rev4erie

[rev4erie]

[rev4erie]

Up for the challenge, Kitten ?

summary ⭐︎ Lying to yourself about the undeniable chemistry with the mischievous white-haired guy from finance was probably—already—a bad move. But getting too drunk on that team-building trip…? And thirsting over him? In front of him?? After losing a challenge??? Yeahhh, definitely the baddest move ever.

pairing ⭐︎ marketing!worker!AFAB reader x finance!engineery!Sylus content ⭐︎ multiple scene (surfing, interview, with friends,…), new characters, avoidance, one scene where reader is doing anxiety (very slight), provocative reader, expressing ‘flushing cheeks’ as to express her timidity/shyness nothing to do with skin color!!!, their dynamic change throughout the story, mutual pining that evolves, reader qualifies herself as brat, drÿ hūmpįng, consensual king sylus!, p€ssy drunk, dümbificãtion (both), big d sylus, fįngērįng, ōrál sëx (f. receiving), drunk confession, sylus is blushing almost the whole story, he moans!, big stretch, making it fit, cüm play, praising, domsub, breaking glasses (surprise surprise), ōrgásm denial, bēggìng, brat taming, sqūrtíng, emotional sēx, unprotected sēx (asked), êdgìng, sūcking on fingers, ōvërstímulātiön. and some more surprise !! 

wc ⭐︎ 24.8k notes ⭐︎ hihihiiii i’m sooooo happy to show you this work!! i enjoyed writing this a lot lot lot. i practically giggled each time i wrote frfr. and honorable mention to Meliaa my pretty lovely financial girl the only icon of this show in my opinion. I imagined her as a tall honeyed skin girl with green eyes and curly hair… ‘s all she’s just my baby🙂‍↕️🤞 also (if u read this) please know that i’d very much appreciate your comments i do not eat i promise! i tried to be creative with some formulations so any feed back is welcomed. don’t be shy to comment (or send ask anonymously) if you enjoyed something/ a scene/ a phrasing,… I WOULD DIIIIIE TO KNOW❤️❤️❤️ and ofc reblogs (with silly tags) are appreciated very very much. here that’s all ENJOYYY!! 💋

arts cred adeline_ns (on x)

“Well, it’s not that bad.” Rafayel, your best friend, shrugs mockingly as usual.

“What do you mean not that bad?” you snap back, irritation running your bold hot as you pour yourself a cup of coffee.

As if pairing with Sylus, that insufferable, numbers-worshipping financial engineer, for the goddamn new product launch wasn’t already punishment enough, now there’s a team-building retreat. Together. 

Okay, fine. Not just the two of you. His precious finance department and your marketing team were all being herded off to some idyllic escape in the name of bonding. 

Your directors had insisted: “it’s primordial for interdepartmental alchemy,” they’d said, probably while high on some synergy charts and LinkedIn buzzwords.

Right. For work.

Your ass.

“You both made a good job, y’know,” Rafayel goes on, completely unbothered by your sour mood. “The new product’s a carton-breaker. It’s probably the best we’ve ever had. Sold out in three hours.” 

“And it cost me my peace,” You mutter, rolling your eyes. “That man is the most irritating human to ever walk this planet. He’s smug, pretentious, and always, always, with his ‘it’s better like that’ crap.”

You scowl, your eyebrows tightening at the memory of all those late nights stuck in the office with Sylus. Him and his spreadsheets. His precision. His baritone voice calmly suggesting you redo your entire pitch deck because his model showed ‘opportunity loss.’ As if your creative campaign had been a PowerPoint napkin sketch.

You’ve convinced you lost at least three brain cells—and maybe a fragment of your soul—in the process.

“Still.” Rafayel sips his coffee, side-eyeing you. “Didn’t hear you complaining when he brought you that almond croissant every morning.”

You shoot him a death glare. “That was strategic manipulation.”

“Sure,” he hums, not even trying to hide his grin. “Definitely not a tiny act of affection.”

You pretend to gag. “Please. I’d rather date my inbox spam folder.”

Rafayel leans against the counter, smug as ever as you put some sugar on your drink. “You keep talking about him, though.”

“I keep talking about my trauma, Rafayel. That’s called processing.”

He raises both hands in surrender. “Hey, hey. Just saying. For someone you hate, you sure remember the way he says things. Like, word for word.”

You go silent, blinking at him. 

Then you chuck your spoon at his head. 

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

You drag your carry-on behind you, already regretting every life choice that led to this team-building retreat. The airport smells like burnt espresso, it’s hushed with pressed people and kids crying there and here. Businesswomen and men walking rapidly as you approach the gate.

You scan the group—matching lanyards, branded hoodies, excessive happy smiles—and then you spot him. 

Sylus.

Easy to spot on with his over-six-feet-tall plus broad shoulders, mullet white hair and glasses on. Moreover, it would have been easy to spot him anyway, with all those people orbiting him. From finance girls to marketing execs, even the barista from the airport café did a double take.

You roll your eyes so hard you see your own frontal lobe.

Sylus’s eyes flick over the crowd like he just smelled you. He smiles as he makes his way toward you, escaping the boring conversations he was having. “Didn’t think I’d see you voluntarily show up before boarding.” He starts.

“I’m not here voluntarily,” you reply flatly. “This is corporate coercion. I was promised a beach and wi-fi. Not you.”

He grins slowly. “Still dreaming about me, I see.”

“Only in nightmares. You’re the sleep paralysis demon of my professional life.”

“Well, well,” he says, that smug, infuriating slow-blooming smile already placarded on his face. “They let you through the airport security with all that hostility?”

You don’t break stride. “Only because I promised not to stab anyone until we land.”

He chuckles, falling into step beside you. “Still the ray of sunshine I remember. It’s comforting.”

You glance at him sideways. “Lose the smirk, Sylus. This isn’t runway. It’s gate 23B.” you say as you take a look to the tailored half-coat he wears. 

“And yet you’re still checking me out,” he says, completely unbothered. “You know, I do have that effect on women.”

“You have an effect, of course,” you mutter. “Like a rash.”

The white-haired man grins wider, clearly enjoying this too much to your liking. “You wound me. But don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of time to work through your unresolved feelings. I hear there’s a group trust exercise. Maybe we can unpack that deep, smoldering resentment of yours.”

You curse everyone and everything in this moment—but especially Rafayel, for not being here because he’s from the accounting team.

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The heat hits you first. It’s thick, golden, the air smells like slat and the delicate arums of flowers. It wraps around you like a much-needed hug as you step off the plane and onto the tarmac.

You blink against the absurd beauty of it all. Mountains in the distance, ocean so blue it feels fake. The kind of place people Photoshop themselves into for dating apps. Someone even hands you a flower necklace. Yes, really. 

The company’s rented local vans wait at the edge of the small airport, sleek and air conditioned. Everyone piles in, sunglasses on, trying not to look like children on a school trip. Bu, well, it’s hard not to have your eyes glim in front of the sweetest candies ever.

The ride is really short, you stare out—amazed by the long palm trees adoring the side of the road, all the signs in French written all over. Even the van is extremely pretty, beautiful colors, the inside with parkette—nonetheless.

Everything feels like postcard, too much sky, too much blue, too much sand.

It can only light your mood up, excited to discover and try all the new places, this island has to offer. And as you arrive to the hotel your jaw drops even more on the floor. 

It’s everything but a hotel.

It’s an overwater fantasy—individual thatched-roof bungalows stretching out in neat little rows over the turquoise lagoon, each one with its own steps straight into the sea. There are kayaks tied to docks. Hammocks. Glass floors. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

“Careful,” a voice says beside you. “That almost sounded like joy.”

You jolt.

You turn to see Sylus standing far too close to you, sunglasses perched like a movie villain, watching your expression, analyzing you the same way he’d do to collect data on your ability to feel wonder. 

“Don’t ruin this for me.” You scowl.

“Just want to make sure you’re still the same bitter, overworked gremlin I flew in with,” He says, almost too casually, as he shrugs.

“What if I push you off the dock? That’d be bitter enough for you?” you smile sweetly, with venom. You don’t wait for a response. You’re already walking away, basket hitting the wooden pier that stretches out into the clearest water you’ve ever landed your eyes on. Below, fish dart through the turquoise shallows.

Only joy seems like to exist—laughter, waves, sunlight dancing on water, and the distant clink of someone’s luggage wheel catching on a board. You step into the reception area — a wide, open-air pavilion with carved wooden beams and the kind of aesthetic minimalism that screams wealth. A breeze drifts through, carrying the scent of salt, flowers, and something vaguely eucalyptus. There’s a giant bowl of chilled towels near the desk. You briefly consider burying your entire face in one.

You’re hit with a weird, floating sensation. Like you’re not entirely convinced this isn’t a jetlag-induced hallucination.

“Alright, team!” calls a voice. 

You turn to see the HR rep—bright polo shirt, clipboard, and the perky energy of someone who does trust fallsvoluntarily. She claps her hands once, sharply. “you’ll now be assigned your little island homes” she announces with a thick French accent. “they’re arranged in alternating order,” she continues. “One marketing, one finance, and so on—so we can organically mingle across departments while still having your own space to rest, reflect, and practice emotional regulation.” She adds the last part like it’s a joke. 

It's not.

She holds up a color-coded keycard. “Each one has a king-size bed, private sun deck, direct access to the lagoon, and a bathroom bigger than your last apartment. No roommates, don’t worry—just the occasional curious stingray.”

You exhale, half-relieved, half-annoyed you even felt relief.

“But do feel free to visit your neighbors,” she adds, with a bright smile that feels like a trap. “They’re just a plank or two away.”

You glance around. And right on cue, Sylus is behind you again, keycard in hand, eyebrows raised. 

“What number are you?” he asks, already knowing.

You hold yours up slowly. “Bungalow Seven,” you say, flat.

He grins. “Six.” He leans in just enough for you to be hallowed by his overpriced cologne. “Well, lucky for you—close quarters build intimacy. Or at least…proximity-induced confusion.”

You narrow your eyes, still not looking at him as he’s behind you. “Confusion?”

“You know. You hear something at night—soft moan, splash, name screamed into the lagoon…and you can’t quite tell if it’s passion or someone getting attacked by a mantra ray.” He raises his brows, leaning even closer to you. “Either way, I’m flattered you’d be listening.”

Your lips twitch. Then you process to turn slowly at him, giving him a practiced smile. “If I hear screaming, I’ll assume a shark got into HR’s bonding activities. Hopefully starting with you, my dear.”

He steps back, hand on his heart. “God, you flirt like a weapon.”

“Good thing, I’m not flirting then.”

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

You wake up to a sunset bleeding gold across your bungalow’s ceiling, your suitcase half-unpacked and your soul still somewhere over the Pacific. You’d meant to take a short nap, only to recover from the long flight—but your body had other plans. Plans involving horizontal collapse and borderline hibernation, apparently.

You groan as your hand fumble on the crumpled itinerary beside your bed instead of your phone and you’re meet with a beautiful ‘dinner: 7:30p.m. Main pavilion, Buffet style. Casual dress.’

You consider not going for long long minutes. 

But eventually, you rinse the plane out of your skin, throw on something linen-adjacent, and follow the distant sound of laughter and clinking silverware toward the glow of the main dining pavilion.

It’s stunning. String lights twisted through palm trees, low tables on sand, candles in hurricane glass. The buffet is obnoxiously good—long tables of grilled fish, tropical salads, fruit that looks airbrushed, and at least three kinds of rice that you know you’ll mess up mixing.

You make a beeline for a plate, eyes still adjusting to all the beauty when a sudden voice takes you by surprise. “Hi, is this your third attack on the buffet too?” 

You glance up.

A beautiful lady—maybe your age—with sharp cheekbones, beach-curled hair and a quiet sort of chaos energy in her green eyes looks at you with the warmest smile. 

“Actually, it’s my first. I’ve just come out of my hibernation.” You speak. “I might eat an entire papaya and feel nothing in my stomach.”

“Perfect,” she grins. “I need someone morally flexible to split the grilled pineapple with.”

You raise and eyebrow. “Is this a recruitment tactic?”

“Yes. I’m building a breakaway cult. Our only rule is ‘never speak during HR icebreakers.’”

You let out a small laugh at her playfulness. “Meliaa,” she sticks out her hand. “Finance team. But the cool side.”

You take it. “Marketing. Emotionally retired.”

She clinks your plate with hers. “Welcome to paradise, emotionally retired marketing. May your bungalow be crab-free, and your neighbor be bearable.”

“Too late on that one.” You snort.

Meliaa doesn’t pry, but the glance she throws you says story time later. She leads you toward the beach seating where everyone’s half-tipsy, pretending not to be networking. You sit together under one of the big lanterns—the ocean playing a slow, welcoming melody.

Her company is surprisingly easy—funny and calm, absolutely nothing near those grumpy financial creaturesyou’ve met. Hours pass by a blue and your connection is well-welcoming, light. And somewhere across the pavilion, you catch a glimpse of Sylus’s raspy voice—low and amused, probably a bit tipsy.

Meliaa nudges your elbow with her own. “Now that I think about it. You’re the one who headed the carton-pleinlaunch a few weeks back with Sylus, right? The product that basically triggered a LinkedIn civil war?” You blink, mid-bite as she adds, “With Sylus. Unless I completely imagined the dozens of Slack messages and corporate gossip about you two…”

You follow her nod toward the far table, where Sylus is comfortable sprawled in a way that should be illegal in dress pants. He’s mid-sentence, surrounded by a few persons of the finance-team, one hand curled around a glass that is probably too overpriced for what it is, whine. His white mullet hair is slightly windswept, glasses pushed high on his straight nose, skin doing that just-warm-enough-to-look-unbothered glow.

You hum noncommittally.

“Oh, come on,” Meliaa says, stabbing a piece of pineapple. “you two set the whole building on fire—metaphorically and tragically. I’m sure people are still talking about it like it was a royal wedding.”

You hum again. Higher pitch, not biting.

“Everyone’s obsessed,” she adds. “Even the legal team has a weird theory that you two are, like, creative soulmates.”

You resist the urge to flip your fork.

Truth is, yes—the campaign was brilliant. Seamless. Unhinged. A little too synergized, if you’re honest. But working with Sylus felt like surviving a beautiful car crash: effective, chaotic, and guaranteed to give you a twitch in your right eye.

Meliaa tilts her head, watching you. Then, with surgical timing: “So…did you fuck?”

You fork pauses mid-air.

“What??” 

She shrugs, unbothered, popping the pineapple into her mouth like she didn’t just detonate a small social bomb. “Just asking. The tension in those launch photos was giving me very two-slide-too-close-to-each-other-in-a-PowerPoint energy.”

You blink. “We co-authored a product deck, not a sex tape.”

Meliaa cackles. “Same thing if you zoom in enough.”

You glare, but it’s all smoke. She’s laughing, and you’re…not really as mad as you probably should be. In fact, a small smile twitches your lips. “Anyway,” you soon to be friend says with a blink, “if you ever do, just give me a sign. Like, blink three times at the salad bar.”

You sigh and shove a chunk of mango in your mouth before replying, “Don’t wait too long. you’re more likely to see a robot cry on live television than catch me fucking that person.”

And as if summoned by sin, Sylus turns. His gaze slides across the crowd and lands directly on you, locking eyes—with his usual playfulness in his ruby eyes, a cocky smirk well put on his stupidly handsome face, he lifts his wine glass.

You don’t move. Just raise your slice of mango with your fork in silent salute, smile sugar-sweet but, unfortunately, the mango you put in your mouth is nothing sweet—it lost all his delicious taste. 

Meliaa lets out a low whistle. “Oh yeah,” she murmurs, hiding her smile. “This is definitely going in the Slack thread.”

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The next morning arrives in a slow, golden blur.

You spend the first half of it shuffling through the company’s very earnest attempts at “bonding.” There’s a trust exercise involving coconuts, a brainstorming session under a frangipani tree, and a mindfulness circle where someone from accounting got a bit too real during the 'one thing you’re grateful for' round.

Corporate bliss. With flip-flops.

Turns out, Meliaa’s in Bungalow Five. Just two wooden planks down from yours. She’d greeted you at breakfast like an old war comrade, slid a way-too-sweet coffee into your hand, and muttered, “Let’s survive this day like it’s a team-building hostage crisis.” You’d instantly felt grateful for her existence.

By the time the afternoon rolls around, most of the group is half-sunburned and sticky with coconut-scented resolve.

And God thanks, you’ve got quartier-libre for the late afternoon. Which mean :

“Meliaa!” you scream between breaths, as her surfboard shoots up like it’s trying to reach heaven. “You good?!” you laugh so hard your ribs ache, your friend getting absolutely bodied by waves was, apparently, your new favorite pastime.

She resurfaces, choking on saltwater and pride, hair slicked back like a shipwrecked mermaid. “That wave had audacity,” she gasps. “Tell my manager I died in the line of duty.”

You smirk, “already did. Also told tem you left your company laptop to me in your will.”

She flips you off dramatically with her water-wrinkled fingers.

“I also told you how to do this—like, a thousand times,” you say, wading over to grab her leash. “What was that? You flopped like a cursed baguette.”

“Okay, French Kelly Slater, I didn’t grow up inside a GoPro ad like you,” she huffs, still clinging to her board like it personally betrayed her.

You shrug your shoulder in false desinvolture, “what can I say, you missed all the fun then.” You help her get back on. “Bend your knees. center of gravity. Don’t throw yourself forward like you’re trying to hug a wave.”

“that’s rude. I’m an empath. The wave seemed lonely.”

You groan, push her board around to face the next set of baby swells. “Okay, empath. Paddle, paddle, up, not a crucifixion poses this time—” 

She tries again and almost makes it this time, popping halfway up before immediately slipping off and flailing into the water. You clap slowly, “10/10 for drama. 3 for form.”

Meliaa bursts out laughing, face barely above water. “You know what, I’ll just float. Floating is my destiny.” You paddle over, letting your board drift beside hers, both of you bobbing gently in the turquoise, the sun warm on your shoulders.

And just as a smartass remark starts making its way out of your mouth—

“Ladies.” A raspy, low voice crackles right into your eardrums. 

Meliaa shields her eyes, squinting at the sky as she floats on her board. “I think that’s your fuckboy.” She murmurs for only you to hear as Sylus paddles toward you.

You don’t even need to look to know she’s right. The syllables already reek of well-dressed arrogance and ego-drenched cologne, splashing straight onto your last nerve.

“I thought I heard two struggling seals and figured I should investigate.” Sylus drawls lazily as his board bumps against yours—utterly unbothered by concepts like personal space.

You shoot him a glance.

And immediately have to discipline your eyeballs. Because no, you’re not going to acknowledge how the wetsuit clings to him like it was vacuum sealed by the gods. 

You’re definitely not acknowledging the stretch of his strong thighs on either side of his board, solid and extremely salivating. And you’re certainly not acknowledging the way his ridiculous mid-length hair is slicked back making him irresistible, droplets catching on his lashes, making him look like he’s been hand-painted for thirst traps.

He raises an eyebrow, smirking but before he could even open his mouth, you’re quicker to beat him, “Sorry, we don’t speak corporate dolphin. Can you translate?”

Meliaa snorts, sinking halfway off her board from laughing.

Sylus only chuckles under his breath and leans in closer—so close you can actually count the droplets on his chiseled jaw—planting both of his annoyingly large hands between his thighs as his head stops centimetersaway from yours. 

“Y’know,” his voice drops enough to touch something hot in your stomach—your eyes drifting from his board nudging yours to his sharp eyes. “you’re quite funny to talk to,” he murmurs, head tilting as his eyes sweeps over you. “Always some bratty answers coming out of your mouth.” Before you can shoot back, his ruby eyes drop—flicking to your plushy lips and pausing there just long enough to spark heat in the salt-thick air. “Wonder what else you could do with that pretty mouth.” And then his eyes crawl their way back to yours, dragging your pulse up with them.

Meliaa slaps a hand against the surface of the water. “Yeahhh,” she says, pushing herself upright on her board with dramatic flair. “I’m letting you two flirts in peace before the ocean turns into a sex scene. I’m too hot and too single to witness this tension up close.”

“Go choke on a seashell.”

She cackles, already drifting off. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t film!”

You steal a glance at Sylus but he still as his eyes fixed on you—lips curled into that smug smirk, again. He leans in a fraction closer, water lapping gently between the boards. “Why are you always so bite-bite with me?”

“Bite-bite?”

He nods, lips twitching. “Yeah. All teeth. Little nips every time I open my mouth.”

You tilt your head back, putting some distance with him. “Maybe I just enjoy chewing through bullshit.”

He hums. “You’re so full of heat. I wonder what you’d do if you weren’t busy pretending you hate this.”

“Hate what, exactly.”

“This,” he says, motioning between you. “Me. The banter. The fact that when I get close,” his board nudges yours again, “You don’t move fully.”

You inhale slowly, refusing to blink first. “Careful. You sound like you want something.”

“I do.”

You wait for him to continue as you can clearly see mischief playing behind his pupils. “First one to ride that wave all the wain in—” he jerks his chin toward the break rolling in the near distance “—wins.”

You squint. “Wins what?”

He smiles, a real smile this time. “Don’t know. Anything the person wants.” You look at the wave, then at him.

“You’re on, Sylus.”

The wave rises, it’s a monster—one of those waves’ surfers dream about and lifeguards whisper warnings over. You both paddle hard, muscles burning, adrenaline surging like the tide behind you. You catch it at the same time, boards slicing the face of the wave with a smooth hiss. 

You two pop up in perfect sync, knees bent, bodies low—rooster tail of spray spreading behind your boards. Sylus is good—too good even. His form is fluid, confident. So confident he glances at you mid-ride and winks.

He can’t help but grin as you push forward, carving hard and spraying him with a mist of seawater. He lets out a small chuckle, swallowed by the roar of the wave, and retaliates by riding dangerously close to you as if he wants to bump you off—except he knows exactly how not to. “Friendly reminder,” he calls out, voice teasing over the crash of the surf, “if you fall, I’m totally carrying you back like a tragic romance heroine.”

“Dream on, Sylus.”

You pump down the face of the wave, gathering speed, muscles burning as you pull ahead. He chases right on your tail, throwing in a flashy spin. You’re nearing the shore now. Sand is visible. And so is the crowd gathered on the beach.

The wave’s energy is starting to fade, so you crouch lower—your board starts to shake slightly beneath you, but you hold. There’re only few meters left from the shore and Sylus is still standing upright when you hear his raspy voice again, “Ready to call it a draw?”

You laugh. “Only if you’re afraid of losing.”

His eyes gleam. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He suddenly crouches, touches the water with his fingers, and then—leans back dramatically like he’s sinking onto a bed. And, somehow, he’s still balancing perfectly, defying gravity itself. You jaw drops. “Show-off,” you mutter, brows furrowed in slight annoyance. The wave fizzles out, both boards glide into the shallows…

And Sylus hits the sand a second before you.

The water settles as silence makes its room between you. And as you try—hallucinate—to ingurgitate your defeat, the insufferable-financial-man-who’s-surprisingly-good-at-surf jumps off his board with his arms stretched wide and yells, “Victory tastes like salt and glory!” 

So uncharacteristically him. 

“By half a fin.” You roll your eyes, but you’re honestly too amused by the rare, boyish joy lighting up his face—the usual seriousness replaced with something softer, freer.

“A win’s a win. But hey—” He walks toward you, water sliding up his thighs, offering you a hand. His voice dips, low, “you were amazing. Like, scarily good. I didn’t know you could ride like that.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you up—but you don’t miss how your hand looks small in his, how he holds it a beat longer than necessary. “Yeah? I didn’t know you had physics-defying arrogance.”

“Only when you’re watching.” He squeezes your hand. “Now I get to ask you what I want, right?” He adds, voice laced in teasing heat.

“I guess so,” you murmur, pulse ticking in your throat. “Choose well. This ain’t happening again anytime soon.”

His full lips twitch upward. “Then I’ll make it count.”

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The next two days pass in a blur of sun and carefully scheduled corporate bonding. Paddleboard relays, beachside obstacle courses, something called ‘synergy sprint’ that involved trust falls and colored ropes—and a surprise group meditation session where Meliaa muttered ‘If I achieve inner peace, I’m quitting finance.’ Just loud enough for half the team to hear.

As for you, you play your part. Smile for the group photos, nod during the workshops, give your best fake-enthusiastic thumbs up when the manager says something like “let’s circle back to those pain points in a blue-sky brainstorm.” It’s all fine.

Functional. Entertaining in a mildly corporate-absurdist way.

But one thing keeps triggering you: Sylus.

He’s sharp, composed and maddeningly unreadable. Nothing out of the ordinaire. He leads his mini team through challenged with smooth authority, gives concise answers, asks the right questions. He’s polite and focused.

What is out of the ordinary though, is his lack of… teasing.

And that’s the part that makes you feel stupid for noticing. You shouldn’t notice. Especially when you both aren’t in cold—not when you laughed your way out of the water after the surf challenge.

And even if you were in cold, it shouldn’t annoy you. You shouldn’t feel strange when he doesn’t find a way to sit next to you during lunch time. You shouldn’t expect him to land an offhanded remark or throw a lazy smirk with a playful one-liner with that serious face of his.

“You two fought, when I left you in the water the other day?” asks, voice low as she ducks behind you during a ridiculous team-building dodgeball game, clutching your shoulders—using you as a riot shield.

“What?” you blink. “no.”

She lifts a brow. “So, he’s just suddenly forgotten how to flirt with you?”

“He was not flirting.” You scoff.

She gives you a slow, dramatic side-eye. “ ‘Wonder what else you could do with that pretty mouth’ ring any bells?” She copies him by dropping her voice octaves lower. “If that’s not flirting, I’m throwing out every lace set I own.”

You catch the ball midair before answering. “Maybe he’s just… dialed back.”

Meliaa leans in close, palms gripping your shoulders harder, and murmurs, “Oh, he’s dialed something, alright. Question is if it’s his mouth or his self-restraint. Either way, he’s one look away from unzipping that repressed little soul of his with his teeth.”

You choke on your own saliva, coughing once—just in time to get nailed in the shoulder by a foam dodgeball from one of the interns.

Your friend cackles behind you. “And that’s for ignoring sexual tension, babe.”

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The sun dips lower, staining the sky in warm amber as the salty breeze drifts lazily through the open windows of Meliaa’s bungalow. She’s sprawled on her bed in a silk robe, long legs elegantly crossed as a skin-care mask repose on her angelic face. 

Meanwhile, you’ve totally made a chaos of her room. A freaking mess—robes, pants, tops all upside down, flung with total disregard for gravity or dignity. You’re moments away from burning the entire place to the ground in pure aesthetic defeat. 

It wasn’t supposed to be this dramatic. You moved your stuff in earlier, hours before, when you both decided getting ready chez Meliaa would be ‘more fun.’ 

Lies. Meliaa’s fun. You are spiraling.

You only needed to find a pretty outfit for your last day in this idyllic place to be finally ready. But it seems like you’d be more likely to dig up a dinosaur bone than a fit deserving the view of the sun kissing the sea at the horizon.

You stand in front of her, two outfit options dangling in each hand, your energy somewhere between fashion breakdown and ritual sacrifice. “Okay,” you groan, as if you’ve just been through war. “Honest opinion. No diplomacy, no fake corporate optimism. Rip me to shreds if needed.”

Meliaa, still unmoved, peeks through her mask with the kind of look that should be illegal in five countries. “Rip away, darling.”

“Sooo, option one: these low-rise white pants—you know the ones; the wind would flirt with them. And bonus point for comfiness. Paired with this top,” you say, holding up a barely-there lace halter. The lace slides down the back in elegant X, letting your arms sleeveless and the front is as much laced on your tummy to spiral on your chest where white tissue is covering the strict necessary. 

Meliaa hums, already intrigued.

“Orrrr,” you say, brandishing the second outfit like a weapon, “this simple dress.” And by simple dress you mean a lavender open-back gown with thigh-high slit, a plunging neckline, and hidden sorcery in the lining that keeps it clinging exactly where it should.

“I’m emotionally attached to both and also convinced neither is good enough to stand in front of the sun as it kisses the sea goodbye.” You continue, longing both of your fits.

Your friend lets out a deep sigh as she removes her mask. She sits up, eyes sharpening. “First of all,” she starts, “the white pants set is dangerous. That top should come with a warning label. I know a certain man that’ll short-circuit and probably miscalculate someone’s quarterly forecast.”

“But—” she raises a finger, “the dress is art. That slit says, ‘I have emotional depth and possibly a dagger’. That neckline? That’s a tax write-off for heartbreak.”

You blink, waiting for her final decision.

“The pants and the top are a better match for tonight.” You glance at the dress, a little heartbroken that she didn’t make it. “It’s just too beautiful to be wasted here.” The woman adds like she read your thoughts.

You nod, a slight pout tugging at your mouth as you lay the lavender dream gently on the floor. “’Kay. Let’s get ready then.”

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Dinner drifts by in waves of laughter, glinting glasses, and too many toasts. Someone near the bonfire sings just off-key enough to be charming. The vibe loosens. Barefoot colleagues dance in the shallows; others collapse into the sand, dizzy with wine and sun-warmed skin, their cheeks pink from both.

The night starts soft—genuinely good. Even the air feels kind when you arrive with Meliaa, the breeze teasing the hem of your white pants and tugging at the red lace thong she begged you to wear, claiming it ‘spiced up the whole vibe.’ The slender strands rise high on your hips, slipping above your waistband.

But speaking of Meliaa… she’s nowhere to be seen. 

Not since she made the ravishing acquaintance of some tall tanned brunette named… Caleb? Colby? Somehitng with a C and abs and the prettiest violet eyes. You lost track after your third glass of wine, the alcohol coating everything in a warm blur.

“S’uch a traitor.” you mutter, hiccuping softly as you slump back on your elbows in the sand. You’re not far from the sea—close enough to hear the lull of it kissing the shore. The candles flicker in the wind. Your hair’s undone, skin flushed and glowing.

You reach lazily for the bottle at your side, your body half-curled to grab it—fingers barely brushing the glass neck—

A hand beats you to it. 

“I think you’ve had enough.” A voice says—low, dry and extremely familiar. You blink up, trying to focus but disoriented by the angle. You know if your neurons work a little more you could probably put a name on this very attractive tone…

Your head tip up from where you were hunched over—

Red eyes.

Vivid. Vivid and locked on you like you’re a storm he sees coming from miles away and still chooses to walk into. It zaps through you, sharp and electric.

Your breath hitches when Sylus drops beside you, the bottle landing with a soft clink on his other side. He doesn’t say a word as he stretches his long legs in the sand, back slouched with that casual arrogance he wears like sin.

“Heyyy..” you mumble, lips already turned in a pout as you lean fully into him. “wznted t’ po-pour s’m… s’mrthing…” Your arm reaches lazily across his lap, moving at a snail’s pace, coordination drunk and dying. Your breast presses firmly against the inside of his thigh, warm through the fabric of his pants, and your ass lifts to reach farther… letting your low-slung linen pants slip lower—giving Sylus a perfect, lingerie-ad-campaign flash of your laced triangle thong.

His breath shifts but that doesn’t mean he looks away.

His glasses are still perched high on that too-sharp, too-wide nose, the metal frames catching the soft glow of the lanterns. His white mullet is loose tonight, a little windswept, a little fallen out of place—soft-looking in a way that makes your fingers twitch with the urge to tangle in it. 

And his ears—oh, his ears—have more silver than usual. Tiny earrings crawl up the curve of his left one like constellations. There’s even a thin piercing at the top, barely visible, but now seared into your memory forever—you want to follow all those with your tongue.

Just as your fingers graze the bottle, Sylus lifts it and shifts it out of reach—effortless, like swatting a bug. A splash of the drink hits his designer pants.

“Oopsie,” you murmur, blinking down at the dark stain, faking compassion. “S’ your faulty. Your thighs’re too…” You wave vaguely, struggling to find the word. “... too like that. All big and muscly and in the way of my needs.”

His jaw tics once.

“Gimme,” you whine, reaching again—more determined now, zero coordination though. You shift onto your knees and—predictably—overshoot.

Thump.

“Shit,”

“Goddamn it” you both murmur at the same time.

Your body crashes into his left shoulder, throwing both of you sideways into the sand. His head hits with a muffled grunt, yours landing hard on his chest, knocking the breath out of both of you. One of his arms snaps up by pure instinct, hand cupping the back of your head to keep you from full-on faceplanting into his sternum. 

“Y’counldn’t—” you start, voice muffled against his chest. You try to push yourself up but only succeed in straddling one of his thighs, palms flat on his chest, which is annoyingly firm. “You… y’couldn’t j-juh—juss gime ze btwolle, huh?” If you weren’t swimming in fog and expensive rum, you might’ve noticed the sharp pink blooming across Sylus’s cheekbones. The crimson climbing up his neck. The way the tips of his ears are glowing red.

“You drank too much,” he grits, shifting like he might sit up—like he might do something responsible. But you clamp your thighs tighter around his lap, grounding him in place.

“Nooooo,” you drawl dramatically, leaning in until your breath warms the shell of his ear. Your hair drapes over your shoulder like a curtain, catching light like a halo—if halos were horny. “Y’know… I’ve been vrrrrryyyyyygwoood,” you giggle into his neck. “didn’t even ask why you didn’t use your prize…”

Sylus goes very still.

He tries not to react to the way your hips are seated on him—warm and wholly dangerous. Or to how your lashes flutter against your flushed cheeks as you blink up at him, dilated and infuriatingly cute.

“What prize?” he murmurs, already knowing, already regretting it.

You jab a finger into his chest, miss, and land somewhere on his clavicle. “The one you won. Szurffff thingy… I did—I h-had lowzse…” your words fall apart on your tongue, melting into giggles. “You said, um… what was it… vic’tory like… c-con’quest? Trophyyyy? K-kiss-your-brat?” you squint, nose scrunching. “Ugh. You always gotta use aklll— I meant allll those compzlicazted words…”

Sylus chuckles low under his breath as he looks at you. Really looks at you. The curve of your flushed cheeks. The glitter of alcohol and something wanting in your eyes. Your mouth parts, soft and pink, talking too much. But so plushy and squishable and… kissable.

“Don’t tempt me,” he mutters, and it slips out too raw.

Your brows lift in genuine surprise. “Whass’ that?” you slur, cocking your head like a sleepy cat, lashes fluttering slow. “You… scared?” His hand holds your hip without meaning to. “No. I’m trying to be decent.”

You drop your forehead to his, smiling lopsidedly. “I dowan d’cent…” you say, gaze dropping blatantly to his mouth, your fingers come up naturally, brushing over his bottom lip, a thick press with your index. “I want t-to…” The rest of the sentence melts, heavy and hung in your throat. Your index finger stays right there, curved against the soft dip of his mouth.

And Sylus—Sylus who’s kept his distance half of this trip, who hasn’t teased or toyed with you since that wave-slick day—looks like he’s one deep breath (heavy breath for him) away from saying fuck it all.

But, unlike you, he sees the people watching you. You’re sunk so deep in this little world made of sand and him that you don’t care about the curious eyes of your team glancing your way.

Sylus doesn’t say a word, he simply moves. Once second, you’re straddling his thighs, lips brushing his chin—next second, you feel gentle fingers flipping you off his lap and into the sand beside him. You yelp, legs kicking slightly, your hair messier. “H-hey!” you whine.

