept anyway, so you figure you’ll be able to get some rest regardless of the offer.

As he turns to grab his helmet, you half expect him to start his bike and drive off without another word, ignoring your offer entirely. It’s just the impression he gives you, but he surprises you.

“Keep up, then.”

Your brow raises and before you have a chance to complain that you’re covered in a layer of sweat and grease and you’d meant at a later date, his bike is roaring to life.

You scramble onto your own bike and follow him closely. Sukuna is half-shocked when you actually pull up into the parking lot of a small bar right behind him, pulling your helmet off and shaking your head in an effort to fix your hair.

He would be lying if he said he didn’t find everything about you intriguing. From your bike to the way you ride and your feisty disposition all packaged in such a tiny figure compared to him, he thinks it’s cute. Maybe even something more than that.

He leads the way to the bar wordlessly as you complain about the grease coating your body, but he barely notices the oil marking your skin. He’s used to it, if anything, from working on his own bike.

You aren’t even sure if he’s listening given his flippant attitude and lack of response, but you drone on regardless. It’s better than silence.

Choosing to ignore your frustrated rambles, he orders a whiskey and glances in your direction.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” you tell the bartender with a sweet smile, waving your hand in the air like you don’t much mind what exactly you’re drinking. It’s your turn to surprise Sukuna.

“Don’t think I caught your name,” Sukuna says as you lean over the bar beside him.

You tell him your name with a sweet smile, your mood clearly improved as you take the whiskey and damn-near down it in one swift movement.

When your eyes land on Sukuna again, he’s smirking. He’s not really sure what to make of you nor you of him, but he certainly likes it.

Though you both elect not to have any more alcohol in favor of driving home later, conversation comes easily for the rest of the hour. At least, as easily as it comes for Sukuna.

“Where’d you get your bike?” You ask decidedly, trying to make conversation with the stoic individual.

“A shop up north.”

“Looks like it cost a pretty penny.”

He hums in approval.

That’s about how most conversations with him go, so when you throw your jacket on and insist you should get home, you’re admittedly surprised when he pauses and holds his hand out expectantly.

You stare up at him curiously. Not once had you gotten the impression he was interested in any of your conversations, yet now he wants something from you? You can’t decide what to make of this, what to make of him.

“Sorry, um,” you stare down in confusion at his expectant hand, mouth opening and closing as you try to decide what to say.

“Your phone,” he instructs and your pretty eyes widen as you stare up at him, the difference in stature between you both now incredibly apparent as he dwarfs you when standing over you.

“Oh!” You stare at him with pursed lips and pull your phone out, opening it to your texts. He sends himself a text and hands your phone back wordlessly, before turning his shoulder as he walks out abruptly, leaving you further confused.

Chasing after him, you just barely catch him as he kicks his bike’s stand up and throws his helmet on.

“Thanks again!” You call after him. He glances over his shoulder and though you can’t see his expression behind the dark visor of his helmet, he smirks back at you before driving off.

As you just barely make it back home on your sputtering bike, you manage to replace the fuel line and shoot him a text.

11:53 PM You || fixed the fuel line. thanks again, youre a lifesaver

11:55 PM Sukuna || thanks for the drink.

In all honesty, you figure that’s the last you’ll ever hear from him, but you quickly find out that the cold disposition he gives off isn’t really all there is to him when he asks if you want to go to a bike show a week later.

He fails to mention that his youngest brother Yuji would be joining you for the show, but as you walk the show floor with him and his younger sibling, you realize his brother likely just got all the conversation genes.

Sukuna is still aloof, he doesn't say much to you outside of comments about the bikes and even though he’s the one that invited you, you still can't tell if he enjoys your company. Although he’s quiet, his presence is surprisingly alluring and you're grateful to have someone to listen to your ramblings, even if he doesn't seem interested.

As you walk the length of the convention hall, weaving between crowds of people that seem to part at Sukuna’s menacing figure, Sukuna pauses to look at gorgeous black Yamaha. You barely catch the way he silently stops, managing to point out the pause to Yuji just in time to keep you all from getting separated.

“Don’t think I’ve heard him talk this much in ages,” Yuji comments with a raised brow. You tilt your head towards him, following his gaze to Sukuna.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” the younger man scratches the back of his head. “I don’t have my license yet but I like lookin’ around. He’s usually pretty snippy about which bikes I should be looking at,” he shrugs. “You guys must have a lot in common for him to be so chatty.”

Chatty, you practically scoff to yourself. The man barely said ten sentences to you.

You do notice the way he shoots Yuji a glare or groans about his chatting on occasion, though. Not once does he direct that at you.

Even still, you don't expect him to keep inviting you out. Ten sentences isn’t exactly something to form a friendship on.

Continuing to surprise you, you still hear from him. Next thing you know, you’re invited to ride with him and his brother Choso, invited out to dinner with a group of his friends and he even accepts your invite to see a horror movie with a couple of your friends.

You’re quick to learn that Sukuna is just like that.

Sukuna’s mild and somewhat haughty disposition is something you grow accustomed to as you learn how to talk to him. Though you find yourself talking mostly at him, you realize that’s just how he likes things. He pays a surprising amount of attention to your words, though you don’t tend to notice until he shows it through actions later.

He shows up to your work with takeout on his lunch break when you mention you forgot your lunch. He goes shopping with you despite his distaste for malls when you tell him you need some new clothes. He’s more agreeable when you’re around and his friends are quick to point it out, insisting you need to be there at all times to make him more tolerable, though they’re mostly joking.

He does treat you differently from the rest of his friends. You figure it’s just because your friendship is new, though.

After being invited along on a ride down the highway to a neighboring small town with Sukuna’s friend Uraume and his brother Choso, you eye up Sukuna’s plate. You’d ordered no side with your meal but god his fries look good. You shoot him a curious glance, met with his typical aloof expression, if not one of mild irritation. Glancing again at his fries, you reach over to steal one, pleased when you pop it in your mouth.

Sukuna rolls his eyes at you, muttering under his breath about you ‘being a brat’ and how ‘you should have ordered a side’, but it’s all a show as he lets you steal another one when you smile sweetly at him.

When Choso follows your act, wanting to try the fries as well, Sukuna swats his hand away with a hiss. “My plate isn’t a buffet,” he growls contemptibly. Choso wrinkles his nose, shaking his hand of the harsh slap.

When Sukuna gets up to use the washroom, Choso waits until he’s out of earshot to comment.

“How the hell did you get away with getting some of that asshole’s fries?”

You shrug. “Dunno. He just let me.”

“Grumpy bastard…”

Again, you insist you just don’t know him well and he’s being kind so the action is brushed off.

A week later, Sukuna insists you tag along with his buddy Toji to get drinks, but when you arrive at the meeting spot and pull your helmet off, Sukuna is haughtily arguing with the raven-haired man.

“C’mon, it’s cheap. Their food’s fine.” Toji insists with little more than a raised eyebrow and an unamused sigh.

“What food?” You ask with a smile as you saunter over to the two much taller men.

“Red’s,” Toji responds gruffly, his unamused expression turning to one of intrigue as he realizes you must be Sukuna’s friend. “You must be y/n.”

You grin at him as he smirks.

“Toji,” he introduces himself. “Now can ya tell this asshole that Red’s is cheap?”

Sukuna’s arms are crossed over his chest. “We can do better for cheap.” He all but hisses, his eyes fixed in the distance.

“I’ve never been,” you glance between the two with pursed lips, mentally chuckling to yourself at how much you have to look up to both men. “I think it sounds good.”

Sukuna’s arms fall to his side as his fiery eyes lock on you. He pauses for a moment, sparing a glance at Toji, but those deep eyes return to you with a begrudging sigh as he grumbles something under his breath.

“Fine.”

Toji’s eyes widen as he dangles his keys from his hands, his expression thoughtful. After a moment, he fists the keys as he gets ready to get in his car and head to the bar. He pauses before opening the door, a shit-eating grin spread over his scarred lips.

“Think I need ya to tag along more often, y/n.” He catches the tilt of your head and chuckles. “Think ya tame this shithead a bit.”

Sukuna roars something at Toji as he tries to catch him before the door slams and the car speeds off, leaving you giggling at the interaction.

Toji’s not the last to point it out, either.

You don’t think much of it, though. Sukuna just shows he cares through his actions and that’s how you come to know him as your best friend.

Sukuna is, of course, smitten with you. He adores how perfectly you seem to understand him. He loves the way you invite him along to everything with your friends despite his tendencies to scare others off. He loves that in spite of the trouble he gets himself into, your opinion of him never changes. He loves that you text him about stupid things, and that even when his response is inhospitable, you continue to text him like you would any other friend.

Because you’re his best friend. And he won’t admit it to anyone, but you know. He knows you know.

You get him.

So of course when you excitedly text him about your date, you have no way of knowing that his naturally cold responses are no longer his usual tone. They’re frigid, maybe even mildly snarky, but over text you don’t see the way his brow is knit tightly in contempt.

When he meets your boyfriend for the first time, you notice the strange tension between your best friend and partner. Your boyfriend brings it up but you had warned him in advance that Sukuna comes across that way, so you brush it off as little more than Sukuna being himself.

Yet, you notice the little things. You’ve known Sukuna for a long time now. You notice the way his jaw tightens when he sees your boyfriend lean down to kiss you at a dinner for your birthday a year into your relationship. You tilt your head questioningly at him from across the table, a silent query, but he doesn’t give you a response, that mild expression never once leaving his eyes as he leans back in his seat.

“Kuna?” Your sweet voice pulls his attention down to you when you pull him aside as everyone is saying goodnight outside the restaurant. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’.”

You cock your brow at his flippant response, dismissing you with a wave of his hand. “I know you well enough to know you’re lying,” you insist with an expectant look.

God, that look makes his hardened expression falter. Sukuna is well aware that he’s unapproachable, scary even. His form is built and he towers over most everyone, not to mention his constant disinterested expression and the tattoos he sports.

You often tease him for his ‘resting bitch face’.

Yet here you are, hand on your hip, so small and sweet, a fire lit behind those gorgeous eyes of yours. Cute.

“It’s just been a long day, don’t worry ‘bout it.” He knows you don’t believe him, but it’s the best you’re getting and you know that as well as he does. Hurt flashes through your eyes and he does feel a pang of guilt, but he keeps it locked away as he sighs and pulls something from the pocket of his leather jacket. “Happy birthday, by the way.”

Your wide eyes look up at him in shock. You’d insisted no one should get you a gift, but when you texted him this morning and told him your boyfriend, so cheerily talking to your friends behind the two of you, had forgotten your birthday, he couldn’t leave you empty-handed in that way.

You gingerly reach out and take the box from him. You know what it is instantly and the way your cheeks redden, the way it shocks you to silence has him smirking, mostly to himself. His hands remain in his pockets, his unamused expression locked on your hands that hesitate as you slowly open the velveteen box.

Lying so beautifully strewn in the box is a necklace you pointed out to him when you’d gone shopping together what must have been years ago now. A gorgeous silver chain lays delicately holding a dainty bejeweled star with your birthstone in the center. Of course he’d been paying attention. He always does.

“You didn’t,” it’s all you can manage as you stare at it in disbelief. To your surprise, Sukuna is smiling softly down at you, a rare sight that you want to burn into your retinas.

“You deserve a good birthday.”

You know it’s a dig at your boyfriend, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Maybe that should be a sign, but you’re too caught up in the moment as tears brim your eyes.

“This was so expensive though, I- I- can’t-”

“You can and you will.”

You know when Sukuna demands something, he means it. This is one of those times.

Tears threatening to spill, you wrap your arms tightly around his toned middle. If he weren’t a giant in comparison to you, you might have bowled him over with the force you hug him with.

Sukuna relishes in the moment, memorizing the feeling of your body in his arms, the way you bury your head into his chest, hiding your tears in his hug as they inevitably stain his white V-neck, but he doesn’t care. His arms wrap tightly around you, one of the rare times he returns one of your affections.

When you part from him, using your free hand to wipe your eyes, Sukuna takes the box from you, moving to put the necklace on with ease. He moves like every action he takes is practiced as he confidently clasps the necklace around your neck.

“It’s beautiful,” you hum as you look down at it, running a delicate finger over the pendant.

The salmon-haired man hums mildly. “‘Course. You chose it.”

You examine his eyes, your expression unreadable as you contemplate Sukuna’s actions.

He may be agreeable around you, he may be willing to make compromises with you that he won’t for others, but this is new for him. This is sweet, and he knows you’re thinking such a thing too when he meets those pretty eyes staring up at him. He doesn’t care anymore, though.

He wants you to be happy.

When your boyfriend confronts you about the necklace later that night, you tell him the truth. Maybe you hope he’ll realize he fucked up. Maybe you hope he’ll right his wrongs.

Instead, you end up in an argument as your boyfriend insists that his mistake in forgetting the date was honest but that Sukuna overstepped boundaries.

Maybe your best friend did, in truth.

And so as your boyfriend snaps when you defend your best friend and the argument takes a turn for the worse, maybe it shouldn’t be that same best friend that you turn to. Maybe that will just make things worse.

But the phone only rings twice before he picks up.

He sounds tired, his voice coated in sluggish exhaustion as he mumbles a ‘hello’ on the other line. You hear the rustling of sheets on the other end, a pang of guilt clawing at your throat as you know you’ve woken him up.