But he has turned away, he needs to physically disconnect to breathe again. He tries to reset his pulse, forearms braces on his knees. His cock is pressing brutal and hard against the inside of his pants—impossiblyhard because of your bold moves. 

“Are you into moons?” you mumble as if nothing happened.

“… What?” his head tips toward you, the confusion etched in the small crease between his brows. His voice a little hoarse.

“Moon Girls,” you explain, “saw ‘em… hoverin’. Gr-gravitating. L-like horny moonz.” your face twists with annoyance. “You didn’t tease me those past days. Why? What gives? Did I stop being… what’s the word…” you trail off, spinning your hand in a drunk spiral. “…quite funny to talk t-to?”

You scoot closer to him until your thigh is pressed fully against his. “Y’know... I’m not olly funny” you add, hiccupping into the sentence. “I’m alose charming,” you counter with your chin raised, teetering on dramatic. 

His voice sounds wrecked with restraint when he finally speaks. “You’re something.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m a brat.”

He stiffens instantly.

“I mean—y’said I give bratty answers.” You nuzzle in closer, your forehead now bumping against his bicep. “You like that, huh? You like when I act like a brat?”

His eyes drop to your lips. The air is boiling.

 “D’you wanna see wh-what else my pr-pretty mouth can do?” Your sounds like a velvet trap as you lift your head to look at him with big utterly honest doe eyes.

His face turns. His lips part just slightly. He leans in until your noses are touching, breath tangled. “If I say yes?” he asks, voice barely a thread.

You freeze. Then hiccup. Then smile. A lazy, proud, drunken grin that melts every edge off your words. “Well… th-that’s a wuh-win-win situayshun.”

He huffs the quietest laugh, head shaking just once. His glasses slip down his nose. And without missing a beat, you reach up and nudge them back into place, your fingertips brushing his hot skin. You smile ear to ear as his obvious happy self, almost found of him.

“You’re going to regret all of this tomorrow, kitten,” he whispers, voice deep and tight with tension.

“Y’gonna kiss me or-or just call me pet names ‘til I pass out?”

He stays frozen for what seems like eternity before he lets his palm rest on the sand behind him and lets his weight drop on them. “You’re drunk,” his voice as loud as the sounds of the waves. “So drunk.”

You nod with exaggerated solemnity, your forehead bonking lightly against his shoulder. “Mmhmmmm, but like… like sexy drunk.”

He huffs, dropping his head back to look at the dark sky—asking the stars to give him patience tonight. Especially since more people are staring now. A couple of them whispering. Sylus’s jaw flexes once, then twice. He stands and pulls you up with him.

 When he finally looks at you again, his mouth is twisted into something between a smirk and a prayer. “Come on,” he says, hauling you up in the same motion. “You can’t stay out here giggling in the sand.”

You make a noise of protest. “I c-can!”

“Oh yeah? You wanna giggle while face-planting into the resort lawn?”

“’S not the worst place I’ve had my face,” you mumble into his chest as he stops and effortlessly scoops you into his arms without much warning. 

“Jesus,” Sylus mutters with his deep raspy voice. “You would say none of those stuff sobber.”

Your arms hook loosely around his neck as he starts walking, his steps long and steady. “Why not?” you ask, batting your lashes. “You said I was bratty. Brats say stuff. Brats say filthy lil things…”

He swallows audibly, jaw tight and serious. “You’re really testing me.”

You hum, cheek pressed to the side of his neck. He smells maddening—a bit of salt and his cologne, not something strong but more something inebriate. “But y’like me,” you whisper, words a bit thick to come out. “You like me even when I’m… mez-meessy.”

“You’re a disaster,” He wants to sound reproaching, but it’s awfully close to fond.

You lift your head, still clinging to his shoulders tightly—as tight as your drunk limbs allow you. “Y’ didn’y answer…”

“Answer what?”

“Why you didn't use your prize,” you pout. “You won. I was… generous loser. Coulda kissed me. Made me beg. Made me cry, maybe. That’s what they do in those brat stories, right?”

Sylus nearly stumbles. “God,” he says again. “Do you hear yourself?”

You grin, eyes glassy. “I’m adorable.”

He adjusts your weight, one arm under your thighs, one wrapped around your back. “You were more than adorable tonight,” he says, quieter now. “Everyone saw it.”

You blink slowly, putting more effort than necessary to understand this conversation. “saw w’the?”

“You. That dangerously beautiful, laced top and panties. Everyone was looking at you.”

“They were?”

Sylus hums. “…You jealous?” you mumble, your voice so small, so teasing.

“Not jealous,” Sylus replies, voice like flint. “Just… hyper-aware.”

You use your arms around his neck to push you up—or push him down—so you could nuzzle the base of his neck. “You didn’t tease me…” you murmur, bringing this topic again. “You were all noble and hot…was g’ing cra-zyyyy.”

He doesn’t reply. But his grip tightens.

“Y’know,” you go on, soft and dreamy, “I saw one of those girls. The Moon Girls. From earlier. She touched your arm. I would’ve clawed her if I wasn’t so busy bein’ tragic an’ pretty.”

“Kitten,” he warns, voice so low it rumbles through his chest. “Shut up.”

You giggle, your lips pink from too much wine and not enough water. “Y’called me kitten again. That’s not very decent of you.”

When he arrives at your bungalow, he doesn’t let you down. Instead, he keeps carrying you, one arm strong under your thighs, the other rifling through your tiny purse with calm precision while you’re draped all over him as a horny scarf. He hooks the key into the lock, muttering something about how you’ve filled your bag with “thirty lip glosses and zero dignity.”

You wiggle slightly in his arms, your lips pressing just below his jaw—leaving a perfect, wicked lipstick stain behind. “One bisouuuu,” you whisper, smirking widly as he goes rigid all over again. “Juz one. Not even for me,” you hold up your hand in a shaky promise, palm raised like a scout. “F’r you! You earned it…”

When he sets you down—tries to—his grip locks tight around you as your knees keep buckling and buckling under you. “You’re gonna wake up tomorrow and want to bury yourself,” he says gently as you sag against him.

“Then you can bury me,” you breathe, lips ghosting over his neck. “Deep. Real deep…”

“Don’t say stuff like that…” he groans under his breath, murmuring your name like it pains him.

“Your dick is pressed against me,” you add without flinching a tiny bit.

But Sylus? He freezes. 

Your hands come up to fist his shirt near his collar. “You’re so—warm. Hard,” you move your arms, looping them lazily around his neck, hips tipping forward, chasing the heat. “You seem big… ‘s nwot fzair.” 

His brows knit, the muscle in his jaw keeps flexing as he fights the urge to do anything. To move. To breathe. Your drunk gravity has him—hooked, hot and dying slow.

You rise on tiptoe, trying to close the distance, your elbows resting on his shoulders as you press your lips on his chin—Sylus dodging your kiss right in time and leave another pink stain here. He has his brows furrowed in concern, eyes begging for you to stop. 

“Y’zeem like…” your voice falters, but your heavy-lidded eyes are dead serious. “Like a man who givespleasure…” 

Sylus shuts his eyes for one breath. Two.

“Y’have long fingers,” you continue quietly, one of your hands dragging slowly up his chest, then to his mouth—pressing lightly to his bottom lip for the second time tonight. “So much lips—I mean, soooo full. And your nooseee…”

The other hand is tracing his nose now, fingers lazy and soft. He should stop you. He should move. But he’s frozen—shaking with restraint.

“You’re wasted,” he says, finally. Barely above a whisper. “And I’m not that guy.”

Your faces are the closest to each other that they’ve ever been. Your breaths intertwining with the other—he smells like menthe, yours a faint sent of strawberries alcohol, the one you had drunk earlier. “You could be…”

“Yeah,” he mutters, hand slipping lower on your waist, guiding you gently toward the bed, his strong legs finding their places in between yours as his guides you. “But then I’d have to spend the rest of my life hating myself.”

He tucks you in, brushing the hair off your face with fingers that could—God—do so much more, you blink up at him.

“Bet you’d still fuck good with the guilt,” you mumble.

He lets out something between a laugh and a strangled sob. “You’re gonna be insufferable in the morning.”

“I’m always insufferable,” you whisper, already drifting. “But cute. Real cute.”

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

“I don’t get it.” You complain quietly at the table, staring at the foam like it might offer answers. Rafayel and Meliaa exchange a look over their mugs, some weird mic of concern and confusion that makes your chest tighten. 

“He’s been avoiding me—“

“Wasn’t that what you wanted though?” Rafayel cuts in, raising an eyebrow. You kept talking in loop, repeating the same things over and over again since this afternoon: 

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I just—he’s weird lately. Since we came back from the retreat.”

To be fair, everyone’s been acting off. People from marketing and finance keep eyeing you like you grew a second head—whispering things you can’t quite catch, falling silent just as you pass. Everything would’ve been fine if he’d just acted normal. Or if, at least, you had a clue what the hell was going on.

Across the table, Meliaa and Rafayel are finishing their pastries, casually sharing a plate as if they’ve been besties for years. 

You squint at them, coffee in hand. “The two of you got close,” you mumble.

Meliaa shrugs, sipping her oat latte. “The vibes vibed.”

You nod vaguely and look back into your mug like it holds answers. You try to kick your brain into gear—comb through anything that might explain all this weirdness—when something clicks.

“Hey, um…” you start, not sure where you’re going, but you’re already talking so may you just end your thought. “You’re kind of always up to date with what’s going on around the company, right? You could maybe… ask Sylus something? I mean you both work in finance.” You try to make it sounds as casual as possible. And not desperate.

Meliaa pauses mid-sip, eyes already gleaming. “Sure” she says slowly, her tone light. “I’ll just go up to him and be like, ‘Hey Sylus, you know that girl from marketing who always looks like you’re personally offending her when you open your mouth? Actually, she’s super offended when you don’t flirt with her. Thought you should know.’”

“That’s not—” you start, flustered. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Rafayel nearly choking on his drink, very much not hiding his laugh. “No.” you say with a voice that tries to sound convincing—but fail experimentally.

Meliaa grins into her cup, unfazed. “I’m just saying… if someone is being weird, it wouldn’t kill you to ask him. Directly.” She says it casually, but there’s something under it—something that lands a little too squarely.

“So, you do know something, don’t you?”

“Moi ? I was far too busy being cornered by that tall, sexy brunette from legal—” Rafayel stiffens beside her—enough for you to notice. His fingers pause around his glass. His eyes narrow, darting to her, unreadable. “While someone, was getting very cozy with a certain white-haired finance boy. Very cozily and very drunk, if I recall.”

Your stomach flips. 

You were indeed very drunk. And what you recall, is waking up with a pouding headache, the violent urge to vomit, and barely enough time to catch yoru flight—remembering nothing from the previous night, except someblurry moments with Sylus on the sand. And a shiver on your skin that had nothing to do with the cold.

Meliaa hums, all fake innocent as she drops the next bomb. “Sure. Just drunk enough to be all over him, and spend half the night looking at him like he was dessert.” She draws the words out and taps her spoon against her mug. “Not judging. I fucked that pretty violet eyed boy. I’m just… observing, y’know?”

You open your mouth to respond—defend or deny something—but Rafayel suddenly gets up, too quickly. His chair scrapes back loud against the floor.

“Well,” he says tightly, “I’ll leave you two to your girl talk—” 

“But Rafa—” you start, a bit throwed off by his reaction as he’s always up for some gossip.

“I’m going.” He avoids your eyes as he adjusts the sleeves of his jacket, already halfway turned away. “And I already paid for our drinks. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, ladies.”

Not a single glance to you. But to Meliaa? One long, unreadable look.

And then he’s gone—out the coffee shop door with a jingle of the bell overhead.  

You sit there, incrédule, and if you were in some cartoon, you’d be drawn with your eyes out of your orbits. The silence stretches and you stare at her, blinking over and over again.

You probably feel like your eyes are falling out when Meliaa chokes—literally spits half her oat latte back into her cup.

“What,” you ask slowly as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand like nothing happened, “was that??”

“Nothing,” she says faster than her brain can catch up, avoiding your lasers eyes. “It went down the wrong pipe.”

“Oh, don’t play dumb on me now. Why was Rafayel bolting like he owed you child support?”

“She busy-busies herself stirring foam that doesn’t need stirring. She’s smart.

“Oh my God. YOU BROKE HIM!!” you exclaim a bit too loudly.

“I didn’t break anyone.”

“You broke that man, Meliaa. He fled like you unlocked a trauma.”

She mutters something under her breath. You immediately lean forward.

“No, no, no. No mumbling. Speak clearly for the people in the back like you always do. Did something happen between you two?”

“Nothing major.” She shrugs

“What does that even mean?!” you drop your voice to a whisper this time. “Did you kiss? Sleep together? Is this a situationship? Friends with benefits—”

“Gosh,” she sighs.

“Did you emotionally destroy him and eat a croissant over his corpse?” you press.

“I will leave you here,” she says flatly, but her ears are bright pink and you know you’re onto something.

“Meliaaaa, be honest with me. Am I in soap opera? For your information, I’d love to! Are you secretly dating my other best friend ?!!”

“I think you are in a soap opera. And without my help.” She says calmly.

“Don’t know what you mean,” you reply, taking a biiiiig drink of your coffee—completely ignoring her veryobvious jab at a certain tall engineer.

“You don’t know what I mean?” Meliaa repeats, unimpressed. “Babe, you walked into that team retreat acting like a marketing angel, and left looking like a guilty little sinner. I don’t even know if Sylus has recovered.”

You scowl. “That’s bold coming from someone who may or may not have left emotional debris all over Rafayel’s soul.”

“Better than leaving literal drool on Sylus’s shirt—”

“I did not—wait, did I?” you blink in horror.

She sips smugly. “I’m not saying yes. But I’m also not saying no.”

You gape. “What happeneeeed that night? Tell meeeee,” Your head drops onto your shoulders in fake defeat. “I remember the lights, the sand, the pretty sounds of the waves and just… a fucking bottle of wine next to me and white hair with his insufferable smirk. I possibly haven’t done something stupid right? Did we kiss?? Did I try to kiss him??? Did I—”

Your phone buzzes violently on the table. You glance down and nearly knowk ober your drink when you see the name lighting up your screen :

Claire—Supervisor Marketing.

You grimace. “Ugh, it’s Claire. She wants me in her office.”

Meliaa whistles. “Someone’s in trouble.”

“I don’t think so.  She probably wants to talk about the campaign I’m working on.” You grab your bag. “Or maybe she found out I asked IT to unblock Tumblr on the office Wi-Fi.”

Meliaa snorts. “Please keep me updated if you get fired.”

You rise from your chair dramatically. “I will. But we’re not done talking. I will circle back to your tragic friends-to-whatever arc with Rafayel.”

She waves you off, already unlocking her phone. “I’ll be here. Being innocent.”

You squint. “Liar.”

She blows you a kiss as you leave the coffee shop in whirlwind of caffeine, gossip and rising dread about facing your very no-nonsense supervisor.

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

You knock lightly on your supervisor’s office door, already catching the scent of the expensive perfume and power-tripping. You slap on your most professional smile—the one that stops just short of your eyes.

And when you hear a clipped, singular ‘yes’ your heart races up.

She doesn’t bother looking up when you enter, her attention glued to her screen—fingers tapping slowly and loudly across her keyboard like she’s solving nuclear codes and not just… most likely responding to an email. 

Finally, she gestures the chair in front of her desk with a lazy motion of her chin. You sit, back straight and composed.

“I called you in to inform you,” she says, smooth and clipped, “that your campaign from last quarter—the one with Mr. Sylus—has been selected for an internal spotlight interview.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, heart fluttering and racing up once again but this time not from apprehension, no—from joy. 

Spotlight interview.

That’s big. So big that you almost obscure how she said Sylus’s name—too friendly with a we-are-close tone.

Claire’s smile is tight, practiced. “Both of you will be featured. A joint interview. A short panel and a video segment.”

You school your face, play it cool. “Oh. That’s… unexpected. I thought the focus was on the new rollout—”

“It was,” She interrupts smoothly, leaning back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “But apparently, someone in executive comms thought the pairing was…”  Her stilettos gleam. “Impactful enough to highlight.”

You nod politely. “Well, that’s flattering.”

Her smile doesn’t budge, but her fingers tighten slightly around the pen she’s holding. “Yes, well, some people get very lucky with their assignments.”

Your jaw clenches faintly. “It wasn’t luck.” You immediately soften your tone to stay within the HR-approved border. “That campaign broke regional KPIs by—”

“121%, I’m aware,” her voice’s still cool as pressed linen. “You’re thorough. Ambitious. That much is clear.” You get the sense she wants that to sound like a compliment, but unfortunately it drips with something else—something like a slap dressed as praise. You wonder how long she’s been waiting to remind you she technically still outranks you.

Claire stands abruptly, walking to her window as if the skyline will soothe her clear irritation. “Just be sure to keep things professional during the interview,” she says, her tone skating dangerously close to condescension. “I know you and Mr. Sylus had… a certain rapport.”

Your ears heat despite yourself. “We worked well together.”

“I’m sure you did.” She turns, scanning you—eyes going up and down, that same fake-firm smile frozen on her face. “Comms will reach out this week. You’ll have to coordinate schedules with finance.” A slight pause. “Shouldn’t be too hard. He always seemed… very available for your timelines.”

Goddamn, that’s beyond jealousy… that’s professional envy garnished with personal salt.

“Of course,” you reply, sweet as syrup. “we’re both very committed to making things work.”

Claire’s eyes twitches almost imperceptibly. “Dismissed.”

You rise with practiced grace, shoulders squared, chin high as you pass her office’s door already calculating outfits, lighting angles, and exactly how smug-not-smug you’ll look on camera next to Sylus when he inevitable flirts during the interview—with the interviewer!! Not you, of course.

You’re practically jumping on your feet—probably too much. So much that you don’t notice the fucking wall directly in your path.

Full force. Full face.

A loud BAM that eco throughout the whole floor. You groan as heads turn your way in concern, someone even audibly winces. You ignore them all, ignore even that inconvenient event and square your shoulders again as you keep walking toward the elevator.

But unfortunately, and because humiliation likes company, you bump into someone. You start to grumble an apologize—as you’re literally struggling to find stability—but you feel strong arm holding you in place—

“Hey, be careful next time, kitten.”

Kitten. That surname awakens something—moments to be precise. Blurry moments. Soft sand, salty wind, white hair contrasting with the dark ocean... and arms.

The man looking down at you, catching you in the same strong arms and keeping you from falling.

Sylus’s face is serious. Serious lips pulling into a straight line, serious ruby-red eyes, serious brow pinched in the slightest crease (as his usual), serious nose—serious everything.

You take a step back, barely recovering, barely holding your heart into your ribcage, barely breathing—as you see him for the first time since the work trip. And while you’re busy reeling, he’s already throwing a line. “Well,” he says, eyes flicking down to where your shoulder just collided with his chest, “didn’t know you missed me that much.”

You roll your eyes, pulse sprinting. “It’s your fault for standing in front of structural hazards,” you mutter, brushing imaginary dust off your sleeve—and your pride. 

He lets out a low chuckle, something that shoots your body, like drugs. 

But just as you open your mouth—maybe to say something flippant, maybe just to breathe properly again—the elevator dings. Doors glide open.

He steps in wordlessly.

You hesitate for half-second, too long, before following him inside. And when you do, you realize the elevator is completely empty. Leaving alllll the space for you both.

Too much space, actually.

So much space that Sylus stands on one side and you take the opposite. As far away as the metal box allows you.

And it’s dead silent. You glance sideways—his arms are crossed on his firm chest, his jaw sharp in profile, eyes fixed on the ascending floor numbers. His mullet hair perfectly netted with gel, some rebellious hair falling on his forehead. His ears are empty—for your displeasure… all his earrings and piercing earrings are gone.

Your throat tightens. The silence is anxious. 

The elevator hums softly, and you fumble for something to say. Anything to break the tension that’s crawling under your skin like static. But your brain pulls a blank. No witty comeback, no sarcastic jab.

You don’t know what to do. What to say. This Sylus is foreign to you.

It’s just you and him, and this unbreathable silence… and the suffocating awareness of your lack of knowledge on what you did the last night of your trip. The maddening echo of ‘what did I say?’ eating you alive. 

You fidget with the hem of your sleeve. A growing feeling you’re not used to fills your body, and you’re novice to this—novice to control nervousness.

You keep throwing glances at him and his unreadable face does nothing to calm your state.

But unfortunately, your mouth beats your mind and speaks on its own, “Did I…” you pause, tongue dry, heart hammering. “Did I do something that night?” something that made you want to stay away from me?”

The words hang in the air, heavy and exposed. Sylus’s jaw ticks as he turns slowly to look at you—straight in the eyes. Digging holes on your skin through his rectangular glasses.

Ding.

The elevator doors slide open to an incoming flood—people, noise, coworkers stepping in and chatting about deadlines and lunch—leaving your question between you two like a live grenade.

You get bumped forward in the small wave, forced to shift closer toward the center—and that’s when his hand catches you.

A strong hand, wrapping around your forearm with casual force, yanking you gently but firmly toward him. You stumble slightly and end up right in front of him—his body now behind yours, one hand still resting just above your elbow.

He shifts to the corner, shielding you from the crowd without a word. His chest barely brushes your back. His breath grazes your temple when he leans down the slightest bit to murmur, voice low for only you:

“Not here.” And his voice is so deep, so raw, so—

You shake your head—there’re so many people in the elevator and you having bed thoughts wasn’t quite the right moment.

You swallow, trying to force some air into your lungs. You could stay quiet like he asked. You could just wait. But feeling the heat of him behind you, the faint shift of his chest when he breathes, his perfume wrapping around your lungs…

Maddening.

“Fine,” you whisper so only he hears, arms crossed now. A hip cocking so your ass could shift backward and be at his crotch level so your ass could… graze. “If you’re trying to punish me with the silent treatment, it would work better if I remembered what I actually did.” 

No response. But your little brat move definitely had an effect on him—his tailored trousers suddenly not sitting quite so comfortably anymore. You tip your head slightly, voice whisper-thin and soaked in fake innocence. “Unless I confessed a dark secret? Or maybe I tried to…” You drop your voice impossibly lower as your eyes meet his and the top of your head hit his chest from the back. “…Kiss you?” 

And you probably don’t remember a single thing. But pretending you know exactly what happened—what you did, what you didn’t—is your only weapon right now. The performance is the whole game, isn’t it?

And that drives Sylus like a mad man.

But he still hasn’t say a word. He keeps staring straight ahead like you’re not burning holes into the back of his sanity—you press further, shifting again against his obvious bulge, “You’re cruel, you—”

“You didn’t kiss me.”

His voice slices through the tiny space between you, too close to a growl.

Ding.

He doesn’t move and wait patiently for the people to leave—until the noise dies. Before guiding you to the side with measured calm—firm and steady hands wrapping around your hips. He shifts you aside, clearing his path.

You suck in the most needed breath of your life—air, finally—but it doesn’t soothe anything. Not your heart, not your nerves, and certainly not the heat crawling up your throat.

You don’t know if you’re more breathless or furious.

So just as the doors start to close, you shout, “Don’t be cold for the interview.” Your voice is loud and sharp.

The doors are nearly shut when he stops—turning slowly toward you—his eyes find yours through the narrowing gap.

Smoldering.

And you feel it. It’s consuming you. 

The electric thing pulsing between you both like a drawn wire waiting to snap. 

Stronger than ever.

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Conference Room C. 30 minutes.

The robotic chime from the room’s speaker system is barely done when his voice follows, just as grating:

“Did you hear that? Don’t make us late.”

You glare at the cracked ceiling like it personally betrayed you. Your eyes twitch at the insufferable sound of hishorrible voice hitting your eardrums. You glance at him through the mirror you’re putting make-up in front of.

“I don’t even understand why they put us in the same room.” You mutter, feeling your nerves reaching the maximum of their capacity.

Sylus throws an arm over the back of the couch, smugly comfortable as one leg is crossed over the other—his head dropping to the resting head. “Small budget,” he says. “Big dreams.”

You scoff. “The company makes millions. They could at least give us two rooms.”

“They could,” he agrees. “But they didn’t. Because they know people like us can make it work.”

“You’re a man. I’m a woman.” You say as you eye the choice of lipsticks lying on the table. It’s the last touch for you to be ready.

He finally looks at you, eyes dragging from your naked thighs to your hands fidgeting between the multiple choice of lipstick to your face. 

“And?” his voice sounds dangerously calm. 

Conference Room C. 20 minutes.

“And a lot of things could happen.”

A beat.

“Like?”

You meet his eyes through the mirror. Your mouth quirks—seeing an opening to push his boutons, to annoy him just as much as you’re annoyed. 

Annoyed by the situation. Annoyed by his permanent bak-and-forth. Even though you deserved it. Annoyed byhis sexy form. Annoyed by the white shirt and the two buttons udone from the start. Annoyed by that damn chain holding the collar together and dropping into the opening of his shirt—between his defined pectorals. Annoyed by his long white hair brushes the tops of his shoulders. Annoyed by the silver earrings that made an apparition. Annoyed by his sexy glasses—fitting him way too well.

 “Like you’re a man. And we know what men are capa—”

“What are you assuming?” he cuts you off, sharp. His voice like a blade cutting through the electric air starting to form. 

You hear the leather couch squeaking as he rises—watching him approach in the reflection, long legs taking slow step toward your chair. 

“I’m not that kind of man.” He’s angry. Obviously angry. But not loudly angry. A kind of hurt, angry…

And you turn your chair around to face him—but as you’re meet with strong thighs dressed in a thighs skinny jeans molding his structured muscles, right on your eyes levels, inches away from you… it’s intimidating. And Sylus sees you longing here, so he brings his fingers to lift your chin.

“If I were,” he leans in, letting his other hand drop on the back of your chair, his face bringing closer to yours. “If I were that kind of man, I would’ve taken advantage of you the last night of the trip.” Your breath catches, finding struggle to breathe—to smell anything else than his perfume. 

“Instead…” his voice softens, but it coils around you, tighter than before. “I dodged your kisses. Even though I wanted it more than anything else in this world.”

A silence follows, heavy and hot. 

“I let you talk, Ramble about how you thought I was hot. Sexy. How you wanted me to take you apart and put you back together in ways no other men would have done before..”

Conference Room C. 10 minutes.

His magnificent red eyes gleam, pupils slightly dilated as his fingers tighten on your chin.  “I would want to make love to you. Perhaps, you sounded like you wanted to be fucked, like an animal.”

He tilts his head, gaze dropping to your parted lips—voice dropping lower.

“Who would have thought…” he almost whispers against your lips. “A pretty little thing like you wanted to get fucked raw? Thought about my dick, hands, and lips in this way?”

You swallow hard, unable to come with a smart answer.

“But maybe it was my mistake,” he muses, the chair tilting further back as he leans in harder. “Because you said it yourself…” his thigh slips between yours—your knees spread by the pressure alone. “…You’re a brat.” 

Another long pause.

“And brats?” he smirks now, his veiny hand once holding your chin trace down, until it wraps around your throat—thumb resting on your pulse point, pressing, making you gasp. “Brats need to be punished. That’s what they do in your stories, right?”

Your chest rises, falls. Something between fear and craving coils low in your stomach. And just as you think he might kiss you—

He steps back, jaw so tight you hear it click.

“But I’d never touch you like that.” His voice barely there, the ghost of it brushing your skin. “Not unless you are stone-cold sober. Not unless you beg me for it.” His voice is barely above a murmur, and you swear your probably imagined this sentence from how hard your heart is pounding—muffling everything.

Conference C. 5 minutes.

He circles your chair like a storm pulling itself together. Picks up one of the lipsticks you’d been staring at before. “Wear this one,” he turns it in his fingers with something unreadable in his expression.

“That’s the same shade of the kisses you left on my jaw and chin that night.”

- - - 

The overhead light is clinical everything is too quiet—except for the clock.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

You’re sitting naturally… or pretending to at least. Legs crossed, palms resting flat against your thighs, your body rigid under the illusion of poise.

Lipstick : perfectly applied.

“Glad to see you listened to me,” Sylus voice comes low and heat-wrapped. He’s sitting next to you in another single couch—close to yours but far enough for your heart to have a normal beat.

You hum—noncommittal. 

Your throat too tight to come up with anything clever. Your head’s still not here. Still in the lounge room. Still caught on that single sentence, the one he left you with like a match to gasoline : ‘brats need to be punished. That’s what they do in your stories, right?’

And it’s like this meticulous sentence detonated something in your head, flashes of your night coming slowly to your mind. Your knees buckling as he kept you pressed against his chest, your words—words that would never come out sobber, the kind of filth you let slip between giggles… and hiccups… and need…

Your mouth had said everything. And he’d done… nothing.

Heat crawls up your chest now, wrapping around your neck, pinking your cheeks. From the corner of your eye, you see Sylus watching. Smirking like he knows exactly what memory just came rushing back—head resting in his hand, elbow propped on the armrest. 

Red eyes fixed on you, lazy and unbothered while you silently unravel next to him. And it’s so hard to act natural. With all those lighting and cameras trained on you like prey… it wasn’t the moment for the memories to come back.

“Well, we’re getting started in about five minutes.” A lady with a smile too bright to be real says, “I’ll ask questions about your collaboration, the launch, the success. Nothing personal, nothing crazy.” She continues, adjusting her notepad. “Just act normal, and everything’s gonna be fine.”

Easy for her to say.

You shoot her a polite nod, but your spine won’t relax.

Someone behind the camera gives a hand signal—letting you know that the camera hit recording. You adjust slightly in your seat, smile easy but measured. Sylus sits back with that usual unreadable seriousness.

The interviewer begins her intro—bright voice, polished tone—giving a quick overview of your roles in the company, your departments, and the product campaign that’s made your names unavoidable in the internal news cycle.

“Alright,” she says, flipping her page. “The New Horizons campaign took off faster than expected, with 200% increase in engagement in the first three weeks. Everyone’s calling it the blueprint for cross-departmental collaboration. What made you two clicks?”

Your answer flows like liquid. “We never tried to click.” You smile enough to take the edge off the honesty. “We were brutally honest about our differences from the start. But I think that’s what made us sharp. We weren’t afraid to challenge each other.”

The interviewer nods. “And that didn’t slow anything down?”

You shake your head once. “It pushed us forward. I focus on market behavior, storytelling, user emotion. Sylus…” you glance sideways at him, briefly. “Breaks things down to the finest equation. We worked in parallel, but we also pulled each other out of our usual lanes.”

He exhales a short huff—more amused than dismissive. “She doesn’t like rules.” His gaze flicks toward the woman in front of him, then back to you, lingering. “I like results.” He makes a small pause before adding—just to tease you. “She delivers.”

You bite back a smile, the edge of your mouth tugging upward anyway. “If you were about to say something bad,” you murmur to him, light and playful, “I’d have ripped your head off on camera.” You almost forget your encounter with him earlier—feeling your body relax at the sight of the missed Sylus.

“You seem close to each other.” The interviewer chuckles, scribbling down something. “And it seems like… there’s no ego between you.”

“Oh, but here’s ego,” you admit easily. “But it doesn’t get in the way. We both want the same thing : the best outcome. The rest in just noise.”

Sylus leans forward a little, forearms resting on his knees, voice just a touch lower. “It’s rare to find someone who know how to make the noise useful.”

Your chest rises, calm. Steady. Steady.

“You two sound like a dream team.” And the way the woman says it, the way her face lights up. You know that shift—when an interviewer finds their entry point, and starts aiming lower, under the surface.

“Some days,” you say lightly.

Sylus nods in agreement, completely unfazed.

“Talking about dream and certain days.” She flips her page, a little too casual. “You both went to the team-building retreat weeks after the campaign took off. It was mentioned a few times in your department note—apparently, that was a needed pause.”

Your pulse kicks. You nod, lips already shaping your answer before your thoughts fully form. “Yes,” you reply, voice calm. “There was a creative gridlock in the weeks leading up to the launch. Making both our team works harder, day and night, without interruption. Everyone was operating on different bandwidths. The retreat… was really great to reset things. It felt like a bowl of fresh air.”

She laughs slightly. “Sounds intense.”

“It was,” you reply, gaze unwavering. “We had to drop a lot of personal pride to get anywhere.”

Then she turns to Sylus. “Do you agree?”

He pauses—and that silence says everything. He knows exactly what she’s poking at. Still, his voice is even when he replies. “I think we underestimated how fast things can change when people stop performing.”

She smiles sweetly and asks, “Is it ok to answer some anonymous questions?”

The woman’s smile grows just a little too sweet, pen poised when she sees the glances you and Sylus are exchanging before nodding. “Alright, then.. First anonymous question.” She reads from her page, “be honest : who’s more competitive between the two of you?”

You tilt your head, gaze sliding to Sylus with faux consideration. “I’m strategic,” you say slowly, fingers folding neatly in your lap. “He’s obsessive. So, define competitive.”

He doesn’t even look at you—speaking like he already predicted your answer. “She cheats.” You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “I optimize. Don’t be mad because your precious equations can’t calculate charm.” That earns a small upward twitch of his mouth. “They can. Charm just isn’t scaleable.”

“Tell that to our numbers,” you shoot back. “Or to the CEO who called my presentation ‘a case study in persuasion.’”

The interviewer grins. “So… both of you?”

“Exactly.” You and Sylus say at the same time—not even trying to coordinate it.

The woman hums as she flips to the next card. “Second one’s fun. What’s one habit the other has that drive you crazy?”

You bite your lower lip in thought. And the man beside you can’t help but let his eyes drag over them—you’re oblivious. “He pauses before answering like he’s running an internal lie detector test.” Sylus lifts an eyebrow, his full attention on you, almost mock-offended. “I think before I speak.”

“You brood before you speak.”

The interviewer chuckles again. “And Sylus?”

He lets a beat pass—his eyes still on you, something sharp and fond behind his gaze… the intensity of it, almost makes you squirm on your couch. “She has zero patience. For meetings. For protocol. For… silence.”

You smile, but your heart pounds hard against your ribcage—knowing exactly what he meant. “Because silence means you’re about to say something cryptic and inconvenient.” You try with a wrecked voice.

“You don’t need silence to say something inconvenient.” He murmurs it so low the woman on the other side misses it—much to her displeasure.

“Alright, alright… let’s try something a little deeper, shall we?”

There’s a small silence—that kind of pause that feels too prepared. Like she’s testing waters. 

The stillness in your spine tightens like a reflex. You clear your throat gently, keeping your tone smooth. “He…” your eyes stay forward, though you feel the subtle shift of Sylus leaning back beside you, “...knows how to surf. Pretty well, actually.”

It’s true. It’s harmless. And absolutely not what the interviewer was fishing for—judging by the way her brows twitch up, like she’d bitten into something too bland.

You fight the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Sylus doesn’t smile, of course. He rarely does. His voice is flat, unreadable. “She talks too much when she’s nervous.”

You side-eye him immediately, lips parting as more flashes of this night come back to you. “That didn’t surprise me though,” he adds, glancing at the interviewer before locking eyes with you. “But she listens when it matters.”

The woman goes still for a beat, caught off guard by the sincerity buried in his otherwise clinical tone. “Well, that’s… good to know.”