“Kuna?” The tone of your voice is foreign to him. Meek, strained. Even earlier in the night when you had confronted him about his cold disposition, your tone still held that unwavering strength and fire that he loves about you, so this wakes him up.

Leaning up on his elbow in bed, he squints at his phone.

“It’s three in the morning, y/n.”

“I know.” You pause and Sukuna waits for you to explain. He doesn’t need to say anything for you to know that he’s listening. “We got into a fight.”

Sukuna sighs, full of disdain, though not towards you. Never towards you.

“You safe?” His voice is surprisingly soft, though you chalk it up to him being tired.

You nod, before realizing he can’t see you. “... yeah.”

He hears you sniffle on the other end of the line and has to physically resist the urge to say things he’ll regret about your boyfriend. “Right. ‘M on my way. Stay put.”

He hangs up, wasting no time in throwing on a pair of gray sweatpants and a plain black V-neck. He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, although it doesn’t do him any favors and he isn’t about to waste time styling it. As it stands, you’ve seen him in a worse state after some particularly wild nights that had ended with one of you on the other’s couch.

His bike roars to life outside his apartment and he’s off into the cold night air, barely grazing his skin as his leather jacket and helmet protect him from the bite. He pushes the limits of his bike and of the road as he speeds past any cars he comes across on the short drive to your house, and he’s glad he did when he spots you on your front doorstep, head in your hands in little more than pajama shorts and a tank top.

He’s off his bike in an instant, shaking his head as he takes his helmet off in an effort to fix his hair before he kneels in front of you.

You’re relieved at the sight of him, clearly fresh out of bed and having hurried right over. Your knight in shining armor. Or at least a shiny red helmet.

His brow furrows as he looks you over, spotting the goosebumps that litter your bare legs and arms.

“Shit,” he mutters as he rolls his shoulders and shrugs his leather jacket off, wrapping it around you. It engulfs your figure almost entirely, draping over you like a dress. If the situation was any different he would think it’s adorable.

You look up at him between long, wet lashes, fresh tears streaking down your makeup-stained cheeks. Your eyes are red and puffy from crying and you’re sure your exhaustion and defeat are written across your face in bright bold lettering by the way he frowns.

“Did he kick you out?”

“It’s a long story,” you mutter, just barely audible.

“I got time.”

There’s a note of contempt that floats between his words and you know just as well as he does that he’s resisting the urge to beat down your door and knock some sense into your boyfriend.

Your mouth opens then closes enough times that Sukuna grows impatient, muscles in his jaw clenching as he grows closer and closer to busting down your door when you finally find words.

“We’ve been fighting on and off since we got home,” you admit. Sukuna raises a brow. That was four hours ago. “He was pissed about- about-” you stammer over your words, biting your lip as you fiddle with the necklace that sits beautifully around your neck. Beautiful like you.

“Me,” Sukuna dryly finishes your sentence.

You frown and he knows he’s right. Of course. Maybe the necklace was overstepping this time, but he’d watched your shitty boyfriend step on you more times than he could count and hadn’t once said a word. He respected you and your fiery demeanor entirely too much to ever want to see you upset.

Yet no matter what path he chose, it seemed you would be upset regardless.

“He took my phone and went through everything,” you clear your throat as your voice cracks mid-sentence, staring down at the phone in your hands. The screen is cracked and Sukuna isn’t sure if he wants to know whether it was shattered before today or not.

Your words set him ablaze in anger. It burns like an itch on his skin and it takes every last ounce of self control that he has to hold himself back and just listen. The contrasting cold air is nice on his skin, soothing what little fury it's able to with its brisk touch.

“Do you remember that photo we took together on Halloween?”

Sukuna nods slowly. He knows exactly where this is going. It was well over a year ago, before you’d started dating your boyfriend, when you had convinced Sukuna to dress as a king and you his queen. He’d had a surprising amount of fun with it and with enough alcohol flowing through his veins, his words had grown more frivolous. He’d spent all night calling you his queen or his princess, pretty much until the moment he’d thrown up, the words ejecting from his dialect along with the alcohol. Regardless, the proof was in the texts between you from that night.

At some point in the night, you’d gotten a photo taken clinging to his shoulders, a calm smile on Sukuna’s lips as he’d carried you with ease. It made him smirk the following morning recalling the memory, glad it hadn’t disappeared with the words or alcohol.

Regardless, he’d missed his chance to shoot his shot, growing too accustomed to having you around to consider you didn’t see his change in attitude around you as anything more than friendly, so he’d retreated to his usual detached self.

Clearly that detachment wasn’t enough for your boyfriend as you flip him your phone screen. So it is newly broken.

God give Sukuna the strength to sit still.

“And you’re outside now, why?”

“I felt sick, I needed air.” You shrug, fiddling with your phone in your lap. “He got mad that I walked away and we ended up fighting again, then he slammed the door in my face.”

“He kicked you out,” Sukuna states matter of factly, venom dripping from each and every word.

“He locked me out,” you shrug again, but Sukuna doesn’t care for the details. You have no keys, not to your bike or your house, no jacket, you’re in shorts and a tank top… jesus.

“What a fucking prick.” With that, he’s on his feet and you know he’s about to slam his fist on your door. Or through it. Sukuna may be kind with you but the bad boy persona he sports isn’t a persona at all- Sukuna would not hesitate to knock your boyfriend clean out. He’d been to jail before, one more time wasn’t a big deal if it meant keeping you safe.

“Kuna.” He pauses at the plain tone you say his name in. It’s not a warning, it’s not scolding. He doesn’t know what to make of it. “Not now.”

He huffs and clicks his tongue. His jaw clenches as his shrunken, furious pupils stare down at you, but when he notices your legs are shaking from the cold, he relents.

“Fine.” The word is grumbled as his hands reach for your waist and lift you to your feet with little more than a hum when you’re standing at your full height, barely reaching his broad shoulders. He leaves a hand on the small of your back, setting his helmet over your head and zipping his jacket up over your small frame in an effort to keep you safe when you climb onto the back of his bike.

Sukuna glances back at you as you cling to his toned abdomen, his bike pulling away quickly. Riding with Sukuna is familiar. Though you normally follow him, his quick riding pace and not-entirely-legal maneuvers don’t scare you the way they once did, because everything Sukuna does feels practiced, rehearsed.

Pulling into his apartment building, he pulls the bike into a parking spot and lets you hand him the helmet as you follow him up to his apartment.

It’s a bit of a mess, dishes sit in the sink, empty bottles and cans littering the counter and a garbage bag sits at the door, but it doesn’t matter because you’re warm and you’re safe and it’s not like he’d let you take the couch anyway given the current situation.

Sukuna moves to at least tidy the couch, fully expecting you to make yourself at home like you always do, but when he turns to see you’re staring at the ground in the entrance, his jacket wrapped around you like a blanket, he frowns. That’s not like you.

In fact, in all the years you two have known one another, Sukuna’s never seen you so spaced out.

“Did he hurt you?”

It’s his best guess as to why you’re so out of it, but when you shake your head, he’s simply at a loss.

Sukuna doesn’t do comfort. He’ll watch your favorite movies with you and make you food, but he doesn’t do words of comfort. He’s a man of action, and although the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on is standing in his apartment, he doesn’t dare to act on the stray thoughts running through his mind, even though he knows you deserve to be treated right.

Coming to stand in front of you, he sighs.

“Whaddya want me to do?”

Anyone else would assume he’s irritated with your presence, but you know it’s a genuine question. Your friend doesn’t know what you need and he’s trying his best to figure it out. He’s trying to help.

“Can I have a blanket?” You ask him, shoulders hunched in exhaustion.

There’s silence in the apartment as Sukuna moves to his bedroom to grab a blanket.

“The red one please!” You call after him as though that isn’t the one he’s already grabbing. He knows your favorite.

Returning to you, he drops the red blanket in your arms, his heart twisting as you pull his jacket off and hand it to him in exchange.

“Can I, um, come in?”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow questioningly, subconsciously fiddling with the tongue piercing in his mouth. Not once have you ever asked him to come in. You always, always, made yourself at home, even though it was much to his dismay the first few times you’d let yourself into his apartment in spite of his grumbles and irritated huffs.

Sukuna’s reaction is all the permission you need as you realize he must find the whole situation strange, but everything feels foreign to you. It’s not like you haven’t stayed at Sukuna’s before, it’s not like the couch isn’t your second bed, it’s that you feel like you’re betraying your boyfriend by being here.

Not that Sukuna would do anything anyway, you know he doesn’t see you in such a way. You may be his closest friend but he’s never once shown any sort of other interest towards you. Even if he did see you that way, he’s just not that kind of person.

Still, you gingerly sit at the edge of the couch, pulling your knees to your chest and wrapping yourself in the massive blanket. Sukuna moves to sit beside you, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. He looks at you expectantly, waiting to see what you want to do, if you want to talk.

But you don’t answer, and Sukuna is at a loss of what to do. A contemplative silence settles over you as he leans his head back against the couch, eyeing you and hoping you’ll say something.

“Can I ask you something, Ryo?”

The use of the nickname he lets only you call him quirks his brow as he realizes you’re serious.

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

That’s… not what the gruff man was expecting to hear.

His jaw tightens as his piercing eyes stare down at you. He rubs a hand over his face as he tries to make sense of the question, too tired to be thinking this deeply over something. He stares at you pensively as though the world rests on this one response.

“Yeah. You’re pretty.”

Your eyes fall to your knees and the way Sukuna’s head tilts, you’re sure he thinks he’s made a mistake.

“Thanks, Kuna.”

“The fuck did that prick say to you that has ya askin’?”

You hesitate, avoiding his discerning eyes as Sukuna’s chest surges with anger. Your best friend’s fist clenches in his lap as he leans forward, examining your expression.

“What the fuck did he say?” Sukuna’s voice is monstrous, but you could never fear his anger knowing he’s never once directed it your way. You know he’s irritated you haven’t answered yet, but even between his irritation and the gruff tone he uses, he could never scare you.

“He told me I couldn’t do better than him.”

“And?” Sukuna pushes demandingly, his fingers clasping the back of his couch so hard you wonder if he has the strength to crush it.

“That he’s way out of my league and should have chosen…” you trail off, not oblivious to the way Sukuna quirks a brow for you to continue. When you meekly whisper your friend’s name, Sukuna’s seething.

Fury practically drifts from his body like smoke and to your surprise you do hear the couch creak beneath his hand.

You’ve only ever seen Sukuna this angry once before.

Sukuna’s closest friend aside from you, Uraume, often accompanied you on your trips to the bar with Sukuna and would join in on your rides with their own bike. The two of them were two peas in a pod, similar in all the ways you weren’t, but if anything it made you closer to Uraume for having an understanding of Sukuna.

For that exact reason, you’d spotted Uraume’s discomfort a mile away when someone began hitting on them. Uraume could handle themself, so you didn’t think much of it until the man’s hand was tightly gripping Uraume’s arm.

Alarmed, you pointed out Uraume’s discomfort to your drunk best friend and he didn’t hesitate to clock the man hitting on them.

So when Sukuna is on his feet with a familiar rage brewing and doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself, you know you have to calm him down before you’re bailing him out of jail again. It’s not something you want to make a habit of.

“Kuna, it’s okay.”

“No!” He hisses, swinging his hand through the air as he stares at the door.

“Please, I’ll be okay, I promise,” you try to insist, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“It’s not okay for him to say shit like that to you,” he growls, glowering from where he stands over you, eyes on the door. He wants to leave, you know he does.

“It’s not, I know, but it’s not your problem.”

“Not my- What the fuck don’t you get?”

Your eyes widen at Sukuna’s question. His voice is frigid as ever, but for once you feel the shards of ice pricking your skin.

“What?” Your dumbfounded and hurt question hangs in the air momentarily as you try to process this outburst.

Sukuna’s scarred eye twitches as he runs his tongue over his teeth. He huffs out a breath as he sees your expression, forcing himself to calm down so as not to make this about him. He doesn’t want to say something he regrets, and he certainly doesn’t want that icy tone to be directed at you, ever again.

“He doesn’t fucking deserve you.”

Your shoulders fall at his words, his chest heaving as he stares at you with an unidentifiable emotion.

“Where’s this coming from?” Your brow knits tightly over the bridge of your nose. As you subconsciously chew on your lower lip, Sukuna has to do everything in his power not to stare at your lips.

“Look, I just care, alright? Or somethin’.”

You barely know how to react to your best friend’s admission of care for you. Not once has he ever shown an ounce of his care through words. Sure, he’s shown it in other ways, but this is a first for him.

His gaze is fixed on the kitchen, so he barely notices when you stand up and set your hand on his arm, your thumb comfortingly rubbing his arm.

“I appreciate it, Kuna.” You tell him with a tired smile, doing your best to reassure him that you’re okay in spite of the situation. “Just… can we please just watch a movie or something?” You’re too tired, too worn out to handle everything going on right now and you’re afraid the buildup of emotions in your chest will overflow if you don’t distract yourself soon.

Sukuna’s focus fixes on your hand on his arm, the way it seems to burn into him in a way he’d long grown painfully familiar with. It wasn’t uncommon for you to grab his arm and drag him somewhere, or hug him each time you said hello. Hell, the Halloween you’d both gotten entirely too drunk, you’d been on Sukuna’s back half of the night giggling and telling him, your King, where to take you.

Yet this time, the burn hurts. It hurts him to see you here with dried tears on your cheeks. It angers him to know your boyfriend had gotten away with treating you in such a way for so long.

He lets out a breath through his nose and takes a seat on the couch again at your insistence, watching as you drape the big blanket over the both of you. And god is it cute when you do, making sure he’s completely covered from the waist down like you’re tucking him in.

When you lean back against the arm of the couch, slinking comfortably back into the cushions and grab the remote, Sukuna feels his body begin to relax too, allowing himself to focus on your wellbeing here and now rather than the fact that he wants to pummel your boyfriend.

He’s not shocked when you flip through options and eventually settle on a Studio Ghibli movie he knows you’ve seen a million times because he’s seen it one too many times.

You know he doesn’t mind although he isn’t the biggest fan of the movie. Either way, it’s nearly five in the morning and you both know you’ll be asleep before you know it.

–

The next morning as cool air pours through a window and birdsong decorates each blow of the breeze, the pounding of your head is a rude awakening. It’s too early for you to be up given that you were awake so late, but your phone seems to think otherwise.

Your eyes flicker open blearily, and you lean up in bed with a yawn, realizing suddenly that you’re in Sukuna’s room and he’s nowhere to be found. Sitting up fully, you bring a hand up to your temple, pressing on it in an effort to ease the pain as you search for your phone, finding it eventually on the floor a small distance away.

Hopping down from the tall mattress, you yawn as you stare at the screen, your heart clenching at the sight of the contact photo on-screen as your phone rings. Your boyfriend has his arms wrapped around your middle, his chin resting on your shoulder as you both grin. With the way your screen is now shattered, it looks almost like a scene from a movie in the way it’s practically screaming a warning at you.

You’d spent far too much time alone with your thoughts the previous night. Hell, even with Sukuna’s comfort, his disdain for your boyfriend had been a bit of a wakeup call. Still, your thumb hovers over the green button.

“Hello?” Your voice is broken as you answer the phone.

“Thank god baby, I was so worried about you. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have left you outside last night, I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

You take a couple of steps forward, walking towards the living room as your eyes lock onto the tall man draped over the couch, his limbs entirely too long for the cushions. He must have carried you to his bed at some point and taken the couch.

Your stomach twists as you realize your boyfriend’s words are all lost on you, you didn’t hear a single one. You’re not sure when you tuned him out, or how long you’ve been staring at Sukuna when your boyfriend’s words pull you from your thoughts.

“Y/n? Did you hear me?”

“Sorry, I’m a bit out of it. What did you say?”

He sighs in frustration on the other side of the line and you wince as his tone gains a familiar edge. “Where are you? I’m coming to get you so we can talk.”

“I- um-” you pause, brow furrowing as you stare at your best friend, who begins to shuffle from his uncomfortable position on the couch as your soft voice awakens him from slumber.

“Y/n?” Your boyfriend’s voice cuts through the haze again, but you’re at a loss for words as Sukuna lifts his head, irritation written across his face at being awake, but when he flips over on the couch and spots you, his demeanor softens.

“Yeah. You’re pretty.”

Sukuna’s words ring in your head over and over and you bite your lip. He pushes himself up on the couch, moving to stand a small distance in front of you in three long strides.

Sukuna may not have a way with words, but you never had a hard time telling what he was thinking just by the way he looks at you. As he stares down at you with a tilt of his head, you know exactly what’s going through his mind.

Like that, it all clicks. Of course he hated your boyfriend. The signs were always there, you just didn’t pay them any mind. The reason he was colder than usual towards your boyfriend is as obvious as the sun in the sky.

Sukuna thinks you’re pretty. He wasn’t trying to comfort you when he said that. That’s not who Sukuna is. That may as well be an admission that he would move mountains for you.

“Y/n, baby? What’s going on? I want you home, now.”

Your chest twists at his tone and as your eyes meet Sukuna’s, you wonder if your phone is loud enough for him to hear when his lip twitches.

You clear your throat, your eyes never once leaving Sukuna’s from where he stands with tousled hair, wrinkled sweatpants and a bare chest. It’s not unfamiliar to you, you know Sukuna is beyond hot. You know Sukuna could take anyone he wants home and you know he has a streak of doing so, but now that you think about it, it’s been a long time since you’ve seen Sukuna with anyone, and you know why now.

“You left me outside all night in the cold.” Your voice is meek, still mindlessly chewing on your lip as you stare at the tattooed man’s eyes, now lit ablaze with a fire that hadn’t been there earlier. “You know what- I should go.”

“What? Baby, come on we need to talk-”

“I have nothing to talk to you about. We’re-” You pause, your stomach stirring uncomfortably as all of your emotions seem to collide and collapse within you. You feel the tears that threaten to spill, your composure that threatens to break as you ball your hand into a fist at your side.

Sukuna’s hand twitches beside him as he does everything in his power not to lean down and kiss you then and there. He wants you. He wants all of you. He wants to show your boyfriend everything he’s about to lose.

He wants to make you his. He wants you to make him yours.

Yet, all he can reasonably do is set a hand on your upper arm. He can’t be selfish. Not when you’ve come to him in your time of need.

“We’re done.”

“Nonono, we are not done, hold on-”

“I’ll come grab my bike and my things soon-”

“-let’s talk about this, I just made a mistake, okay-”

“-goodbye.”

“Don’t hang up, baby, hold on, fuck-”

Your hand falls to your side as you stare up at the taller man.

He doesn’t say a word as a tear runs down your cheek, shortly followed by a sob wracking your body. Sukuna’s hand moves from your arm to the back of your head as he pulls you into his chest, holding you there as you cry against his bare skin, tears wetting his toned pecs.

It’s not his ideal morning, but at least he can shamelessly say now that he wants to rearrange your boyfriend’s face with his fist.

He won’t say it anyway, though. He knows better.

Your best friend doesn’t say anything but his actions speak volumes as he holds you to him protectively, unmoving as he envelops you into his form. He exhales deeply as he holds you tightly to his body, his fingers gripping you tightly. It’s reassuring to know you have him in your time of need and eventually your tears begin to subside.

You blink your wet lashes against his skin as your warm breath fans his chest and abdomen. He shoots you a disgruntled look as your lashes tickle his skin and he jolts at the feeling.

“Don’t be a brat,” he warns through gritted teeth, but it holds no malice.

You chuckle through tears. “Sorry, Ryo.”

He rolls his shoulders and holds you again, letting your face fall against his chest once more. This time, you’re careful to keep your eyes closed to avoid tickling him.

He’s surprisingly patient with you as he lets you stand there, only moving to take and silence your phone when he grows frustrated with the vibration.

When you finally settle, he leads you back to the couch, tossing his shirt and the blanket off the couch and onto the floor.

“Did you move me to the bed?”

He hums affirmatively, his chest warming as you smile at him. “Thanks, I could have taken the couch though. It looked a bit too small for y-”

“No.”

You breathe out through your nose in a half-hearted laugh. There’s never any use arguing with him when he’s made up his mind, so you give it up. Oh well.

“Can I stay here for a bit?”

You figure Sukuna will huff and puff and make a show out of it but he nods easily.

“Thanks,” you sigh, sinking back into the couch.

You stare at the ceiling. What a morning. You’ve barely been awake for ten minutes and your heart is pounding in your chest just from sitting beside your best friend, someone you’ve known for years.

Someone you’d long pushed any attraction for down into the depths of your heart in an effort to save yourself the heartbreak of being with someone who seemed to have no interest in you. Hell, you’d once thought he was emotionally unavailable, and yet…?

You can’t help but stare.

He’s exhausted, you’re not sure how much longer he’ll be able to stay awake as his head bobs down onto the back of the couch, mouth slightly ajar as sleep settles over his form. You smile softly at the sight, swallowing at the yearning feeling of wanting to settle into his warmth, though you know you shouldn’t.

You’re a mess. You’ve heard your boyfriend- ex- say things you aren’t ready to admit to yourself that leave fresh stinging wounds. Hell, that’s an entire can of worms you don’t want to touch right now. Your belongings, your bike, your entire life is all trapped in his house, in the house of someone that-

God why had you let him step all over you like that? It leaves you frowning as your heart twists and clenches uncomfortably. You loved him. Deep down, you know it’s the reason. You convinced yourself he loved you too.

You curse yourself for overlooking your feelings for Sukuna, for pushing them down. He’d always cared deeply for you, the signs had always been there, yet you never paid them any mind.

Chewing on your lower lip again, you get to your feet and grab the blanket off the floor, draping it over him. Your thumb brushes over the faded black lines that race over his shoulders and down his collar bones as you tuck the blanket over his shoulders.

He hums subconsciously, a serene smile pulling at his lips.

You smile back, turning to get some rest yourself. When Sukuna kicks his foot out suddenly and damn-near trips you, you let out a surprised yelp, spinning around to confront him.

“What the hell, Kuna?” You harshly snarl at him.

His lidded eyes just barely open, your reaction earning a smirk from him. There’s his feisty best friend.

“C’mere, it’s cold.”

It’s not cold, and Ryomen Sukuna is not sly, but your stomach flutters and your heart jumps to your throat anyway. Your shoulders fall to your sides in surprise, unable to be frustrated with him.

He flips the blanket up, his arm extended over the back of the couch. His expression is mild as usual but when you take him up on his offer and plop down next to him, his racing heart tells you everything you need to know.

Pulling your knees up onto the couch, you let him pull you against is chest, your head resting on his broad shoulder as he barely lasts a minute before the rhythm of his breathing steadies and his head falls back on the couch again.

You’re not long for the world of the waking either as you succumb to the temptation of sleep on his warm chest.

When your eyes flicker open again, your head has fallen into Sukuna’s lap and he’s splayed in what looks like an uncomfortable position with his arm and leg hanging off the couch. His head is still leaned back against the back of the couch with his mouth hanging open as soft snores part his lips.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen him asleep. You’ve spent many hungover mornings at his apartment and vice versa but now in the gentle morning light with the distant sound of birdsong as the only noise disturbing his snores, he looks peaceful.

You shuffle on his lap in an effort to get a better look at his serene expression, but his strained groan suggests that you may have awoken him earlier than he would have liked.

“Can ya cut that out?” He grumbles without opening his eyes as he reaches down and adjusts your head to lay more on his abdomen.

The irritation in his voice doesn’t hold a candle to the sincerity in which his arm now cradles you against him and you giggle, to which he opens an eye to observe you.

“Sorry,” you hum. He exhales as he closes his eyes again, sliding further down on the couch.

You lay in bliss on his toned and horribly attractive bare chest for what only feels like a few minutes before his eyes peel open and he’s drinking in the sight of you, his gorgeous best friend, smiling at him from his chest.

And oh my god, Ryomen Sukuna is blushing.

Would you really be his best friend if you didn’t point it out?

“Kuna?”

“Hm?”

“You a lil flustered?”

Sukuna’s brow furrows deeply. “I am not.”

“You’re blushing.”

“It’s warm in here, you’re laying on top of me and we have a blanket,” he refutes with an edge to his voice that tells you that you’re poking a nerve.

You also know him well enough to know it’s faux anger, playful if anything.

“Funny, I was told it was cold a couple of hours ago.”

His lip curls, chest rising and falling beneath you as he huffs. “You push my buttons.” You can see from the way a muscle in his jaw works that he’s fiddling with his tongue piercing.

“I could push more than just your buttons,” your voice drips with confidence, lowering an octave at the implication. You pull a hand out from beneath your chin, running a dainty finger across the length of his collar bone.

Sukuna’s pupils dilate in an instant, his attention drawn to your finger. He swallows hard, the corners of his lips pulling up into a smirk. All signs of his contempt forgotten, warmth swirls in those gorgeous eyes of his, but the smirk on his lips is devilish.

“Careful, princess,” he warns in a gruff voice that has you clenching your thighs together with wide eyes. Sukuna’s brow twitches as he feels your legs shuffle, entirely too happy with himself at getting such a reaction from you all from two words. He chuckles, his chest rumbling beneath you as you hide your face in his chest, heat radiating from your cheeks.

Tension is ripe in the air between you both when you finally meet Sukuna’s intense gaze and it makes a question pop into your mind.

“How long?” The words are blurted out and Sukuna shifts beneath you to get a better view.

“What are you on about?”

“How long have you liked me?”

Sukuna’s scoff hits the air before he can even register he’s made the noise. “Go get ready or whatever so we can pick up your shit.” His brow is pulled into a tight scowl as he all but shoves you to the ground.

You barely manage to catch yourself before falling on your ass, rolling your eyes as you steady yourself.

“Kuuuna!” You coo with a grin, but before you have a chance to tease him any further, Sukuna lunges at you. “Wait, wait-”

You shriek in protest as he barrels into your legs, effortlessly lifting you over his shoulder. He pays no mind to any of your protests, nor your kicking and squirming against him as he dumps you with little grace on his bed.

“What-”

“Stop complainin’ and go change or shower or whatever y’ gotta do. I want your bike back.”

Sitting up as you attempt to reorient yourself, you blink a couple of times and manage to call his name out just before he’s turning away.