She looks between you. Then reads the final one, “Last question. What’s something you haven’t said to each other yet?”

There it is. 

Your pulse kicks, and you can feel Sylus shift next to you—just a subtle change in the air around his body. Not something anyone else would catch.

One second pass.

Two.

Three. 

“If there’s anything worth saying,” he says finally, his voice calm but edged with something harder, “it’ll be said off camera.”

She laughs softly, almost like she’s impressed—or disappointed. “Well. That’s fair.”

The red light above the camera dies out. The room relaxes with it. Crew members begin to stir, chairs scraping gently, quiet voices picking up around you. You exhale deeply, tension releasing from your shoulders. The session’s over—but the real conversation, the one left dangling in the silence between you and Sylus?

That one hasn’t even started yet.

Still, you try not to think too deeply about it as the last mic clicks off your blouse. You murmur a quick thanks to the sound tech before rising to your feet, smoothing your skirt. Sylus is already up, straightening his sleeves with quiet precision. Like he didn’t just dodge the most important question, for the interviewer. Like he didn’t just put your world upside down in the lodge. Like his fingers aren’t still burning your chin.

You walk past him—ready to put all this comedy behind you but suddenly he calls your name, and you halt mid-step. 

“You hungry?” his voice breaks the static in your head.

“What’s the offer?” your eyes narrow. Almost defensive.

He slips his hands in his pocket, walking beside you as you head toward the exit. “Dinner. Meliaa’s already on her way.”

“Meliaa?”

“I called her,” he says simply. “She was close by. I thought you would like her presence.” Well the real reasonis : with Meliaa around, the odds of you saying yes were higher.

“I called Rafayel too. And Caleb,” Sylus adds, glancing down at you. (With Rafayel into the equation now, the odds were even more higher.)

You dig through your mind, trying to recall who’s Caleb. And—

“Caleb is the tall brunette with the purple eyes. He hooked up with Meliaa during the retreat.”

“Yeah...” you say, nonchalant. Like you knew exactly who he was the whole time.

Sylus only nods, offering nothing else, as he holds the door open for you.

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The restaurant is warm and low-lit. it’s tucked away behind a wine bar, too nice for a work dinner, too casual for anything official. The kind of place where the shadows lean in and the drinks hit too smooth.

Your comrades are sitting near a floor-to window glasses, you spot them first. Meliaa is pinned between Rafayel and Caleb at a round booth. Her expression is bright, animated, her cheeks slightly pink on her honeyed skin… but you don’t miss the restless tension in the way her fingers toy with her glass stem. Rafayel is a little too close, one arm resting behind her on the booth’s back and Caleb, on her other side, has his thigh pressing firmly against her—not budging.

You don’t miss the way Meliaa shifts her shoulders back when she sees you. Relief flickering in her eyes. 

“Oh, thank God,” she grins. “I was starting to consider stabbing one of them with a breadstick.”

Rafayel turns his head lazily toward her, the pad of his finger brushing the small hair on the back of her neck. 

“You’re late,” the brunette man suddenly speaks.

“5 minutes,” Sylus replies before you do, voice cool. He’s already assessing the table, his eyes flicking from seat to seat. But as expected—and rather quickly—he takes the open space beside Caleb. They’re probably friend… you assume.

That leaves you with one seat. Next to Rafayel.

Not that you complain about that.

You’re complaining about sitting directly across the hot-sexy-long-white-haired man. 

Meliaa shifts to make room—which only forces the two tall men to move in closer—giving you a smile that’s part apology, part plea. You slide in beside Rafayel, feeling the heat of his arm radiating next to you. Like he’s burning hot.

Another thing that is burning hot : Sylus gaze already on you. Sharp and unreadable beneath the low amber light.

Tension coils on the table. From all sides.

You clear your throat. “So, what did we miss?”

Caleb chuckles, low and amused, swirling his drink. “Just Meliaa dodging questions.”

“Dodging?” Rafayel cuts in with a slow tilt of his head. “I’d say she’s being very generous with her silence.”

Meliaa doesn’t answer. She just lifts her glass, sips, and stares down the center of the table like it might save her.

Well, it won’t.

But you will.

You hum and probably wait for few seconds—let the silence stretch until the static in the air buzzing between the glances feels heavy.

“I want a little drink,” you say abruptly. That earns you a flash of narrowed eyes from Sylus and a very enthusiast, far-too-fast, “Coming!” from your girl.

You reach the bar like it’s finish line—and you’re both relieved, it’s a small, expensive restaurant. Which means fewer people tonight. Fewer eyes. 

Meliaa slides onto the stool beside you, fixing her curls with one hand while the other flags the bartender like her life depends on it… and it just might. The only real question is : whose life is spiraling faster?

The moment the bartender turns his back to mix the drinks, you lean in.

“Okay,” you murmur low, “what the hell is going on?”

She blinks at you, innocent. “What do you mean?”

You give her a look—a look that means, I Know, You know, We know. 

She exhales sharply, bringing two fingers to pinch the bridge of her nose. “You remember Caleb. My little paradisiac escape?”

You nod.

“Well…” she winces. “Our one nightstand… kind of became a five-night stand. Plus, texting. And maybebrunch. And, um, sex on the roof of the lodge and… sex everywhere, actually.”

You tilt your head, amused by her unraveling. “And Rafayel?”

She picks up a lim wedge from the bar and pops it in her mouth like a criminal about to testify. “I didn’t plan that either. You just introduced us and we… clicked.”

You swear you only bite back your laugh because she she looks two seconds from yanking her own hair out. “When I said ‘you’d like him’ I didn’t mean like him naked in your bed.”

“I didn’t mean that too! They just kept showing up.”

“They’re both into you.”

She mutters something under her breath, before adding, “They both fuck extremely well, too.”

The bartender returns with your drinks. 

“I told them both I’m not looking for anything serious,” she insists. “I was clear. And they agreed. Verbally. Out loud.”

“And yet, back there,” you nod toward the table, “they were both glued to your sides like emotionally unstable shoulders pads.”

Meliaa groans. “Y’know what’s crazy?” she slides her stool closer to yours and lowers her voice. “They both know I slept with the other…” you raise a brow as she drops her voice even lower and bring a hand to your ear like she’s whispering the world’s most scandalous secret. “…And they both told me they want to prove they fuck better than the other.”

And here, you totally snap. You laugh so hard you nearly fall off the stool—actual tears leaking down your face. Meliaa just stares, green eyes wide like she’s been betrayed.

“You’re laughing to my hexagon of bad decisions?” she accuses.

“Giiiiirl,” you wheeze, wiping at your cheek. “You have two sexy, emotionally deranged men down bad for you and you call it a problem?” you shake your head, trying to calm down. “Just go for it and fuck them both.”

“I already did!!!”

“At the same damn time, sweetie.”

“You did lose all your last brain cells on that interview...” she takes her drink and finish it in one go.

She clinks her empty glass down with too much force than necessary. And you’re still puffing next to her when she sighs dramatically and speaks. 

“Yeah. You’re right.” She twists in her stool to look at you, a wicked glint flickering in her eyes now. “I will do it. Will fuck them. Senseless.”

You snort. “They’re more likely to fuck you senseless.”

She waves a dismissive hand in your face like you’re speaking nonsense, then grabs your shoulders with both hands. “Thank you for your advice, soldier.” She says sweetly, pressing her hands on your shoulder to get up.

You look at her going back to the table like the chaotic soldier that she is before calling after her, “Please stretch first!” and go back to your chair still laughing under your breath. You exhale, trying to cool the remnants of amusement off your face, only to feel someone move into the space she just vacated.

You don’t even have to look—you know that presence too well by now. It drapes over you like a shadow.

Sylus slips onto the high stool beside you, turning it slightly so his body angles toward yours. His long legs stretch out, planted on either side of your own—silently claiming territory. One arm drape lazily along the counter, the other resting loose over his knee.

There’s no rush, no sound, just the heavy calm he wears like cologne.

But it’s like the air shifts to accommodate him... and so does your pulse. He’s still dressed in the white shirt—made of sin and for sluts men.

You inhale without thinking.

“I’m a slut?” Sylus voice is… confused.

Ahhhh, your damn mouth. You didn’t even realize you said your last thoughts out loud.

“Well…” you trail off, letting your eyes drop on his open collar and the chain diving in, “dressed up like this, yes.”

His brows lift slightly, a smirk twisting his lips. 

Oh. A smirk.

It’s been a while.

“Calling me a slut then?”

You shift slightly on your stool, annoyed at the way your thighs press tighter together to the sound of his hoarse voice. “I mean,” you mutter, eyes refusing to meet his, “if the shirt fits.”

He leans a little closer—letting you feel the gravity of him. “Maybe I wore it for someone specific?”

Your head jerks toward him, “And that someone was… a reflective surface?”

His mouth twitches. He definitely missed your little games. “Are you jealous of my mirror now?”

You glare. “I’ve seen the way you look at it.”

“That mirror’s been there for me when no one else was.”

“Ew… now you sound pathetic.”

“Do you like pathetic men?”

The question caught you off guard. “What?” The heat is rising up your throat simmering just beneath the surface, and you feel yourself unraveling under the weight of his gaze.

“Pathetic men,” he repeats, approaching his stool to yours until your round sit is trapped between his thighs. “Do you like them?”

 “I like everything and everyone but you, Sylus.” You say under your breath toying with your glass—unwilling to drink it. Unwilling to let the alcohol dull this. You want to feel every second of it. Every pulse of heat. Every flick of his voice against your skin.

“You’re not that special,” you lie.

He tilts his head—giving you an unfair view of his bronzed neck, the muscle there taut, kissed by the dim bar light. “I’m literally trapping you against the bar right now,” he murmurs, voice rough silk, “and you haven’t moved.” 

You straighten, bristling— mostly from the burn pooling in your lower stomach. “I could move.”

“Of course, do so.” A simple challenge.

As you don’t move, he leans in until his lips are brushing delicately your ear “Exactly.” He dissociates every syllable. And you swear how he says it… it feels like a kiss. A taunting kiss.

Your entire body flares hot. From the tips of your ears to somewhere shameful deep. 

You grip the edge of the bar for support and stand. 

Fast.

Too fast.

Because of your original position and Sylus one, your legs tangle in the small space he created. The movement throws you off your balance and you tumble forward between your stools. 

You gasp—a surprised, inelegant sound—as your hands shoot up, grabbing at the nearest anchor: the back of his neck, his hair, thick and soft between your fingers. Your body crashes against his chest, knocking the glasses on his face askew. 

His arms snap around you with effortless speed—one bracing your lower back, the other slapping flat against the bar to keep you both upright.

His grip doesn’t loosen. You don’t move.

“Well,” he says, voice a little breathless, but laced with that same maddening smirk. “Aren’t you a professional at falling into me?”

You open your mouth—but nothing comes out. Your brain can’t think—too busy thinking about his hand splayed wide against your back. Technically it’s your waist, but the way his forearm is low, hot and firm just above the swell of your ass—

“That’s three time now, kitten.” he adds, adjusting his glasses with a slow slide of his fingers. “I’m gonna start thinking you’re doing it on purpose.”

“Maybe,” You whisper face burning hot, body burning hot… pussy burning hot.

Your thighs press together for any kind of relief, but you’re trapped. His are bracketing yours—caging you in a tight hold. Your chest is flush against his collarbone, your shirt stretched over the shape of your breasts as they rise and fall, pressed to the open cut of his shirt, that damned chain cold between your hot bodies.

He exhales, a slow, shaking thing, and his breath fans your lips when he speaks again. “You mess up my glasses again…” his voice dips lower, gravel catching at the edge, “and I might actually lose my patience.”

You blink hard, struggling to hold your ground—but your fingers are still in his hair, fisted tight. And something in you wants to push further. Wants to abandon everything, let it all go, and just sink into the heat of this.

So, you tug.

Not hard, but with intention—your nails scraping gently at the base of his scalp as you guide his face up to yours. His head tips back, lips parting slightly, the faintest flush of pink climbing his high cheekbones. His lashes flutter low. And you swear, swear he’s just as close to breaking as you are.

The way he looks like this. Held in your hands? Seeming vulnerable?

You can’t help but push your thighs a bit higher, grinding against his cock. Well, more like a damn monsterfrom the tent straining against his jeans.

His hand presses harder into your lower back, pulling you the rest of the way down until you’re practically straddling his lap—so you could have the perfect friction against your pulsing clit.

“You drunk?” he rasps, eyes glassy already.

You shake your head, almost dizzy from how close you are. From how hot it is in here. “No,” you breathe.

“Good,” he says, almost to himself. “When you said you wanted a little drink I…” he cuts off, biting his cheek.

You trace your fingers up through his hair again, soft strands curling between your knuckles. “What?”

He doesn’t look away. He can’t. Not when he’s drowning in the liquid, he wanted oh so badly. “I got scared,” he whispers, his voice barely a small stain on the lipstick he asked you to put. 

It feels like you’re drinking his words, drinking him. “Scared?”

His hand slides higher, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt, brushing your bare skin and making you jolt. “Yeah, because… I don’t know if I can wait past tonight.” His voice fractures. “With all my respect.”

Oh god.

“I don’t think I want to wait,” he confesses, lips ghosting the corner of your jaw. “And if you get even a littletipsy, if you told me something sweet, if you looked at me the same way you did the last time you were drunk…” his tongue darts across his bottom lip, and your eyes track it like prey. “If you even whispered all the unholy things, you want me to do you again, and I couldn’t do anything—”

Your breath is ragged waiting for his next words. “—I think I’d lose my mind. Completely and utterly.”

And he’s not even really touching you but the wet ache between your legs grows as if he was just buried deep and dragging you wide open. 

“I’m sober,” your voice comes rougher than you expected. “100% sober.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours. Those eyes looking at you like he wants to make you, his meal. 

“I want to use my prize.” He says with an unsteady voice. Referring to the challenge he won during the retreat—and it feels like it’s been centuries since this moment in the clear water.

You lean in, almost forgetting you’re in a public space. “Yes, tell me.”

Both his hands grip your waist tighter, pressing you harder on his length.

“Please, spend the night with me.”

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The cool night air hits your flushed skin like a slap—you’re practically dragging Sylus across the small, dim parking lot by his collar, heart slamming so hard it’s a miracle your heels stay under you and your shirt isn’t ripped by the hard boum boum boum of your organ.

You see his car parked on the corner right after you turn. It’s a sleek, lack, and vicious-looking engine. Clean line, matte finish, purring low and luxurious under the streetlamps. It’s the kind of car that screams I have more money than your entire bloodline reunited. 

Sylus fumbles quickly into his pocket to pull out the key. 

But in no time, you shove him right against the side of his stupid expensive car, the impact solid, the look on his face wild. And then you’re on him. Palms pressed flat to his chest, mouth nearly on his, breathing him in like oxygen you’ve been starved for.

He smirks. “Impatient?”

“You asked politely,” you growl, voice rough with something molten and raw. 

Your hands slide down—over that infuriating shirt, feeling his abs twitching under the fabric. You trail down to the waistband of his jeans that have done nothing to hide what he’s packing.

He’s rock hard. And when you drag your body flush to his, grinding against him shamelessly, he groans. Deep and low, eyes fluttering closed.

“I waited,” you whisper against his jaw—leaving a hint of your lipstick. “I was nice, reallyyyy nice… But Sylus, if I don’t have you inside me soon—”

His hand comes up, palm cupping your jaw—firm, putting some distance between your filthy mouth and his skin. “You think—” he’s breathless, fighting to put some air into his lungs. “—I haven’t been waiting?” You open your mouth to snap back something, but his look on his eyes makes you stop.

What is happening between you is beyond lust. It’s something consuming, aching and needy.

“I want this to slow,” he says softly, thumb stroking your cheek. “Not some rushed thing in a car. Not—”

And you’re probably on the verge of psychiatric.

He’s making you insane. His self-control is insane. His mouth is insane. His hands are insane. His needs to do good is insane.

Everything is too insane.

You crush your lips onto his. And it’s only just a peck. A hard peck. Just to soothe your need you think. But when your mouth pulls away by only inches, his hand comes to your throat—drawing you back flush to his body. And in one fluid motion he switches places—pinning you between the car and the long, sharp line of him.

And this is kiss is nothing nice.

It’s all pent-up frustration erupting between your mouths. His lips force their way between yours—nothing delicate like he suggested moments ago.

Your lower lip is effectively trapped between his generous one—sucking on it, nipping them. And slowly he pushes your lips apart—a moan leaves your mouth and he’s muffling it directly as his tongue slides between your welcoming warm. 

He’s dominating this kiss. Tilting your head with his hand on your throat where he needs it—to drink you like hewants to. 

It’s maddening, the way he kisses is maddening. 

Because even though he’s obviously the one in control, he stills chase your pleasure—chasing every whimper, every moan every gasp. His glasses are skewed by now, your kiss having knocked them off their straight line, completely fogged by your breaths.

Your lipstick is smeared across his mouth and jaw, staining him in smudged proof of your hunger. There’s even a faint line beneath his nose, a bold mark left from where he dragged up his face.

Sylus is high.

High on you. High on the way your skirt rode up your thighs. High on the feeling of your ruined panties clinging to your cunt—leaving surely a dark, obscene patch of slick on his pants.

The kiss was so nasty, there’s drool on the corner of your lips once he drags his mouth away from yours—well, not really. His lips are still pressed against yours a thin string of spit is connecting you both. 

“You’re wet,” his breath is ragged, like he’s just run a marathon.

And it’s not mocking, not teasing, it simply hurts him.

His hand shifts from your jaw to your thigh, curling under the hem of your skirt—slow at first but when he meets the hot mess between your legs with the tip of his fingers… he’s losing all last strands of sanity.

A sound punched right from his gut comes out of him and straight into your mouth—forehead falling to rest against yours.

You smile, your cheeks rosy as you struggle to breathe. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve got myself wet back in the bar.”

“Of course you did,” he hisses, dragging your soaked panties aside with a rough swipe of his fingers. And the cold hair hitting raw your swollen pearl makes you throw your head back and hips jolt forward. 

“You love teasing me, don’t you?” his voice feels distant, a small siren voice through the fog overtaking your brain.

You nod and find a smart-ass answer he lives for, “Love watching you pretend you’re composed.”

“Kitten—” he warns, voice not even sounding human.

He presses two fingers to your entrance. Not pushing in. Just sliding between your folds, gliding through the wetness like he needs to punish himself with restraint. His eyes drop to watch—if he can, through the blur of actual tears swelling at his lashes. His self-control is fighting for its life—but it’s cracked, shattered by the warm of your pussy dripping down his hand.

Every breath he takes against your neck is a prayer not to fuck you right there, right now, with no mercy. 

“Don’t you dare be soft with me,” you fist his shirt, hiccupping. “You’ve had months to be gentle.”

He crushes your body to the car door, hand diving beneath your thigh and lifting—hoisting your leg up around his hips so you’re perched, pinned, spread open for him to rut into with that thick, unrelenting hardness pressing through his jeans. The dry friction alone make you cry out—the damp heat of your cunt grinding against his cock through layers, but it’s still too much. 

“I’m going to fuck you stupid,” he says against your mouth, so low, so close, voice a whisper and a threat. “But not here. Not like this.”

You shake your head, dazed. “Why not?”

His hand grips your thigh tighter, almost bruising. “Because if I do it here, I’ll ruin you for real. You won’t walk. I’ll make a mess of this pretty car, and I won’t stop. I won’t fucking stop, kitten.”

You whimper, forehead resting against his shoulder now, breath fogging on his skin. “Sylus…”

“Get in the car.”

He breaks away long enough to hit the key fob. The sleek lights flash, the door clicks open with a quiet hum—and before you can think or process, he’s pulling you down, dragging your panties back to its place, letting the elastic snap back against your sensitive clit with a loud slawck—that almost make you cum on the spot.

He’s pulling the handle and forcing you in. You stumble into the leather seat, still gasping, body trembling. He leans into the frame, one hand on the top of the door, the other on your thigh—sliding up again. 

“Buckle in,” he rasps, eyes dragging down your wrecked body, lips still shiny with spit and your smeared lipstick. 

He shuts the door and stalks around the car to the driver seat in long stroke.

- - -

When the elevator dings, he pulls you down the hall—fast and controlled. The click of your heels echo against the pristine floor. His apartment door opens with a quiet beep. A smooth slide. 

Rich-boy security system.

Once you enter, you’re directly overwhelmed by his scent. A light perfume of spice and… lavender, maybe, or something even more ruinous. 

His place is clean, minimal everything nettling put at their places. The skyline behind the floor-to-ceiling windows glows like fire, golden-orange spilling across glossy floors. Somewhere to the left, a low fire crackles in a stone-lined hearth near the couches, throwing dancing shadows over leather and glass.

You stay where you are, just inside the doorway. The door clicks shut behind you, and you press your back against it, heart hammering. He moves ahead, smooth and silent, dropping the key fob onto a table like it’s the last thing tethering him to restraint.

Then he turns. And the look he gives you—slow, raking, searing—melts everything inside you.

Your lipstick is a mess. You know it. It’s all over his face too, smeared beneath the sharp line of his cheekbones, staining the edge of his mouth. His white hair glows silver in the firelight, casting flickers over the chain resting against the open collar of his shirt. His glasses have slid low on his nose, and he makes no move to fix them.

The tension between you is unbearable. Electric. You feel it coil in your stomach, in your thighs, your throat. One spark away from burning everything to ash.

You can’t take it.

“Sylus…” your voice is breathless, cracked. “Do something. I’m going crazy.”

His head tilts—barely. A shift in the firelight. But his eyes are pure heat. He walks toward the living room with precise steps. And each one he takes is just worse than the other. Torturing you until your bones disintegrate.

“You remember what I told you earlier?” he says without looking back.

“Huh?”

“Before the interview.”

“You said a lot of things.”

“I did.” He drops onto the couch, sprawling back with a quiet sigh—legs spreading wide, arms draping along the back. He adjusts his glasses with a single lazy finger, and his haze finds your again. “And one of them was that I want you to beg.”

Your breath catches. He pats his thigh, palm open. “Come here.”

Your pride should say no—should anchor you at the door, fighting for some last scrap of dignity. But unfortunately, the heat pooling between your legs has already ruined your panties—and far more, your thighs are sticky with your substance. 

You’re stepping forward before your brain can catch up, led purely by instinct.

“Come sit,” he murmurs. “Right here.”

It’s humiliating.

His eyes never leave you, locked on your skirt, watching the way it hugs your hips, how it sways with each slow, hesitant step.

The tension in the room deepens, thickens until it suffocates.

“And you know what else I said?” His voice is smooth as silk and twice as dangerous, still undressing you with his eyes. You reach him, heart thudding so hard it rocks your ribs.

You shake your head, pulse roaring in your ears.

He smirks the kind of smirk that knows exactly how it splits you open inside. “I told you brats get punished.” He runs his middle finger around his thigh—slow, little circle… and your eyes open wider by millimeters. “You qualify as one, don’t you?”

“That’s what you said,” he adds when you don’t answer. “Last time… you hinted you liked being put in your place.” His voice is slick with memory.

You instantly go hot all over. And even hotter as you stop in between his thighs, and he looks at you through half-lidded eyes—his cheeks flushed of that soft, delicious pink.

“That’s quiet mean of you…” your reach for his chain, looping it between your fingers like a leash. “Considering you already kissed me—”

Your sentence dies—gasped away in surprise when two firm hands come to your ass and pulls you onto him. 

You collapse into his lap, one hand shooting to brace yourself against the couch behind his head, the other gripping his shoulder as your hair spills around your face—falling to make a perfect halo around you. 

Your breath quickens as you’re hit with another memory: a flustered Sylus, flat on his back in the sand, eyes glazed, mouth parted.

Just like now. Unless now he’s more… dangerous, sure.

“And so?” he whispers, his mouth one breathe away from ravishing yours entirely.

“What are you gonna do to make me beg?” you ask.

“Strip.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I won’t repeat myself.”

You gulp audibly. Because the way he looks at you are giving everything but soft.

So slowly, extremely slowly it’s borderline painful, you remove your top—dropped without care onto his pristine floor. Leaving you only with a laced bra and your strained nipples like they’re offering themselves to theirmaster.

“What I will do to make you beg, mh?” His gaze burns as one of his knuckles brushes your clavicle. A single featherlight touch going straight between your thighs. 

“That’s easy.” his index finger trails down the center of yoru chest. It glides to the dip of your bra—right between your breasts where a tiny single red bow is. His thumb presses into the delicate bone at your sternum.

“I will just toy with you.” And he bites his lip because you’re already semi-shaking his thighs—the strain on his control his palpable. He absolutely wants to devour you, make a mess out of you. 

Claim you in all the way a man has never possibly done before. He continues his way with you. A single finger along the edge of the cup, grazing the curve of your breasts without ever touching the peak.

Your hips twitch.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he murmurs, almost curious. His lips ghost the air near your throat but doesn’t land—he lets you feels his warm breath when he speaks again. “What happened to all that attitude, kitten?”

His hands move—and you fight not to growl… or scream… or cry… you don’t know which reaction is more appropriate.

His long digits palm your ribs, sliding up up and just when you think he’s going to take the full weight of your aching breasts and give you some relief—he trails down. Leaving your skin flaming where he touched it.

“Your skirt’s on the way.” He mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching in evil delight as your brows knit together in full, tortured frustration. “Can’t feel you soaking your panties correctly.” His white hair glints in the firelight like moonlight on snow. “Make it easy for us both and get rid of this.”

You groan—a bratty, breathless sound—but obey. You push up on shaky feet and toss the skirt so fast it’s nearly offensive… if you weren’t so eager.

“That’s right.” His voice’s smug velvet sliding under your skin.

One hand slides up to your shoulder. A single finger dips beneath the strap of your bra and, without a hint of hurry, drags it down your arm. It falls loose. He repeats the process on the other side, watching the lace shift lower—watching your nipples grow tight under the exposure, making his mouth salivate.

Your skin prickles are you unconsciously start to rock yourself on his pants. You whisper nearly delirious. “Touch me.”

“But I am touching you,” his voice’s syrup-thick, his lips ghost along your cheek, then your jaw, then the slope of your neck—never landing long enough to satisfy. “Maybe you just need to learn patience.”

“Don’t—” you start, voice breaking on the word.

He clicks his tongue. “The rules are the rules, kitten.”

His rough palms splay wide across your thighs, fingers curling until his blunt nails catch the edges of your lacy thong. He tsks. “You nasty little thing,” he hums. “You wore this under your skirt… to the interview.”

You press down harder into his lap, rutting now, your body no longer interested in playing coy. One of your hands snakes down to guide his fingers.

He grabs your wrist instantly—gently, but with firm finality. His eyes darken. “I could have taken you long ago…” the heat of his breath brushing your collarbone. “If you hadn’t made it so hard for us to—”

“I made hard nothing.” You cut in.

His brow arches. “You interrupted me?” he drawls, leaning back suddenly and dragging his warmth away.

You bite your inner cheek, heat pulsing between your legs for so long it’s unbearable now. “Fine…” you start slowly. “Maybe I made something hard,” your lips twitch slightly in amusement. “Your dick, maybe.”

The second the word leaves your lips, you know it’s the wrong move. So wrong. Especially with how tight you’re clenching around nothing.

Because in one blink—one heartbeat—he moves.

You yelp as he manhandles you. In less than a second, he’s flipped you over. Your chest crashes to the cushions, your ass perched high on his lap. One strong arm pins you there, his palm flat between your shoulder blades, keeping you down like a misbehaving pet.

“You are a brat,” he murmurs above you, voice dangerously fond. “Guess I’ll have to remind you what happens to smart mouths.” Then his hand slides down your back. Pauses just above your ass. You shiver, bracing yourself for slap….

That never comes.

A spank would be too merciful. 

Instead, he drags his index under the curves of your ass, across the damp strip of lace stretched tight over your soaked cunt. He traces your swollen slit with the lightest touch—barely grazing the obvious outline of your folds through the ruined fabric. So soft it hurts.

And suddenly he takes the twin straps of your ridiculous thong and pull.

So harsh that your squirm uncontrollably, your eyes nearly rolling back in shock. A ridiculous high-pitched moan escapes you as your panties catch itself between your fat lips—a hard pressure on your swollen clit.

“Sylus—” you gasp.

He chuckles darkly behind you, sounding maddeningly pleased. “That’s better,” he murmurs. “Fits nicer like this.”

Your whole body is trembling. You’re humiliated and throbbing and nothing is enough. Or is it? Is it enough when he doesn’t let go of the straps and rocks them?

Then side to side and gentle little tug. Each motion saws the lace tighter, sliding it exactly where it hurts the most—barely over your clit, dancing just on the edge of pleasure and pain. You sob into the couch.

Because no, it is not enough.

Sylus knows how to tease you with cruel finesse. His thumbs drag circles into your asscheeks. His knuckles skim the backs of your thighs. His mouth brushes behind your ear like smoke and never offering you the deliverance you need.

You make helpless little noises in the back of your throat, and it only fuels his precision. He lets one fingertip ghost over your inner thigh, dragging closer, closer until it’s nearly brushing the ruined lace clinging to your cunt.

Your hips jerk back, chasing the phantom touch when he backwards. 

“Please,” you gasp, not even realizing the word came out of your mouth. 

“Hm?” his voice is silk. Mocking.

You clench around nothing. Practically crying. 

“Touch me,” your voice muffled by the cushion, you say louder your next word. “Please.”

He tugs the panties again, this time even tighter. Your muscles tense on his lap. “What was that?” he breathes against your temple.

“I—fuck, Sylus—please, I need it. I need you to—” but the words never quiet reach your tongue. 

“Say it.” He’s so close behind you that you feel his voice vibrate in your spine.

You twist your head over your shoulder to look at him—his jaw is clenched, lips red and stained with your lipstick, his eyes black with hunger. He’s wrecked but won’t move until you break.

“Say what you need, kitten. Not some vague whining. Not ‘touch me’.” He leans in, breathing heat into your ear. “Use your words. You’ve never had a problem with that mouth.”

“I—fuck,” Your face burns. “Your fingers..”

His hand stills against the top of your thigh. “But they are touching you.”

“Inside me,” You almost scream. “Inside my pussy. Please, Sylus, please—”

One hand comes to the meat of your ass, spreading you. The other, those long cruel fingers, trails from the soaked strap of your thong down between your folds, and this time doesn’t stop. 

Two fingers press into your entrance with no pretense, no mercy. He sinks them deep and slow to hit your spots fast and precisely.

“Oh God—”

“Fuck.” He groans behind you, forehead dropping to your shoulder as your cunt clenches around him violently, gripping down on the length of his fingers. “You’re so wet,” he pumps, once. You choke out a sound that’s not a moan, not a cry, just something wrecked from your chest. 

“That’s it,” his lips brushing your neck. “You wanted my fingers?” and he give you three more hard thrusts making you arch off the cushion and lift your ass higher.

“You’ve got them.” He scissors them open inside you, and you swear you’re seeing the goddamn constellations in front of your eyes.

“Shit, do you even feel them?” he grits, voice barely human. “You’re dripping everywhere, you’re so wet my fingers easily slide in.” He growls when your pussy answers—wet sounds and droplets of arousal dripping on his expensive pants.

“Look at the mess you’re making,” he whispers, almost reverent. “You’re soaking down my wrist.” When he pulls back, it paints his skin—slick, shining, messy.

“Sylus!” you choke on a sob when he adds another finger, your walls fluttering violently around the stretch. You’re so close—teetering, body tight like a drawn bowstring. Probably two or three more thrusts and—

He stops. Withdrawing completely.

The emptiness is a sucker punch. A broken sound rips from your throat, half-sob, half-curse—too raw to be dignified, too honest to hold back.

Before you can twist around and claw at him, he’s already moving—flipping you with a suddenness that makes your heart stutter. You land on your back with a soft thud against the couch, hair fanned wild, and legs still spread from desperation.

His figure looms over you… a shadow made of fire.

“Open,” he orders, holding those soaked fingers just inches from your mouth. And you do, because what else could you possibly do?

But before he slips them past your lips, he drags the mess of your arousal across them—painting your mouth with yourself.

When his digits land on your taste buds, your tongue curls immediately around them, helplessly obedient. He watches closely through his rectangular glasses, his collar’s chain hitting your chin as he hovers over your figure. 

RIP.

A swift, shocking sound of lace tearing. Your gasp nearly causes you to bite down on his fingers, but his eyes catch yours with a silent warning: don’t even think about it.

He tosses the ruined panties aside like they were in his way all night, like they never stood a chance. His lips hover beside your ear as you still suck greedily on his fingers.

“Keep going, since you’re already so good with your mouth…” A smirk ghosts across his lips, wicked and warm. “I’ll enjoy mine too.”

You blink up at him, dazed.

“Keep sucking on my fingers while I taste my favorite lollipop,” he growls.

Sylus disappears between your volcano. And at the mere feeling of the tip of his tongue on your cunt—he feels himself levitating. You taste knocks the air from his lungs. His free hand tightens around one of your thighs, forcing it wide open. The couch creaks under the pressure of how hard he holds you down.

His tongue swirls around clit like you’re the sweetest candy ever. Flicking the delicate nerve side to side before closing his lips around it. He sucks so hard you jolt forward, moaning around his fingers.

A dark, animalistic sound reverberates from deep in his chest, straight into your bones, as he closes his eyes and feasts you. He licks up all the juices that came down your folds and the junction with your thighs like it’s some divine nectar he must drink to keep living.

“What kind of taste is this?” he rasps, totally delirious, so delirious he removes his fingers from your mouth, bringing his two thumbs to spread your lips open wide so he can bury his nose deeper into you.

He pulls back only to blow a slow, teasing breath on your throbbing clit. Then dives back in, slurping all the way from back to front. A helpless moan vibrates from his throat against your core. He ruts his cock against the couch like he can’t help it, seeking relief from the ache you’ve caused.

Your hands fly to his fluffy hair, gripping the base of his neck and his silken strands to push him deeper, as your thighs fall open wider—giving him full access to your desperate pussy.

And Sylus, so lost, gives in his need. Sharp teeth gently napping your clit, not to hurt you—applying the right pressure to send you plunging into the abyss of pleasure.

“Need you to soak my face, kitten,” He murmurs, voice all smug and drunk.

And honestly? he feels like he’s the one to cum first, into his boxer, nonetheless. And without a single touch coming from you. 

His hands grip your thighs with such desperation you’re sure you’ll bruise tomorrow. The friction against your clit, the slick and drools pouring from his tongue… it all sends you spiraling. So fast, so full, you’re sure you’re seeing your orgasm breaking open like fireworks behind your eyes.

But it doesn’t.

Your head snaps up looking at him and he’s already looking at you. His ears are flushed pink glasses crooked and fogged, hair a fucking mess like he’s been through war. 

A war he’s winning. 

“The fuck are you doing?” you snap, heavy breathing as he denied your orgasm once again.

“You didn’t beg.” He tsks, his voice maddeningly calm, lips brushing tender kisses up your pubic bone like an apology. 

You try to move—try to rut your hips against his mouth, anything, anything—but he’s stronger. He barely even needs to hold you down. His grip stays lazy and firm and so damn effortless it makes you scream inside.

You sob, a real cracked sound, torn raw from your throat. Because it’s torture. Because you were right there. Twice.

Because your body doesn’t know how to deal with the pleasure that keeps burning and burning with no outlet.

So, you eat your pride and beg.

“Sylus,” you whisper, a trembling whimper hanging from your lips, eyes glassy and rimmed with the shimmer of real tears from overstimulation. “Let me cum, please. Please,” you say, as if repeating it might break whatever sick restraint, he’s shackled you with. “I can’t take it anymore, I—”

He goes back in without warning. His tongue flicks your clit fast, precise, lips locking around it in a tight, desperate seal. And before your brain can register, he pushes two fingers deep inside you, curling them right into that spot that makes your vision blurs. Fucking you open on his tongue and digits with ruthless precision.

You’re brought to the edge really quickly like he has memorized the exact rhythm of your undoing. 

Your spongy walls clench so tightly around his knuckles you think you might break them. You gasp helplessly squirming under the sheer intensity of it all.

“My good girl, asking all nicely and cutely.” He chuckles on your glistening folds, another hand going up, up, up—finding your bras and pushing it down with slow force until your tits spill free.

He toys with your hardened nipple, rolling it between his fingertips, pinching them until your much smaller hand come to cup his.

Your body draws tight like a scream with no sound, all nerve endings snapping taut as violin string, and then—

He hums. The vibration of it sends a shudder up your spine, that’s what does it. That’s what tears you open.

You squirt.

So hard and so unexpected your vision whites out at the edge, hips bucking hitting his teeth, thighs closing around his head and he lets them. Let’s you suffocate him in your divine warmth.

You soak him for what seems hours, your slick is everywhere—on his wrist, his palm, his nose… even your ass sticks to the soft couch.

“Fuck—fuck, exactly,” he grows, eyes fluttering shut as he devours your orgasm that followed right after. Your limbs go slack, twitching as wave after wave crashing through your core.

And it doesn’t help that Sylus keeps going, mouth still latched to your cunt like it’s his only salvation, fingers pistoning in and out with greedy, relentless strokes, chasing every last drop of your high like he wants to taste your very soul.

You sob his name through grit teeth, clamping your plush thighs tighter around his face and—

BREAK.

“Huh?” he withdraws, fingers dragging out so slow it makes your back arch with the aftershocks—barely registering the breaking sound of something.

“You broke my glasses.” He chuckles out, almost cheerfully and licks his fingers clean, discharging his glasses with no more attention to them—moaning deep in his throat when your remained liquid hits his tongue.

“I—I didn’t… what?” your chest is rising and falling rapidly, one breast out, your lower body naked and messy, your eyes half-lidded blinking up at him through wet lashes.

His gaze is molten, locked to your pussy as it flutters mindlessly when he speaks with a rough voice. “My glasses,” he says, panting. “You broke them with yoru thighs.” He kisses your jaw, “hot.” And he kisses your mouth, letting you smell and taste your essence on him. Tongue gently slipping between your parting lips—contrasting with the feverish need he ate you out minutes ago. Your breath catches in your throat at the sudden intimacy.

When he breaks the kiss, one hand snakes behind your back, expert fingers unclasping your bra, stripping you in one fluid motion. Then he prosses to remove his shirt, impatient. The next victim’s his belt, fast and jerky. And that’s when you notice the wet spots that your core left where you grinded on him earlier but also the wet wide spot on his crotch and the freaking bulge straining his pants—bigger than before.

“Did you—did you cum?” you ask, surprised. “And get hard again?” 

“He laughs softly. “I didn’t, it’s just…” he exhales through a crooked smile, discarding his pants until only his boxer remain­—a perfect view of his cock sitting monstrously against his lap. “Guess I got a little excited. And the pre-cum kinda… never stopped.”

His lips trail soft kisses across your cheeks, your temple, the bridge of your nose. His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing right under your eyes as he kisses your pouty lips. “I should say,” he murmurs, voice lower. “As much as overstimulating you was… unreal—” he chuckles once, quietly, like it’s secret between you. “—I want to make love to you.”

And there’s no more teasing in his voice. He almost looks at you with puppy eyes, almost pleading you through his long lashes. But most importantly, he’s checking for the smallest flicker of discomfort.

When you nod, small but certain, he scoops you up as if you weigh nothing. One arm beneath your thighs, the other curled around your back—holding you close to his bare chest like you’re breakable. And you kind of are. Because your legs are trembling. Your heart’s wild. And your body? Your body doesn’t know what to do with the echoes of the orgasm he just ripped out of you.

“Use your words, big girl,” he says softly.

You inhale a deep breath as new feelings start to grow on you. “Yes, Sylus. I’m okay with that.” Your arms wrap tightly around his neck, your legs wrapping as tight as they can around his waist when he gets up the couch and walks.

“We’re going to my bedroom, still okay?” You only hum, nuzzling your head on his shoulder. And the more you walk his house, the more his scent—dark cologne, the clean warmth of expensive wood and luxury soap—settles into your skin in the most delicious way.

Once he steps into his room, you can only be amazed. Because like the rest of his house, it’s minimal with subtle gold accents, matte black fixtures. But it’s in a warm way. The bed is massive, low to the ground and made with silky charcoal sheets. On the far wall, huge windows give way to skyline view, but the curtains are drawn halfway, letting in just enough city light to paint shadows over the sharp angles of the room. A sleek black shelf houses a series of rare books and vinyls, but not a speck of dust dares exists.

He places you delicately on the bed, kneeling between your thighs, looking at you like your body is some lost divine scripture that needs to be studied. 

Remembered. Painted. 

His gaze lingers. His hands trail slowly up your legs, tracing patterns on your skin.

“Sylus… remove your boxer for the sake of God. I’m going insane.”

“My kitten’s getting impatient.”

“Yes! How are you supposed to make love to me with your boxer still on—”

“There’s a lot of ways,” he whispers hot against your skin. 

He leans down, lips brushing softly over the swell of your chest before wrapping around one of your nipples—sucking gently, tongue dragging greedy circles. There’s nothing hurried, he only wants to enjoy himself. Taking all his time to commit your skin to memory as he’s been waiting a looong time. 

His free hand slides up to cup the weight of your other breast—palm wide, fingers splaying to massage every inch. His thumb brushes your nipple, again and again, coaxing little whines from you while his tongue torments the other. 

You arch into it, fingers lacing through his hair. “I could whisper sweet nothing into your ear, until you come.”

“That’s torture—” you gasp, your back arching as he nips lightly and soothes it with another swirl of his tongue.

“It’s not.”

“It is!” you snap, tugging at his hair and forcing him to lift his head. His mouth leaves your breast with a wet sound, lips kiss-bitten and glistening. “Even for you. God, Sylus, you’re painfully hard.”

“That’s not a problem.”

“That so?” you mutter, and you sneak a hand between your bodies. Palming him through the fabric causing him to hiss through clenched teeth. 

And if you weren’t sure he was huge, the weight pressing against your palm is all the confirmation you need. A fucking thick dick is straining against the soaked cotton of his boxer briefs, throbbing against your touch.

You push his boxer down, eyes locked to the place where skin is revealed inch by inch.

And you swear that’s some joke.

Not only is he thick… but his length is delirious.

Two veins trace the sides of his shaft, pulsing with heat, visibly twitching. The tip is fat and flushed red, the redder red you’ve ever seen. His shaft is slightly lighter than the rest. Rivulets of pre-cum keep forming at the tip and slip down the vein like they’re drawn to the base of him and hitting right under his bellybutton. It’s even slightly curved, and you can’t see your face but you’re sure drool is pooling at the corner of your lips. 

“I promise I’ll be gentle,” his voice takes you out of your trance. And his voice is not cocky, or smug or arrogant like most men.

No, he’s genuine and real.

“I—that’s not, I mean—huh..” the words tumble out awkward and fragmented. 

Your body feels caught between panic and desire, staring at the reality of what’s about to stretch you open. Because how the hell you’re going to take all that?

“I’ll go slow. We’ll take our time,” answering your silent question with a soft kiss on your lips, soft lips against soft lips—a whisper of affection rather than hunger.

His nose nudges yours as he props himself up on his forearm beside your head.

And the world seems to still. All that heat and chaos burns into something deeper. Vulnerable.

The weight of his cock nestles between your folds. It presses against your slit with aching patience, the kind of pressure that makes your body clench in anticipation.

But he doesn’t push in, he lets his tip circles over your clit, drinking on each breathy twitch, each flutter of your lashes. He slides through your wetness, letting your bodies get reacquainted, soaking himself in all the arousal he pulled from you earlier, until his shaft is completely coating of you. 

He drags his whole length over your puffy folds again, watching the way they wrap around his girth. He makes a different type of mess between your thighs.

This time with intent. This time with… love.

His forehead presses against yours, and there’s something twisted in his expression—an ache. A soft panic. “I forgot a condom,”

But your response is immediate.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, skin to skin, until not even air exists between you. Until every inch of his length is trapped perfectly between your soaked folds, your pussy pulsing around nothing yet, craving.

“That’s ok. I—” a whimper. “Just… just pull out in time. I’m clean. And—I take the pills.”

His eyes flutter shut. “I’m clean too,” his breath is slightly shaky, as if disappointed of himself. “I’m sorry..”

“That’s okay,” you say quickly afraid he won’t finish what he started. “I promise. That’s more than okay, Sylus.”

And finally, not without a sharp exhale from him, he shifts his hips. The thick head of his cock kisses your entrance.

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

As you only nods, he insists. “I mean it,” he says, voice raspy. “Even if it’s one second in. I’ll stop.”

“I know,” you whisper, heart loud in your chest. “I trust you.”

And Sylus just might as well feel his heart shatters in devotion. You’re so open beneath him, vulnerable and trembling�� he’s about to show you just how much you can trust him. 

His hand finds yours, lacing your fingers tight, grounding you to him. The tip pushes past your entrance, and your lips part on a trembling gasp—a sound caught between pleasure and ache. Your cunt flutters, clamping down on just the head like it’s enough

“Fuck,” he groans into your neck, shaking. He tries so hard to hold back and be careful. “You’re so tight. I thought I prepped you enough, I—”

You cling to him, fingernails digging into the back of his hand as the other come to claw against his back. His hips move forward once again, another inch in. Your eyes accumulate tears as you arch off the bed, legs wrapping tighter around him.

“You’re pulling me in, kitten,” his voice cracks, and full of awe. He feels as overstimulated as you, his veins pulsing against your warm walls, the raw feeling of your soaked cunt making his eyes water too.

His brows draw together in a pained sort of bliss as he presses his forehead to yours. Your walls are fluttering widely, the resistance to tight to let him slide in. So his hand slips down your belly. “Gotta soaks you more, yeah?” 

His thumb begins circling, slow and sloppy, dragging maddening shapes into your swollen clit. Enough pressure to make you writhe, make your hips jerk under him. And your body answers in the only way it can—with more slick, more heat, more unrelenting need. “Gotta make this pretty cunt weep for me.” 

And greedily, your pussy loosens around him by millimeters—just enough for his length to dive deeper onto your warm. “That’s it,” he groans. “There you go. She’s opening up for me now. Such a good kitten we have here.”

His breath hitches when he slides another inch deeper, your walls hugging him tighter, soaked and pulsing.  “You’re doing really good, my girl,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion. “Let me love you like this.”

You can feel the tears slipping past your temples. From the stretch, from the emotion, from how filthy and tender it all is. Every word makes your heart tremble, every roll of his hips makes your soul splinter a little more.

And once he bottoms out—hips flush against yours—Sylus’s jaw clenches, entire body trembling with restraint as he fights every primal instinct screaming at him to thrust. 

As for you? You’re whimpering beneath him, nails dragging down his back in a desperate scramble, his cock stretching you to the brim borderline with discomfort but never crossing this line. It’s just overwhelming pressure and the need for him to move.

Your pussy is still trying to accommodate when your hips roll on instinct, chasing friction—anything—but it nearly undoes him.

“W-wait—wait,” Sylus gasps, and his hand squeezes yours so tightly it makes your fingers ache. His other arm wraps around your back, trying to hold you still, trying to hold himself together.

His cock throbs violently against your velvety warm, the curve of his dick hitting a spot that makes your vision blur. Your whole body is begging for deliverance, for movement. While his, is begging for stillness. He physically can’t move, not when his length is wrapped from base to tip by your dripping pussy.

“Kitten,” he groans into your neck, something wrecked that send a shiver through your spine. “I can’t—I can’t… move yet. You’re—mghn—too good.”

“Sylus,” your hips move again, desperate this time. “Please…”

“I need… a second,” he pants, biting down on your shoulder. “You feel like… like fire.”

The words hit you deeper than it should. It’s not some dirty talk. It sounds like confession. And even more has his long digits find your face. Gently cupping your jaw as he pulls back the strict necessary to look at you. 

Eyes red-rimmed, sweat curling on his forehead and neck—sticking his hair on his skin. His lips part in a quiet awe as he makes eye-contact with you.

He pulls out an inch.

An inch. Nothing more.

And he slides back in.

You moan loud—no control, no shale. The stretch is heaven, the friction molten. Your hands claw at his back again as he repeats the motion, dragging his cock out in torturously slow inches… and pressing back in deeper.

Your breath stutters. “Sylus—”

“Shh, I know,” he whispers, kissing your jaw, your mouth, your tears. “You’re taking me so well, baby. So fucking well.”

And then he starts moving.

Not fast. But with intent. Deep, full thrusts that make your body arch off the sheets. His hips grind against yours at the end of each stroke, making you feel every press, every glide, every drag of his cockhead against that spot that makes your soul flicker.

Your pussy clutches him harder with every thrust. Your legs shake around his waist.

And his voice turns into something darker, deeper, even filthier now that he’s buried deep and claiming you one thrust at a time.

“Listen to that,” he pants, eyes flicking down between your bodies, where you’re joined. “You hear how wet you are for me? How sloppy this perfect cunt sounds every time I slide in?”

And how could you not hear them? It’s the only sound in his room. The wet slap of him inside you is filthy, echoing through the sleek, expensive room like a symphony of ruin. Your slick coats his cock, his thighs, your inner legs. You’re dripping from being so full, so thoroughly claimed. Every thrust feels wetter, dirtier—needier.

“That messy little pussy talkin’ back to me.” He’s rutting into you so deep your vision sparks. “Keep making those sounds, kitten,” and as if it’s on command, your puffy folds let out a louuud squelch, a boble of slick dripping down his balls. And your mouth moaning out loud his name.

“Well, both of you talkin’ to me is also great,” he chukles, a hint of the smug Sylus coming back.

His thumb finds your clit again—rubbing it in tight, practiced circles. He uses the pressure of his thrusts to roll your body up into his until your back’s arching and your throat’s spilling out shameless, broken noises.

His voice is distinct sound in your ear when he speaks again. “Want me to feel that sweet cunt chokes my when you let go?”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out—just this high-pitched whine as your entire body coils tight. Pleasure so bright it borders on pain.

“Say it. Say who you belong to,” he growls into your ear, hips pounding you now, hard and deep, not rough—just desperate. “I wanna feel you milk me like you need it.”

Tears are sliding down your mouth, your cheeks red. “You—” your voice breaks. “Sylus. To you, Sylus.” His thrusts get ragged, frantic. His mouth finds yours and he licks your wet lips before kissing you feverishly. “Come with me. Come on my cock, now.”

Your orgasm rips through you like a wave detonating from the inside out. Your pussy clamps down around him with a violent, soaking pulse. You scream—actually scream—as your body shudders and seizes, limbs locking, spine arching, eyes fluttering shut.

He groans a sound punched from his soul. His cock throbs inside you once, then again, then again. Your feet press down his ass when he tries to pull out. And his eyes blown wide, panic fodling his features. “Kitten I’m gonna—”

“I know, come in me..”

“But—”

“Come. In. Me.” You say firmer, feet and thighs locking him in place.

Hot, thick ropes of cum spill as your order. Filling deep into your fluttering heat. He jerks against you, his hand still holding yours presses harder on the mattress, sweaty.

Your cunt’s still twitching, sucking at him greedily, as if trying to keep every drop. He stays buried inside, breathing hard, nose in your neck, arm curled tightly around your waist like if he lets go, he’ll lose part of himself.

The room’s full of panting and the sound of your soaked bodies pressed together, skin clinging with sweat and arousal. Eventually, he pulls back and your walls clamp slightly around him making him whimper.

Sylus is intoxicated by the mess down your thighs and how his cum lakes out of you in white bullet. He can’t help himself but bring two fingers and push it all back in making your thighs twitch with overstimulation.

“You’re insufferable,” you laugh as you feel your body goes limbs.

“As if,” he narrows his eyes, a playful grin tugging his lips. “You enjoyed all of this.” He smiles, kissing you for the nth time tonight.

-

BONUS

“Did you saw that?” Claire’s voice is slow, dripping with distaint. Your marketing supervisor seems to have found a new gossip to talk with the woman interviewer that had the courtesy to receive you and Sylus on her panel months ago. “Sylus?” she whispers just as lower. Poor things. Unfortunately for them, you’re sitting front row to their little whisper-fest, legs crossed casually at your desk, Meliaa lounging across from you, sipping her absurdly large iced coffee. She flashes you a devilish grin. This is her doing. She’d planted tiny mics days ago Claire’s desk when she started to be more irritable. ‘Just to catch the juice,’ she had said sweetly when you tried to scold her. “Yes!!” Claire exclaims, trying to keep her voice quiet. “It’s been months since he’s come to work without a lipstick stain on his collar.” You bite back your laugh. Meliaa claps a hand over her mouth. “You think he’s seeing someone?” the interviewer murmurs, the subtle pinch in her voice betraying her clear disappointment. Claire hums knowingly. “Seems like it. He’s even less grumpy. And I swear, he was texting someone. I saw it on his phone when he left it at the cafeteria table… he saved the contact as Kitten.” Your face heats instantly, but you fight to keep your expression neutral. But Meliaa’s eyes are already screaming: you little minx. Claire continues, adding that the girl might be you. “Could be,” the other woman says wistfully. “She did seem… close with him.” Claire scoffs. “Close? She looked like she was two seconds away from sitting in his lap.” Meliaa snorts. “She did, though.” You give her a playful kick under the desk. She grins unapologetically. “So unfair,” Claire murmurs. “I’ve been trying to get Sylus to crack a smile for years. Suddenly this twenty-something comes in and he’s all happy and glowing and—moaning at his phone screen.” Your head jerks up. “Moaning?” Claire nods solemnly. “I walked into the break room last Friday. He was alone. I swear he looked at his phone and whispered ‘fuck’ like it physically hurt him.” You and Meliaa exchange a look. She wiggles her brows. You look back at your laptop, your cheeks heating more now—not from embarrassment, but from memory. Last Friday. That was the day you sent him that picture under your desk. The one with the lace. The one captioned, “Guess what I’m not wearing at this meeting?” “She’s got magic,” the interviewer mutters, jealousy obvious on her voice. And right on cue, your phone buzzes on your desk.  Sylus💋: Boardroom’s free. Five minutes.  You barely success to suppress your grin when another message pops up. Sylus💋: And bring your lipstick. I want it all over me. Including my dick. You tuck your phone into your blazer, smiling ears to ears. The absolute audacity of the man. You lean toward Meliaa with a sly little smirk and whisper, “Looks like I’m about to go work my magic.” She exhales, bringing her fingers to her nose like she’s been through it for the thousands time now.  “Well, I’ll guess I’ll call my entertaining men.” You both high five each other before you strut out almost jumping to the ceiling.

 •͈ ₃ •͈ 

(can't add a divider whaaaaat • ︡ᯅ·︠  ..... if you made it here, know you're some special creature! hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. and plslslslslslsssss comments what you thought about it pslslslslssssssssss)

🏷️ : @tinyweebsstuff @min-the-monster @ellenoreridgewood @ikesimpleton @kpop-athena @thiccthed @lovelyletterssentatnight @sh3sa1dwhat @marliisastarfrfr @fullofdelight @grlyeetswrld @fantastucbaby @jadeloverxd @sylustabbykitty @sleepisfortheweakpooh @dummiebunny @imindmemind @yourownstars @mdxilyyy @jupkoe @fancypeacepersona @mothmansockpuppet @sennie-xx @bakubae000 @sylusaethercore @velainey @lostpsycho13 @meg1oss @libraryyyyyyyy @calebs-apple @jaisisnsnsh @pina-chan @mothmothmothmothmothmoth

[rev4erie]

mdni, toji x fem!reader, 'whose pussy is this?' gone wrong

The repetitive slap of Toji’s hips slamming into yours filled the humid bedroom, his heavy body caging you beneath him all desperate and gasping. The mattress heaved under the combined weight, creaking in protest.

Missionary wasn’t even on the agenda tonight. You had batted your lashes like a tease and pawed at your boyfriend. Now here you were, knees folded up to your chest in a mating press whilst your boyfriend thrust his cock into your again, again, and again.

You moaned shamelessly, fingers clawing down his back as he fucked into you. It's slick. It's hot, desperate, and filthy. He leaned in closer, eyes boring into yours with breath hot on your lips. “Whose pussy is this, hmm?”

And then you froze, face visibly contorting to one of mild confusion. With lips parted, eyes darting to the side, your brain short-circuited. Shit.

You winced, voice coming out with a pitched, timid lilt. Toji watched with ragged breaths as you screwed your eyes shut, awaiting your answer.

“Mine...?”

A heavy pause.

...

And then Toji stopped moving altogether.

His cock was halfway inside of you, a hot weight throbbing in response to each clench of your welcoming cunt. Toji simply stared down, a bewildered look on his usually stoic face.

You've managed to break that façade with just one unsure word.

"Was that not the right answer?"

“No."

You grimaced, cursing at yourself silently. “Well— well, It’s just that... technically, it is my pussy...”

“Technically,” he repeated lowly through a scoff, leaning down again until your nose meets his. “Say it again?"

“I panicked!” You blurted out, scrambling to quickly grab at his retreating hands. "It’s yours, I swear—!”

He simply grunted in response. Low and offended. “Naaah, don't take it back. S’not mine anymore, hmm?"

Toji withdrew his hips, pulling out until it was only his flushed, dewy tip you were clenching around.

"Your pussy," he seemed to sneer in a hushed tone before pulling out completely with a wet pop! Never did you think that you'd be debating over custody rights over your OWN anatomy. You sat there, pussy clenching around nothing as the bulky man practically sulked with his broad back turned to you.

"... if I say that it's yours, will you fuck me?"

...

"Maybe. Give me copyright claims, too, or something whilst you're at it."

[rev4erie]

#toji

MDNI 18+

TOJI ZEN’IN, who was jaded to the marrow. years spent under the zen’in roof, fed from their hand and spat on just the same. a disgrace stamped with their surname, and they made sure he never forgot. so he decided to marry. not for love, not even for companionship—just for the spite of it. a wife with no pedigree, no standing in the jujutsu world. he’d walk her into the estate, gold band on her finger, her surname written in his registry as a final fuck-you to those entitled snobs.

enter: you. he found you in some forgotten corner of tokyo, held a gun to your temple with less menace than apathy, and made you an offer. “play wife for a few weeks. we visit the family. after that, we’re done.” you stared, eerily calm. didn’t even look remotely scared. he added, “if you be good, i won’t kill you.”

but that had been over a week ago. you’d been living inside the zen’in estate for six days when your lawful husband asked your opinion on consummation: “you good with fucking, or nah?” he made it clear it wasn’t a demand—he didn’t want anything you weren’t willing to give. decency, from a man who’d turned your life into a beat-for-beat remake of buffalo ’66.

and now, your answer: face-down on the tatami, yukata rucked to your waist, knees spread wide and palms braced flat to absorb the force he fucks you with. you’d always suspected toji was well-endowed. had caught glimpses before: early mornings, the heavy sway of his half erect cock obscenely outlined against his hakama trousers. but seeing and taking are different things entirely: nothing could’ve prepared you for the stretch. he’s buried to the hilt, cock punching so deep an angle it makes your stomach seize. ironclad grip at your hips, dragging you back to meet every punishing thrust. the slap of his pelvis against your ass lands loud and unapologetic, each impact reverberating through the paper walls like war drums.

outside, the faint patter of geta on the engawa. a silhouette freezes behind the shoji screen. they hear it—anyone would. the lewd slap of skin to skin, your hoarse moans fractured with ecstasy. they move on quickly, as if they hadn’t stopped. the next morning, no one in the estate met your eyes. but your husband was in a good mood for once.

[rev4erie]

good wife 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑡'𝑠 𝑔𝑜 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔…

On paper, it sounded too good to be true... just always be at home, waiting for me, he'd whisper to you shyly, knowing himself and all the feelings transitioning back to sorcery would dig up. What he didn't plan for was the toll everything would take on you—his precious, doting wife. It's all just a part of the deal - you won't tell him you're hurting. You'll shadow him every second of the way, because you're nothing if not a thorough, good wife.

**all chapters are 18+ and may contain heavy themes, including angst-no comfort, character-death, canon-typical violence, drug/alcohol abuse, smut, and relationship manipulation

part 1, turning page

part 2, good wife

part 3, salted wound (the preview)

part 4, *********

read the drabbles that inspired good wife

listen to the soundtrack

follow me 4 more nanami :)

[rev4erie]

hey, I’ve been feeling like lowkey poopoo ass lately. what do you think of a SMAU with jjk/lads (whichever you prefer) on comforting you when you feel like you’ve failed in life (i.e no job, no school & broke) :’0

- w love, 🥪

Rock Bottom

coɴтεɴт - MDNI, please have an age in bio when interacting, jjk x reader, reader feels extremely low, comfort

cнαrαcтεrѕ - Nanami, Toji, Geto, Sukuna, Gojo

an - hi again 🥪 !! I'm sorry to hear you're feeling this way. Hopefully whatever you're going through is only temporary , and that this smau helps a little <3

[rev4erie]

good things will happen 🧿

things that are meant to be will fall into place 🧿

[rev4erie]

I have awaken something in me.

BOTTOMS OUT, BRAT TAX jjk men

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. what’s the price that comes from being a brat? stay on the corner? orrrrrrr... getting fuc$ by your boyfriend hard, mean? probably the second that’s why being a brat is your that time of the year.

warning. non-sorcerer! jjk men, 23 you & 31 them, age-gap, brat tamer, mean, overstimulated, cock-drūnk, dirty talk, hair pulling, titie$/pu$$y slap(s), $pitting / $pit(s) in mouth, chocking, degrading, daddy-kink, very rough, mean praise, matīng presses, MARATHONS, brēeding mention, dūmbifícation, fíngering, cūmplay, swēaring. it might be too rough or disturbing for some people, read on your own awareness.

GOJO SATORU

the first thing he did when he walked in the door wasn’t kiss you. wasn’t hug you. wasn’t talk.

he unbuttoned his sleeves, rolled them up past his forearms, hung his jacket on the rack, and stared at you.

you on the bed. knees tucked under you, hair a mess, some dumb little tank that didn’t even cover your tits right, nipples hard and begging. phone still in hand. watching him like you didn’t already know what you’d done.

“how was work, baby?” you chirped. smug. god, smug.

his jaw ticked. he didn’t answer. just walked forward, slowly, fingers unbuttoning the rest of his shirt. all that pale, lean muscle. eyes like glass, but fire underneath.

you bit your lip. he noticed. always noticed.

“you think you’re cute,” he muttered, pulling the phone from your hand and tossing it somewhere. “think you can spend the whole goddamn week being a brat and i’ll just kiss your forehead and call you princess?”

you tilted your head. innocent. false.

“aren’t i your princess?”

he laughed. once. bitter and dark and mean.

“no, sweetheart. tonight, you’re my fucking problem.”

he grabbed you by the back of the neck and shoved you down on the bed, chest to mattress, ass up. panties soaked. you hadn’t even pretended not to touch yourself waiting for him. he could see it. smell it. the heat pulsing from your cunt was obscene.

“been teasing me for days,” he murmured. voice low. affectionate. like it was all just a joke between lovers. but his hands said otherwise. they yanked your panties down, spread your legs, palmed your ass like he owned it. “flaunting this little hole, moaning when i’m on the phone, fuckin’ grinding on me during movie night—”

a pause. breath tickled your ear.

“you been begging for this, baby.”

you shivered. “i missed you…”

his hand cracked against your ass. smack. you jolted.

“no, you didn’t. you missed my cock.”

he bent down, kissed the welt he left.

“but i missed you, too. fuckin’ brat and all.”

he reached between your legs, dragged two fingers through your folds. wet. soaked, needy, messy. you cried out, hips jerking, but he pinned you down easily.

“so pretty like this,” he whispered, voice soft like silk wrapped around steel. “so dumb for me. already wet and you haven’t even felt the stretch.”

you moaned when he shoved both fingers in. schlick. curling them up, slow, slow, mean.

“you know how many times i thought about this pussy this week? sittin’ in my office, watching your texts pop up—‘miss you daddy,’ ‘thinking about your dick,’—you really thought i wasn’t gonna make you pay?”

you whimpered into the sheets. “i wanna pay… please make me.”

his voice broke, almost tender. “fucking hell, baby. you were made to be ruined.”

he took his cock out, dragged it up your slit, wetting the head with your slick. you gasped when he pushed in—not fast. no mercy, but no rush either. like he wanted you to feel it.

“so tight. always so fucking tight. greedy little hole doesn’t wanna let me go.”

you moaned loud, hands fisting the sheets, body arching, already clenching.

“shh, baby,” he cooed, fucking you slow, mean, deep. every stroke brushing your walls perfectly. “let daddy do the talking now.”

you nodded, face buried in the blankets. eyes wide, leaking. he leaned down, pressed his chest to your back, mouth by your ear.

“gonna fill you up,” he whispered. “make you forget your own name. you’ll be just my sweet little fuckdoll, stuffed full of cum, dripping all over the sheets like a good girl.”

you sobbed. “please… harder…”

he obliged. slap of hips to ass. pace brutal now. no buildup. just hard, filthy fucking, his hand curled around your throat from behind, keeping your head tilted just so he could speak into your ear.

“look at you,” he breathed. “so easy for me. so soft. bet you’d let me do anything. bet i could turn you over, fuck your throat till you choke, and you’d still thank me.”

you nodded, gasping, tears leaking freely now. you loved this. loved it.

“you’re mine,” he said, filthy and reverent. “mine to fuck. mine to break. mine to put back together.”

his hand slipped to your clit, rubbed fast and hard and perfect.

“cum for me, baby,” he whispered. “show me how much this little cunt needs me.”

you screamed.

orgasm ripped through you like lightning, thighs shaking, body convulsing, drool on the pillow, eyes rolled back. you clenched around him so hard he groaned, hands gripping your hips like he’d die if he let go.

“fuck—fuck, gonna fill you—gonna make you my little cumdump—take it—”

and he did. thick ropes of hot cum spilling deep inside you, cock throbbing, buried to the hilt. he stayed there. didn’t move. just pressed his body to yours, forehead on your shoulder, heart racing.

he kissed your neck.

“you’re such a little problem,” he whispered.

then softer

“but you’re my favorite problem in the whole fucking world.”

GETO SUGURU

you were on your knees when he came in.

good girl posture. hands resting on your thighs. no panties. tank top soaked from your own nipples. mouth open, eyes wide, trying your best to look obedient.

geto saw right through it.

he didn’t speak at first. just stared. heavy boots thunking across the floor with slow purpose, like every step was judgment. thirty-one years old, still in black slacks from his shift, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back neat—clean.

too clean for the way he looked at you. like he was about to do something filthy. sacred.

“how many days you think you’ve gotten away with this?”

his voice dropped like honey into a coffin.

“with what?” your lips curled. “being good?”

he knelt, big hands sliding into your hair, curling tight.

“no. playing sweet, sitting here like you’re waiting for a blessing when all week you’ve been acting like the devil’s little cumslut.”

your mouth dropped. thighs clenched.

“don’t play innocent,” he hissed, breath hot against your cheek. “skipping class, mouthing off, posting thirst traps while i’m at work—you wanna humiliate me, baby? want everyone seeing what’s mine?”

“i wanted your attention,” you whispered.

“you got it now.”

he dragged you by the hair, tossed you on the bed like a ragdoll.

“face down.”

you didn’t even blink. flipped, legs trembling, soaked already, thighs sticking together.

he tore the shirt. clean. one motion. your tits bounced out and he didn’t waste time. slapped one, hard, made you yelp.

“no bra? of course not. why would a whore need one?”

you whined. “suguru…”

“don’t say my name like that unless you want me to spit in your fucking mouth.”

you turned your head, open. waiting.

he grinned. “good little slut.”

ptui— his spit landed on your tongue. you swallowed without blinking.

he shoved your legs open. two fingers slid between your folds. he paused.

“…this wet already?”

your moan was so soft it barely counted. “for you. only ever for you.”

his fingers moved slow. filthy. obscene. gathering slick just to smear it around, tease your clit, then slap it. smack. your hips jumped.

“you’re not sorry.”

“no.”

“you want me to hurt you.”

“…yes.”

he bent down, kissed your spine. so gentle it made you ache.

“then i’ll make you scream, pretty girl. and you’re gonna thank me.”

he undid his belt. the sound alone made your breath hitch.

when he dragged his cock through your folds, you shook.

“look at you,” he murmured. “so needy. creaming on my cock before i even fuck you.”

you turned your face, whimpering, “please, i need it—”

he pushed in. all the way.

no warm-up. no slow thrust. just one thick, brutal drive of his hips that made your mouth open in a silent scream.

“fucking tight. trying to squeeze the cum out of me already? greedy fucking pussy.”

his pace was cruel. loud. thwack, thwack, thwack—his hips slamming your ass, hands gripping your waist like he was holding onto something holy.

“keep it open for me,” he growled, voice ragged. “don’t run. you begged for this, now you take it.”

your moans went high-pitched. broken. drool soaked the sheets.

he leaned over your back, one hand slipping under to grope your tits, the other gripping your jaw, turning your head to him.

“you know what you are?”

“what?”

“my sweet little altar. made to kneel. to take my cock like worship.”

you clenched. hard. he groaned.

“oh, fuck—yeah. you love that, don’t you? being used. being my soft, pretty thing to ruin.”

you cried out, “yes! fuck, i love it—please, harder—”

he grabbed your throat from behind, pulled you up, your back against his chest, still fucking deep, brutal, fast. your body jolted with every stroke.

“then take every inch. show me you mean it.”

he grabbed your jaw, forced your mouth open, spit into it again. “swallow.”

you obeyed. always.

“that’s it. my dirty girl. my pretty.”

his pace faltered—then slammed in harder. faster. pounding. like he wanted to break something.

“gonna fill you,” he gasped. “fuck you till it leaks down your thighs. i’ll knot you if i have to. keep you plugged all fucking week.”

your second orgasm hit so hard your legs collapsed. you shrieked—“SUGURU—”—body shaking, pussy clenching, squirting mess over his cock and thighs.

“fuckfuck— ohhh my girl—take it—take it all—”

he shoved in, one final time, and came. deep. thick. endless. flooding your cunt until it was dripping, running down your thighs.

he stayed buried. chest to your back. lips to your ear.

“my perfect little thing,” he whispered. “my brat. my problem. my heaven.”

you sobbed. smiling.

he kissed your temple.

“…round two’s in the shower. don’t you dare rinse me out.”