“I don’t have anything to wear,” you tell him, staring down at your pajamas.

“You’ve been leaving shit here for years, find something in my closet.”

“Have I?” You wonder aloud, suddenly realizing your hungover mornings passed in his apartment are likely the culprit for many missing outfits. “Wait, why do you want my bike back?” You realize suddenly, but he’s already shutting the door to his room and leaving you in tranquility.

Standing in the silence broken only by distant birdsong and the muffled sounds of traffic, you find your gaze lingering on the door where he once stood.

How long? You wonder to yourself. How many signs, how many signals had you missed or brushed off all these years under the assumption that your grumpy best friend was just that- your best friend?

You set a hand over your fast-beating heart, trying to steady the pace it’s beating at as emotions run rampant through you. Between the shock of realization of Sukuna’s feelings and the shitty night you’d had- your birthday, by the way- you can’t help the shaky exhale that parts your lips.

It’s a lot to take in.

You take your time showering, enjoying the way the warm water rinses away all signs of the prior night. It’s a warm respite from the days that are beginning to grow frosty as winter approaches. Most importantly, the white noise of the water falling drowns out the steady stream of jumbled thoughts flowing like a river through your mind.

Perusing Sukuna’s closet, you do manage to find more of your clothes than you had expected.

“My nice leggings were here the whole time?” You mutter to yourself as you pull them from a pile of pants. Along with them, you manage to find a pair of jeans, more shirts than you’d care to admit, an old jacket and a hoodie.

Pulling on a form-fitting black low-cut shirt and a red leather jacket, you poke your head out of the bedroom door.

“Why’d you never give any of this back?”

Sukuna’s leaning out the window with a cigarette held between two fingers. He blows a puff of smoke out into the cool fall air before turning to you. He’s still in his sweatpants but has pulled his shirt on.

“I used to bring ‘em back to your place when I visited but they always ended up back on my couch,” he shrugs simply. “Wasn’t worth the time.”

“I didn’t know it was this much clothing.”

“Your memory’s shit.”

“Ouch,” you hold a hand to your heart, feigning being hurt.

He stubs out the cigarette, waving the smoke out the window with his arm before shutting it. “Done in there?”

You nod and exchange places with Sukuna as he showers. He takes less than a quarter of the time you did and is out with the most effortlessly cool style that you can’t help but be jealous of him.

His typical black leather jacket hangs off his shoulders with a vintage Harley Davidson shirt beneath. He sports ripped jeans on his lower half and blackout shades sit atop his spiked pink hair.

“See something you like?”

You barely manage to utter out a pathetic ‘uh’ before Sukuna’s chuckling at you as he catches you eyeing him from your place on the couch. He makes his way around the couch, patting your shoulder encouragingly.

“Let’s go.”

Shaking your head to clear your mind, you get to your feet and follow Sukuna to the door, stopping him before he can leave.

“Hey. Can you stay on the sidewalk while I talk to him?”

The tall man pauses at your serious tone, examining your expression. “Why?”

You know why he’s asking.

“I’m serious, Ryo. I don’t want you two fighting.”

“He treated you like shit, y/n.”

“I- I know.”

His jaw clenches. “The piece of shit deserves-”

“I know, okay? Please, this is what I’m trying to prevent. Besides, if you get into trouble, I’ll leave your ass in jail this time.”

His head falls back, eyes closed as he comes to terms with just how serious you are. He rolls his shoulders backwards once before nodding. “Whatever, fine.” His tone drips with exasperation and anger and you can only hope at this point that he means what he says.

“Thank you,” you sigh in relief, falling into place beside him as he leads the way down to his bike.

Though you rode behind him less than twelve hours ago, somehow it feels different today as he places his helmet on you and pulls you tight to his broad form. His feisty little backpack, so cute in his helmet. He’s not oblivious to the way your hands roam his abs either as a smirk pulls at his features. It’s a sweet momentary distraction from his searing anger.

It takes every ounce of self control that Sukuna has to stay at his bike as he watches you ring the doorbell of your own house. Thank god for the cold air keeping his anger from simmering through his skin. He’s sure he’d be a pile of molten anger otherwise.

You shuffle uncomfortably at the doorstep, knowing entirely too well that this is going to go poorly. You were practically asking for a fight by showing up with Sukuna but what better option do you have? Your wallet and keys are still sitting soundly on the nightstand of the bed you’d spent the last several months sleeping in. At least, that’s where they should be.

It takes a moment before the door creaks open, your ex’s surprised wide eyes staring back at you.

“Shit, thank god you’re home-”

You barely manage to duck from his grasp as he attempts to pull you into his embrace. Your heart pounds hard in your chest as you face your ex, whose face contorts to one of pain when you duck away from him.

“I told you-” You mentally curse yourself as your voice breaks. Closing your eyes, you readjust and face your ex with confidence. “We’re done.”

“We need to talk,” he insists, his voice sickeningly sweet, and it almost makes you want to gag the way he swings between sweet nothings and manipulative cords that twist your heart.

“We talked for four hours last night. There’s nothing left to talk about!” You swing a hand through the air for emphasis as your voice rises, staring at him in disbelief. “Just let me in, I need my keys and-”

His arm swings out to block the door, knuckles white as he grips the frame of the door. His brow curls upwards in… frustration? Irritation? Anger? Pain? You’re not sure. “This is your home. You belong with me.”

You swallow the bile in your throat like a stone straight to the pit of your stomach. Once words like that would have made you swoon, now you feel as though you’re a deer in the headlights staring at a man you don’t recognize. A man who holds the barrel of a metaphorical gun.

You spare a glance behind you for reassurance, spotting Sukuna sitting at his bike. If it’s possible for a man to have smoke spewing from his ears, Sukuna is the spitting image of such a thing. His face is red with anger, hands clenched at either side of his body as he tries desperately to hold himself back.

He still remembers the way you excitedly told him about your new boyfriend. About how sweet he was, how kind he was. Although it pained him to know it was someone else making you happy, he was just glad you were happy. But when you had invited him to meet your boyfriend, Sukuna couldn’t help but feel as though the man didn’t match your description.

He’d tried to convince himself he was just being jealous, but the more time he spent around you, the more he noticed.

The last straw for Sukuna was when you had invited him, your boyfriend, and some of your closest friends along to see the latest installment in the Predator franchise. You’d stopped for dinner first and your boyfriend had insisted on ordering for you.

Sukuna hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but he had found it strange when a salad had been set in front of you. Not once had Sukuna ever seen you order a salad. Well, he had, but as a side. Never as the entire meal.

He’d tried to brush it off but when you’d decided on popcorn at the movie and your boyfriend had insisted you didn’t need it, Sukuna made a point of ordering a large one and sharing it with you.

Now as you look back at him uncertainly, every bone in Sukuna’s body screams to move. Yet his brain tells him to listen to you. He takes a breath in an effort to stay calm, deciding to respect your wishes.

“You brought him here?” Your ex pales as he follows your line of sight.

That seems to give you the confidence to face him again as anger sears through your blood. “You left me outside alone! He came to get me!” You search his face for any sign of remorse. When you don’t find it, tears prick at your eyes. Over a year spent together and he can’t even show you an ounce of kindness.

“I told you baby, it was a mistake!”

“No- No. No, a mistake is forgetting to turn off the sink, not leaving me outside in the cold with nothing but a broken phone.” Your voice drips with venom as the cold of the previous night envelops you in its memory, a reminder that this is for the best.

“Your phone isn’t broken, get over it y/n.” You glance down at his fist as it balls at his side.

“You shattered it.” You deadpan.

“Can we forget about the phone? For fuck’s sake.” He lifts his fist in the air to bring it up to his forehead as he attempts to calm himself down. “Look-” he shoots Sukuna a glance before smiling, his voice growing honeyed. “We’ll figure things out, okay? Why don’t you come in?”

You hesitate. You see the red flags as clear as day now that the fog has lifted, and you know Sukuna is grateful when you pleadingly look at him. His signal to come beat the shit out of your ex. Well, no, it isn’t. But he wishes it was.

Regardless, he’s up the front lawn to the door of the small house in an instant, standing behind you with all the self-control he can physically muster.

“We’re having a private conversation, would you mind-”

“Whatever you can say in front of me, you can say in front of him.” You insist, backing into Sukuna as your ex reaches for your arm. You’re thankful in this moment that your closest friend is nearly seven feet and built like a brick wall as it could never really matter who he’s up against, he’ll always be the scariest one in the room.

Your ex’s mouth curls into a snarl, eyeing Sukuna’s hands that rest easily on your upper arms.

“You’ve gotta be-” he grumbles to himself, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his hand that isn’t blocking you from entering the house. “Come on baby, you know you belong with me and not-” he cuts himself off as he shoots Sukuna an icy glance.

You shift uncomfortably at the tone he uses as he says that you belong with him, growing uneasy the longer you’re in his presence. Steeling your resolve, you straighten yourself and muster as much confidence as you can.

“This isn’t about Sukuna. You left me outside in the cold last night and I called my best friend to get me,” you tell him without missing a beat. Sukuna is practically grinning behind you as your ex’s jaw clenches but you don’t see the exchange between the two men. “Oh, and I don’t belong with or to anyone.”

Sukuna squeezes your arm in reassurance.

“I need my keys and wallet. I’m taking my bike and some clothes.”

Your ex mulls over your words before relenting finally, just as you’re beginning to think you’ll be without belongings. “Fine, but he stays outside.”

You glance up at Sukuna, whose expression is unreadable. “Fine,” you agree, slipping from Sukuna’s grasp and into the house. Your ex goes to close the door in Sukuna’s face, but a steady hand stops him just as you dash out of sight into your old bedroom.

“Let go of the door, man.”

“Leave the door open, man,” Sukuna warns mockingly in a sneer.

“She’s my-”

“She’s not. She’s not yours. She doesn’t belong to you.”

“Go fuck yourself, Sukuna.” He rolls his eyes, pressing more of his weight against the door, but it’s nothing compared to the bulk Sukuna packs.

“Consider yourself lucky I’m not rearranging your face right now,” his deep eyes blaze as he leans closer to your ex, his words dangerously low. If ever Sukuna is thankful that he knows he’s a scary person, it’s right now as your ex flinches back and relents, leaving the door open and leaving Sukuna at the door.

Your ex disappears from Sukuna’s sight and he stands up straight, turning to the side as he stares at your bike. He knows you can handle yourself, but he still doesn’t love the prospect of you being alone with your ex for any period of time.

Sukuna especially hates how long it takes. He’s not sure how much you need to pack and he can’t make out whatever you’re talking about with your ex but each passing moment he grows less patient and less willing to wait outside.

Just as he’s thinking of stepping inside, he sees your tiny figure with a backpack and a suitcase, keys dangling from your fingers and your wallet held firmly in your hand. The relief on your face when you lock eyes with Sukuna is somewhat heartwarming, but what isn’t is the way your ex tries to grab your wrist as you make your way to the door.

You pull against him but his grip fastens.

Sukuna sees red. He sees red and he doesn’t think twice about stepping into what was once your house.

“Don’t touch her.”

Your eyes widen at the sight of Sukuna making his way towards you with gritted teeth. “No, no, no! Sukuna! It’s fine, I can handle this!” Your hand with your wallet and keys flies up as you maneuver yourself between him and your ex.

Your ex’s hand doesn’t loosen even when your arm physically blocks Sukuna from laying a beating on him.

You take a breath, looking between the two men. “I’m leaving. Please let go,” you say softly, so calmly it almost breaks Sukuna’s heart that your ex’s actions seem so normal to you.

“We aren’t done talking-”

“We are. I’ll be back for the rest of my things later.” You tug your wrist again, sending a pleading look to your ex, but his grip only tightens. “Please let go.”

“Y/n, please. Please, we can work this out.”

“Let go,” you tell him firmly, ignoring his words.

“Please-”

“I don’t know if you’re incapable of listening or if you just want your head bashed in, but I’d listen to her.” Sukuna’s voice is a warning, dripping with malevolence you’ve never heard from him before. His chest is pressed hard against your free hand and you aren’t sure you can hold him back much longer.

“Ryo,” you plead, looking between the two men as you try to pull your wrist again. Your ex’s hand twitches at Sukuna’s words before loosening and falling to his side. You breathe out a sigh of relief, glancing down at the bruising markings his fingers left behind.

“So he’s Ryo now, huh?”

You glare pointedly at your ex, knowing that one wrong word will have him with his face caved in.

Sukuna’s intense stare never once leaves your ex, but he does allow you to hand him your suitcase and gently tug his forearm to follow you out the door.

Your ex watches from the door as Sukuna follows you to your bike. His intent gaze has your hair standing on end but you choose to ignore the feeling in favor of hopping on your bike.

The sound of your bike roaring to life puts both you and Sukuna at ease and you ride down the driveway, stopping next to his bike. He jogs after you with your suitcase still in-hand.

Sukuna is quiet, which isn’t unusual for him but you can practically feel the anger coming off of him in droves like smoke. Kicking your bike’s stand out, you hop off and flip his Ducati’s storage compartment open, pulling out a couple of straps to secure your suitcase to the back of your bike.

“Ready?”

You pull your friend’s attention from your ex finally as your hand comes to rest on his bicep. His eyes travel from your face to your arm that rests on him, where he can see the way your wrist is reddened and sure to bruise.