NANAMI KENTO

you knew what time he got off work.

you knew he’d take the train.

you knew how long the walk from the station to your shared apartment took.

and still, you were spread on the couch with your ass in the air and your vibrator buzzing so loud it was practically greeting him when the door opened.

“welcome home, daddy,” you purred, glancing over your shoulder, thighs slick and shining. “miss me?”

he didn’t speak. didn’t breathe.

nanami kento closed the door with the click of finality, set his briefcase down gently, and rolled his sleeves with the precision of a man preparing to kill. slow. methodical. focused.

you didn’t even blink. just arched your back more.

“you couldn’t wait,” he said, voice like death in a silk tie. “again.”

“i needed to come.”

“and not a single fucking thought for who you belong to.”

you moaned at the tone. his belt was already off, folded in his hand.

you whimpered, “make me remember.”

he did.

three cracks across your ass with the leather before you even finished exhaling. you yelped, jerked forward, vibrator falling out of your cunt—he kicked it across the room like trash.

“don’t you ever take what’s mine without asking.”

you turned your head, breathing fast, face flushed. “i’m yours.”

his voice dropped lower. colder.

“then act like it.”

he yanked you off the couch by your hair, not cruel, just firm, dominating, until you were on your knees before him.

“open your mouth.”

you obeyed.

his cock was hard already, heavy and thick, flushed red at the tip. he didn’t stroke it. didn’t tease. just shoved it past your lips and down your throat in one smooth, brutal thrust.

glrk—glgk—mmph!

“quiet,” he muttered. “you gag, you make a mess, i’ll make you clean the floor with your tongue.”

his hand in your hair. his cock down your throat. his voice in your head.

“disobedient little holes like yours need reminders. rough ones. you think acting like a filthy little brat will earn you soft touches?”

your throat fluttered around him. tears spilled from your eyes.

he pulled out. you gasped—air, finally—only to be slapped across the face with his cock. once. twice. precum smeared your cheek.

“no. you get discipline. and when you take it well, then—maybe—you get to hear me say how much i love you.”

you whimpered. “please, daddy—i love you—”

he bent down, grabbed your jaw, squeezed until your lips parted wide.

“and i love you,” he whispered, cruel and tender. “which is why i won’t stop until this body forgets how to lie.”

he flipped you over the couch, pushed your head down into the cushions, shoved two fingers into your dripping cunt, slow and punishing.

“look at this mess,” he hissed. “you soaked my furniture. like some heat-addled bitch waiting to be bred.”

you keened, trying to fuck back on his hand. he pulled away.

“don’t move.”

he lined up behind you. one hand on your hip, the other fisting your hair. then he fucked into you.

slap—slap—slap—

no warning. no easing. just cock, thick and deep, pounding your pussy open like it owed him something. your cries echoed in the room, each one sharper than the last.

“say it,” he snarled, fucking into you harder. “say what you are.”

“your slut—daddy—i’m your hole—fuck—i’m yours—”

“louder.”

“I’M YOURS—”

he yanked your hair, bit your shoulder, hand sliding around to rub your clit in tight cruel circles.

“you come without permission, i start over.”

you sobbed, trembling, pussy spasming around him.

“please—please please let me—”

he licked your ear. breath hot.

“beg prettier.”

your voice cracked. “daddy, please let me cum—i need it—been so bad, need your punishment—need your cum in me—please mark me—please—”

he groaned, deep and low. “fuck.”

his pace stuttered. faster now. rougher.

“cum for me, baby,” he hissed. “make a mess. cry for me. scream.”

you shattered.

your orgasm slammed through you like a train, thighs trembling, gush of slick coating his cock, your whole body collapsing forward into the couch cushions. sobbing. raw. ruined.

but he wasn’t done.

“stay there.”

he pulled out. flipped you over. shoved his cock between your tits and started fucking them while you whimpered, barely conscious, still twitching.

“look at me while i do it,” he ordered. “eyes on mine.”

you blinked, tears spilling, lips parted. he jerked himself with one hand, using your tits for friction with the other, voice shaking.

“i love you so fucking much,” he muttered. “you drive me insane. make me mean. make me need to ruin you.”

he came all over your chest and neck, thick spurts painting your skin like ownership.

he collapsed forward, kissed your mouth so softly it made you ache.

“you’re my everything,” he whispered. “my brat. my problem. my love.”

you nodded, dizzy. “i know.”

he cupped your cheek.

“and next time,” he said, already smiling, “if i catch you touching yourself again…”

he kissed your temple.

“…i’ll tie you up for three days and make you watch me cum on other things.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

you slammed the door.

he kicked it open.

you were already halfway to your bedroom, huffing, rolling your eyes, making that smug little face that said “what are you gonna do about it?”

toji didn’t say a word.

he didn’t have to.

his heavy boots hit the floor like thunder. you didn’t even get a chance to shut your bedroom door before he was there—six foot something, broad, scarred, tired of your mouth and twice as tired of not fucking it shut.

he caught your wrist, yanked you back, threw you face-first onto the mattress.

“oh, we’re doin’ this again?” he muttered, pulling your shorts down without an ounce of gentleness, thong snapping against your thigh as he ripped it clean off. “you really don’t know when to quit, huh?”

you were soaking. dripping down your thighs. and he hadn’t even touched your cunt yet.

“fuck you,” you spat.

he laughed. loud. mean. dragged a hand through your hair, grabbed a fistful and yanked your head back.

“no, sweetheart. not tonight. i fuck you.”

he shoved two fingers into your mouth, watched your eyes widen as he fucked them in deep, slow, choking you just enough to blur your vision.

“this is what you’re good for. being used. being bent over and stuffed full ‘til you’re cryin’ and leaking. that what you wanted, princess?”

you moaned around his fingers, drooling down your chin.

he spat on your ass. spanked it with his free hand, making you jerk.

“talk back to me again this week and i’m fucking your ass next.”

you whimpered. clenched. because yeah, you wanted that too.

he yanked his belt off, undid his pants with one hand, shoved them down, cock already rock-fucking-hard, vein thick down the shaft, leaking.

“been walkin’ around like a tease all week. no bra, no manners, no fuckin’ sense,” he grunted, dragging his tip down your slit. “you want me to be mean to you.”

you nodded, barely able to breathe.

“yeah? you like when i fuck the brat outta you?”

you didn’t even answer. your eyes were already fluttering.

he shoved in with a grunt. balls-deep.

no warning. no mercy.

“FUCK—!”

your scream echoed off the walls as he filled you to the goddamn brim, hips flush, his palm between your shoulder blades pinning you down like he was staking a claim.

“tight little cunt,” he growled. “so fucking wet for me. already stretchin’ like a good girl.”

he pulled back and slammed in. again. again. faster now, fucking you like it was his full-time job.

you sobbed, hands clawing at the sheets, body jolting with each brutal thrust.

“what happened to all that attitude?” he taunted, leaning over you, chest to your back, lips on your ear. “gone all quiet now that you’ve got cock where your mouth used to be?”

you cried out, “toji—ohmygod—!”

he bit your neck. hard. left a mark.

“you’re mine. say it.”

“yours—fuck—i’m yours—!”

he laughed again, rough and satisfied.

“yeah, that’s what i thought. all that mouth and now you can’t even breathe without my dick stuffed inside you.”

his hand reached under, fingers to your clit—he didn’t stroke. he rubbed. hard, cruel circles, timed to each thrust. you were soaking him, wet squelches with every pump, your whole body on fire.

“cum like my fucktoy, baby,” he hissed. “i wanna feel you milkin’ my cock. wanna see you ruin these fuckin’ sheets.”

you screamed when it hit—legs shaking, vision blurring, whole cunt clenching tight around him in messy, gushing waves. you collapsed. sobbing. drooling. wrecked.

but he wasn’t done.

“nah, sweetheart. you don’t get to finish before i do.”

he grabbed your hips, pulled you back onto his cock, used your spent, twitching body like a toy. loud, brutal slaps of skin. balls slamming into your soaked cunt. groaning like he was at war with himself.

“fuck—gonna fill you—make you walk around leaking all night—fuckin’ dripping down your thighs like a good little cumdump—ugh—take it—take it, take it—”

he came inside you so hard you felt it. thick spurts, hot as sin, flooding your walls until it dripped down your ass.

he pulled out slow. stared at the mess. smirked.

“that’s what you get for runnin’ your mouth.”

you turned your head, dazed, voice hoarse.

“i hate you.”

he leaned down, kissed your forehead soft as anything, voice like syrup over gravel:

“love you too, babydoll.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

he didn’t knock.

he didn’t text.

he kicked the fucking door in like he owned the place—and you.

and he did.

you didn’t even flinch from the bed, lounging like you hadn’t been a little menace all week. phone in hand. pussy bare. your cunt glistened under the city lights pouring through the window. thighs spread. one finger buried inside you.

he saw red.

“you’ve got a lot of nerve,” he growled, voice thick with something ancient, brutal, blood-soaked. “you touch what belongs to me and don’t even ask?”

you slid your finger out, sucked it slow, gaze steady.

“you weren’t here.”

he crossed the room in two strides, hand around your throat before the second breath left your lungs. pinned you to the mattress, his claws—yes, claws—digging just enough to make your pulse stutter.

“and that gave you the right?”

you gasped, breath caught between fear and heat.

“no,” you whispered. “i needed you.”

“that’s better.” he released your throat only to slap your cheek with the same hand. not hard. just sharp. humiliating.

“you need me. like a filthy mortal needs breath. like a cunt needs cock. like a god needs worship.”

his other hand dragged down your stomach, slow, possessive. past your navel, between your thighs. he spit on your pussy. watched it drip down.

“look at that. already wet. already messy. pathetic little shrine all ready for my cock.”

you whimpered. hips lifted. he slapped your pussy. smack.

“not yet.”

he stood at the edge of the bed, peeled off that black robe he always wore like he was royalty—chest marked in thick black lines, tattoos like scripture, four arms rippling with power. his cock hung heavy, long, thick enough to hurt. twitching already.

“on your knees.”

you scrambled. didn’t dare disobey.

he gripped your hair with one hand, used the other to stroke his cock, and before moving to hold your chin still.

“mouth open. tongue out. beg for it.”

you moaned. “please, daddy. i need it. need to choke on you.”

“then take it.”

he shoved into your throat, all at once. no easing. no mercy. just a brutal, choking thrust that had your lips spread wide, nose buried in his pelvis, drool leaking instantly.

glk—glrk—hhhk—!

“such a tight little throat,” he snarled, hips rolling into your face. “feels like you were made just for me. every hole on you’s mine.”

he fucked your mouth like it was a hole in the wall. used. owned. you gagged. he laughed. sweet, cruel, delighted.

“look at you. tears running, drool soaking your tits. and you’re moaning around it. you like being treated like a toy.”

you nodded, eyes glassy.

he pulled out with a pop. your spit hung in strands from his cock to your lips.

“on the bed. ass up.”

you obeyed, body shaking. he grabbed your hips, yanked you back to the edge, slapped your ass until it was glowing.

“i should tear this pussy open,” he hissed. “should split you on my cock ‘til you scream. but you’d like that too much, wouldn’t you?”

“please,” you whimpered. “please hurt me. i want it.”

he growled. bent down. bit your shoulder—hard.

“you’re fucking sick.”

he lined up. shoved in.

balls-deep. in one thrust.

your scream split the air. your hands clawed at the sheets. he was so fucking big. so full. you could feel him in your guts.

“there it is,” he moaned, hips jerking. “tight little cunt squeezing me like it’s trying to keep me.”

his pace was savage. slap, slap, slap—his hips brutal, body hard against yours, hands gripping your arms, claws biting into your skin.

“you thought you were in charge,” he snarled. “thought you could make me come crawling back by acting like a brat.”

“yes—yes—fuck—”

he leaned over, mouth at your ear.

“you belong to me, whore.”

you sobbed, clenching around him.

“my hole. my cumdump. my little fuckthing. say it.”

“yours—! please, kuna—i’m yours—i’m your little toy—”

he grabbed your throat from behind, dragged your back against his chest, never breaking rhythm, fucking you upright while you trembled and cried.

“gonna fill you up. fuckin’ ruin this cunt. make you drip my seed down your legs all week.”

“yes! please! i want it—want your cum—”

“good fucking girl.”

he slammed in deep. held. came. groaning. loud. thick. endless. his cock pulsed and pumped you full, hot liquid spilling out around the base.

he bit your neck again. sucked a mark. kissed the bruise he left.

“…you ever touch yourself again without permission,” he growled, low and sweet, “i’ll tie you up and make you watch me fuck someone else.” he would never, but still.

you whimpered, ruined.

he laughed.

“but don’t worry. you’re still my favorite. always have been.”

his hand cupped your cunt. felt the cum leaking out.

“let’s do it again.”

SHIU KONG

you’d done it again.

talked back. wore that skirt with no panties. flirted with some other guy at the bar just to see if he’d look.

you didn’t make it past the hallway.

shiu slammed you up against the wall so hard the picture frame fell off its hook. his breath hit your neck like smoke before fire, hands already pulling your shirt over your head, teeth scraping your jaw.

“think i didn’t see you?” he growled, mouth against your ear, voice dark and deadly. “batting your lashes, giggling like some fuckin’ club bunny? touching his chest?”

you gasped, but you were smiling.

“you jealous?”

his hand wrapped around your throat. tight.

“no. i’m furious.”

he grabbed your wrist and dragged you through the apartment like a criminal to sentence. your knees smacked the floor when he shoved you down in front of the couch. you didn't even protest. you wanted it. you lived for it.

his belt hit the ground. next were his pants. his cock was already hard, thick, twitching.

“open.”

you licked your lips. “yes, sir.”

“say it louder.”

“yes, sir.”

he slapped your cheek. not with his hand—with the head of his cock. smack smack smack. precum smeared your lips. your thighs clenched.

“good little bitch. show me who owns this pretty fuckin’ mouth.”

you opened wide. tongue out. obedient.

he shoved in deep. you gagged. glk—glrk—guhk— he didn’t stop. one hand held your hair, the other cupped your jaw, forcing you to take every inch until tears blurred your vision and spit dripped down your chin.

“that’s it. choke on it, princess. this what you wanted, right? some attention from your daddy?”

you whimpered around his cock. he laughed.

“you don’t even need to answer. your cunt’s been dripping since the bar.”

he pulled out with a wet pop, gripped your hair, yanked you to your feet and threw you on the couch. not placed. not guided. threw. you bounced on impact, legs splayed, skirt riding up to show everything.

“no panties,” he muttered, kneeling between your legs. “you wanted me to snap.”

you nodded, panting.

“say it.”

“i wanted you to lose it. i wanted to be punished.”

he grabbed your thighs and spread them wide. stared at your soaked cunt like it insulted him.

“fucking slut. god, you’re perfect. look at this pussy—so soft, so wet, and all of it mine.”

he didn’t even finger you. just leaned in and bit your inner thigh. hard.

“you wanna play games, sweetheart? fine. but i don’t play fair.”

he stood. lined up.

you whispered, “please be rough.”

his voice dropped to something cruel and sweet.

“oh baby. you don’t have to ask.”

and he slammed into you.

your scream lit up the room. no warning. no prep. just raw stretch and heat and cock, thick and punishing, shoved into your tight little hole like he was trying to fuck his name into your guts.

“there you go,” he hissed, holding your hips down when you tried to run. “now you’re quiet. now you’re mine again.”

his pace was vicious. brutal. thwack—thwack—thwack. the couch shook. your body rocked. tears streamed. and he didn’t stop. his hands roamed your body like they were memorizing every bruise he left.

“so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he growled. “cryin’, wrecked, full of cock. you make me crazy, you know that? i see you flirtin’, smilin’, and all i can think about is how you beg for my cum when you’re stuffed full.”

“shiu—shiu—please—”

“please what?” he slapped your clit. you squealed. “please more? please harder? please daddy use me like the cumdump i am?”

“yes—” you sobbed. “please ruin me—!”

he fucked harder. faster. one hand grabbed your throat again, squeezing. the other rubbing your clit mean and fast.

“then take it. take every fucking inch. milk me for it, baby.”

your orgasm ripped through you. back arched, vision gone white, mouth open in a silent scream, cunt clenching tight.

“that’s it,” he panted. “cum like a good little bitch.”

he didn’t pull out. couldn’t. he was already snarling, pounding into your spasming pussy like he was trying to breed you.

“gonna fill you up,” he moaned, voice ragged. “gonna leave you dripping for days—fuck—gonna make your body remember who owns it—”

and he came. hard. deep. thick.

cum painted your walls, leaking instantly around his cock. he held you there, pulsing inside, trembling.

and then—he kissed you.

soft. messy. possessive.

“you fuckin’ drive me insane,” he whispered. “but i love you so much i’ll keep breaking you every time you forget.”

you smiled through the tears, body ruined.

“…then i guess i’ll keep forgetting.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

he didn’t even loosen his tie.

you watched him walk in—black coat soaked from the rain, briefcase in one hand, that cold stillness around his shoulders like he just left the courtroom but brought the executioner’s gavel home.

you were already waiting on the couch. bare. innocent. dangerous.

legs crossed. vibrator buzzing in one hand. nothing else on but gloss and guilt.

he saw the shine on your thighs. the fake innocence in your eyes.

and he smiled.

a soft thing. terrifying. like a man about to pass sentence.

“you’ve been playing again,” he said, setting the briefcase down.

“mm,” you hummed, slowly parting your legs, giving him the full view. “not guilty.”

his eyes dragged over your cunt, soaked and glistening.

“you sure?”

“you want to cross-examine?”

his coat dropped to the floor. no hanger. no pause. just unbuckled belt, tie yanked loose with one motion, shirt still tucked as he stalked toward you.

“stand up.”

you did.

“hands behind your back.”

you obeyed.

he circled you once like a predator and pressed his palm to your ass, dragging it down between your cheeks, feeling your heat. your slick.

he leaned in.

“verdict’s in,” he murmured, voice warm like whiskey and holy sin. “guilty. of seduction, disobedience, and fucking filth.”

your moan was a whisper.

he turned you, bent you over the couch, and cuffed your wrists behind your back with actual cuffs—black steel, no fluff, no play. courtroom restraints.

you gasped. breath hitched. he kissed the back of your neck.

“you don’t get to come tonight unless you confess.”

you turned your head, panting, “confess to what?”

he slapped your cunt. hard. you cried out.

“don’t play dumb. you get off on this. teasing me. touching yourself when i’m gone. soaking the sheets in that sweet little pussy like a bitch in heat.”

his cock was out now—long, flushed, angry. the head leaking precum, thick vein down the side pulsing. you whimpered at the sight.

“you been thinking about this cock all day?” he asked, dragging the tip through your folds.

“yes—yes, your honor—”

he slapped your ass.

“try again.”

“…yes, daddy.”

his laugh was low, dangerous.

“better.”

he shoved in with a groan.

deep. slow. endless.

“fuck—tight. still fits like it was made for me.”

he didn’t move yet. just stayed there, cock buried in your soaked heat, stretching you open while his hands gripped your waist like a ruling passed down from the gods.

you moaned, trembling.

“what’s the sentence, daddy?”

“remand.” he pulled out, slammed back in. thwack. “no parole. full use. no safeword.”

you cried out, back arching, eyes rolling back.

his pace was slow and mean.

every thrust perfect. deep. angled to punish.

“look at you. taking it. soaking me. drooling. just a needy little slut waiting for her judge to ruin her in the courtroom and the bedroom.”

you whined, broken, body jolting with every thrust.

“beg me,” he ordered, voice warm and calm and cruel.

“please—please don’t stop—please keep fucking me—”

he leaned down, mouth to your ear, voice pure velvet:

“you want the whole courtroom to hear how loud this sloppy cunt gets? want the bailiff, the stenographer, every poor bastard sitting in the gallery hearing you scream daddy while i fill you up?”

you moaned so loud you swore it echoed.

his hand wrapped around your throat. the other on your hip, holding you still while he started to destroy you.

“i love you, you know,” he whispered, fucking faster now. “but you’re such a goddamn problem. smart mouth. bratty ass. needy little whore. you need this. you need to be put in your place.”

your climax hit without warning—violent, soaking, screaming.

he didn’t stop. not for a second.

“that’s one,” he muttered. “we’re not done. you don’t get a reduced sentence for good behavior. you think i give out mercy? i’m the fucking law, baby.”

you sobbed, body twitching, begging.

he flipped you over, still cuffed, shoved your legs open and fucked into you again—face to face now. slower. deeper. crueler.

his eyes locked on yours. serious. sweet.

“you’re mine,” he whispered, stroking your cheek. “no jury. no appeal.”

you nodded, tears slipping.

“yours. forever.”

he kissed you. sweet. filthy.

and came inside you with a groan like confession. thick, hot, endless.

still buried, still pulsing. still in control.

“court adjourned,” he said.

but his eyes?

still hungry.

[rev4erie]

suds 'n grime — txt ♡ 18+

₊ ✦ ꒰ა linecook!toji x server!fem!reader ໒꒱ ✦ ₊

looks like you've caught the attention of the greasy linecook... what's ONE smoke break gunna do, huh?

— genre . . . EXPLICIT CONTENT // MDNI — contents . . . non-canon compliant, pervy!toji, smoking, petnames [dollie, sweetheart, baby], lots of sweet-talk, age gap (20 v. 38), size difference, teasing, timid!reader — song suggestions . . . "turquoise" by milt buckner — notes . . . hi... i have brainrot from work and i highkey have a crazy ass crush on one of my coworkers who is a server and then i started thinking about toji as linecook so here's this...

✦ more below the cut ! MDNI

linecook!toji, who notices the sweet new girl the moment she walks in and he catches a whiff of that coffee-scented perfume. it’s enough to make him stumble over his words mid-conversation with sukuna, who's working the fryer nearby.

linecook!toji, who only greets you when you actually interact with him for the first time. shiu, the manager of this joint, introduces you to him, your figure a little shorter in comparison to him, like a little bug in his eyes.

linecook!toji, who feels his cock throb in his slacks when he finally shakes your hand. it’s soft and warm—he can only imagine what it’d feel like around him…

linecook!toji that can’t help but call you sweet little petnames and bend over backwards if you ask him to. y’need a side of ranch? gotcha. y’want a rib-eye without having to pay or get caught? you betcha, so long as you keep calling him “mr. toji” with those pretty lil eyelashes fluttering.

linecook!toji, who likes to tease you with sukuna a lot. he loves seeing you get all flustered when he says something about your height or “inexperience” in the world of food hospitality.

linecook!toji, who gets pissed off when other linecooks get sassy with you. you’re far too sweet to get mouthy at, especially by some greasy pizza boy.

linecook!toji that asks you to take a smoke break with him towards the end of the night when it’s less busy—less likely for people to see. it’s not much at first, just a little chit chat… but when the colder season starts and now that you’re better friends at this point, he lets you wear his jacket while he lights up a Marlboro. Or, well, if it gets real cold, you both cuddle up in it.

“Y’alrigh’, dollie?” Toji grunts as he zips up the large coat, your tits pressed against his chest as you both cuddle up to fight the cold. He feels you nod against him as he lifts the cigarette up to his scarred lips.

Toji doesn’t say much when he’s smoking, but he sure loves touching. It first started with just a few headpats or teasing flicks to the forehead, but it slowly evolved into holding you close, fondling your ass through your uniform, and maybe a handful more. You aren’t any better, dragging your fingers up his abs through his sweat-damp shirt, nuzzling into his neck to sniff at the stale, probably-expired cologne mixing with sweat and seasoning salt.

linecook!toji, who just can’t keep his excitement contained when you ask him to give you a ride home one night because your car is busted and can’t risk an uber at this time of night. his hand is practically glued to your thigh, feeling how soft you are.

linecook!toji, that ends up kissing you stupid in the backseat, hands roaming, grasping at anything soft ‘n squishy.

linecook!toji, who doesn’t let himself get too far.

“Mm, s’nuff, baby,” the ravenette grumbles, trying and failing to pull away from your insistent kisses. “M’all nasty from workin’.”

He’s right—he smells like fry oil and overly expensive pesto. Your needy whimpers make his cock twitch, but the last thing he wants is giving you some crazy infection with his grimy fingers. Instead, he sends you off with his phone number a hickey, telling you to text him later…

linecook!toji, that flirts with you like crazy on the phone, loving your squeamishness around him when you’re at work together. you’re definitely remembering all the nasty things he promises to do with you—dangling the promise of the most down-right-dirty sex you could possibly think up in front of your pretty little face…

[rev4erie]

nerdjo in spiderverse 🕷️

[rev4erie]

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

told the nerd to film it and he exported inside me instead!

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

synopsis : you crushed on him for months, watched him dodge every advance like you were malware. so you dressed up a little, played a little dumber—and now he’s got you spread out in pixels and moaning in surround sound. worst part? you kinda want him to do it again.

tags/cw — masturbation, degradation, praise kink, dacryphilia, marking, overstimulation, explicit language, filming, voyeurism, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, power dynamics, obsession, lingerie, virgin weeb satoru, questionable but effective way of seducing ur crush. 13k wc, 18+ only, minors DNI.

a/n : plz don't nitpick about how a fashion vlog shouldn't be like that bc that's the point. toru doesn't know the difference because all he watches is 2d girls

the compressor’s peaking again.

satoru squints at the waveform, drags the threshold down two decibels, then listens back to the same three-second clip of voiceover for the tenth time. it’s a podcast intro, some wannabe influencer droning about mindfulness. he doesn’t care. he’s just here to make it sound less like it was recorded in a bathroom.

“sounds like shit,” he mutters, even though it’s clean. crisp. perfectly balanced.

it doesn’t feel right. nothing ever does. he tweaks the bitrate, checks the export codec, wonders if he should build a custom ffmpeg preset. maybe write a quick script to batch clean all future files—something to shave off a few milliseconds of his life. his fingers hover over the keyboard, itching for efficiency, for control.

ping.

discord overlay glows in the corner of his ultrawide monitor, a neon-green intrusion on his meticulously organized desktop. he freezes. the notification pulses like a heartbeat.

you.

he stares at it, lets it sit there like it’s radioactive. doesn’t even remember keeping you added. your username—something stupid with a heart emoji—feels like a splinter under his skin. he should’ve purged his contacts months ago, but here you are, slipping through the cracks of his digital fortress.

hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids pls…

his jaw tightens. of course you’d ask now, at 2 a.m., when he’s neck-deep in audio plugins and caffeine. his fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to dismiss you.

“no,” he types, then erases it.

“what kind of vids,” he tries, but deletes that too. too eager. too curious.

after a solid twenty-five seconds of overthinking, he finally sends:

i guess. send what you have.

he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. his room is a cave of glowing screens and scattered energy drink cans, the hum of his overclocked pc the only sound besides his own shallow breathing. he shouldn’t care. you’re just another art student, another distraction. but his pulse betrays him, thudding a little too hard in his throat.

flashback.exe

he hated group projects. despised them. a bunch of useless art students in overpriced streetwear, trying to make films with no understanding of pacing or continuity.

they’d fumble with premiere pro like it was rocket science, leaving him to clean up their shaky cuts and mismatched audio tracks. he always ended up doing 90% of the work, and he preferred it that way. control was his god, and he worshipped it.

but you were different.

not better. just... a different kind of stupid.

you showed up late to the editing suite, glitter pens spilling out of your bag, heart stickers plastered on your water bottle like a middle schooler’s diary. you called the lav mic a “weird nipple thing” and giggled when he glared at you. once, you spilled your lip gloss on the soundboard, leaving a sticky pink smear he had to scrub off with isopropyl alcohol. another time, you asked if uploading to drive made your data heavier, and he almost threw you out.

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

you didn’t hover or micromanage. you just sat there, cross-legged on a swivel chair, watching him cut scenes like it was magic. you leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath, your wide eyes reflecting the glow of the timeline.

“whoa... you made it feel like a real movie,” you whispered, like he’d just parted the red sea.

you smelled like something artificial. strawberries, maybe, or some overpriced body mist from a mall kiosk. your hair was always tied with a ribbon—pink, blue, sometimes yellow, always obnoxiously bright.

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t. but he remembered. every fucking detail.

the zip file lands in his downloads with an obnoxious ka-chunk, snapping him out of the memory. he doesn’t rush. just opens it like it’s any other favor, like his heart isn’t clawing at his ribcage. the folder name stares back at him: “pls help <3”

typical.

he clicks it open, expecting shaky iphone clips of cafes and shopping hauls. maybe some cringe tiktok dance you think is cute. he’s ready to hate it, to scoff at your lack of framing or shitty lighting.

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

you’re biting your lip, laughing into the lens like it’s your lover. wearing something stupidly short—a skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, hugging your thighs like it’s painted on. you spin around in front of your mirror, the camera catching every angle, every curve, like you’re being filmed for someone else. someone who’d appreciate it.

you pose. cock your head. giggle. the sound is loud, breathy, smiling when you speak. “do you think this is too short?” you ask, tugging the hem of your skirt, your fingers lingering just a second too long.

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

your laugh echoes through his headphones, a little distorted, a little too close. he pretends he’s checking the audio, tells himself it’s for sync, that he’s just doing his job. but his eyes are glued to the screen, to the way your skirt rides up as you twirl, to the flash of skin that makes his breath catch.

he watches again.

his mouth is dry, his tongue heavy against his teeth. your skirt flips up higher this time, and you gasp—like you’re surprised, like you didn’t mean to show that much. but you don’t stop filming. don’t cover up. just... laugh, a sound that curls around his spine and sinks into his gut.

he doesn’t even realize his hand is moving until it’s there, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. his fingers brush against himself, and he hisses, the contact sharp and sudden. he’s already half-hard, his body betraying him before his brain can catch up. the room feels too warm, the hum of his pc too loud, but he doesn’t care. he can’t care.

he rewinds the clip again, pauses on the frame where you’re mid-spin, your skirt flared just enough to show the curve of your ass. his hand wraps around his cock, slow at first, tentative, like he’s testing how far he’ll let himself go. the texture of his own skin is rough, familiar, but it’s not enough. not when it’s you on the screen, laughing like you know he’s watching, like you’re daring him to lose control.

he strokes himself, a tight, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over the tip where he’s already leaking. the sensation jolts him, makes his hips twitch in the chair.

he imagines it’s your hand, your fingers—small, soft, probably clumsy, but eager. he pictures you kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted like they are in the video, glossy and pink and begging to be kissed. or more.

the video plays on. you’re bending over now, adjusting your hair in the mirror, your skirt riding up to expose the thin strip of your underwear. he groans, low and guttural, his hand moving faster.

the sound of your voice—teasing, playful—fills his headphones, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him. “do you think this is too short?” you say again, and he wants to answer, wants to growl that it’s perfect, that you’re perfect, that he’d rip it off you if he could.

his grip tightens, his strokes growing erratic. he’s not gentle with himself—never is. it’s all pressure and friction, chasing the edge as fast as he can.

his free hand fumbles with the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back to the moment you gasp, to the split-second flash of your thighs. he loops it, the clip stuttering in time with his breathing, with the slick sound of his hand working himself over. his cock throbs, hot and heavy, and he imagines it’s you—your warmth, your wetness, the way you’d probably whimper if he touched you like this.

he’s close. too close.

his vision blurs at the edges, his pulse hammering in his ears. he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be jerking off to your stupid video like some desperate creep, but the shame only makes it worse, makes it sharper.

he pictures you catching him, walking in right now, seeing him with his pants down and his hand on his dick. would you laugh? would you blush? would you get on your knees and—

he comes with a choked gasp, his hips bucking up into his hand. it’s messy, spilling over his fingers, onto the hem of his shirt. his chest heaves, his head tilting back against the chair as the aftershocks ripple through him. your laugh loops in his headphones, oblivious to the wreck he’s become.

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

ten minutes later, he’s cleaned himself up, his hands steady again as he trims the file like a good little editor. he cuts out the shaky parts, stabilizes the footage, adjusts the audio so your voice doesn’t clip. it’s clinical now, professional, like he didn’t just fall apart to the sight of you. he names it something sterile: “vlog_cut_1.mov.”

he exports it twice. once normally, for you. once... not. the second version is raw, unedited, every twirl and giggle preserved in crisp 4k. it gets copied to a different folder, buried in a directory labeled “shader_study_2022.” he tells himself it’s in case you need a re-edit. a backup. that’s all.

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. his heart’s still racing, a faint tremor in his fingers.

he types “anytime :)” and erases it. sends:

np.

what he doesn’t say: he rewatched the part where you bend over six times. he had his dick in his hand by the second loop. he renamed the close-up to “test_render_asscloseup.mov” and hid it behind three layers of subfolders.

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

he’s into 2d, girls with big swords and bigger tits, drawn in sharp lines and impossible proportions. he once bought a dakimakura because the shipping came with a free pin, and it’s still shoved in his closet, one corner stained from a late-night mistake. real girls are messy, unpredictable, too much work. but now?

he’s thinking about the way your laugh dipped when you turned around, the way it caught in your throat like you were nervous. the way you looked into the lens like you knew someone was watching.

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

pink fuzzy shrug, low-rise jeans that sit dangerously low on your hips, a sliver of stomach peeking out like it’s 2004. your hair’s up in a ribbon—pink, of course, swaying as you move. you’re all glitter and confidence, a walking distraction in a lecture hall full of tired students and flickering projectors.

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

but his heart’s pounding, a traitor in his chest. his fingers twitch against the edge of his laptop, betraying the calm he’s trying to project. you slide into the seat two rows ahead and twist around, grinning like a cat, like you know something he doesn’t.

your eyes catch his for a split second, bright and teasing, and he forces himself to look away.

he opens his laptop, types random garbage into a terminal window—some half-baked python script he doesn’t even care about. he runs a fake compile just to feel busy, to drown out the way his blood is rushing too fast.

you lean over to whisper to the girl next to you, your laugh spilling out, loud and careless. your hair tosses, and he swears he catches the scent of your perfume drifting past in invisible waves. saccharine, overwhelming, like strawberries dipped in sugar syrup.

his brain short-circuits. he snaps his headphones on, the cord tangling in his haste. not to listen to music. not to block you out.

to replay your giggle.

he’d isolated the audio last night, cleaned it up with a high-pass filter, boosted the mids to make it crystal clear. exported it as a high-quality .wav, tucked it into a folder labeled “audio_ref.” he tells himself it’s for study, just good reference for future projects. but he loops it now, the sound of your laugh layered over faint lo-fi static he added for texture. it’s you, distilled into a three-second clip, filling his skull.

he closes his eyes and pretends you’re saying his name. satoru, you giggle, breathy and soft, like you’re leaning over his shoulder again, watching him work. satoru, you made it feel so real.

the lecture drones on, but he’s not listening. he’s lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way it dips and rises, the way it makes his skin feel too tight. he shifts in his seat, adjusts his hoodie, tries to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. he’s not supposed to want this. not supposed to want you.