Realizing the sight of your reddened arm has his jaw clenching with anger, you move it behind your back and out of sight.

“Kuna, please.”

His intense gaze examines yours as the breeze faintly ruffles his spiked hair. He’s completely still apart from the muscle working in his jaw as he thinks over his options at this moment, but his chest heaves as he sighs in exasperation and gives in.

“Whatever,” he growls, shooting a poisonous look back at the door that your ex hasn’t moved from. Sukuna haughtily pulls his helmet on over his head, flipping his visor down before getting on his bike and accelerating quickly.

Based on the way Sukuna weaves through traffic and carelessly speeds through lights, you know he’s furious. You pull your bike into the parking spot next to him a couple of minutes after he pulls in, finding him pacing in the parking garage.

Shutting off your bike and pulling off your helmet, you approach him with angled brows, trying to reassure him. “Thanks for coming with me, I appreciate it.” He’s blinded by rage and you’re not even sure if he hears you. “Kuna, I’m okay,” you insist, reaching out to put a hand on his arm but he still brushes past you.

Sighing, you unload your suitcase from the back of your bike and return the bungee cables to the storage compartment of the Ducati as you let Sukuna blow off some steam.

Once everything is ready to go up to Sukuna’s apartment, you turn your attention back to him.

“Can we go up to your place?”

“He hurt you,” Sukuna hisses with pupils the size of pinpricks. It would be intimidating if you didn’t know that anger was directed elsewhere.

“It’s nothing really, it doesn’t hurt.”

“Fucking asshole, I should have-”

“Nope, we’re not going into that. I don’t want to know what you think you should have done.”

You grab your suitcase and begin rolling it through the parkade to the elevator, relieved when you hear a frustrated grunt behind you and a pair of keys clinking. The ride up to his apartment is silent, shrouded in anger.

Really, you should be the angry one but if anything, you're more relieved. Relieved that you have someone like Sukuna to stay with, someone who’s so willing to come get you at three in the morning when you need him most.

Sukuna swings the door to his apartment open, slamming against the doorstop loudly before creaking shut. His hand flies to his pocket as he trudges across the apartment, tossing his leather jacket on the couch and leaning out the window as he lights a cigarette.

A puff of smoke leaves his mouth as he swings his head back with closed eyes.

Shaking your head, you decide not to give him a hard time for his bad habit and give him space as you busy yourself with setting the couch up nicely for yourself to sleep on given that you were now homeless, among other things.

Sukuna takes his time at the window, stubbing out his cigarette when it’s barely an inch long and finally approaching you from where you sit on the floor looking through your bag, taking inventory of what you have and what you’ll need to pick up eventually.

Your pretty face smiles up at him when his shadow blocks your view and he finds himself relaxing more from the sight of you than he had from the nicotine.

“Are you okay?” You tilt your head, noting that he seems more calm now and he nods.

“Should be askin’ you that.”

“I’m okay. I mean it,” you insist.

His eyes flicker down to your wrist again but he knows better than to doubt you and he knows you can handle the pain. Sitting down on the couch behind you, he leans back and watches you quietly.

“I got the things that were most important, but hopefully I can go back and grab everything else eventually,” you note, more to yourself than him. He still hums in acknowledgement. “Why’d you want my bike back so bad, by the way?”

Your friend leans forward on his knees. “So I can still go for rides with you.”

“What, do I make a bad backpack?” You tease with a grin that has Sukuna’s shoulders falling to his sides as his anger subsides completely.

“Hard to drive when you’re feelin’ me up, princess.”

Your lips purse as your cheeks redden, caught off-guard by his nonchalant smirk. You’d felt up his abs a bit during the ride to your old place, sure, but being called out still had the tips of your ears heating up.

You stubbornly avoid his gaze, going back to figuring out if you’d forgotten anything. Deep chuckles resonate from behind you as your new roommate ruffles your hair and gets to his feet.

“By the way we’re goin’ out tonight.”

You tilt your head, eyes following Sukuna as he saunters over to the fridge and pulls out an energy drink.

“Where’d you have in mind?” You ask curiously, not entirely sure you’re in the mood to go out.

“That new rom com movie or whatever that you wanted to see is showing tonight. I got tickets.” He reaches back into the fridge and pulls out your favorite beverage, tossing it to you.

You barely manage to catch it, mumbling a thank you. “I don’t really know if I’m up for it,” you admit, staring at the drink in your hands.

“I already bought the tickets,” he shrugs, laying back on the couch again. “Suck it up.”

Your nose wrinkles in distaste but you know it’s likely for the best that you’re out of the house so you do, in fact, suck it up.

It quickly becomes time for the movie and you find yourself back in the parking garage a couple of hours before sunset.

“Can you drive?”

“You gonna feel me up again?” Sukuna raises a brow at you, but a hint of a smirk pulls at his lips.

“... Can I?”

Your confidence catches him off-guard and he blanches, his lips parting as he stares at you. His eyes flicker to your lips and that single action has your heart beating fast and hard in your chest. The fluttering in your stomach as you wait for him to react is enough to make you wretch and you consider yourself lucky that he seems to pull himself together as his lips tug upwards into a sly grin.

He takes a step forward, dipping his head down to whisper in your ear. “Don’t stray too low while I’m drivin’.”

You’re left choking on air as Sukuna’s tone sends a jolt of electricity straight up your spine, setting your entire body ablaze. Your eyes trail the length of his body, pausing as you watch him pull his leather jacket over his thin white shirt. The way his muscles ripple and tense with each movement has you swallowing hard as you realize just how built and toned he really is.

You’re thankful you aren’t caught and are spared from Sukuna’s teasing as you hop onto the back of his bike, purposefully making a show of feeling up his abs. Moving from his pecs, across the peaks and valleys of each set of muscles, down until you take pause as you feel the waist of his pants connect with the tips of your fingers.

Sukuna groans, looking over his shoulder before he puts on his helmet. “Not while I’m driving, got it?”

You nod at him, batting your eyelashes sweetly. He huffs, adjusting the crotch of his pants before pulling his helmet on. He waits for you to follow suit before pulling out of the parking garage and heading to the theater.

Sukuna’s warmth is both a beacon of hope and a searing flame to your skin. A comfort and an exciting new idea to explore. You hold onto him tightly, your body melting into his heat as he drives much more carefully with you hooked onto him than he had earlier in the day.

Sukuna pulls into a spot by the front door of the theater and waits for you to let go before hopping off of the bike himself.

“Popcorn?” He asks you mildly, hands in his pockets.

“Um, that’s alright.”

Sukuna’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

“I don’t need popcorn.”

“Don’t need or don’t want?”

You pause, your brow knit as you silently question what he means, but Sukuna’s seen this play out before with your ex and he wants to break this habit.

“Do you want popcorn, y/n?”

You run a hand through your hair, exhaling quietly. “Yeah, it’d be nice.”

Sukuna nods, surprising you as he grabs not your forearm or bicep as he usually does, but your hand. His much larger, veiny hand folds over yours, his fingers tangling with yours. Your hand is so small in his and even the feeling of your hand against him feels like a reminder of just how cute you are to him.

Your cheeks are surely dusted in a red glow, but you don’t mind given the surprisingly pleasant eagerness in your chest.

With popcorn in-hand, Sukuna leads you into the theater, taking you to your seat and relaxing into the reclining chair. He lifts the arm rest between you, not once disconnecting your hands like it’s the most natural action in the world.

And in all honesty, it is. Everything with Sukuna is easy. It feels right. It feels right in a way you’re not familiar with and it’s exhilarating.

Given the cheesy scenario he set up for, you half-expect Sukuna to make a move during the movie, but his thumb simply continues to rub soothing lines over your knuckles.

It’s after the movie that he surprises you.

Bounding down the stairs ahead of Sukuna as you tug him along with you, you’re practically gushing about the movie that you’re positive he barely paid attention to. It isn’t his style of film but he doesn’t mind either way.

“-I mean come on, how can you not love Owen Wilson in that role?”

“Mm.”

“-and it’s so charming watching him start to learn and care about her world-”

“Mhmm.”

“-oh my god and when she realizes she loves him and she shows up at the tournament-”

“I’m glad you liked it.” Despite how little he has to say about the movie, he’s just happy you enjoyed it.

“-and when he gets her flooowers?-”

Sukuna chuckles as you continue to gush over the movie at him. Still hand-in-hand, he tugs you along, quietly listening to your rambles as he makes his way to his bike. His chest swirls with anticipation as you pay his actions no mind when he turns towards the storage compartment of his bike as you continue rambling on.

It takes only a moment for his hand to reach the delicate item he’s in search of, deftly wrapping two fingers around the dainty object. Keeping his hand behind him, he turns to you with a soft smile. Lidded eyes stare at you with mirth, an expression that isn’t typical for Sukuna, so your rambles begin to fade into silence as you tilt your head curiously at him.

“Flowers, hm?” He asks, pulling a beautiful, blooming red rose out from behind him. He holds it out to you, pulling you closer by the hand that’s still intertwined with his as you purse your lips in disbelief.

“I- I-” You stammer over your words as your mouth goes dry, eyes fixed on the gorgeous flower held in Sukuna’s fingers.

It’s almost a strange sight to behold- the same man you’d seen passed out on your couch dozens of times, the man you’d had to bail out of jail on more than one occasion, the same man who grumbled and complained every single time you went to Red’s Bar- now holding a dainty little rose for you.

“W- when did you even have time to get this?” You shake your head, it doesn’t matter. “Sukuna, this is so much I-”

His brows raise as your rambles begin again and although he’s flustered you more times than he can count over the years, he’s never seen you genuinely nervous like this.

“-you really didn’t have to do anything like this for me-”

“Y/n.”

“-taking me to the movies is already a big deal and I know the last day has been a hassle for you-”

“Y/n,” Sukuna chuckles this time, his grip on your hand tightening as he squeezes it in an effort to get your attention.

“-I didn’t get you anything, I don’t-”

“Y/n,” Sukuna leans down, capturing your lips against his. His lips are soft and the kiss is uncharacteristically sweet. His hand slides out of your grasp, sliding up your arm and coming to rest on your waist as he pulls you closer to him. He parts from your lips with a smirk. “Shut up, princess.”

You stare breathlessly at him, eyes flickering wildly between his eyes, his lips, before resting down on the rose again.

“Take the damn flower.”

“R-right!” You gingerly reach out, holding the stem as you bring it up to your nose. “You didn’t have to do all this, you know.”

“Well, someone had to,” it comes out as more of a grumble as his brow furrows, but his fingers curl into the skin of your waist as he speaks, betraying the meaning behind his words.

“Mhmm, someone.” You agree teasingly, smiling up at him. “Thank you, Kuna.” You rise up onto your tiptoes, resting a hand on his chest as you lean up to kiss him, just barely able to reach his jaw.

His chest vibrates in a content hum. “So short,” he mocks, tilting his head to meet your lips again. Pulling his other hand from his pocket, he pulls the flower from your fingers, setting it in the storage behind him and finding your waist to bring you flush against him.

Your hands slide up the length of his hard musculature until you find his neck. Your fingers tangle in the short hair at his nape and another hum slips from his lips, swallowed by your kiss.

He leans down to meet your height better as the kiss gains urgency, years of pent up emotions flooding from Sukuna’s every movement. His fingers curl into your skin, pulling you impossibly closer.

“Kuna?”

He grunts into the kiss, smirking against your lips when he slides a hand from your waist down to your hips.

“Can we-” you breathe out between kisses, “-go home?”

Sukuna parts from your lips, examining your expression with blown pupils, so wide you can barely see the deep color of his irises. He swallows hard, his chest rising and falling fast as he nods silently.

You let out a surprised squeal when he grabs you by the hips and effortlessly lifts you onto his bike.

“-can do it myself,” you insist but Sukuna doesn’t register your words, too caught up in the intoxication of your smell, your feel, your taste. He wants more.

Hopping on the bike in front of you, he waits for your helmet to be on before he starts his Ducati and throws his helmet on. Your hands take their place around his toned abdomen, sliding down without a moment’s thought.

“Behave,” Sukuna hisses loud enough that you hear him even over the sound of his bike’s engine. He doesn’t need your visor up to know you’re smiling innocently at him.

He clicks his tongue and speeds out of the parking lot back towards his apartment. Though he’s still more careful driving with his sweet little backpack clinging to him, you’re not oblivious to the fact that he is driving quicker than usual.

Relaxing against Sukuna’s toned back brings with it a comfort you haven’t felt in a long time. It’s strange, despite him speeding through traffic and the sparking tension between you both, it’s easy to close your eyes and relax against him.

It’s not a feeling you’ve had with your ex for a long time. Although you ignored the flags throughout your relationship and defended him when he didn’t deserve it, it wasn’t always that way, but Sukuna has always been a safe and worry-free escape from the world for you. Since the first day he drove into your life, since you first realized that Sukuna enjoyed your company as much as you enjoyed his.

He’s a hard book to read and an easy presence to be in.

Your eyes flicker open, not realizing you’d grown so relaxed holding onto him that he’d already pulled into his parking spot, parking beside your Kawasaki.

Sukuna instinctively moves to get off his bike, expecting you to follow him, but pauses when you move rather sluggishly behind him. Pulling his helmet off, he shakes his head in an effort to fix his hair before he eyes you over his shoulder.

“You gonna get off?”

To anyone else, it might come across as aggressive, but his tone is mild as ever.

“Sorry, Kuna.”

You exhale and push off the bike with a hand resting on Sukuna’s shoulder blade. He watches you curiously, tucking you under his shoulder and leading the way back up to his apartment.

Pulling out his keys in the elevator, he ducks his head to get a good look at your expression.

“Tired?”

“No! … Well, yeah, but I was just relaxing,” you tell him and he hums, his eyes swirling with mirth. You cross an arm over your chest, your breast pressing against your arm. His eyes flicker to the sight, pupils dilating as he swallows hard. “See something you like, Sukuna?”

Your lidded eyes and purring voice has the taller man teetering on the edge of self control. His mind reels with thoughts that aren’t appropriate for the elevator and the moment the door opens, he’s making his way to his apartment like a man on a mission.

Desire pools between your thighs at his eagerness, made more apparent in the way he fumbles at the door with his keys.

It’s not even a second after the door is closed and he maneuvers you against the door, helmets on the ground as his fingers move to flip the lock behind you before they travel up the side of your body, admiring your curves before he cups your face.

He captures your lips, hungry to taste you again. He wants to devour you, he wants to mark you and make you his. Your lips move in tandem with his, matching his fervor with equal eagerness.

Your fingers rake his chest, thumbs sliding over the length of his collarbones. The feeling of his broad chest beneath your hands drives you crazy and you press back against him, your breasts pressing against the expanse of his chest.

“Kuna, wait,” you breathe, chest heaving as you part from him. Vermillion irises lock on you as he pulls back, his fingers gripping your waist almost bruisingly. “This isn't…” You pause, your mouth opening and closing hesitantly.

“Out with it,” Sukuna encourages hoarsely.

You shoot him a wry smile at his blunt impatience. “This isn’t just a hookup for me, you know.”

He raises a brow at you. “You think that’s what this is for me?” You might even assume he sounds offended.

“No! No,” you clarify, shaking your head as your pretty eyes go wide. He rolls his shoulders, leaning his face closer to yours as he intently watches you. “I just… I-” you pause again, avoiding his intense gaze.

“It’s not a one night stand, y/n.” Sukuna’s pupils shrink as he speaks solemnly. He feels you relax in his grip, your eyes coming up to meet his. “Relax n’ let me take care of you.”

Your cheeks redden at your best friend’s boldness and you shuffle as you press your thighs together.

“I better not be your rebound, y’know.” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice now, the elbow holding him up against the door sliding down as his face grows closer to you. God, he’s tall. He’s tall and built like a monster, and between the size of his hands, his muscles, not to mention his height… Your wide, almost timid eyes flicker down to his crotch. He catches the action and smirks. “Don’t get nervous now,” he leers.

“I’m not!” You squeak, the blush spreading to the tips of your ears. “And… you’re not a rebound.” You grab his shirt collar as you pull him in for a kiss, much sweeter than the covetous one you’d shared a minute ago.

Sukuna’s eyes flutter shut as he finds himself relaxing into your touch when you slide your hands up his neck and into his dark, undyed undercut.

“I like you, Ryo.” You admit when you pull back just enough for the words to reach his ears. His smirk can be felt against your lips.

“Fuck, you’re hot.” In true Sukuna fashion, that’s his way of reciprocating your admission, because he doesn’t do feelings. But you know. You know exactly what he means.

You grin against his lips, giggling like a giddy school girl who’s just seen her crush smile. Sukuna’s chest rumbles at your sudden timid delight.

“You’re such a loser,” he chuckles, his hand moving from your waist to hold your chin. He kisses you softly, your giggles persisting against his lips. Your fingers curl gleefully in his hair when he pulls back with impishly narrowed eyes. “You’re makin’ it hard to kiss you.”

“Sorry,” you chirp, your eyes crinkling in the corners. “It’s just cute- you’re cute.”

“Me?” He pulls back, standing at his full height and making a point of showing off his broad shouldered stance. “Cute?” He tilts his head quizzically as if to prove a point but if anything, you find the strands of hair falling out of place over his forehead cute.

“Yeah, you.”

“I’ll show you cute,” he grumbles, and suddenly you’re lifted off the ground effortlessly. You shriek in surprise in his ear as you grasp at the back of his leather jacket. He mumbles something about you being a brat before dumping you on the couch and crawling over your body.

His form looms over you and you’re both suddenly very aware of the immense size difference between you both, something which might be one of Sukuna’s favorite things. He loves how tiny you are, how easily he can handle you.

Sukuna takes pause, his usually dour gaze filled with longing, admiring what he’d wanted for so long as you stare back at him with wide eyes. He loves the fiery attitude you always sport, but this flustered side of you is new to him and he drinks it in like a drug.

Your chest rises and falls quickly, eyes darting from his arms that cage you in, down the expanse of his chest that peeks through his V-neck, back up to that alluring tattooed face. His sharp jaw, his ever-present smirk, his intense stare, it’s all so goddamn sexy and you’re flustered to silence like a deer in the headlights being hunted by a wolf.

“Funny, you seem to have lost your bark,” he comments tantalizingly, dipping down to kiss your jaw. Now with your body trapped beneath him, he feels the way your hips twitch. “What happened to the brat from earlier?”

You swallow down a moan as his voice sets you ablaze. Your hands find purchase on his biceps, fingers gripping him tightly. You take a breath to readjust and bat your lashes up at him as you push through the sudden nerves that seem to chase you. “Brat? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Kuna.”

Sukuna grins, a devilish gleam in his eyes. “There she is,” he hums, bringing himself down to his elbows to kiss you wholly. His lips move urgently against yours, tongue swiping your lower lip almost immediately. He groans when you grant him access by parting your lips, drinking in your taste. You gasp in surprise as his tongue piercing grazes your tongue, a strangely pleasurable new feeling.

Your hands slide from his biceps up his neck, keeping him close, pulling him closer as you deepen the kiss. When you shift beneath him to clench your thighs as heat pools in your lower abdomen, he groans.

“Fuck,” he hisses into your mouth, catching you by surprise when he nips your lower lip. He pulls back for only a moment but in that split second the look on your best friend’s face tells you everything you need to know. You’re his prey, and he’s about to devour you.

“Kuna-!” You gasp in surprise when kisses down the side of your neck, leaving behind purple bruises as he sucks and nips at the side of your neck. Reaching the sensitive spot at the base of your neck, his teeth graze your skin before gently sinking in, testing the waters with a glance at your face.

You whine, squirming beneath him.

Sukuna withdraws with a smirk, running his tongue soothingly over the reddened skin. “Kinky little thing, aren’t you?” He purrs, rolling his hips against you so roughly you whimper. “Shit,” he mumbles and returns to his ministrations, his hips rolling against yours like a dog in heat.

“Sh-shut up, Kuna…” you groan, rutting your hips up into him. His movement stutters with pleasure and he nips your skin again in response. “Darlin’, hold onto me,” his husky voice commands against the skin of your ear.

“Hm? Ah-!”

Sukuna slides a muscular arm beneath the small of your back, pressing you to him and urging your arms to cling to his shoulders. You wrap your legs around his waist as he picks you up, holding your small frame to him in one arm.

He carries you to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him as you press kisses to his collarbone, leaving behind marks of your own. He hums, plopping you down onto the bed and standing to shrug his jacket off and unbuckle his belt, letting it and his jeans drop to the floor.

You’re sure your face is red as a tomato, pupils dilated as you admire his body, your gaze landing on the boner that’s pulling the fabric of his black Calvin Klein boxers taut. You swipe your tongue out over your lips, bringing your lower lip between your teeth.

Your best friend grins, pulling you to the edge of the bed by your ankles. You let out a surprised gasp, gripping at the sheets at either side of you.

“G’nna take my time n’ treat her right,” he purrs, falling over you as your legs wrap around his waist to pull him closer. He could be talking about you or your pussy, it doesn’t matter either way.

He lifts your shirt up over your head and you arch your back to make it easier. You’re so pliant for him and he adores your obedience, adores the desperate, lustful look in your eyes.

“Shit, girl,” he mumbles, his eyes eating you alive on the spot as he admires your body. You’re so small in comparison to the way his figure looms over you.

Catching your gaze, he squeezes one of your breasts, slipping the other from the fabric of your lace bra to press the warm flat of his tongue to your nipple. You jolt as pleasure buzzes through your body, moaning when he sucks the hardened bud between his lips. The cool metal of his piercing intensifies the pleasure when it grazes your skin and causes goosebumps to raise on your arms.

Your hands find his hair, tugging enough that Sukuna smirks against the plush of your skin.

“So needy,” he hums. Your thighs clench around his waist as the vibration of his voice against your skin rocks through you.

Your lidded eyes stare down at him and you take the opportunity to tug his shirt off. He complies, tossing it across the room. His heavily tattooed chest, abdomen, arms- he’s gorgeous and you can barely believe he’s standing over you right now, eyes for only you.

“Kuna,” you mumble between moans, jerking as he flicks your nipple with a smug grin.

He mutters out a ‘what’ before sinking his teeth into your breast. You gasp, eyes widening and bucking your hips against him as your head swings back into the mattress. As you arch your back for him, Sukuna deftly slips your bra off.

“Stop being a tease,” you plead, the hard length of his cock twitching against your core as you tighten your legs.

“A tease? What do you want then, hm?” His voice is cocky, knowing. He wants you on your knees begging.

“Kunaaaa,” you groan, laying the back of your arm across your eyes, suddenly timid.

Sukuna clicks his tongue, pulling your arm away from your face. He grabs your other arm and holds them both down above you with one large hand. “What do you want, brat?” His face is inches away from yours now and he rolls his hips against your core teasingly despite the ache he feels.

“I-” you pant, pausing to look at his intense stare. “Wan’ you to eat me out.”

“Yeah?” He hums, lowering his head so that his lips brush yours. “Thought you had manners?”

“Please, Kuna,” you beg in a whiny voice. Sukuna smirks, getting to his knees at the edge of the bed and draping his arm over your hips to hold them down as he sprawls your legs out before him.

“Fuckin’ soaked for me,” he groans, his breath warm against the fabric of your panties. He wastes no time hooking his fingers through the fabric to pull them aside. His digits brush your folds as you buck your hips in a desperate attempt at friction.

Chuckling softly, Sukuna languidly licks up your cunt, savoring your taste with the slow movement. You squirm beneath him, raking your fingers through his hair as you try to buck your hips towards his tongue.

“Patience,” Sukuna hums and flicks his tongue out to circle your clit. His piercing grazes the sensitive bundle of nerves and your eyes go wide with pleasure.

“Such a- hah- asshole- ah-!” Sukuna doesn’t give you the satisfaction of teasing him as he pushes his long tongue into your dripping chasm, your walls clenching around the muscle in ecstasy.

Sukuna groans as your fingers tug his hair. He lets you buck your hips into his mouth and ride his face, relishing in the sound of your moans and pants.

The feeling of his tongue inside you is already so intense that when he brings a thumb up to flick your clit, the sudden desire that pulses through your body straight to the knot tightening in your core has you bucking your hips in surprise. His grip on your hips fastens as he holds you down again, keeping you from squirming out of his grasp.

The desire and heat pooling in your core quickly grow in intensity as Sukuna’s experienced tongue plunges through your folds, drinking up your arousal.

“K-Kuna- I- I’m gonna-” your words are mere babbles as you try to speak through the bliss, your orgasm steadily approaching.

“Let me taste it, princess.”

The feeling of his voice with his tongue within you, the way his piercing suddenly flicks your gummy walls, his thumb on your clit, the way he calls you princess, it’s so much that your orgasm crashes over you in a wave, causing your body to jolt and jerk against the mattress.

Sukuna’s thumb leaves your clit as he holds down one of your thighs to keep you from crushing his head as you moan and pant out his name while your body spasms. He slows his ministrations to drink every last drop of your orgasm before flicking your clit with his tongue one last time, pleased when you jolt.

He pushes himself up, wiping your slick from his chin with the back of his hand.

“Shit, you’re hot,” he mutters. You barely have a moment to come down from your high before he’s pulling you to the floor by your waist, dropping you on your knees. His hungry expression and throbbing cock tell you everything you need to know as you look up at him through your lashes.

Your fingers curl around the waist of his boxers as you pull them down his thighs. His rock-hard erection slaps against his abs as you free it from the confines of the fabric. Sure, Sukuna is a monster of a man at nearly seven feet tall of solid muscle mass and you’d felt him grinding against you, but your eyes still widen at the sight of his cock.

You feel your mouth water as you stare at the angry red tip, veins protruding and pulsing with desire on either side.

“Think you can take it?” He asks and although it’s a teasing and husky tone he uses with you, he is genuinely asking as well. You nod eagerly and he grins. “Good girl,” he purrs.

Bringing a hand up to his cock, you wrap your fingers daintily around the thick base, looking up at those glimmering vermillion eyes as you run your tongue from base to tip, eliciting a heavy groan from the man.

“Christ,” he groans, his head flying back in pleasure. You smirk and take the tip of his cock into your mouth, swirling your tongue over the leaking slit before teasingly pulling back with a pop!

His hips shudder as he does everything in his power to stop himself from using your mouth, to stop himself from shoving his cock down your throat with no warning.