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

no dramatic thunderclap. no internal monologue screaming, ah yes, now i am a pervert. it’s quiet. insidious. it sinks in like static, crackling at the edges of satoru’s brain until he’s not sure where his old self ends and this new, wretched version begins.

it’s not like he’s not already a pervert who gets off from pixels. this simply wasn’t his brand of perversion.

that night, he stayed up longer than he should’ve. stared at code for so long his ide crashed, the screen flickering to black as if it knew he was wasting his time. not that he got anything done. 

he just kept switching tabs—your final cut in vlc, some useless bash script in vscode he pretended to care about, then back to your video, the timeline frozen on that twirl, that gasp. his fingers shook when he closed the laptop, but sleep never came.

and now it’s the next day. mid-afternoon. the sun is doing that thing where it turns his apartment into a blinding box of heat and regret. his ac hums like an old man, wheezing against the sticky air. he’s sprawled in his chair, one leg slung over the armrest, staring at the ceiling fan like it might tell him how to stop.

ping.

another discord notification. he doesn’t even flinch this time. your username glows, and the filename attached makes his stomach do a weird little roll: “try-on2_raw.mov”. his eyes linger on the heart emoji you’ve tacked onto the message, like it’s a personal invitation.

hiii! ty for the last edit, ur a lifesaver <3 can u check and trim this one too? i’m trying smth new but idk if it works… lmk what u think pls!!

he clicks download. no hesitation. doesn’t even pretend to care anymore.

the file loads into his editing software like second nature, the premiere pro interface blooming across his screen. muscle memory. routine.

he’s done this a hundred times—except never like this, never with his pulse hammering in his throat and his mouth already dry.

the video starts the same way as the last—handheld, messy lighting, your voice trailing in from offscreen as you fiddle with the camera angle. no mic, of course not. just raw cam audio, unpolished, real, every breath and rustle amplified. he leans closer, like proximity to the screen will make it less dangerous.

“okay—wait, hold on,” you mutter, slightly out of breath. there’s a plastic rustle, fabric scraping skin, the light jingle of a zipper. he catches the sound of your nails tapping the digicam accidentally, a faint clack-clack that makes him picture your fingers, probably painted some ridiculous color, fumbling in that endearing way you do. 

“ugh… come on…” your voice drops, a frustrated huff, low and throaty. “mm—sorry! this one’s hard to pull up.”

then—zipper slides. metal on fabric, slow and deliberate, like it’s teasing him on purpose. you let out a sigh, long, slow, just a little too satisfied, like you’re savoring the release of pressure. the sound coils in his gut, tight and hot.

he freezes.

his mouse stays hovering over the playhead, the cursor trembling slightly. blood is already rushing south, his sweatpants tightening in a way he can’t ignore. his breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the worst part?

you giggle.

“probably got the wrong size,” you say, tugging the dress up higher. the hem catches on your thighs, rising indecently, the fabric clinging to your skin like it’s reluctant to let go. “don’t tell anyone i didn’t try it on in-store first.”

he swallows nothing. jaw tight. the room suddenly feels suffocating, the ac’s hum drowned out by the thud of his own pulse. your lip catches between your teeth, a flash of white against pink gloss, and the camera catches that too, lingers on it like it knows what it’s doing.

you glance at the lens, eyes half-lidded, like you’re waiting for approval, like you’re asking him directly—do you like this?

satoru’s fingers twitch.

one hand stays on the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back three seconds to hear that sigh again. the other hand moves before he can stop it, slipping under his waistband, brushing against the heat of his skin. he’s already hard, achingly so, the kind of hard that makes his head swim.

he wraps his fingers around himself, slow at first, testing, like he’s not sure he’s really doing this again. but the sound of your voice—breathy, teasing—loops in his headphones, and he’s gone.

he strokes himself, deliberate and tight, his grip almost punishing. the video plays on, and you’re stepping into frame now, the dress half-zipped, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat burn. your thighs shift as you adjust the hem, and he imagines them under his hands, soft and warm, parting just for him.

his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he groans, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the hum of his pc. he pictures your fingers instead, clumsy but eager, your nails grazing his skin as you try to keep up with his rhythm.

he’d guide you, show you how he likes it—fast, rough, no mercy.

you sigh again, and he speeds up, his hand moving in time with the rise and fall of your voice. “this one’s kinda tight,” you murmur, tugging at the neckline, and the fabric stretches, exposing the swell of your chest.

he wants to rip it off, wants to hear you gasp for real, not for the camera but for him. his strokes grow erratic, desperate, the slick sound of his hand filling the room, obscene and unstoppable.

he scrubs the timeline back again, pauses on the frame where your dress slips, where your underwear peeks out—a thin, lacy thing that makes his vision blur. he imagines pulling it aside, imagines the heat of you, the way you’d whimper if he pressed himself inside.

he’s close, too close, his hips twitching up into his hand. the video loops your giggle, that satisfied sigh, and he’s drowning in it, in you.

he pictures you catching him like this, walking into his apartment right now, seeing him with his pants down and his cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. would you laugh? would you blush? would you drop to your knees and let him finish on your lips, glossy and perfect and—

he comes with a muted groan, his head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as his release spills over his fingers, hot and messy. his breath shakes, a ragged exhale that leaves him hollow. the aftershocks pulse through him, and he slumps in his chair, the video still playing, your voice oblivious to the wreckage you’ve caused.

he pauses the frame. your mouth is mid-word, forming the shape of “oops,” lips parted just enough to make his chest ache. he wipes his hand on a paper towel from his desk, crumpled and stained from earlier sins. doesn’t look at himself. doesn’t think.

exports the file without touching a thing. names it “final_edit.mov.” then saves another copy, the raw footage, every sigh and rustle preserved. he names it “jesusfuckingchrist.mp4” and buries it in a folder labeled “misc_ref.”

he tries to normalize it.

“it’s just grading,” he mutters the next time he opens the project, the lie sour on his tongue. “just adjusting white balance.” but the playback bar hasn’t moved from your thighs. he doesn’t touch the colors. not really.

he zooms in under the excuse of checking “grain smoothing,” but it’s just your lip, caught between your teeth, your breath clipped at the edges like you’re holding back.

he tells himself he’s just learning.

every artist has their muse, right? except now he edits to your audio. he used to play podcasts, background noise to keep his brain from spiraling.

now? your breathing is layered into the timeline, a track he’s labeled “vox_ref.” he loops your laugh in reverse, lets it pan from left to right like it’s some surround sound experience.

“this is practice,” he whispers, dragging eq curves around nonsense, boosting the highs until your voice is sharp and intimate. “i’m experimenting with filters.”

right. filters. filters until your voice sounds like it’s right by his ear, like you’re whispering in bed, your breath warm against his skin. he plays a clip of you saying “do you like this one?” over and over, the words detached from context.

he doesn’t even care what you’re referring to anymore. he’s got that part memorized, the way your voice dips, soft and unsure, like you’re asking him to love you.

the next class is worse.

you walk past him in that fuzzy pink shrug thing, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder, and it’s like a bomb goes off in his chest. the fabric clings to you, soft and teasing, and he wants to grab it, pull it down, see how much skin you’ll let him have.

you lean down to plug your charger in, your jeans riding low—too low, the kind of low that makes him wonder how they’re even allowed on campus. he catches a glimpse of your underwear, a flash of lace, and his brain whites out.

he glares at his laptop, scoffs under his breath. “that outfit’s… desperate.” the word feels like a blade, sharp and mean, but it’s all he’s got to keep you at a distance.

your head tilts, innocent, eyes wide like you’re genuinely curious. “you think so?” you say it like you mean it, like you don’t already know the answer, like you haven’t watched your own footage and seen what he’s seen.

he shrugs, keeps scowling, doesn’t look at you. his fingers grip the edge of his laptop too hard, knuckles white. behind the screen, he’s got a paused frame of you licking lip gloss off your thumb, minimized in the corner. it’s been open since he got here.

his file structure is disintegrating. he used to name things with logic—timestamps, project codes, version numbers. now his desktop looks like a manifesto, a digital shrine to his unraveling. “vlog_tryon_final.mov.” “edit_3alt.mp4.” “fuckmeagain_laughcut.mov.” there’s a folder called “NOT work (unless)” that he doesn’t even open anymore, too afraid of what he’ll find.

he tries to draw a line, but it’s blurry. always blurry. he doesn’t know where the edit ends and obsession begins. when he dreams, he dreams about zippers—except they’re not zipzers. they’re your legs, parting slow and deliberate, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer.

a new text lights up his screen:

 hey! idk if the last one looks good… should i redo it? it felt kinda awkward lol sorry T_T

you sound insecure, unsure, your words dripping with that self-conscious charm that makes his chest hurt. he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, his mind spiraling.

you don’t know, do you? you don’t know what you’re doing to him, how your voice alone is enough to make him hard again.

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

satoru watches the word clean sit there like a fucking lie. his dick twitches, traitor that it is.

he hates himself.

but he opens the raw file again. scrubs through, frame by frame, until he finds that timestamp—where you moan, soft and accidental, like you didn’t mean to let it slip. he watches it, his headphones sealing him in with the sound of you. he exports that single second, names it “moan_finalgodhelpme.mp4,” and tucks it away like a secret he’ll never confess.

the timeline sits open, your frozen frame staring back at him. he doesn’t close it. doesn’t want to.

it starts with static in his skull.

not the loud, electric kind that chokes you up or begs to be noticed. it’s quiet. a whir, like an old fan that never shuts off, humming behind his thoughts. when satoru drags his mouse across the screen and sees your name still on the folder, it buzzes—faint, familiar, a sickness with your scent.

he changes the name from “NOT work (unless)” to “ARCHIVE_21,” moves it to a different directory, pretends it’s work, or dead, or both. but the static doesn’t stop. it clings, sticky and warm, like your laugh looping in his headphones.

it doesn’t help.

not when he dreams in highlighter gloss and those half-bitten whines you make when stretching, your body arching just so. not when he wakes up rutting into damp sheets, mouthing your name like a damn prayer, his hips jerking against nothing. the shame burns, but it’s not enough to make him stop.

satoru’s trying.

really.

he takes up freelance gigs, edits wedding footage for some guy he hasn’t spoken to since second year. overlays cheesy filters, mutes the groom’s ugly laugh, syncs the vows to some overused acoustic track. it’s clean. respectable. sterile enough to make him itch, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. but the folder’s still there, buried in his drive like it knows he’ll come back.

2:03 a.m.

his inbox pings, a sharp sound that cuts through the drone of his pc fans. your name lights up the screen, and his chest tightens before he even reads the message.

hiii satoru!! sorry for the late send, been sooo busy <3 can u take a look at this haul vid? i tried smth spicy but idk if it’s too much… lmk what u think pretty pls!!

march haul (raw).mp4

he knows he shouldn’t. there’s no logical reason, no business context, just the weight of your words—spicy, pretty pls—sinking into his gut. but his hands move on their own, clicking download, the progress bar filling like a fuse burning down.

click.

of course he does.

the video starts soft, your bedroom light diffused to a golden haze, casting shadows that dance across rumpled sheets. it looks like you’ve been tossing in them all day, the fabric creased and inviting.

you’re in lace—barely. something soft pink and flimsy, a slip of fabric that clings to your curves like it’s begging to be torn off.

your thigh’s out, one leg bent just enough to draw his eye, and the camera’s angled low, too low, like you meant to frame it this way.

“god, i hope this one fits…” your voice is breathy, a little strained, like you’re fighting the fabric. you adjust a strap, your fingers lingering on the lace, and your lip catches between your teeth, glossy and pink, a casual gesture that’s anything but. his breath stutters, a sharp inhale that burns his throat.

“oops, sorry—too much cleavage?” you laugh, not to yourself but at him.

he knows it.

his cock knows it, twitching against the seam of his sweatpants. the screen shakes as you set the camera on something unsteady—a stack of books, maybe—and it rocks just as you turn around, hips swaying, your ass hugged by that tiny thong, the lace cutting into your skin like a claim. you glance back over your shoulder, smirk poised like a dagger, eyes glinting in the soft light.

“i bet you’d pause right here, wouldn’t you?”

he does.

the video cuts mid-breath, and he doesn’t hear the silence. he’s frozen, hand halfway down, brain wiped clean. the frame lingers on your ass, the curve of it framed by lace, and his mouth is dry, his pulse hammering so loud it drowns out the static.

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!

his screen is still painted with the freeze-frame of your ass. his dick’s straining so hard it aches, a dull throb that makes him shift in his chair. he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move for a full minute, just stares at the message, the word oops taunting him. then—

he saves both files. drags them into “ARCHIVE_21” with a trembling cursor, his fingers clumsy on the trackpad. he opens the raw one again, slower this time, one hand on his lap, the other fisting his sheets until the fabric creaks.

you’re back on screen, adjusting the strap again, your laugh curling through his headphones like smoke. his hand slips under his waistband, and he’s already leaking, the tip slick and sensitive as he grips himself.

he strokes slow, deliberate, savoring the friction, but his mind’s elsewhere—on the hentai he’s spent years jerking off to, the doujins with dog-eared pages and cum-stained corners.

he pictures you like those girls, bent over and begging, your lace thong pushed to the side as he fucks you from behind, your moans louder, needier, than anything you’ve let slip on camera.

he imagines pinning you to those rumpled sheets, your thighs trembling under his hands, your ass bouncing with every thrust. no teasing giggles, no coy glances—just you, fucked out and whimpering, his name on your lips as he buries himself deep, so deep you can’t think.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of his room. he scrubs the timeline back, pauses on the moment you turn, your smirk sharp and knowing.

he wants to wipe it off, wants to fuck you until you’re too wrecked to smile, until you’re clawing at the sheets and sobbing his name. he imagines your cunt, tight and wet, gripping him as he pounds into you, the lace of your thong rubbing raw against his skin.

it’s not enough to watch you anymore, not enough to stroke himself to your voice—he wants to ruin you, wants to feel you break under him, wants to make you his in a way those 2d girls never could.

he cums with a low, breathy whisper of your name, his hips jerking up into his hand. it’s intense, almost painful, spilling over his fingers and onto the hem of his shirt.

his chest heaves, his vision blurring as he slumps back, the video still playing, your laugh oblivious to the mess he’s become. he opens it again, doesn’t touch himself this time—just watches, memorizes, eyes glassy and mouth parted.

at one point, he swears he moans with you, a soft sound that slips out unbidden, his body betraying him even when he’s spent. when he edits the “real” file, he’s a machine. no stutters, no slips, just sharp keystrokes and surgical cuts, trimming shaky frames and boosting your voice until it’s crisp.

the guilt claws at him, a dull ache in his chest, but it only makes the next orgasm worse—and better. he exports it, names it “haul_march_final.mov,” and saves the raw file to a new subfolder: “stills_ref.” he doesn’t name the second copy. doesn’t need to. it’s just for him.

he plays it cool in class. “wow. another fit straight outta your grandma’s closet,” he scoffs as you pass, voice dripping with mockery, lips curling into something lazy and mean.

but his gaze flickers—just once, low and quick, like he’s checking for danger. and there it is. a flash of soft pink lace against the curve of your thigh as you shift your bag higher up your shoulder. just a sliver. deliberate.

he knows that lace. knows it from the raw footage, from the way it hugged your skin under golden light. his smirk falters for half a second, a crack in his armor.

you turn your head, slow as syrup, and smile at him over your shoulder. it’s airy, innocent, ditzy enough to play dumb, poisonous enough to feel like a threat. “mm? that bad, huh?” your voice is light, but your eyes linger a moment too long, sharp and knowing, like you’re peeling him open.

you take your seat two rows away, crossing one leg over the other with careful grace. your skirt rides up, just enough to show the edge of that lace again, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem, brushing the fabric like it’s a game.

he doesn’t blink.

he knows what’s under that skirt, knows the way that lace bites into your skin when you move just like that. he’s seen it in soft lighting, tangled with shadows and sighs. he knows, and you know, and neither of you say a word.

he can’t breathe.

his hand trembles as he grips his pen, scrawling nonsense on the corner of his notes—random numbers, jagged lines, anything to keep his fingers busy.

someone’s asking a question about identity and performance, something about how we present ourselves versus how we wish to be perceived, and satoru’s already halfway to standing.

“sorry. washroom.” his voice cracks halfway through the lie, too sharp, too rushed.

satoru stumbles into the men’s room like he’s escaping a crime scene, the door clicking shut behind him. palm flat against cold tile, forehead pressed to the inside of his wrist, he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything else—code, deadlines, the wedding edit he’s behind on.

but it’s you.

always you. your smile, your laugh, the lace peeking out like a taunt.

he’s already hard, already leaking, the front of his jeans tight and unforgiving. he fumbles with the button, shoves them down just enough, and grips himself, his hand shaking as he strokes.

he closes his eyes and sees you—not the you in class, not the you playing dumb, but the you from his fantasies, the you he’s built from hentai panels and late-night desperation. he imagines you on your knees, lace thong pulled down, your cunt glistening as he fucks you against the bathroom sink.

no giggles, no teasing—just raw, desperate need, your moans echoing off the tiles as he slams into you, his hands bruising your hips, your body arching to take him deeper.

he wants you messy, wants you marked, wants to fill you until you’re dripping, until you’re his in a way that’s permanent.

he strokes faster, his breath hitching, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle the groan clawing up his throat. he cums hard, too fast, his knees buckling as it spills over his hand, hot and shameful. he shakes, gasping, his forehead slick against the tile, and thinks of lace. thinks of lip gloss. thinks of your voice saying “oops” like it’s a sin.

it doesn’t take long for his desktop to become an altar.

the background’s still you, a freeze-frame from the first video, your lip gloss shimmering and fingers caught mid-twist in your hair. he tells himself it’s temporary, just a visual reference.

it’s been three weeks.

folders on folders: “hauls > favs > zoom_ins > stills > pantyshots.” “audio_samples > moan_loop > breath_only.wav.” “color tests > gloss_ref > lips.png.”

some nights, he replays a single frame just to watch your mouth form the word “fuck,” slows it down, isolates the syllables, pretends you’re saying his name instead.

the worst part?

you’re still pretending nothing’s changed. still calling them “favors,” still sending content like it’s work, like it’s nothing.

but your outfits are shorter, your giggles stick to the air longer, your eyes linger like you’re testing something. and when you purr, “you’re sooo good at this, satoru,” with that saccharine lilt, your voice curling around his name like a caress, he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep quiet. fists the sheets at night and prays.

he moans your name in the dark, face hot with shame, and hates how much he wants you to hear it.

satoru’s become sleep-deprived, dark smudges nesting beneath his eyes like fingerprints left behind by guilt or obsession or both. he wears his glasses more lately, less out of need and more as a buffer between him and the world—between him and you.

the lenses catch the glow of his new triple-monitor setup, a sleek beast he told himself was for coding, for editing, for multitasking. not for keeping your videos looping on the side monitor while he pretends to work on the main one. not for that at all.

your folder’s pinned in quick access, a permanent fixture in his file explorer. he keeps it open in the background at all times, a digital pulse that hums alongside his pc fans. second nature now, like breathing or wanting. not unlike a shrine.

in class, he pretends to take notes, his stylus scratching nonsense on his tablet. he’s not. he’s watching a gif on his phone, hidden under the desk—a loop of your tongue dragging slow across lip gloss, eyes soft with focus like you’re painting yourself pretty just for him. the gif’s only three seconds, but he’s memorized every frame, every flicker of your lashes. his thumb swipes to replay it, again, again, until his vision blurs.

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

three days pass, and you haven’t messaged. he checks your chat thread more than he breathes—opens, closes, re-opens, scrolling through your old texts like they’ll reveal something new. every flicker of hope is a false start, a phantom ping that makes his chest lurch. he’s pathetic, he knows it, but knowing doesn’t stop the itch.

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

hii satoru!! new haul vid for u to check <3 tried some swimsuits this time, hope it’s not too boring to trim hehe. lmk what u think!!”

he nearly drops his phone, his thumb smudging the screen as he fumbles to download. his new setup hums to life, the main monitor flashing with code he hasn’t touched in hours, the side monitor already open to your folder.

he drags the file into premiere, the timeline blooming across the screen, but his eyes are on the raw video, already playing on the right monitor, your voice spilling through his headphones like honey.

the video’s different this time. the camera’s lower, like it’s been left on a desk or shelf, pointing slightly upward to frame you from your knees to just above your head. your bed makes a cozy blur in the background, sheets tangled like an invitation.

you’re in a bikini top that isn’t trying very hard to stay on, thin strings knotted loosely at your neck and back, the fabric barely containing you. “mmm. does this scream summer, or slut?” you giggle, feigned innocence like frosting over heat, your voice curling around the words like you know exactly what they’ll do to him.

you play with the strings at your chest, tugging, adjusting, your fingers brushing the swell of your breasts. then, softer, breathier, to the lens: “baby, help me pick…”

baby.

it breaks him all over again, a crack that runs straight through his chest. his cock twitches, already hard, straining against his boxers.

everything after that gets softer, lazier, dangerous in how intimate it feels. there’s no performative energy now—just casual, candid seduction, your movements slow, like you’re not hurrying for anyone. like you know exactly who’s watching and how long he’ll linger.

when you shrug a dress off your shoulders, you sigh, the sound catching in your throat. when you twist to adjust a strap, you hum, low and absentminded. and when you struggle with a clasp at your back, your fingers fumbling, you moan—soft, unintentional, a sound that slips out like it surprised even you.

satoru’s thumb slams the spacebar, pausing the video, rewinding three seconds to hear it again. he watches the way your lips part, the way your brows twitch, the way your body shifts like you’re chasing the sensation.

he’s already leaking, his boxers damp as he shoves them down, his hand wrapping around himself. the side monitor loops the raw footage, your moan playing over and over, while the main monitor holds the paused frame of your parted lips. he strokes slow at first, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the tip where he’s slick and sensitive.

his mind slips to the doujins he’s hoarded, the hentai he’s spent years chasing—the girls with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes, fucked raw and begging for more. but now it’s you, not some inked fantasy, and it’s so much filthier.

he imagines you sprawled across your bed, that bikini top ripped off, your thighs spread wide as he fucks you deep, relentless, your cunt clenching around him as you sob his name. no teasing, no giggles—just you, wrecked and dripping, your nails clawing his back as he takes you again and again, each thrust harder, messier, until you’re nothing but his.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound loud in his room, mixing with your looped moan. he wants you pinned beneath him, wants to feel you squirm, wants to fuck you until the bed creaks and your voice breaks, until you’re begging like those hentai girls, your glossed lips trembling as you say his name—satoru, please, more.

he imagines filling you, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body marked by him in ways he can’t unsee. it’s not enough to watch, not enough to stroke—he wants to own you, wants to make you his in every way those 2d fantasies taught him to crave.

he cums hard, forehead pressed to his desk, a low groan tearing from his throat as it spills over his hand, his keyboard, the edge of his new setup. his breath is ragged, like he’s run a marathon, his glasses fogging slightly as he gasps.

the side monitor still plays, your voice oblivious, your moan looping like a hymn. he doesn’t stop the video, just slumps back, spent and shaking, and watches again, his hand twitching like it’s not done.

it doesn’t take long for his room to reek of sweat and sin.

he edits shirtless now, sometimes in boxers, always hard, always leaking. every file’s renamed with trembling hands: “wifey_take7.mov.” “wifey_raw.mp4.”

he syncs your sighs to his lo-fi playlist, turns it into a lullaby, falls asleep to the sound of your breath. sometimes he slows your voice just to hear “baby” dragged out into velvet, makes gifs of your hands skimming your hips, kisses the screen when he’s drunk enough to forget shame.

you, on the other hand, don’t break character.

in class, you chew your pen and lean forward, the arch of your spine exact, your cleavage subtle—barely a tease, just enough to make his throat tighten. he looks away with a clenched jaw, adjusts himself under the desk, twice, his jeans unforgiving.

you whisper to a friend and giggle, and he lipreads, thinks he sees the words “can’t wait,” but maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe not. it doesn’t matter.

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

“fuck yes, that one.” “spin again, baby.” sometimes he mumbles your name like a prayer, sometimes he chokes it into his pillow. every orgasm has your name carved into it, a brand he can’t erase.

one night, he opens a file to edit, drags it into premiere, but he doesn’t touch it. just watches, headphones in, barely breathing. not a content creator now, not a student, not even a man—just a creature of need, and you his ritual, his muse, his goddess.

the screen shows you adjusting the straps of a silky babydoll, the lighting warm, your thighs bare, half-tucked under you as you sit prettily at the edge of your bed.

“okay, so this one’s… like, totally giving ‘come to bed’ energy, right?” you giggle, voice light, teeth sinking into your glossed lip as you bounce once, soft and natural, the fabric barely covering your chest.

satoru groans low in his throat, not even trying to hide it. “it’s giving bend over,” he mutters, lips twitching, his side monitor looping the raw footage, his main screen frozen on your smile. “fuck, look at you…”

you reach behind you, struggle with the clasp, wiggle your shoulders like you’re teasing whoever’s behind the camera. “oof. that’s tight… should i size up?” a breathy laugh follows, your sigh melting into it.

he licks his lips, your audio crystal-clear in his headphones. you’re right there, talking to him. “nah, baby,” he croons, eyes fixed on the curve of your spine as you turn. “tight’s perfect. keeps the goods in place.”

you blow a kiss at the lens. “hope you’re not bored yet,” you say with a wink. “i saved the cutest for last…”

you bend off-frame, your ass peeking just above the edge of the bed, round and inviting in cotton panties with lace trim, and when you rise again, your hands hold something sheer and tiny. “tadaaa,” you whisper, eyes glinting with mischief. “this one’s for my favorite viewer.”

00:05:46—satoru slams the shortcut, timestamp saved. a second later, he screenshots, then again, then again, frame by frame, until he finds the exact one where your lip’s caught between your teeth and your ass is still halfway in the air.

“fucking perfect,” he mutters, breath uneven. he pulls the image up on his main screen, zooms in, sharpens it, runs it through noise reduction. the side monitor loops the raw video, your voice sweet and teasing, while the right monitor plays a gif of your earlier moan, your lips parted in that soft, accidental sound.

his hand’s already moving, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking like it’s been waiting for this. 

he grips himself, rough and urgent, no pretense of patience. the new setup’s perfect—your video on the side, his code on the main screen like he’s working, but it’s all you, every pixel, every sound.

he strokes in time with your giggle, his eyes flicking between the gif of your moan and the screenshot of your ass, his mind spiraling into the filthiest corners of his hentai-soaked brain.

he imagines you on that bed, face down, ass up, the babydoll hiked to your waist as he fucks you so hard the headboard cracks. he wants you screaming, wants your cunt pulsing around him, wants to pull your hair and make you look at him as he fills you, over and over, until you’re a mess, until you’re his completely.

his strokes are frantic, his breath hitching, his hips bucking into his hand. he pictures you tied to the bed, like that one doujin he read last month, your wrists bound with those same bikini strings, your thighs trembling as he fucks you through one orgasm into the next.

he wants to cum inside you, wants to watch it drip out, wants to push it back in with his fingers and make you lick them clean. it’s not enough to jerk off anymore, not enough to dream—he wants to break you, wants to make you real, wants to fuck you until you’re as addicted to him as he is to you.

he cums with a choked growl, his head tipping back, glasses slipping down his nose as it spills over his hand, his desk, the sticky mess splattering his keyboard.

he’s shaking, gasping, his chest heaving as the side monitor loops your voice, your “baby” purring like a mantra. his wrist’s sticky, his room a haze of sweat and shame, but he doesn’t care. he’s not even really here.

you’re everywhere now—three monitors, three altars, your image burned into his retinas. he’d worship on his knees if you asked.

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

sorry! idk if this one’s helpful but i liked the shots hehe

he doesn’t unzip his pants. doesn’t need to. he’s already throbbing from the inside out, his body reacting to your name alone. he clicks, watches, kneels, and whispers your name like a benediction, the static in his skull louder than ever.

it starts with a ping.

innocuous. a single pixel shift on the main monitor mid-code, just as satoru’s debugging a script for a deadline he already missed. his side monitor hums with your last video, paused on that frame where your lip’s caught between your teeth, and the third monitor’s open to a half-finished render he hasn’t touched in days. he glances lazily at the notification, expecting another reminder from suguru to shower or eat—

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

his fingers freeze. heart jams, a dull thud in his chest. the cursor blinks, waiting, mocking. he doesn’t think. doesn’t breathe. his glasses slip down his nose, and he doesn’t fix them. the words burn into his retinas, and his cock twitches before he can process why.

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

he sends it, his thumb trembling over the enter key. no reply. not for five whole minutes. the wait is a crucifixion, each second stretching into eternity. he keeps opening and closing the chat, rereading your words like they might shift into something dirtier, something more.

his triple-monitor setup glows, your frozen frame on the side monitor staring at him, lips parted, eyes glinting. he’s already leaking in his pants, a damp spot spreading against his thigh.

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

he reads it twice. three times. his breath catches, sharp and shallow, like he’s been punched. come over. your dorm. your space.h e’s hard, achingly so, his boxers tight and unforgiving. he doesn’t reply, just slams his laptop shut, grabs his camera bag, and stumbles out the door.

he shows up twenty minutes later, barely remembered to wear deodorant, definitely forgot his dignity. his high-end sony alpha mirrorless—loaded with a lens that costs more than most people’s rent—bounces against his chest as he knocks. his palms are slick, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his own nerves.

you open the door with a giggle, wrapped in a pastel pink robe that might as well be air. it clings to the curve of your waist, parts at the thigh, revealing soft skin that makes his throat burn. your hair’s still damp, sticking to your collarbones, and the scent of vanilla lotion hits him like a drug. “thanks for coming! i’m kinda nervous…”

he wants to bark out same, but his jaw locks. he swallows instead, the motion too loud in his ears. “no problem.” his voice is gravel, like he’s choking on his own want. he steps inside, and your dorm swallows him whole—warm, cutesy, a pastel fever dream of plush throw pillows, fairy lights, and a pink velvet couch that looks too soft, too inviting.

he’s already imagining you bent over it, your robe hiked up, your moans echoing off the walls. it smells like you sprayed your strawberry perfume over every surface, dizzying, suffocating. his glasses fog again.

he sets up the tripod with shaking hands, the sony’s weight grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart. you bounce around the living room, humming, fluffing pillows on the couch, fixing your gloss in a heart-shaped mirror propped against a shelf.

“does this lighting make me look washed out?” you ask, stepping back, tilting your head. then you bend to adjust a lamp, and your robe parts just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your ass, bare except for a sliver of lace.

he sees. pretends he didn’t. fumbles the lens cap, twice, the plastic clattering to the floor. his face burns, but he keeps his eyes on the camera, adjusting settings he doesn’t need to touch.

you brush past him again and again, your bare arm glancing his, silk whispering across his knuckles when you pass. he smells shampoo in the air, thick and sweet, and it’s you, all you, sinking into his lungs. “you nervous?” you tease, voice light, a giggle curling at the edges.

he scoffs, wiping his palm against his jeans, the denim rough against his slick skin. “pfft. nah. i’ve filmed worse.” a lie, bold and brittle, his voice too tight to sell it.

“worse than me?” you pout, stepping closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “ouch.”

“i didn’t say that.” his voice cracks, a hairline fracture. he’s too aware of you, of the way your robe slips an inch, of the way your eyes glint like you’re playing with him.

you tilt your head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “sooo… you have filmed pretty girls before?”

he falters, breath stuttering in his chest. he’s a virgin, hasn’t touched a girl in years, hasn’t wanted to—not when hentai’s been enough, when doujins have been his only lovers. but you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re breaking him.

“no one like you,” he says, unfiltered, raw, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

your lips curl, slow and sweet, a smile that says i know. “hm. figured.”

you disappear into your bedroom for a few minutes, the door clicking shut. he pretends to adjust the white balance, tweaking settings on the sony that are already perfect, but really he’s staring at the door like it owes him salvation.

his cock’s throbbing, a dull ache that won’t quit, and he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. the living room feels too small, the pink couch too soft, the fairy lights too intimate. he’s imagining you sprawled across that couch, your robe gone, your thighs spread, his camera capturing every gasp.

the door opens. you emerge. lingerie set, pale and sheer, a mini skirt that barely qualifies, lip gloss freshly reapplied. you look like a doll, saccharine and sinful, every curve a taunt. “can you help me zip this?” you turn, bare back exposed, the zipper halfway up, your spine a perfect line that begs to be touched.

he steps forward, too close, his exhale brushing your shoulder. his fingers graze your skin—soft, warm, real—and you shiver, a small, deliberate tremor. he pulls the zipper up with trembling hands, the metal catching once, his breathing uneven. the distance between you shatters into nothing, the air thick with static.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he rasps, low in your ear, his voice rough with want.

“doing what?” you whisper, fake innocence thick as honey, your head tilting just enough to catch his eye.

you look back at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, glossy and pink. he breaks.

“fuck.”

he grabs you, his hands rough on your hips, your mouths crashing together—teeth, tongue, gasps. your lip gloss smears against his cheek, sweet and sticky, and he groans into the kiss, devouring you.

you moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his hips as he lifts you onto the counter, the edge biting into your thighs. you’re silk and heat and sin beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything else—his camera, his code, his shame. only you exist now.

you feel his hard-on through his jeans, pressed against your thighs, and he’s panting, his breath stuttering against your skin as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, the ridge of your spine. his mouth is everywhere, like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize you with his tongue.

his glasses slip down, and he grins against your collarbone. “need to get a better look,” he mutters, a flimsy excuse to lean closer, until the fog of his breath warms your skin. he bites your collarbone, hard, groaning when he leaves a mark. “wanna see that in playback.”

he drops to his knees without hesitation, a virgin’s worship, reverence born from years of hentai and nothing else. his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wide, and he groans like he’s just found salvation. he runs his tongue along the inner part first, slow and teasing, so close to the lace of your panties but not touching what you want.

you try to close your legs, but he forces them open, his grip bruising, his mouth finding the wet spot through the fabric. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls, voice muffled, his tongue dragging heavy and slow, the lace rough against your clit. “been wet for me this whole time, huh? fuckin’ tease.”

you whimper, hips bucking, and he moans into you, the vibration making you gasp. he licks through the panties, relentless, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose but he doesn’t care.

“you taste better than i dreamed,” he says, his voice hoarse, hentai dialogue spilling out like it’s natural. he sucks at the fabric, tongue pressing harder, and you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair as you grind against his face. he’s messy, desperate, his moans louder than yours, like he’s the one about to cum. you do, hard, a cry tearing from your throat as you shudder against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop, lapping at the soaked lace like it’s his last meal.

he presses his cheek to your thigh, sticky and glistening, looking up at you with glassy eyes. “first one’s mine,” he says, grinding his hips into the floor, his jeans tight with his own need. you don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. he spreads you open with his fingers, peeling the panties aside, watching your hole twitch with a hunger that makes his mouth water.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice dripping with awe. “fuckin’ perfect.” he slides two fingers in, slow at first, then deeper, curling them just right, like he’s memorized every doujin panel that showed him how. “shit—i’ve seen this in hentai but it’s better. fuck, it’s real.”

his fingers pump, slick and steady, and you’re moaning, head thrown back, the counter digging into your hips. he adds a third, stretching you, his free hand jerking himself through his jeans, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. “so tight, baby. you’re gonna feel so good around my cock.”

he spits on your pussy, a quick, filthy gesture, his eyes locked on yours as it drips down. “they never show that part right in hentai. had to test it myself.” you moan, loud and broken, and he moans louder, his fingers slipping out with a wet squelch. he licks them clean, slow, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring you. “fuck—want it all.”

he stands, trembling, his jeans tented painfully. “can i?” his voice is small, almost pleading, a crack in his bravado. you nod, and he fumbles with his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough. he lines himself up, his cock thick and leaking, the tip brushing your entrance. “you’re so warm—holy shit—you’re squeezing me—fuck—”

he slides in, slow at first, gasping as you take him, your cunt tight and slick around him. he’s a virgin, but he knows this, knows the rhythm from years of jerking off to scenes just like this. he freezes, trying not to cum, his glasses fogging as he pants. you clench down, deliberate, and he slaps your thigh, a quick, sharp sting that earns him a whine.