“Needy, Ryo?”

You don’t expect the way that sets him off, lights his desire ablaze anew as he fists your hair and leans down with a clenched jaw to look you in the eyes.

You whimper in surprise, closing your thighs from where you sit on your knees as your cunt pulses from the way he handles you so roughly.

“Let’s get it straight right now which of us is needy,” he growls with a smirk, eyeing the way you shift your thighs. “You gonna be a good little slut for me?”

You nod up at him, pupils dilating as he tugs your hair. He grins, narrowing his eyes. “Words, woman.”

“Yes, Kuna,” you purr back at him. The wild look in his eyes intensifies as he receives your consent and pushes the tip of his cock past your lips. His jaw goes slack in pleasure as you swirl your tongue around the head, lapping up his precum.

“Shit,” he groans out, watching as you take his cock without breaking eye contact while he thrusts further into your mouth. You gag when he reaches the back of your throat, tears pricking in the corners of your eyes and you shut them as you take his length. “Ah ah, look at me. Takin’ me so well.”

Sukuna knows you can’t take his entire cock in your mouth, he knows there’s a fairly large size difference between the both of you. It doesn’t stop the way he pushes your head down on his cock watching the way tears run down your cheeks as you so obediently let him handle you.

Saliva runs down the length of his cock and you bring a hand up to the base, pumping what you can’t fit in your throat. His hand pulls your mouth off his cock, adjusting his hand to hold your head back against the bed so that he can relentlessly fuck into you, massive cock hitting the back of your throat and gagging you with each thrust.

He throws his head back as you pump the base of his shaft while he fucks you, being his perfect little doll. His abs flex and twitch when your muscles tense as you swallow around him.

“Such a nasty fuckin’ throat.” He barely gives you any time to breathe as his pace increases, along with the pace of your hand to match. His chest heaves as he moans, letting you dig your nails into his thigh for purchase while he uses your throat.

His cock twitches as you moan when he hits the back of your throat and his eyes shut tight with pleasure, jaw going slack. When he jolts again with the next thrust, you know he’s close so you hum contentedly, sending vibrations up his shaft and causing his hips to jerk erratically as he chases his high.

“F-fuck,” he groans out before his hips stutter and your eyes widen when his cum unloads down your throat, thick ropes of salty sweet arousal swallowed as he keeps himself warm within your mouth. You move your lips slowly around his girth, milking every last drop of his orgasm. You pull back after a moment to allow yourself a chance to breathe, panting as you stare up at him.

His chest heaves and his cock twitches every few seconds, telling of the orgasm he’s just had. Still, his eyes burn with desire when he finally opens them.

He reaches down to pick you up and sets you at the edge of the bed on all fours roughly.

He squeezes your ass before slapping it once. Your body jolts in surprise as you gasp.

“Princess, you on any birth control?”

“Mhmm, you can go raw.”

You hear him mumble a curse beneath his breath. “You tell me if it’s too much,” he tells you, catching the way you glance over your shoulder at him and nod.

In spite of the rough way he uses and handles you, he’s still very attentive to your pleasure and comfort.

He pays no mind to the fact that you actually liked the panties you’re wearing as he physically tears them off of your body, tossing the ripped fabric aside. You whine in complaint, shooting him a look from over your shoulder.

“I’ll buy ya new ones,” he huffs, returning his attention to your body.

Squeezing your ass in both palms, he leans down and buries his face in your pussy, licking a stripe from your clit to your dripping entrance. He hums at how wet you still are, moving a hand up your spine to hold you down and keep you arched for him.

His teeth sink into the plump of your ass and you squeak at the sudden burst of pain that quickly twists to pleasure when he soothingly laps over the mark he’s left.

He slides his hand down from squeezing your plump ass to glide a finger through your lubricated folds. You lean into his touch, gasping when he suddenly plunges one long finger into your lubricated pussy.

Your walls are tight as they pulse around his long finger. He eases another digit in, pumping them slowly as he realizes just how tight you are.

“Relax, darlin’,” he hums soothingly, curling his fingers against your walls a couple of times before he finds your g spot. His voice is such a stark contrast to his rough tendencies, but it’s soothing to have him so worried for your comfort.

“Ryo, f-fuck-” you moan out as his fingers languidly curl against your gummy walls which gradually relax against his long fingers. With a couple more pumps of his fingers, he pulls them out, leaving you pulsing around nothing and craving his touch as you shift your hips in search of friction with a whine.

Sukuna grunts when he lines himself up with your plump cunt, pumping himself a couple of times before he slowly eases his tip into you. Your eyes widen at the delicious burn of the stretch, fingers curling in the sheets as you adjust to his massive size. And god this is only the tip.

You cry out, the feeling of his girthy cock filling you up blurring your vision as the pain transitions to pleasure before the process begins all over again with each movement he makes. His cock throbs, making you feel impossibly full.

Sukuna wants to ruin you, he wants to tear you apart on his cock, but he doesn’t want to hurt his sweet little best friend, so he watches the way your face contorts in mild pain, waiting for your expression to relax as he slowly feeds you his cock, inch by inch.

“Doin’ so good for me, darlin’,” Sukuna purrs, his thumb stroking your back in contrast to the fact that he’s still holding you down and keeping you arched for him.

His cock head brushes your cervix, pressing against it as he bottoms out, fingers curling against your back at how tight you’re squeezing him as he waits for you to adjust.

Your shoulders relax beneath his touch and you whimper as he slides his cock out to the tip, setting a moderate pace so as not to shock you. The feeling of his thick, veiny cock is like nothing you’ve ever experienced, his size just so much to take that you moan and whine with each thrust of his cock into your tight hole.

You grip at the sheets beneath you, gasping as Sukuna speeds up his thrusts and presses you hard into the mattress, muffling your moans.

“Kuna- mmph,” you let out a muffled whimper, jolting when he slaps your ass roughly, no longer holding back.

“F-fuckin’- shit-” he groans, his fingers gripping your skin bruisingly as he holds you in place. He leans forward, sliding his hand from your back to your neck, restricting your airflow subtly. Pleasure tears through your spine as he leans forward and pushes in deeper with each thrust, pulling moans and screams of his name from deep in your throat.

“K-Kuna, I’m- hah- close,” you whimper, words muffled by the sheets beneath you. He loosens his fingers from your neck, grabbing your waist with both hands as he pulls your ass closer to him, pounding into you faster as he chases his own high.

“Shit, y’r such a good lil slut for me,” he groans, feeling your walls tighten around his thick length with each thrust.

Pleasure tightens deep within your core, knotting and curling as he fucks you so deliciously that your juices are already dripping from your cunt around his hilt. His eyes lock on the sight and he throws his head back in pleasure, his own high not far behind.

With one last hit against your cervix, your orgasm hits you like a goddamn truck, like nothing you’ve ever experienced before as your entire body shakes and jolts, your knees and legs giving out.

If Sukuna wasn’t holding you up, you surely would have collapsed as stars cloud your vision and you moan his name like a mantra. Your eyes are glossy and your mind delirious as he continues to fuck you through your high, your walls milking him in a way that has him quickly climbing towards his release.

With only a few more erratic thrusts that have you whining under him in overstimulation, his cock twitches suddenly as his entire load fills you up, mixing with your juices and dripping out of your swollen lips down your thighs that Sukuna is still holding up.

He moans as he slowly lets your body go and you sink to the mattress, panting beneath him as his cock slips from between your thighs. His eyes flicker to your pretty pussy, his cum leaking out with each pulse of your walls. His chest heaves as well as he slowly gets to his feet and walks to the side of the bed, sliding up against the headboard.

Sukuna pulls your body up from where you’ve collapsed, wrapping his arms around you as his sweat-slicked skin sticks to yours. He’s much gentler now, looking you over for any signs that he might have hurt you accidentally, but when you finally open your eyes, they’re glossy with pleasure and filled with adoration.

He can’t help the way he genuinely smiles, not a common thing for the tepid biker, but when you grin and giggle in return, it makes his heart jump.

He practically turns to putty in your hands and as you silently bask in the afterglow of the best sex of your life and lean into Sukuna’s embrace.

“Wasn’t too rough with you, was I?” He asks after a moment and you’re surprised by the way his fingers softly graze your skin.

“You were great Kuna, don’t worry,” you answer, yawning afterwards.

He hums in relief, leaning his head back for a moment before taking it upon himself to get you cleaned up before you pass out. Grabbing a towel, he wipes your thighs and tosses the towel in a hamper at the edge of the room before pulling the covers over your figure and crawling in behind you.

“Ryo?”

Sukuna hums quizzically.

“Do I get to know how long now?”

“You’re a brat,” he growls in your ear as he pulls you flush against his chest, his arms folded around your middle.

“Yeah yeah, just answer the question,” you grouse, rolling your eyes. You have an inkling of a feeling that you know when he realized his feelings for you, but you’re curious nonetheless.

He sighs, knowing you’ll never let him live this down. “Dunno. It’s been a while,” he avoids the question.

You flip in his arms to face him with raised brows. He groans, avoiding your gaze.

“I guess around the time you got with your ex,” he admits, his eyes locked on the wall behind you as he tucks your head under his chin to avoid your intent gaze.

“Is that why you stopped seeing people?”

“You noticed?”

“Kuna, you had a new girl under your arm every time I saw you for a while.”

He grunts, pulling you tighter to his body.

Giggling, you kiss his collar bone. “That’s sweet.”

Sukuna’s chest rises and falls heavily as he lets out a long sigh. You can practically feel the way his cheeks are heating up as you tease him, something that you’d only managed a handful of times in all the years you’ve known him.

“Sorry, am I embarrassing the big bad motorcycling bad boy?” You push, squeaking in protest as Sukuna wastes no time in shoving you away from him in an attempt to push you off the bed. “Wait, wait, wait! I’m sorry!” You insist, looking to him for mercy as you cling to his arms, clutching desperately at the flexed muscles.

“And?”

“And…” you search for the words he’s looking to hear in his eyes, gripping his arms tighter. “I won’t do it again?”

“And?”

“I’m sorry I ate the rest of your leftovers this morning?”

His brow furrows. Oh shit.

“I mean… no I didn’t. They’re still there,” you mumble, avoiding his judgemental gaze guiltily.

Sukuna’s hold on your shoulder begins to lax as you teeter at the edge of the bed, threatening to drop you to the floor. You scramble to try to grip him tighter.

“I’ll buy you new food!”

Sukuna sighs and drags you back to him. You let out a relieved puff of air against his chest, snuggling back into his warmth. “Jus’ wanted you to say when it was for you.”

You tilt your head up at him, only able to see his chin. “When what was?”

“You know. When you realized what you think of me or whatever.” Sukuna’s gruff tone is telling that he isn’t used to such sincere conversations. Although you’ve known him a long time and he’d told you about damn near every sexual encounter he’s had, Sukuna’s most record-breaking relationship was a shocking three months.

Of course, Sukuna isn’t a romantic, and she didn’t know him well enough to know that he was putting in effort, so it didn’t last long.

“Oh. When I realized I like you?”

He grunts.

You hum in thought, moments throughout your friendship scrolling through your mind like a slideshow.

Of course, your forefront thought is when Sukuna first stepped off that stupidly well taken care of Ducati and surprised you when he managed to not only get you home on a running bike, but let you buy him a drink. He’s always been ridiculously attractive, but no, those weren’t feelings.

You think of all the times you hung out with friends and they would point out his change in behavior. You’d always think on the statement, watch the way that aloof look of his turns mild when he faces you, but you didn’t want to think about it too much.

You ponder on the time you’d called him on a whim early in your friendship when your date had bailed on you. Sukuna did not want to see the cheesy romance movie you had tickets for, but he’d sucked it up and shown up. You’d offered to buy him dinner as a thank you, but he paid regardless. It was the kind of thing a real date would do, but he’d complained so much you brushed the thought away.

When you were entirely too obsessed with Game of Thrones and insisted he be your king in a big fur cloak for Halloween, maybe then something had changed.

“You want me to be some guy from the show you like?” He’d grumbled and guffawed over having to dress up at all, insisting he’d been planning to put in minimal effort.

“Pleaaase, Kuna?” You were practically on your knees by the time he’d agreed with a roll of his eyes. “You’d make a good Robb Stark,” you insist before second-guessing yourself. “Well, if he was grumpy and kind of a dick.” You shrug, grinning up at him as he shoots you a begrudging look through narrowed eyes.

It only takes you a few days to put together the costume given the abundance of medieval king and knight costumes around.

His arms cross over his rugged chest, the fabric of his shirt pulled taut by the movement. “You can’t be serious.” He stares at the tight faux leather coat you hand him with a scowl.

“He wears something similar!”

“I’m not wearing this.”

“Please, you said you would!” You pout at him as you sport your best puppy dog eyes.

“No.”

You jut your bottom lip out, taking a step towards him as you shove the leather top to his chest. His eyes narrow, gears turning in his head until he shuts his eyes, giving in.

Your eyes light up as he pulls the top from you, groaning as he pulls it on over his shirt. It’s tight on him, which you expected given Sukuna’s sheer size, but it’s a strangely hot look on your rugged best friend. Even more so when he lets you drape the cape over his shoulders and set a cute little crown on his head.

“No, absolutely not,” he hisses, slapping your hand away when you try to clip the crown in place with a bobby pin.

“You’re such a pain,” you tease as you try again, holding an extra pin between your teeth.

Standing back, you admire your work as you receive a very unamused look in return. Sukuna’s build makes for a very kingly stature in spite of the contrasting tattoos and it makes him hot. In fact, you’re half afraid someone will whisk him away at the Halloween party given how nicely he’s cleaned up.

Your lips twitch downwards at the thought. You don’t want him to be whisked away. You want your king by your side.

“So?”

Snapping you from your thoughts, your eyes light up again. “You look great,” you tell him with a grin. His eyes flicker with something you don’t recognize.

He hums, examining your expression. “Well, go get ready then. Gonna sweat through all this leather n’ shit.”

“Oh like you aren’t used to leather,” you roll your eyes, but you oblige, getting your matching Talisa Stark outfit on.

When you return to Sukuna sitting on his couch, you muster your best impression of your character. “My king?”

Your best friend’s attention turns to you, eyes widening as you approach him in a floor-length queen’s gown with a matching gray cloak and a crown pinned into your hair. “Shit, y’ look good,” he breathes out.

Your cheeks heat up and you scratch at the back of your neck. “Thanks, Kuna.” You clear your throat and your mind to the best of your ability as you offer him a hand. “Ready?”

He hums, taking your hand before grabbing his keys and offering you his arm. “My queen?”

You’d be lying if you said that wasn’t the first spark. The first real spark. As he loosened up throughout the night and repetitively called you his princess, you knew you were spent. Each and every time he used the name had you giggling up a storm and while you’d brushed it off as intoxication at the time, you knew the truth deep down.

So when he’d returned to his aloof self the following morning, you swallowed down your feelings.

You couldn’t bear the thought of losing your best friend and he didn’t have a good track record with relationships. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t scared, even now.

“Halloween,” you utter finally, unsure of just how long you’ve been silently contemplating an answer in his arms.

“Figures,” his chest rumbles in brief laughter.

“You knew?”

“Nah, thought it was the alcohol.”

“Yeah, I thought so too. That’s why I started dating other people.”

Sukuna doesn’t respond but he buries his face into the crown of your head, drinking in your warmth, your intoxicating scent, and your soft skin against his as he closes his eyes.

No more other people, you’re his.

“Was it me callin’ you my princess?” He asks of the night you realized you’d caught feelings.

“That, and you make a good Robb Stark.”

He snorts. “I remember being told I was a dick.”

You shrug, smiling against the warm skin of his chest. “I don’t retract that statement.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head and warmth spreads through your body as you relax against him, eyes closing as exhaustion spreads across you like a warm blanket. You know the kiss is a sassy retort, but it shamelessly works on you.

“Fine. I retract my statement.”

“That’s my princess.”

–

“Can you stop moving so much?”

Unsurprisingly, Sukuna’s got an attitude today and he absolutely plans on making it your problem as he huffs.

Your gloved hands work carefully to thoroughly cover every last strand of his short hair with dye. You know very well the only reason he’s being such a menace today is because you’d suggested a change in color and he’s afraid it’ll look bad.

In all your years of knowing him, he’s always had the same pink hair, so you were thrilled he was allowing you the honor of dying it back to its original color, black. You’d actually insisted on orange or red, but black was the only thing he was willing to compromise on.

You make your way back around him and find his scowling face looking up at you. Covering the last few strands of hair over his forehead, you boldly sit on his lap.

His demeanor changes in an instant as you straddle him and his hands eagerly find your hips and begin roaming up your waist and back down to your thighs. You shoot him a warning glance as you accidentally smudge some black dye on his forehead, but he pays you no mind as he continues his ministrations.

“Kuna,” you warn sternly, trying to wipe off the black marking before it leaves a stain, but it’s too late. You sigh and look over your work.

“Just a quickie, c’mon,” he insists with a grin.

“I don’t want to be covered in black dye,” you retort and Sukuna groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “How long do I gotta wait?”

“Thirty minutes.”

He frowns, eyes following your movements as you pull off your gloves and throw them in the trash of your shared apartment. He can’t for the life of him tear his eyes from you as you proceed to wash your hands before grabbing a damp towelette to wipe at his forehead.

Suddenly feeling like a child as you take care of the marking on his forehead, he swats at your hand.

“You’re a menace,” you mutter, avoiding his hand with practiced precision as you wipe away any traces of hair dye from his face.

He smirks, he likes the way you tease him and if anything it only makes him want to bend you over the table more.

Still, when you pull back to inspect his face and leave a gentle peck on his lips, he knows you don’t mind his attitude.

You know it’s all a ruse of sorts. Not around others, but around you it is.

Dating him for so many years came with its fair share of complications, especially given that Sukuna’s communication skills were about as good as those of a rock. He often didn’t pick up on small signs that you were bothered by things and vice versa, as he’s a tough book to read.

Regardless of any small arguments, nothing ever got out of hand surprisingly. You can’t imagine your life if Sukuna hadn’t shown up to get you the night your ex kicked you out. What Sukuna lacked in the department of emotional understanding, he made up for with his actions.

Although he very rarely says it, you know Sukuna loves you.

Each and every ‘I love you’ is met with a kiss, a squeeze of your arm, a tug towards him.

Sukuna has his own way of showing you he loves you.

He picks you up from work with flowers, shocking those around you when the grumpy-looking tattooed man hands you flowers that surely won’t make it home in great condition on his bike, but it doesn’t matter.

He runs you a bath when he fucks you into oblivion and your legs give out. It may be his own hand that inflicted your weakness, but it doesn’t matter because he shows you just how much he cares for you through his aftercare routine.

He makes your coffee with far too much milk and sugar for his own taste and complains about it the whole time, but it doesn’t matter because he still does it every morning for you.

Sukuna loves you, and he knows that you’re aware of it.

When it comes time to wash his hair, he closes his eyes when you help him wash it in the sink. Your fingers move so delicately, taking care to wash out all the dye.

When he dries his hair with a towel and sees the way you delight at the sight of his freshly jet-black hair, he chuckles.

“Why do you never grow your hair out?” You ask, running your hands through his spiked hair. The color suits him and brings out his eyes in the most stunning way, you’re sure you have stars in your eyes from the way you’re staring at him.

“Dunno. The other color looks good,” he shrugs.

“It does!” You agree with a grin, “but so does this!” You insist. “It’s hot.”

He hums, looking himself over in the mirror. In truth, he doesn’t mind it. He only really indulged you because you’d insisted, but it worked out given what he had in mind for the night. It would look good in photos.

“When is Shiu getting here?” You ask curiously, interrupting Sukuna’s thoughts as your short arms wrap around his middle from behind.

“Hour from now.”

You gasp suddenly. “I need to clean up.”

“I can clean you up,” Sukuna smirks, lifting his arms in an attempt to see your face from where you stand behind him.

“Kunaaa,” you whine. “I need time to get ready.”

He groans dramatically. “Fine,” he grumbles, watching as you prance away happily to get ready.

You, Sukuna, Choso, Toji, Shiu, and Uraume were all going out in celebration of Toji’s newest addition to his family, a young boy. It was surprising that he was the first to settle down, but when you’d met his wife, you could see that she was his world, the way he relaxed at her touch and his own edge calmed in the same way Sukuna’s does around you.

Sukuna lays on his bed, watching as you choose a gorgeous black dress that hugs your curves so delectably that he wants to tear it off of you then and there. The whole time, he fumbles with something in his pocket, grateful when you don’t notice the small box accidentally fall from his grasp and onto the bed.

You chat with him about your work the whole time. Sukuna’s mind is elsewhere but given that he’s never all that chatty, you don’t notice. Looking yourself over in the mirror, you let out a relieved breath when you manage to be ready with only a couple of minutes to spare.

“Y’ look gorgeous.” Sultry words are whispered in your ear, followed up by a kiss to your neck as your boyfriend comes up behind you. His hands rest softly on your waist as he rests his chin on your shoulder, bending down to your height.

You watch his actions from the mirror, the way his lidded eyes look over the curves of your figure, the way he slides his arms so delicately around your middle to envelop you in a tight hug, it’s these moments that you treasure the most.

The quiet moments where you simply enjoy one another’s presence.

Your lives are so busy that you don’t always get time to yourselves, so melting into his arms in that moment, you wish it would last forever.

Of course forever is a long time, and Shiu certainly doesn’t have the patience to wait in his car that long for you both. You’re not entirely sure why Sukuna doesn’t want to take your bikes, but you don’t push the subject. Your boyfriend’s mind is a mysterious place.

Your group gathers at a restaurant that’s a bit fancy for everyone’s tastes, but Uraume had insisted on it given the occasion. The real surprise was that Sukuna had dressed up a bit as well, sporting a sleek black pair of slacks, a black long sleeve button-up, and a red tie. His ensemble went well with your black dress.

Over the years, Sukuna’s friends had become your friends, long before you started dating, even.

Choso and Yuji were like your little brothers, and Uraume and Toji your closest drinking buddies. They got along surprisingly well with your friends too, especially Choso and Yuji who, unlike Sukuna, seemed to have a talent for getting along with everyone. Shiu generally only tagged along when Toji was around, but their banter was always welcome.

As Toji shows off photos of his son Megumi alongside his daughter Tsumiki, you notice Sukuna whispering something to Choso, casting oddly uneasy glances in your direction. Frowning, you glance over yourself once as though there’s something wrong with your outfit. No… it looks fine. So what’s Sukuna being so secretive about?

You brush it off as nothing, sure you’re overthinking things… until he pulls Toji aside after the man finishes showing off photos of his son.

You tilt your head quizzically to Uraume as you lean over towards them, ensuring Sukuna can’t hear you.

“Is Kuna acting weird to you?”

“Yes,” Uraume follows your gaze, narrowing their eyes. “Perhaps he misses Toji?”

“Are we talking about the same person?” A small smirk quirks up the corners of your lips.

Uraume laughs lightly with you. “You’re right,” they agree, but the thought doesn’t leave your mind.

It’s not like Sukuna doesn’t have off days like everyone else, but this is a strange change of demeanor for him. He seems strangely fidgety, as though he can’t sit still. His leg had bounced under the table throughout most of dinner and he was strangely eager to get the bill.

He had been horny all day, the best guess you have is that maybe it’s that and he wants to get home.

Still, it doesn’t explain him being so secretive throughout the night. In fact, he’d barely spoken a lick to you. Which isn’t entirely uncommon, but in place of words he would normally find comfort in your touch. Yet tonight it felt as though you’d hardly seen him despite sitting next to him most of the night.

You resort to asking him about it later, though an uneasy feeling tugs at you the more you notice it.

You’re almost grateful the dinner is over when it is as you intertwine your fingers with Sukuna like nothing is wrong. Shiu leads the way across the expanse of grass by the restaurant to his car one lot over, chatting with Toji as you and your boyfriend trail behind.

With Choso and Uraume a short distance behind you, you figure now is as good of a time to ask as any.

“Is everything alright, baby?” You tilt your head to look at your boyfriend.

Something glimmers in his eyes, an emotion you don’t recognize. That’s odd.

“‘Course.”

Well, that’s not reassuring.

“Okay… Nothing’s wrong?”

He shoots you a small smirk, kissing the top of your head.

“Nothin’s wrong, princess. Don’t worry your pretty little head.”

You sigh, unable to help the feeling that he has something up his sleeve, but also able to recognize that whatever he’s plotting, he clearly has no intention of telling you. Regardless, you’re relieved that his nonchalant attitude seems to have returned. Maybe it’s nothing to worry about after all.

You miss the way he glances between the two groups, nodding to both as you sigh and give in.

“Alright, Kuna. I love you.”

Sukuna stops to face you and you blink at him perplexedly. Time seems to stand still as his chest rises and falls so quickly, he’s sure you can hear his heart beating out of his chest as he fumbles in his pocket for a moment.

You open your mouth to question him but your words die on your tongue when your boyfriend swallows hard before making a quick movement down onto one knee and your eyes go wide, your heart pounding in tandem with his.

It’s just the two of you in that moment, all sounds drowned out by beating hearts, lights and movement a blur behind you both. Everything is just Sukuna. Just you.

“Y/n,” he begins hoarsely. His voice shakes slightly and he curses himself for it but he doesn’t dare look away from your gorgeous wide eyes.

Your lips part, a lump forming in your throat. It feels as though it could choke you and you swallow hard but it only seems to encourage the tears you had yet to notice welling in your eyes.

“I had this whole speech planned,” he chuckles breathlessly. “Practiced n’ everything.”

You nod slowly, your hands trembling as you bring one up to your mouth to suppress your shock and awe when he pulls out a small red velvet box.

“But I don’t think that shit's for me. So I decided to keep it simple.”

Nestled delicately within the box is a gorgeous silver ring with a beautiful diamond held delicately in the center. The ring splits into three separate parts just before the gem that all twist with smaller jewels around the metal.

“Marry me?”

Although he very rarely says it, you know Sukuna loves you.

From the way he holds you to the way he listens and kisses you between words. From the way he brings you lunch at work when you forget to the way he drives more carefully when you’re cuddled behind him on his bike.

Sukuna loves you, and he knows that you’re aware of it.

And you love him too.

“Yes!”

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