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

he pulls out, just to slam back in, harder, the counter creaking under you. his rhythm’s sloppy, desperate, but he finds it, each thrust deeper, rougher. “look at you,” he growls, his voice pure filth, hentai dialogue spilling free. “taking my cock like a good little slut. you love this, don’t you? fuckin’ made for me.” he licks the tears running down your cheek, his tongue hot and greedy. “crying already? baby, i’m not even close to done.”

you moan his name, and he loses it, his thrusts turning frantic, messy, like he’s trying to ruin you. “film it. show me what you see,” you gasp, and he fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it with how hard he’s shaking.

the camera app opens in a blur of fingers, then steadies, the lens catching you spread wide beneath him, thighs trembling, pussy stuffed full of his cock. he holds it there, watching the way you flutter around him, his breath ragged. “watch this later and see how ruined you look, baby,” he pants, voice hoarse, wild.

he leans in, still recording, whispering filth against your ear. “that’s right. take it. cry for me. i want you loud.” his other hand drags the mic closer, the sony’s external recorder capturing every slick thrust, every broken sob, every wet squelch, loud and obscene.

he fucks you harder, the counter shaking, your tits bouncing with each thrust. “gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in here,” he growls, his voice low, unhinged. “that couch? gonna bend you over it. that table? gonna spread you wide. your bed? gonna fill you till you’re screaming.”

you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering. “fuck, you like that? you want me to wreck you everywhere, don’t you?” you nod, gasping, and he slaps your thigh again, harder, leaving a red mark. “say it, baby. tell me you want it.”

“i want it,” you whimper, voice breaking, and he grins, feral, his thrusts turning punishing. you cum again, a shuddering mess, your cry echoing in the mic as your cunt pulses around him, slick dripping down your thighs. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, his cock throbbing as he fucks you through it.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants, his voice cracking, hentai fantasies spilling out. “gonna cum so deep you’ll feel me for days. you want that, don’t you? want my cum dripping out of you?”

you nod, moaning, and he loses it, slamming into you one last time as he cums, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. it’s hot, messy, spilling inside you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, like he’s trying to push it deeper.

satoru doesn’t stop.

in fact, he lifts you, his arms wrapping under your thighs like you’re weightless, his cock still buried inside you, slick and pulsing. your head lolls against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, and he groans, low and guttural, as he carries you toward your bedroom.

the air shifts as he crosses the threshold, your perfume hitting him harder here—floral and sugary, the same scent that clings to your pillow, your wrist, your everything. it’s thicker in this room, curling around him like a trap, and he kicks the door shut behind him, the click loud in the quiet.

he pushes you toward the vanity, your back meeting the cool glass of the mirror with a soft thud. he bends you over it, slow and deliberate, his hands guiding your hips until your cheek presses against the surface, your breath fogging the reflection.

“look at you,” he groans, angling his phone to capture the scene—your flushed face, your glossed lips parted, your eyes half-lidded in the mirror as you whine in embarassment.

“pretty little thing, still trying to act innocent.” his voice is rough, edged with hunger, and he shifts his hips, thrusting shallowly, keeping you pinned, reaching for your lip gloss.

you mumble something, a weak protest or plea, but he shuts it up with a swipe of your lip gloss across your mouth, his hand trembling as he paints your lips pink, the applicator slick and messy.

“perfect,” he says, pulling back just enough to admire the shine, the way it catches the light. then he pushes in again, deeper, and you both moan, the sound mingling in the air, caught by the sony’s mic still recording from the tripod in the corner.

he kisses you messily—gloss smearing, lips hungry, teeth clashing as he grinds his hips, slow and torturous, never breaking the rhythm. the camera stays on, the phone propped against a perfume bottle, capturing every gasp, every shudder.

“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters against your mouth, his tongue chasing the sticky sweetness. “gonna kiss you till you’re dripping everywhere.”

satoru lays you on the bed next, gentle but urgent, his hands shaking as he props his phone against a stack of books on your nightstand, the camera app open, framing you perfectly—your body sprawled across the pastel sheets, thighs parted, lingerie barely clinging to your skin, the sheer fabric of your top stretched tight over your chest, the mini skirt hiked up to expose the lace of your panties.

he climbs over you, his glasses slipping down his nose, and pushes your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, the angle forcing you open, vulnerable.

“fuck, you feel like heaven,” he says, voice cracking, almost reverent, as he slides back inside you, slow and deep, the heat of you pulling a groan from his throat. “i’m never gonna stop, baby.”

each thrust is deliberate, his hips rolling to hit that spot that makes you arch, your nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails he’ll stare at later.

he kisses you through it, his mouth sloppy and desperate, swallowing your moans like they’re his lifeline. the bed creaks under you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over your tear-streaked face, and he’s lost in it, in the way you clench around him, so tight it’s like you’re made for him.

“so fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “taking my cock like you were born for it.”

he tugs at the straps of your lingerie top, pulling it down until your tits spill free, the sheer fabric catching under them, and he groans, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard until you whimper, your hips bucking against him.

but it doesn’t last—he needs more, needs to see you break in ways he’s only imagined in the dark of his room, his hand on his cock and your videos on loop.

he pulls out, his dick slick and throbbing, and grabs your hips, flipping you with a low grunt. he drags you up by the waist, positioning you on your knees, your ass high, your face pressed into the sheets, the skirt still bunched around your hips. his hand slides up your spine, pushing your chest down, arching you just right, and he yanks the lace panties to the side, not bothering to take them off.

“this is what you get for teasing me all these days,” he growls, his voice unhinged, as he lines himself up and thrusts in, hard and deep, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room.

you whimper, muffled against the pillow, and he fucks harder, each thrust rocking you forward, the bedframe rattling, your moans spilling free despite the fabric. his phone’s still recording, propped precariously, catching every angle—your arched back, your trembling thighs, the way his cock disappears into you with every brutal snap of his hips.

“look at that pussy,” he says, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you open for the camera. “so greedy, swallowing me whole. you love this, don’t you?” he tugs your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your cries to echo. “louder, baby. let the whole fuckin’ dorm hear you.”

he slows, just to torment you, his hips grinding deep, making you squirm, your overstimulated body shaking under him. you’re teary, sobs catching in your throat, but he doesn’t care—he wants you loud, wants you broken. he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“cry for me,” he whispers, his voice rough, his hand slipping around to pinch your nipple, twisting until you gasp. “wanna hear you fall apart.” he pulls out, leaving you empty, and you whine, a desperate, keening sound that makes him smirk.

“patience, princess,” he mocks, slapping your ass lightly, the sting making you clench around nothing.

satoru guides you up, turning you to face him, and pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you. “wanna see you ride me,” he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hips as you straddle him. he tugs the skirt off completely, tossing it aside, leaving you in just the stretched-out lingerie top and soaked panties.

“bounce,” he growls, his eyes locked on where you sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, your cunt stretching around him as you take him inch by inch. “show the camera how you fuck me.”

his phone’s angled to catch it all—your tits bouncing, still half-caught in the sheer fabric, your thighs trembling, the way you gasp every time you drop down, taking him to the hilt.

you move, your hips rolling, your hands braced on his chest, and he’s sweating, his glasses slipping, his breath ragged. he doesn’t let you slow, his hands lifting you, slamming you back down, making you take him deeper. “that’s it,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises. “fuck yourself on my cock. show me how bad you need it.”

you’re sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you keep going, your moans loud and broken, your body shaking from the overstimulation. he reaches up, ripping the lingerie top off completely, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and gropes your tits, squeezing hard, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you shudder.

“these are mine now,” he says, his voice pure filth. “gonna mark ‘em up so you can’t hide.”

he’s close, too close, but he’s not done.

he pushes you off, gentle but firm, and stands, pulling you with him toward the full-length mirror by your closet. he spins you, pressing your chest to the glass, your hands splaying against it, your tear-streaked reflection staring back.

he kicks your legs apart, his cock nudging your entrance, and slides in, slow and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “look at you,” he says, his lips brushing your neck, his hands caging you against the mirror. “look at my cock ruining your pussy.”

he thrusts, slow at first, watching your reflection—your tears, your drool, your gloss-smeared lips, the way your body shakes with every snap of his hips. “you wanted a nerd? this nerd’s gonna fuckin’ break you.”

he fucks you harder, the mirror rattling, your moans bouncing off the walls, loud enough to wake the neighbors. “so fuckin’ pretty,” he pants, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing messy, relentless circles. “gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you? gonna make a mess for me?”

you nod, sobbing, your body trembling, and he slaps your ass, the sting sharp, making you clench around him. “say it, baby. tell me you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, voice breaking, tears streaming, and he cums with a raw groan, spilling inside you, hot and thick, his hips stuttering as he rides it out.

he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t stop, his cock still hard, still twitching as he fucks his cum deeper, the slick sound obscene. “not done,” he mutters, his glasses fogged, his voice wrecked. “gonna make you cum again.”

he keeps going, relentless, his thrusts slower but deeper, each one pushing his cum back inside, making you shake. his fingers on your clit are merciless, circling fast, and you’re oversensitive, your body convulsing, your moans turning to desperate cries. “satoru—fuck—too much—” you sob.

he only slaps your thigh, sharp and stinging, and leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “too much? nah, princess, you can take it. wanna feel you squirt for me.”

he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you’re gone, your body locking up as you cum, a gush of wet heat soaking his cock, dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. he groans, loud and broken, his hips jerking as he cums again, another hot rush filling you, spilling out around him.

“fuck—look at that mess,” he pants, his hand smearing the slick between your legs, rubbing it into your skin. “all for me.”

but he’s not done. he pulls you back to the bed, laying you on your side, one leg hooked over his arm as he slides back in, his cock still hard, slick with your cum and his. “one more,” he begs, his voice cracking, his glasses crooked. “gimme one more, baby. need to feel you again.”

he thrusts slow, deep, his hand slipping between your legs to tease your oversensitive clit, and you’re crying, tears streaming, your body shaking from the intensity. he bites your neck, leaving marks, and whispers, “love it when you cry for me. so fuckin’ loud, just how i like it.”

he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you into the mattress, his hand pressing your face into the sheets. “gonna cum all over you,” he growls, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. “gonna fill you up till you’re leaking me for days.”

you cum again, a shuddering, broken mess, your sobs muffled against the pillow, your body convulsing as you squirt again, weaker but still enough to soak the sheets. he cums with you, a third time, his groan hoarse, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, the mess dripping out, pooling under you.

“fuck—baby—” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he collapses against you, his glasses falling off completely, clattering to the floor.

“mine now,” he whispers, hoarse and ruined, his forehead pressed to your back, his breath hot and uneven. “you’re mine now.”

you nod, too spent to speak, your body limp, your reflection in the mirror a blur of tears and gloss and him, the phone still recording every ragged breath, every whispered “fuck” as he pulls you closer, not letting go.

but then silence swells, heavy and slow, filling the room like a fog. the air’s thick with the aftermath—sweat, cum, and the lingering sweetness of your perfume, still clinging to the sheets, to him.

satoru’s hands tremble where they hold you, one slipping down to fumble with his phone, stopping the recording with a clumsy tap, the other pressing flat against your stomach, grounding him, grounding you. your breaths are too loud, ragged and uneven, syncing in the quiet like a metronome.

he leans away slightly, just enough to grab a towel from the edge of your bed, awkward in the afterglow like he just realized he desecrated a temple. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the mess of sheets, and his hair’s a disaster, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.

“shit,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper, too quiet for the boy who was growling filth ten minutes ago. “did i—i mean. that wasn’t too much, right?” there’s a crack in his tone, a flicker of panic, like he’s replaying every thrust, every slap, every sobbed moan he pulled from you.

you don’t answer at first, too dazed, too wrung out, your body still humming from the overstimulation, your thighs sticky and trembling.

your silence makes him spiral.

“fuck, i knew it. i pushed too hard. i got carried away—i was recording—fuck—i didn’t even ask—” his words tumble out, frantic, his hand raking through his hair as he sits up, eyes wide, searching your face for any sign of regret.

you turn to face him, slow and sore, your cheek pillowed against your arm, the motion making your body ache in the best way. your eyes are still wet, lashes clumped with tears, lips kiss-bruised and sticky with half-worn gloss, swollen from his teeth. you stare at him—this boy, this dork, with his mussed-up hair and the panicked look of someone who just lived out a lifelong fantasy and now doesn’t know what to do with it.

“i’m okay,” you say, your voice shredded, raw from screaming his name. “jesus, i’m so okay.”

he exhales, a shaky rush of air, like he’s been holding it in for hours. he collapses back against you, burying his face in your neck, his lips brushing the bite mark he left earlier. “fuck, you scared me,” he mumbles, his voice muffled, warm against your skin. then, quieter, almost unhinged: “we just speedran my entire hentai folder.”

you laugh, a weak, breathy sound that bubbles up despite the ache in your ribs. “i know.”

“i didn’t even know i could,” he says, his voice small, like he’s confessing a sin. “i haven’t even done that in vr.”

you snort, the sound catching in your throat. “nerd.”

he groans, but it’s not annoyed—it’s mortified, the kind of sound that comes from knowing he’s exposed himself completely. “i’m never gonna recover from this. i glossed you like a fuckin’ bratz doll. i glossed you.” his hand gestures vaguely at your lips, still shiny and smeared, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, your body too tired for anything more.

you roll over fully, tugging him down into the blankets with you, the pastel sheets tangling around your legs. he follows like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. you can feel his heart still racing, his body still trembling from the high.

“i just,” you mumble, your voice barely audible, “wanted you to notice me. back during the group project, you never looked at me. just your laptop. even when i wore that stupid short skirt.”

he goes silent, his fingers pausing where they’re tracing lazy circles on your hip. then, in a voice so small it barely carries: “…you wore that for me?”

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

he lets out the tiniest, most violated gasp, like you’ve just rewritten his entire reality. “i thought you were just one of those girls who always looked hot. like, default setting.” his voice cracks on the last word, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips.

“no,” you say, your tone playful despite the exhaustion. “i was trying to seduce the dumbass with the mecha desktop background.”

he muffles a sob into your chest, half-laugh, half-groan, his arms tightening around you. “i love mecha…” he says, like it’s the most tragic thing in the world, and you hum, stroking his hair, your fingers catching in the sweaty strands.

“i know.”

a long pause settles over you, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. the fairy lights twinkle softly, casting shadows across the room, and your perfume lingers, mixing with the musk of sex. his breathing slows, but he doesn’t let go, his body still pressed to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

then he lifts his head, his eyes serious, stripped of the wild edge they had before. “can i… hold you properly? not like—y’know—breeding press. like, real holding.” his cheeks flush, like he’s embarrassed to admit he wants something soft after all that.

“you already folded me in half like a love letter,” you whisper, but you shift into his arms anyway, letting him pull you close. he wraps around you, tight, needy, his hands trembling like he’s still processing you’re real, not just pixels on a screen. his hold is desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, every curve, every soft inch, in case this never happens again.

“don’t make fun of me,” he says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “i think my crush on you just speedran into obsession.” there’s a rawness to it, a confession that feels too big for the quiet, but it lands soft, like he’s finally letting it out.

“you’re the one who begged for one more while crying into my shoulder,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“stop,” he groans, burying his face deeper, his arms tightening like he could squeeze the embarrassment out of himself. “i’m gonna die.”

you press a kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, your lips lingering on his sweaty skin. “you’re not gonna die,” you say, your tone soft but firm. “you’re gonna eat me out on friday and wear your glasses while you do it.”

he whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound, his hips twitching involuntarily against your thigh. “say less,” he mumbles, his voice wrecked, but there’s a spark in it, like you’ve just lit something in him again. you giggle, wrapping your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, your skin sticking to his in the humid air.

and in the quiet, as you’re both drifting off—sore, sticky, still catching your breath—he says it again. not ruined this time, not even possessive. just low. certain. like he’s already planning his next sin.

“mine.”

you don’t answer. just smile into the pillow, heart pounding. because maybe you are. and maybe you’ll let him prove it again.

especially once he finds out what cosplay you ordered last week.

friday’s going to be filthy.

[rev4erie]

she won't go away— a sukuna fic

art creds to to_0fu (twitter/x)

pairing — college sukuna! x reader

synopsis — of all the people in your chemistry course, you get stuck with ryomen sukuna—the most insufferable, arrogant asshole on campus. he barely does any work, runs his mouth like it’s a sport, and somehow manages to make your life even more exhausting than it already is. if this project doesn’t kill you, he just might.

wc — 26k (ONLY 1K ABOVE THE EXPECTED WC YAAAY)

warnings — explicit sexual content (unprotected sex), sukuna is quite mean in the beginning, possibly incorrect depiction of frat culture (spare me i am not american), lots of sexual jokes, brief tiny smidge of angst, reader is a bad bitch, mentions of feeling insecure, choso and toji are gym himbos.

“Please, anyone but him, professor—” You try begging, hands gripping the edge of the desk like your life depends on it. You know it’s useless, but desperation makes a fool out of you.

Professor Shimizu sighs, sympathy flashing across her face, but it’s gone in an instant. She adjusts her glasses, pushing them up her nose, and gives you a rueful smile. “I understand your concerns,” she says, “and if it were up to me, I’d happily rearrange the groups, but the pairings were assigned by the department. Something about fostering academic cooperation.” She shakes her head like she, too, thinks it’s bullshit. “My hands are tied.”

Your stomach sinks. Fostering academic cooperation? With him? You’d have better luck reasoning with a brick wall—one that could talk back and insult you for fun. You turn back toward the class, eyes darting between the clusters of students already deep in discussion. Some of them look at you with poorly concealed amusement, others with pity. And then there’s him, sitting by the window, looking positively bored like this whole situation is an inconvenience. 

Ryomen Sukuna.

The campus heartthrob. The golden boy of the mechanical engineering department. A nightmare wrapped in a six-foot-something frame of smugness and muscle. A nightmare that you unfortunately have to share your CHEM10002 course with (why he’d picked a premed course as an elective was beyond you) You hate him. And not in the petty ugh, he’s annoying kind of way. It’s deeper than that. He’s insufferable. Arrogant. Egotistical. The type of guy who always has a girl in his bed but never the same one twice. He walks around campus like he owns the place, flashing that sharp grin, that lazy confidence that makes people—girls, especially—fawn over him despite his reputation. Cocky, rude, impossible to work with.

And now you’re stuck with him. Oh, hell no. Your body stiffens. No way. No fucking way. Like hell you’re going to spend the next few weeks working with him. You whip your head back to Professor Shimizu, grasping at anything—anything—to get out of this. “What if I did extra credit? A research paper? A presentation? Anything,” you plead, voice tight. “I’ll take a lower grade. Dock my participation. I don’t care—just not him.”

She sighs, but it’s not exasperated, just… tired. “I appreciate your enthusiasm,” she says, like you’re asking for more work because you love learning instead of trying to escape an actual nightmare. “But, again, I can’t change the pairings. And as much as I’d love to give you an alternative assignment, the department is very strict on this. It’s meant to ‘challenge students to collaborate beyond personal preference.’” She air-quotes it, which means she definitely thinks it’s bullshit. You slump, stomach twisting with something bitter. Collaboration? With Sukuna? The only thing he collaborates on is making everyone’s life harder.

You grit your teeth, hard. He’s lounging now, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other lazily spinning a pen between his fingers while he lazily eyes you from where he’s manspreading in his seat. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying, and that’s what pisses you off the most—he never tries. Not in class, not with people, not with anything. Everything just seems to work out for him anyway.

You hate that you know that. You really hate that you know that. But you’ve known him long enough. Long enough to remember—

Freshman Year

It was something small. Stupid, even. But you still remember the heat of humiliation crawling up your neck, the way people laughed under their breath, how he barely even looked at you afterward, like it hadn’t mattered.  You had been in a required first-year seminar, and the professor called on you to answer a question. It wasn’t hard, but the nerves got the best of you—you stumbled over your words, your voice wavered.

And then you heard it. A tsk, followed by a lazy, mocking lilt:

“Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.”

Heat flushed through you, the classroom suddenly too bright, too small. A few people chuckled—some outright laughed. You had swallowed thickly, willing yourself to focus, to get through the answer. When class ended, you stormed out, ignoring the lingering stares, the murmured that was brutal from some guy behind you. But Sukuna? He didn’t even glance your way. Because to him, it wasn’t anything. It wasn’t worth a second thought. And now, here you are, stuck working with the one person who had made you feel like an idiot before you even had the chance to prove yourself. 

You hadn’t even thought about it that much at the time—not really. But later, when you were alone, it festered. You were just a freshman. Barely out of high school, still figuring things out, still nervous about speaking up in a room full of people smarter, older, better than you. It wasn’t even like you got the answer wrong—you had just hesitated. That was all it took. And it was stupid, so stupid, but after that day, you started thinking twice before speaking in class. Before raising your hand. Before answering anything unless you were absolutely sure you wouldn’t trip over your words. And god, you hate that it got to you. It’s not like it was some big, scarring moment. It was one second of his life. A second he probably doesn’t even remember.

But it was yours. It wasn’t just that one time. There was another. Worse, somehow, because this time, he hadn’t even been speaking to you—just about you. It was late freshman year, after you’d spent the whole semester training yourself not to stutter, not to hesitate, not to embarrass yourself again. You were doing better. At least, you thought you were. Until one afternoon, outside the student center, when you walked past Sukuna and his group of friends—Toji, Choso, Mahito, and a couple of others, all leaned back on the benches like they owned the place.

You weren’t eavesdropping. You didn’t mean to hear it. But then—

“—was struggling so bad, I thought she was gonna pass out.”

A few chuckles. A low whistle from Toji. 

“Like, just say it, dumbass,” Sukuna scoffed, sharp, mocking. “Or at least commit. That shit was painful to listen to.”

Your stomach dropped. You don’t know who they were talking about. Maybe some other poor freshman who had choked on their words mid-discussion. Maybe a random classmate. Maybe—

Your face burned. You forced yourself to keep walking, head down, pretending like it wasn’t about you, like you weren’t suddenly back in that seminar with his voice in your ears and everyone’s quiet snickers pressing into your skin. He didn’t even look at you as you passed. Of course, he didn’t. He probably didn’t even remember it was the same person. And now, three years later, you have to sit across from Ryomen Sukuna, the campus asshole, the man who probably hasn’t stuttered a day in his goddamn life, and pretend you don’t want to walk out of this classroom and never come back.  You exhale sharply, pressing your fingers into your temples.

This is fine. You’ve dealt with annoying people before. You’ve had to work with partners who contributed nothing, who slacked off, who treated group projects like free rides. Sukuna is just another roadblock—one with a stupid face and a worse attitude.

And, honestly? It’s not even about the stuttering thing anymore. That was years ago, and you’d be damned if you let some insignificant moment from freshman year shake you now. Just because he made you insecure about one thing doesn’t mean you’re meek. You’ve worked too hard to let this get to you. So, with all the grace you can muster, you pull out the chair across from him, stiffly sit down, and say, “Hi, I’m—”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. Doesn’t acknowledge you. Doesn’t even pretend to try. Instead, he leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head, and immediately starts talking to Toji, who’s standing nearby.

“So, dinner at that steak place tonight?”

“Yeah,” Toji mutters, tapping at his phone. “Gonna see if they’ve got space.”

Sukuna scoffs. “They always have space.”

“No, dumbass, last time we went, they were booked.”

“They let us in last time,” Sukuna corrects, smirking, and that smugness makes your eye twitch. Are you being fucking ignored? You glance between them, incredulous, and then say, “I’m literally talking to you.”

That finally gets his attention. Slowly, like you’re the inconvenience here, Sukuna turns his head toward you. His gaze flicks over you, slow, unimpressed, like he’s barely registering you exist. You square your shoulders. “This project is quite hefty. We need to split up the research so we’re not scrambling at the last minute.”

He stares at you for a moment, blank, and then—

He rolls his eyes.

“Jesus,” he mutters, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “You’re one of those, huh?”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

“The tryhard type. Gets assigned a little homework and suddenly thinks they’re running a Fortune 500 company.” He tilts his head, smirking. “Relax, woman. It’s just a project.”

Woman. Your jaw clenches so hard it hurts. 

“That ‘little homework’ is forty five percent of our grade,” you bite out.

“Don’t give a fuck,” he grunts, sounding bored.

You inhale deeply. “So, I was thinking—”

But he groans, dragging a tattooed hand down his face. “Are we seriously doing this now?”

“Yes, we’re seriously doing this now,” you snap. He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring. “God, you’re fucking annoying.”

You’re not sure whether you should be offended or hurt. On one hand, obviously as a normal human being, being spoken to like this from a person you’re quite literally talking to for the first time is bound to hurt your feelings. On the other hand, this guy’s dickhead personality is kind of well known through your university. Your grip on your pen tightens, but you keep your voice even.

 “I’m annoying because I want to pass?”

”You’re annoying because you talk way too fuckin’ much.”

 That stings more than you’d like to admit. You grit your teeth, ignoring the way your stomach tightens, and push forward anyway. “If we divide the research today, we won’t have to meet up as often,” you say, firmly. “I assume you’ll want to do as little work as possible, so let’s just—”

“Holy shit.” Sukuna pushes his chair back with a loud scrape, fixing you with an exasperated look. “Do you ever shut up?” You blink, stunned. Toji snickers.

“Oh, come on,” Sukuna scoffs, throwing up a hand. “You’re gonna sit there all wide-eyed like I just kicked your fuckin’ puppy? You started it.” Your fingers twitch against the table. “Started what?” you ask, voice dangerously calm. “This whole thing—acting like I’m some bum ass delinquent who needs a babysitter.” His eyes narrow. “If you wanna play boss, go find some other loser to be a bitch to.”

Your patience snaps. “Or you could just not be a lazy asshole. Do you lack brain cells? You’ve seriously told me to shut up like 5 times in the span of about ten minutes. Do you have a problem where you can’t focus?” The air between you shifts.

Sukuna’s jaw tics. His expression darkens, something sharp flashing through his eyes, but then his lips pull into something crueler than a smirk—something with edges, something dangerous.

“You think I’m lazy? Got somethin’ wrong with me because I can’t take your nerdy bitching?” he asks, voice low. You hesitate, but only for a second. “Glad you have the ability to comprehend what I said.” That makes him grin. “And you think I’m an asshole?”

“Yes.”

He hums, tilting his head. Then he leans forward, just slightly, elbows resting on the table. His voice drops into something smug, mocking—

“Then why the fuck are you still talking to me?”

Your blood boils.

What the fuck is his problem?

You lean forward too, matching him, refusing to shrink under his gaze. “Because I have to, dumbass,” you snap. “I tried to change my group. I begged. I offered to do extra credit. I would have written a whole goddamn thesis if it meant not sitting across from you—but guess what?” You gesture sharply between you. “I’m stuck with you.”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Tragic.”

You let out a frustrated breath, gripping the edge of the table so hard your knuckles turn white. “So, as much as I’d love to pretend you don’t exist—”

“Then do it,” he interrupts, tone dry.

You blink. “What?”

“If you wanna pretend I don’t exist, go ahead,” he drawls, leaning back lazily. “Do the whole project yourself. You’ll probably enjoy it, since you’re clearly getting off on playing group leader.”

“Oh, my god.” You clench your fists, barely restraining yourself. “Why are you such a dickhead? Parents not teach you basic respect?”

“Because you don’t shut the fuck up,” he snaps, finally looking genuinely irritated.

Your lips part, incredulous. “I’m literally just trying to do the fucking project? Like any normal human being?”

“No, you’re trying to control shit,” Sukuna says flatly. “Like this is some big deal—like I haven’t passed a million of these useless classes already.”

You stare at him. “You think this is useless?”

He smirks. “Yeah.”

Oh, you hate him.

“Some of us actually give a shit about our grades, Sukuna.”

“You know my name? Cute.” You inhale sharply through your nose, trying to stay calm, trying not to launch your textbook at his stupid, perfect face. “I don’t care how many classes you’ve passed,” you say, voice taut. “You’re doing this one with me. I care about this project. And if I have to suffer through working with you, you can at least pretend to give a shit.” He tilts his head, mockingly thoughtful. “Mm. No.”

You exhale slowly, trying—failing—to stop your hands from curling into fists.

“I swear to god—”

“What, huh?” he cuts in, voice dripping with condescension. “You gonna whine to the professor again?” He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Pathetic.”

Your jaw tightens. He grins, like he’s won something. Like he’s getting exactly what he wants—like this is a game to him, something to toy with, something to waste his time on. And you refuse to let him win. So, you straighten your spine, lift your chin, and meet his gaze without flinching. “Fine,” you say, voice steely. “If you want to half-ass this, be my guest. Just don’t expect me to pick up your slack.”

Sukuna watches you, amused, as if he’s waiting for you to crack. When you don’t, he smirks.

“We’ll see.”

You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to keep your voice level.

“Well, unfortunately for you,” you say stiffly, “you actually have to do your share.”

Sukuna snorts. “Says who?”

“The professor.” You cross your arms. “Since apparently, students have been slacking on group projects, we have to submit proof of collaboration—meeting logs, progress updates, actual proof that we’re working together.” His expression darkens. You fight the urge to smirk. Suffer.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he mutters.

“Nope.” You press your lips together, trying to hold back your pure satisfaction. “So, congratulations, Sukuna. You have to meet up with me at least once a week.” He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring at you like you’re personally ruining his life. “You’re telling me I have to sit through this shit every week?”

“Yep.”

“You specifically?”

“Yep.”

Sukuna groans, dragging a hand through the unruly pink strands of his hair. Then, just as you’re about to remind him that this is literally his problem for being a shit student, he lifts his head—eyes raking over you in a slow, lazy once-over. And then, he smirks. You freeze.

“What?” you snap, immediately on edge.

His smirk widens.

“Nah, I was just thinking,” he drawls, tipping his head back against his chair. “If you were hotter, this would be way less painful.”

Your stomach drops. The words hit you like a slap, and for a second, all you can do is sit there, stunned, completely caught off guard by how casual—how easy—it is for him to say something like that. Like it’s just true. Like it’s a fact. Your fingers dig into your sleeve. And the worst part? It’s not even the insult itself that stings—it’s the sheer, blatant dismissal. The fact that he looks at you and immediately decides you’re not worth even pretending to be interested in. As if you were hoping for his attention. As if you were seeking his approval. 

“Yeah?” you say, voice flat, emotionless. “Well, if you were smarter, I wouldn’t have to carry your useless ass through this class.” His grin falters, just barely, but you see it—and for once, it’s your turn to smirk. You lean forward, matching his posture, tilting your head mockingly.

“Guess we’re both disappointed, huh?” 

For a moment, Sukuna just stares at you. And you don’t miss the way his jaw tightens, how his fingers twitch against the table like he’s fighting the urge to rip you apart. Good. Then—he exhales sharply through his nose, tipping his chair back slightly, acting unfazed even though you saw the flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Damn,” he muses, voice slow, dragging. “Didn’t know you had a mouth on you.”

“Yeah?” You tilt your head. “Didn’t know you gave a shit.”

Sukuna scoffs. “I don’t.”

“Then shut the fuck up and do your assigned work.”

He lets out a low, mean laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today.”

“Generous?” You nearly choke. “You’ve been nothing but a dick since the moment I sat down.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Could be worse.”

You want to strangle him. Instead, you inhale sharply through your nose, pressing your palms flat against the table before forcing yourself to stay on track. “Whatever,” you say, shaking your head. “Here’s the deal: we have to meet at least once a week. I don’t care where. I don’t care when. But we need to get the work done, and I need proof that you were actually present—because if we don’t, we both fail.”

Sukuna glares at you, as if the very concept of responsibility offends him.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face again. “You’re really gonna be a hardass about this, huh?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t care about failing?”

“Not really.”

Your eyes narrow. “Then why are you even in this class?”

At this, he finally drops his chair back down onto all four legs, leaning in slightly. “Let’s get one thing straight,” he says, voice lower, more serious. “I don’t need this shit. I’m here because my old man thinks I should at least pretend to give a fuck about college.” He smirks, sharp and taunting. “But don’t get it twisted—I don’t actually give a fuck.” You pause, studying him, trying to piece together the weight behind his words. Of course, you know he comes from money. Everyone does. The Ryomen family name carries weight, old money, power, prestige—so it makes sense that college, for him, is just some bullshit obligation rather than a means to a future. Still, something about the way he says it—how bitter it sounds—sticks with you. Not that you care.

You roll your eyes. “Right. Got it. Poor little rich boy.”

His smirk drops.

For a second, there’s silence.

Then—

“You know what?” Sukuna says, voice eerily calm. “Fine. I’ll meet up with you.”

You blink, a little thrown off by how easily he gives in.

“…Okay?”

“But.” His gaze darkens, and the corner of his mouth twitches, almost like he’s daring you to argue. “You work around my schedule.”

Your stomach twists with irritation. “That’s not—”

“Not my problem,” he cuts in smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t do morning meetups. I don’t do last-minute bullshit. And if you start bitching about how I ‘don’t take this seriously,’” he mocks, voice lilting high, “I will walk out and leave you with an automatic fail. Or whatever the fuck happens to your grade if the other person doesn’t do their part. Got it?” Your blood boils. But what can you do? You already tried to get reassigned. So, through gritted teeth, you say, “Fine.”

Sukuna smirks.

“Good girl.”

–

You should have known it was going to be hell the second he suggested meeting at the East Wing library. It’s the furthest damn library on campus—twenty minutes from the dorms, uphill, and completely out of the way. Not a single other student in your class would have chosen that location. And yet, when you tried suggesting the much closer, more convenient library, Sukuna had just shrugged, barely sparing you a glance as he packed up his bag.

“Aw, did you forget that I’m in charge of where we meet up?,” he drawled, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “That sounds like a you problem.”

And just like that, the decision was final. So now, here you are, twenty minutes later, climbing the last flight of stairs to the East Wing library, already in a foul mood before the study session has even started. And when you finally get there? You find Sukuna kicked back in his chair at one of the study tables, feet up, scrolling through his phone like he’s waiting on room service instead of his own damn groupmate.

No laptop. No notes No book. Just his phone. Un-fucking-believable. You drop your bag onto the chair across from him, loudly, but he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge your presence at all.

“Seriously?” you deadpan, arms crossing. Sukuna exhales through his nose, still not looking at you. “Took you long enough.” You almost black out from rage.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, voice flat. “My dorm is on the opposite side of campus.” He hums, barely acknowledging your words, his focus glued to his phone. You take a deep breath, count to three, and pull out your laptop. “Okay. So, the project—”

Before you can even finish, his phone rings. And instead of silencing it, like a normal human being, Sukuna just smirks and answers it, right there in front of you. “Yo,” he says lazily, stretching his arms behind his head. Your eye twitches. The person on the other end—you recognise the voice as Choso—says something that makes Sukuna huff a laugh, shaking his head.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m at the library,” he mutters. “With that chick from class.” Your hand tightens around your pen. So he didn’t even know your name. Great. And you two were supposedly paired for the rest of this semester? You wanted to fucking die. Not even two minutes in, and he’s already testing your patience. Sukuna leans back, grinning as Choso says something else. “Nah, it’s just her,” Sukuna says, completely offhand. “No eye candy here, bro.”

Your grip tightens around your pen. Did this dumbass seriously just say that out loud? In a library? In the middle of your study session? You drop your pen onto the table with a sharp thud, but the sting in your chest lingers. It’s not like you expected anything different from him. It’s not like you cared.

…Except you do. Just a little. Not because you want him to think you’re pretty—fuck no—but because there’s something uniquely humiliating about being dismissed like that. Like your presence is some minor inconvenience he has to tolerate. Your jaw locks, and you square your shoulders, forcing the feeling down. Screw him. You’re not here to impress him. You’re here to get your damn work done. Sukuna finally glances up, raising a brow like he just now realized you’re sitting there. You stare at him, completely done. He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. You look like someone stuck a stick up your ass.”

“Genuinely do you have a mental illness or some shit?,” you shoot back, your irritation reaching an all-time high. “We have a chemistry project that’s 45% of our grade, and you’re sitting here talking about—”

“Bro, hold on,” Sukuna suddenly says into the receiver, cutting you off mid-rant. He holds his hand up like he’s physically silencing you, turning his head away. “Choso, you hear this? Shorty’s about to pop a blood vessel over some homework. All ‘cause I said she isn’t some eye candy. Women, right?”

Your mouth falls open.

Did he just—

“I— You—”

Your brain short-circuits for a second, tripping over the sheer audacity of him. Sukuna leans back in his chair, grinning up at you like a complete bastard. “You need to get laid or something?” A beat of silence. Your entire body stills. And then, without hesitation, you lean forwards and rip his phone out of his hand and slam it face-down in front of you.

“The fuck?” Sukuna scoffs, finally looking genuinely surprised for the first time all day. Then, his smirk returns, and he props his chin on his hand, clearly amused. “You got some nerve,” he muses. 

“And you have the IQ of a fucking vegetable, but we’re still here.”

Sukuna huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Damn. What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“My panties in a twist?” you scoff, staring at him in pure disbelief. “You refuse to work, you talk shit about the way I look while I’m sitting right here, and you—”

“You are sitting right there, and you’re not really hot enough for me to notice.” he interrupts smoothly. “What, you want me to lie?” 

Your eye twitches. “You could at least pretend to have an ounce of human decency—”

“Pfft,” Sukuna snorts. “For you?” Your nostrils flare. Sukuna just grins. “Oh, come on,” he drawls, waving a hand. “You’re taking this way too personally.”

“How—” You press your fingers to your temples, inhaling sharply. “How else am I supposed to take it when you—”

“And you,” Sukuna counters casually, “are a fucking headache.” You slam your hand against the table, startling the people sitting nearby. “At least I’m a headache with a work ethic. You’re a pain in the ass and can’t focus for like what? 2 seconds? Without spacing out.”

“Congrats,” he deadpans. “You want a gold star?”

You want him to get hit by a bus. 

Sukuna shakes his head, leaning back again, still looking far too entertained. “Look, we both know you’re gonna do most of the work anyway,” he says lazily. “So why not just save yourself the stress and accept it?”

“Because this is a group project—”

“Yeah, and I’m in the group. So technically, that counts.” You inhale sharply, barely keeping yourself from lunging across the table.

“Swear to god, bro,” Sukuna snorts, having picked up his phone from where you’d slammed it down, resuming his call with Choso, “I got this chick sending me, like, three nudes back-to-back last night. Shit was insane.”

“You are,” you say, voice flat, “fucking disgusting.” Sukuna smirks, clearly thriving off your irritation. “Oh? Why, ‘cause I get pussy?”

“No,” you snap, willing for your cheeks not to redden with the way he speaks so crudely. “Because we’re supposed to be working.”

He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. I got time.” You scoff. “Oh, so you do know how deadlines work?”

“Damn,” Sukuna mutters, shaking his head, lips curling into an annoyed frown. “You’re really pressed over this, huh?”

“This is not happening,” you mutter under your breath. “I am not about to let some oversized thug skate his way through a semester while I—”

“Thug?” Sukuna repeats, laughing. “You mean scholar? You hear that, Choso?” He puts his phone on speaker. “She just called me a thug.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Choso’s voice comes through the speaker, lazy and unbothered. “She’s right.” Sukuna snaps his head down at his phone. “The fuck?” 

You bark out a sharp laugh, your first real one of the evening. Sukuna rolls his eyes and hangs up, tossing his phone onto the table with an annoyed click of his tongue. “Choso’s a bitch,” he mutters.

“And you’re a waste of oxygen.” Sukuna grins at you. “You’re a piece of shit.” You snatch your textbook off the table and throw it at him, eye twitching when he easily manages to catch it.

“Oh my god, please kill yourself and do us all a favour” Sukuna laughs at that, tilting his head like he’s genuinely entertained by how close you are to losing your shit. “C’mon,” he drawls, placing his phone face-down on the table—finally giving you some attention. “Let’s hear it, then. What’s our big, bad, super important assignment?”

You exhale sharply, flipping open your notes. “It’s a research-based chemistry project. We’re supposed to choose a topic related to reaction mechanisms and provide a full breakdown of the process. That includes—”

Sukuna leans back. “Boring.” You snap your notebook shut again. “Oh my god.” He grins. “This is really your shit, huh?”

“What?”

“The nerdy little projects,” he teases, resting his chin on his hand. “Bet you’re thriving right now.” You glare. “I am thriving off the idea of you getting hit by a bus.” Sukuna just chuckles, shaking his head. “Violent,” he muses. “Didn’t think you had it in you.” You press your fingers against your temples. “I hate you.”

“Yeah?” He smirks. “That’s cute.” You inhale sharply. Exhale. Inhale again. This is fine. This is totally fine. He is just a guy. This is just a project. And you are not going to let him get under your skin. You open your notebook again, forcing yourself to focus. “Our topic is—”

Sukuna clicks his tongue. “Ooooor,” he interrupts, leaning forward with a lazy smirk, “you can just shut up and do it yourself.”

You pause. You blink at him, barely processing what he just said. He shrugs. “You’re good at this shit. I’m not. Seems fair.” Your jaw clenches. “Haven’t you gotten it through your thick skull? Even if I wanted to, we have to constantly update all the meeting logs, and–.”

Sukuna just smirks wider, cutting you off in true Sukuna fashion. “But it’d be so much easier if you did all of it, wouldn’t it? And those fucking collaboration logs can be faked.” You stare at him. You are going to lose your mind. You are actually going to lose your fucking mind. You inhale one last time, roll your shoulders back, and meet his gaze with renewed determination. “Let’s get one thing straight,” you say, voice sharp. “If you refuse to contribute, I will tell our professor. And you know that they take the reported behaviour for consideration the next time they mark a group assignment from literally any other class, yeah? ”

Sukuna snorts. “Snitch.” You glare harder. “I don’t care.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head like you’re just so exhausting to deal with.

“Such a pain in the ass,” he mutters, stretching his arms above his head. “But whatever. We’ll see.” 

You stare him down. You know what that means. It means he has no intention of doing shit. You exhale slowly, clenching your jaw. This is going to be the longest semester of your life.

–

You try to keep your composure. You really, really do. But after a week of dealing with Ryomen fucking Sukuna, you’re already at your breaking point. It’s bad enough that he refuses to contribute anything to the project. Bad enough that every time you try to get him to focus, he leans back in his chair like some smug, insufferable prince, making a point to not listen.

“Oh, come on,” he drawls one day in class, stretching lazily in his seat while you sit next to him, barely keeping yourself from strangling him. His shirt rides up just a bit, flashing a sliver of tattooed skin– and a happy trail– and you look away on instinct. He deserves no admiration. “You love this shit. It’s kind of sweet, honestly. Doing all the work for me like this?”

Your grip tightens on your pen, knuckles going white. “I wouldn’t have to if you actually did your part, dumbass.”

Unfortunately, the guy was worse than you had anticipated, so begrudgingly, only once or twice you had taken up his slack, deeming that he wouldn’t get into too much trouble even if you complained to the professor. It wasn’t too bad considering it was just the introductory part of the project, but you would probably complain if he pulled this shit in the middle of the semester when things got serious. Sukuna just smirks. That smirk. The kind that makes you want to throw something at his face. “Do I, though?”

Your eye twitches. “Yes.”

“Because, from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve already taken care of most of it.” He gestures lazily to your open notes—your notes, where half the research under his name is written in your own handwriting because you were sick of waiting for him to do it. “Appreciate the help, baby.” Your jaw clenches. “You—”

You exhale sharply, fingers flexing against your notebook. You swear, if murder wasn’t illegal—

Across the table, Choso (They had been lounging here with him even before you had arrived, and you were sleep deprived and tired from the venture to the East wing from your dorm, so you kept your mouth shut about their presence) chuckles. “Damn, Sukuna,” he muses, lips quirking as he glances between the two of you. “She’s really out here doing your degree for you.” Toji snorts. “Shit, at this point, just put her name on your diploma.”

You snap your head toward them, scowling. “I’m not—”

“Oh, but you kinda are,” Sukuna interjects smoothly, smirking. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure to give you a nice lil’ thank you when I graduate.” You glare. “I don’t want your fucking thanks. I want you to do your damn work.” Sukuna just clicks his tongue and leans back, propping his feet up on the chair next to him like he has not a single care in the world. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, so fucking dismissive. “We’ll see.”

—

It gets worse. Because apparently, refusing to do work and making you look like an idiot in front of his friends isn’t enough. No, of course not. Sukuna has to make sure you suffer. So, during one of your scheduled study sessions (during the most odd times of the day), while you’re actively trying to go over the research, Sukuna—in all his dickhead glory—leans back in his chair, tilts his head toward the nearest girl, and flashes that cocky, stupid toothy smile of his.

“Hey,” he purrs, voice dropping into that low, slow tone that has half the campus wrapped around his fucking finger. “You got a pencil?” The girl blinks—clearly flustered—before fumbling through her bag. “Uh—yeah! Yeah, here.” Sukuna smirks, taking it from her fingers way too slowly, thumb brushing against hers. The poor girl sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening like she’s just touched a live wire. He leans in just slightly, voice dropping to something just for her. “Thanks, cutie. Real lifesaver.”

The girl giggles, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. “You’re welcome, Sukuna.” You knew he was an asshole. You knew that his stupid, irritating grin made girls fall over themselves. But this? This was just blatant disrespect. You were right there. He was doing this on purpose. And sure enough, when you glance up, Sukuna’s already watching you—mouth twitching, eyes glinting with amusement. You slam your book shut. “Are you done?” Sukuna raises an eyebrow, playing dumb. “What?” You gesture vaguely toward the poor girl, who’s still blushing and dazed from his attention. “With your little… whatever this is?”

His smirk stretches wider. “Jealous?” 

Your nostrils flare. “I’m annoyed.” He hums, twirling the pencil between his fingers. “Could’ve fooled me.” You clench your fists under the table, swallowing the very real urge to dump your coffee on his head. You refuse—refuse—to let him get under your skin. So, instead, you take a breath, roll your shoulders back, and force your voice to stay level. “Are you actually going to contribute today, or should I just log that you didn’t show up?”

Sukuna laughs—loud and unbothered. “Damn,” he drawls, leaning forward on his elbows. “You’re kinda a hardass, huh?” You stare him down, unwavering. “And you’re a waste of fucking time.” His grin widens, something sharper, meaner curling at the edges of it.

“Now, that’s just mean,” he muses, tapping the pencil against the table. “What happened, sweetheart? You just pissed off, or do you just need to get fucked? Seriously with the way you act so fuckin’ bitchy all the time, I swear you act like you haven’t had dick in ages.”

You still for half a second. Then your jaw locks. Your entire body runs hot, blood boiling, because what the fuck? You’re already on edge, and now he’s going there? You let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking your head. “You speak so disgustingly, you know that? So weird and perverted...” Sukuna leans back again, sprawled out, totally relaxed. “What? I’m just saying.” He gestures vaguely in your direction. “Maybe that’s why you’re so uptight all the time.” Across the room, the girl from earlier glances over, eyes flicking between you and Sukuna like she’s witnessing something amusing. You refuse to give her—or him—the satisfaction. You inhale sharply, steadying yourself. And then, voice cold and clipped, you meet his gaze dead-on.

“Do your fucking work, Sukuna.” He grins. And then, of course, he doesn’t.

–

The lecture hall is freezing, the air-conditioning cranked too high like the university is trying to keep students awake through sheer environmental hostility. It doesn’t work. You’re exhausted. After back-to-back shifts at work, an avalanche of coursework, and the black hole of stress that is your chem project with Sukuna, you’re running on fumes. The moment you step into the lecture hall, your eyes instinctively scan for the back row. If—when—you inevitably start nodding off, you don’t want the professor clocking it. You sink into a chair near the corner, stretching your legs out with a sigh. Heavy-lidded eyes drift toward the front, barely focusing on the professor setting up slides. You could close your eyes just for a second—

The seat next to you creaks. A familiar presence drops beside you, and you know who it is before you even turn your head. Sukuna. Of course. You don’t acknowledge him. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll take the hint and—

His knee knocks against yours, jostling you just as your head dips forward. Your body tenses, and you snap a glare in his direction. He’s manspreading like he owns the place, legs sprawled wide, one arm slung over the back of your chair like this is his personal space and not a public lecture hall. He’s wearing one of those long-sleeve compression shirts that clings to his frame, every inked line of muscle pressing against the fabric. Not that you care. But the sheer arrogance of it is annoying. You scowl, shifting as far away from him as possible. “Why are you here?”

“Dunno,” he drawls, voice low and amused. “Felt like it.”  You roll your eyes and turn back toward the front, trying to focus on the professor’s voice. Your brain is barely keeping up with the lecture, exhaustion pressing against your skull like a weight. Sukuna doesn’t let up. He leans in just enough to make his presence known. “Damn,” he muses, eyes dragging over your face with something unreadable. “You look rough. Didn’t get the chance to put on concealer or whatever you women use to cover up that?” The words land heavier than they should. It’s the way he says it. Careless. Blunt. No humor to soften the edge.  And you know you’re not ugly– the opposite in fact, but–

Your face drops before you can stop it. You don’t have the energy to fight back today. You just swallow whatever sharp retort you could say, fix your gaze on the front of the lecture hall, and pretend like he doesn’t exist.  Sukuna notices. For the first time in ever, he doesn’t get the reaction he expects. No snark, no glare, no half-assed insult thrown back at him. Just… silence. You don’t even look at him. Something weird stirs in his chest, something unfamiliar and fucking irritating. It sits in the back of his throat, in the pit of his stomach, but he ignores it—brushes it off like it’s nothing. He doesn’t say another word for the rest of class.

–

By the time the second week of working with Sukuna rolls around, you’re wrecked. Sleep-deprived, overworked, running purely on caffeine and sheer spite. Between your job, your other classes, and this hellish project, there isn’t a single moment to breathe. You’ve been taking shifts at work to make rent, pulling late nights cramming for exams, and somehow, despite your best efforts, Sukuna is still making your life miserable. The last thing you need is another study session with him. You drag yourself into the East Wing Library, exhausted and bitter about it. The East Wing is so far from your usual haunts, practically on the other side of campus, and the walk here in the late afternoon heat is hellish. You mumble complaints under your breath the entire way—something about how your feet hurt, how this library is ugly anyway, how he should’ve come to your spot instead—but you know Sukuna won’t care. He probably won’t even listen.

Sure enough, he’s already lounging at one of the study tables when you arrive, acting like he’s been here for hours when in reality, he probably sat down two minutes ago. He’s slouched in his chair, all sprawled out and insufferable, wearing that same damn compression shirt that makes him look more like a gym rat than a student. His legs are spread so wide he’s practically taking up half the table. In fact, the table looks small compared to how long his legs are. You resist the urge to drop your bag onto his lap just to make him move. Instead, you sink into the chair across from him and immediately rest your forehead against your palm. “Kill me,” you mutter.

Sukuna barely acknowledges you. “You look like you’re already halfway there.”

You sigh heavily. You don’t even have the energy to glare at him. “Gee, thanks.” He’s watching you. You can feel it. That lazy, assessing stare, like he’s about to say something that’ll make you want to slap him. Something that’ll make that weird, uncomfortable feeling go down your spine.

And then—

Nothing. You brace yourself for the insult, for the inevitable Damn, you look fucked up but it never comes. He just clicks his tongue, looking back at his laptop screen, eyebrows furrowed. You squint at him. Weird. But whatever. You don’t have the time or patience to dissect the mysteries of Ryomen Sukuna’s behavior. You flip open your notes, rubbing at your eyes. “Okay, let’s just get this over with,” you mumble. “I still have an essay to write after this.”

Sukuna stretches, the fabric of his compression shirt shifting as he raises his arms above his head. His shirt rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of inked skin carved just above his hip. You don’t mean to notice, but you do—because of course, he’s the type of asshole who shows off his tattoos like they’re a personality trait. You snap your eyes away before he catches you looking. “Relax, woman,” he drawls, voice dripping with lazy amusement. “No need to be so fucking tense.”

Your grip tightens around your pen. Woman? Again? You level him with an exasperated glare. “Tense? I’ve been doing our project by myself while you sit on your ass, and I’m the one who’s tense?” You scoff. “And stop calling me woman, you sound like you get life advice from Andrew Tate.” That earns you a sharp, wolfish grin. “Are you not a woman?” he counters smoothly, tilting his head. Before you can answer, his eyes deliberately drop—slow, pointed—trailing down to your chest. He doesn’t even try to be subtle about it, and the sheer audacity of this man has you gaping at him, heat rushing to your face in a mixture of anger and secondhand embarrassment. Your jaw clenches, your hands curling into fists beneath the table. “Are you fucking serious?” you grit out, voice low and sharp.

Sukuna just smirks, lazy and unbothered, flicking his eyes back up to yours with a knowing look. “What? Just checking.”

You resist the urge to lunge across the table and strangle him on the spot. Just breathe. Don’t get expelled for homicide. 

“Also, Andrew Tate? Seriously, woman? What, you think I’d listen to a broke, bald bitch like him?” Sukuna leans forward, arms resting on the table, shoulders broad and imposing. “You’ve got some real shitty assumptions about me.”

“I’ve got accurate assumptions about you,” you correct.

He just smirks. “You say that like I’ve done nothing.”

You glare harder. “You have done nothing.”

“Have I?” he challenges, cocking a brow. He tilts his laptop screen toward you, and there, staring back at you, is a shockingly filled-out document. Your eyes flicker across the paragraphs—coherent, formatted, and even cited.

You blink. Pause. Stare at him like he’s just grown another head. Because for the past week, this man has contributed exactly two sentences to the project. “…And?” you say, deadpan. “What do you want? A gold star? A participation trophy?” Sukuna leans back, manspreading like the chair was custom-built just for him. “Don’t need validation from you, sweetheart.”

“Good,” you shoot back. “Because you’re not getting any.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh, rubbing a hand down his face like you’re the exhausting one here. “Look, I don’t see what the big deal is. The project’s coming along fine.” You inhale sharply. Count to five. Resist the urge to fling your notebook at his fat head. “It’s coming along fine because I’ve been doing all the work.”

Sukuna shrugs, unconcerned. “Teamwork makes the dream work.” You stare at him. A long, silent, murderous stare. 

“You make me wanna end my life,” you finally say, voice utterly devoid of emotion. He grins, teeth sharp and infuriating. “I know.” You exhale slowly through your nose, willing yourself not to commit homicide. Instead, you rub your temples and look back at your notes. “Let’s just finish this. I don’t want to be here all night.” Sukuna hums, tapping at his laptop. “You sound so eager to spend time with me. Desperate?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “It’s the highlight of my week.”

“I knew it.” He smirks. “You wanna spend the night with me, hmm? Naughty.”

You actually throw a pen at him this time. He dodges effortlessly, laughing under his breath. “Fucking finally,” you mutter. “Maybe now you’ll shut—”

“Shhh!”

You both freeze. The librarian—an older woman with a stern face and sharp eyes—is glaring at you from the front desk. You and Sukuna exchange glances. “You’re the one being loud,” you whisper harshly. Sukuna raises an eyebrow. “I’m the one being loud?”

“Yes, you—”

“Out.” The librarian’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. You and Sukuna both go silent.  And then—

“…Shit,” Sukuna mutters, closing his laptop. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You are such a waste of time.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He stands, stretching. “Let’s go, dumbass. You can yell at me somewhere else.” You glare at him as you gather your things. “I will be yelling at you somewhere else.” Sukuna smirks, shoving his hands into his pockets as he saunters toward the exit. “Can’t wait.” You storm out of the library with Sukuna trailing behind you, still looking disgustingly relaxed for someone who just got thrown out of a public study space. You wish she had thrown him out alone. “Dick,” you mutter under your breath, shoving your laptop into your bag as you walk. Your head throbs with exhaustion, and the last thing you need is him making this night even worse.

Behind you, Sukuna hums, amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Your steps falter for half a second before you pick up the pace again. He, of course, notices. "You're so fucking touchy today," he drawls, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he strolls beside you, the very picture of unbothered arrogance. "On your period?" Your eye twitches. You suck in a sharp breath through your nose, gripping the strap of your bag so hard it might snap. "Okay, we're going to the study lounge near my dorm," you say, tone clipped.

Sukuna groans. Loudly. Like you're torturing him. 

"The hell? Why?"

"Because you got us kicked out," you snap. "And we haven’t even done half of what we were supposed to get through today." Sukuna clicks his tongue in irritation but doesn’t argue further, shoving his hands into his pockets as he follows behind you. His pace is slower than yours, like this entire walk is beneath him, like he’s graciously putting up with it. You can practically feel his annoyance radiating off of him, thick and palpable in the evening air.

The east wing is far. Too far. You’re used to it by now—your classes are scattered across campus, your dorm inconveniently placed, and your schedule an absolute disaster. Between balancing coursework, shifts at your part-time job, and somehow squeezing in study sessions, your days bleed into each other in a never-ending cycle of exhaustion. And because Sukuna’s the most infuriating person alive, he’s been forcing you to make this trek every damn day, dragging you out to the main library just so he can half-ass his way through this project in a space that he prefers. You’ve followed along because you refuse to let this assignment tank, but every second spent with him is another test of patience you’re not sure you’ll pass. So when, predictably, about ten minutes into the walk, he lets out an exaggerated, loud huff of irritation, you already know something stupid is about to leave his mouth.

"Are we still walking?" he grumbles, scowling at the path ahead. "This is taking so fucking long." Your eye twitches. You keep walking, fists clenched at your sides, trying—trying—to ignore him. But he doesn’t stop. Because of course he doesn’t.

"This is stupid," he mutters. "Should've just stayed at the fucking library. Or better yet, we could’ve just worked at my place—"

And that’s it. That’s the last straw. You snap.

"I do this every day because of you!"

The words come out harsher, sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. You whirl around to glare at him, eyes blazing, voice rising louder than it should, this late at night. "You think this is taking too fucking long? You made me do this every night. You insisted on working at the damn library. You refuse to meet anywhere else because apparently, my dorm study lounge isn’t good enough for you!" You huff out a breath, heart pounding in your chest. "So yeah, Sukuna, it is a long walk. And guess what? I do this every single day while you sit on your ass and complain!" Sukuna stops mid-step. His mouth is half-open, clearly ready to throw some cocky remark back at you—except nothing comes out. For once, he’s quiet. That, more than anything, unnerves you. But you don’t stick around to decipher the look on his face. You turn back around and keep walking, jaw clenched, shoulders tense, because if you don’t, you might actually lose your mind. And this project isn’t worth a murder charge.

Sukuna watches as you keep walking, your back rigid with frustration, your fingers curled so tightly around the strap of your bag it looks like the only thing anchoring you upright. It’s only now, in the dim glow of the overhead lights of the university hallways, that he actually sees you. The exhaustion carved deep into the lines of your face, etched into the tight pull of your brows and the faint downturn of your lips. The way your steps drag just slightly, like your body is moments away from giving in but you refuse to let it. The dark circles beneath your eyes, barely concealed by whatever concealer you must’ve swiped on this morning. 

(Yes, you ended up feeling the tiniest bit hurt and put some on the next time you saw him)

You look tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from a late night or an early morning. No, this is the exhaustion that settles deep in your bones, that lingers even after you’ve slept, the kind that never really leaves. And then there’s something else—something off. It’s not like you to get this quiet after snapping at him. Normally, you’d keep going, pushing, throwing words at him like knives, sharp and ruthless, waiting for him to hurl them right back. That’s how it’s always been between you two. You say something snarky, he says something worse. You get pissed off, he laughs. It’s a cycle. A game.

But right now? Right now, you don’t fight. You don’t even look at him. Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, irritation flickering beneath his skin—but it’s not directed at you. Not this time. He shoves his hands in his pockets, jaw clenching, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen. And for the rest of the walk, he doesn’t say a word. No complaints. No grumbling. No sarcastic remarks. Just silence.

–

The place is smaller than the library, tucked into the corner of your dorm building, but at least it’s quiet. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, and only a few other students are scattered around, focused on their own work. You drop into a chair unceremoniously, opening your laptop with a sigh. Sukuna takes the seat across from you, stretching his legs out obnoxiously under the table until they almost bump into yours. You kick him. He smirks. “Feisty.”

"Shut up."

For the next half hour, you work in silence. Sukuna pretends to read something on his screen, but you can feel his eyes flicking to you every so often, assessing. You try not to think about it. It’s quiet for a moment, and then—

"You formatted this wrong," he says.  Your head snaps up. "What?" Sukuna tilts his screen toward you, pointing lazily at a section of your document. "The citation. APA, not MLA, genius."  You stare at him, brows knitting together. "Why the hell do you know that?" Sukuna shrugs, leaning back in his chair. "What, you think you're the only one with a functioning brain?"

"Functioning is a strong word," you mutter, fixing the citation. He snorts, but then, because he’s him, he adds, “I mean, makes sense you’d fuck that up. You look half-dead.” Your eye twitches. "And you look like a walking midlife crisis, but you don't hear me pointing it out every two seconds." Sukuna grins, sharp and unrepentant. “Liar. You know I look good.”

“Ugly.”

“Sexy.”

"Say that again and I'll stab you with my pen." 

It’s late by the time you finally close your laptop, rubbing at your temples. The day has dragged on forever, and the last thing you want is to keep dealing with him. You shove your things into your bag, ready to leave, when Sukuna—still leaned back in his chair, still looking infuriatingly relaxed—says, "Tch. Whatever. We’ll just meet here next time." You pause. Blink at him. "Huh?" He doesn’t look at you when he says it, like this entire conversation is so beneath him. "The hell, are you deaf? I said we’ll just meet here next time. Less walking." You stare, uncertain of what to make of that. Of him saying anything at all.

Then—

"Uh. Okay," you mumble. Sukuna snorts, pushing himself up from his chair, rolling his shoulders like this entire night has been a mild inconvenience to him and nothing more. “Try not to die of exhaustion before then.”

You flip him off.

He grins.

–

The dorm study lounge in your building isn’t anything special—just a couple of couches, a cluster of wobbly desks, and chairs that groan when anyone shifts. But it’s quiet, it’s close, and more importantly, it’s not the goddamn East Wing library. You’re already seated with your laptop open when Sukuna strolls in like he owns the place, hoodie thrown over his shoulder, compression shirt clinging to him in that casually smug way that makes you want to set your notebook on fire.

“Damn. You live like this?” he says instead of greeting, glancing around at the peeling posters and flickering overhead light.

“You’ve been here three times now,” you mutter, not looking up. “Get over it.” To your surprise, he actually sits down and opens his laptop. No dramatic sighs, no drawn-out complaints. Just pulls up the shared doc and starts typing. You side-eye him suspiciously. “Wait. You’re actually doing work?”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. “Told you I’m not completely useless.”

“You literally did none of the intro. Or the background research. Or the—”

He turns slightly, eyes narrowed. “Jesus. You want me to write your acknowledgements too?”

You roll your eyes and keep typing, but you can’t help the way your gaze flicks back to his screen every so often. He’s doing it. Slowly, a little messily, but he’s actually doing the work. You hate how that’s kind of impressive. The door creaks open an hour in and Toji saunters in with a protein bar in one hand and Choso trailing behind him, hoodie half-on like he got distracted putting it on. “Yo,” Toji says, tossing himself onto the arm of your chair like there’s no concept of personal space. “This where the grind’s happening?” 

Choso raises a brow at Sukuna. “Didn’t think you actually meant it when you said you were working on your project.” Sukuna scoffs, not even looking up from the screen. “Don’t start.” They pull up chairs, half-invited, half-ignored. Somehow, you end up the only person who seems to be actually working while the other three devolve into semi-productive chaos. Eventually, the conversation drifts—like it always does when boys are left alone with too much time and not enough supervision.

“Yo, did you see that blonde on the cheer squad last game?” Toji starts, popping open a protein bar like it’s part of the ritual. “The one with the ribbon thing in her hair. Face card was solid.” Choso smirks, still half-focused on his phone. “I think she followed me on Insta. Or her friend did. Can’t tell—cheer girls got that same face filter thing going on.”

You hum under your breath, noncommittal. You’ve learned how to tune this out. Let the background noise of testosterone and ego bounce off while you focus on your screen. But then—

Choso glances up, flicking his gaze between you and Sukuna like he’s just had a thought worth sharing. “Actually… Sukuna’s got the best deal out of all of us.” You pause your typing. Slightly. Toji quirks a brow. “How you figure?”

“He gets to sit across from her every day,” Choso says casually, jerking his chin in your direction. “Dude’s been staring at that face for what, like a week straight?” Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

Choso lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Just saying. When you’re not chewing him out, you’re actually kinda—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just gives a slow, meaningfully raised brow like the conclusion is obvious. Toji lets out a low whistle, the corner of his mouth twitching. “No, wait—he’s right. You’ve got that whole mean girl, academic weapon, doesn’t-look-up-in-lectures thing going on.” You just blink at them, caught somewhere between wanting to melt into your chair or hurl your laptop at both their heads. Sukuna, up until now half-listening while scrolling on his screen, exhales like this whole conversation is beneath him. “Shut the fuck up.” His voice is flat. Lazy. Like he's bored with their entire existence. But his eyes flick up—and linger on you just a beat too long. There’s no smirk. No wink. Just that unreadable look again. Heavy-lidded. Slightly narrowed.

Toji raises a brow. “Struck a nerve?” Choso glances between you and Sukuna, curious now. “Damn. Didn’t know you were the territorial type.” Sukuna doesn’t even rise to it. Just drags a hand through his hair and mutters, “You idiots hear yourselves talk?” That seems to be enough. Toji snorts and mutters a half-apology under his breath. “Alright, alright. Chill.”

Choso shrugs. “She’s still bad though. No take-backs.” You clear your throat and mutter, “Thanks… I guess?”

No one hears it except Sukuna, whose gaze shifts back to his laptop—but his ears are slightly pink now. Not that he’d admit it. And just like that, the boys forget they ever had a filter. They’re back to talking about the football coach and some frat party coming up next weekend. You, meanwhile, keep your eyes glued to your screen—but your skin feels hotter, like that look Sukuna gave you never quite left. You try to refocus on your screen, but your heart’s still thudding in your chest in a way you hate. You don’t want to be flustered. Especially not over Sukuna, who has the emotional depth of a spoon. Still, when the session winds down and Toji and Choso finally get bored and wander off, Sukuna leans back and says, with the same bored tone he uses when talking about the weather, “I’ll see you here again next week. I’ll finish up some of the work at my place before I come, so we don’t hafta sit here on our asses long enough for these idiots to show up again.”

You blink. “Uh… okay.” He doesn’t wait for a response. Just slings his bag over his shoulder, walks off like he hasn’t just stunned you into silence with the barest sliver of consideration, and mutters under his breath on the way out:

“Better chairs anyway.” You stare after him. Annoyed. Confused. Unsettled. Slightly amused. And a little less sure about how much of a dick he really is.

–

It’s been three weeks since you started meeting in the dorm building’s study lounge. The sessions are no less exhausting, but they’ve become… bearable. You still argue. He’s still insufferable. But Sukuna actually does the work now. Not without the occasional passive-aggressive comment or that maddening little smirk when he catches you getting flustered. But he contributes. Sometimes he even takes initiative—like today, when you arrived and found he’d already opened the shared doc and annotated the latest journal article. Miracles, apparently, do happen.

You're both seated on opposite sides of the same table, a precarious peace holding between the clack of your keys and the scratch of his pen against paper. Sukuna's in a black hoodie—which really emphasises how broad his shoulders are–paired with some low-slung sweatpants. He’s got one leg up on the chair, knee almost brushing the table’s underside, completely manspreaded in a way that takes up far more space than necessary. Typical. You’ve tuned it all out. Almost. The only sound in the lounge is the soft hum of the vending machine and the low rustle of paper. That is, until your phone buzzes.

You glance down.

[8:37 PM] Yuna:

pls tell me ur free next friday night frat party at Theta house i need a plus one u owe meee

You pause. Theta house. The name sparks something in your brain—a half-formed association, faint and unimportant until now. You’ve heard it muttered in passing, caught glimpses of its parties plastered all over people’s Instagram stories. Flashy. Loud. Too many red solo cups and too little self-respect. But more importantly: it rings a specific bell. Something familiar. Your eyes flicker back to the message on your screen, rereading Yuna’s plea. Your brows furrow. You bite the inside of your cheek, lips tugging downward as you try to decide if this is worth the impending social fatigue, or if you can just ghost her and fake a fever. Maybe a paper cut. Across the table, the scratch of pen on paper falters. You don’t even notice until Sukuna’s voice cuts in, sharp and dry. 

“What’re you making that face for?” he asks without looking up. Flat, disinterested, like your expression is an inconvenience. You blink, mildly startled. “...What face?”

“That weird one.” He finally lifts his head, narrowing his eyes at you with vague irritation. “Like you just found out you forgot to pay your car registration or somethin’.” Your mouth opens, closes. “It’s just a text,” you say eventually, letting out a quiet sigh as you flip your phone facedown. “My friend’s dragging me to a frat party next week. She needs a plus-one.” At that, Sukuna stills. Not dramatically. Just... a subtle pause. His elbow stops bouncing. His pen hovers above the page.

“What frat?” he asks. The question is casual, but his gaze sharpens ever so slightly. You hesitate. “…Theta house. I think.”

He snorts. Loud and unmistakable. “That’s mine.” 

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He leans back lazily, one arm thrown over the back of the chair, looking maddeningly relaxed. “Theta. That’s my frat. Toji, mine and Cho’s. Didn’t ya know? They were talkin’ about it before.” You blink, momentarily at a loss. The realization hits with a muted thud—of course. It all makes sense now. The flashy parties, the obnoxiously loud music every other weekend, the guys who walk around campus with too much cologne and too few responsibilities. Of course he lives there.

“Oh,” you say finally. It hangs there—awkward, brittle, like a glass ornament someone forgot to put away after Christmas. You both look back down at your notes, pretending the moment never happened. You reread the same sentence in your textbook three times and still can’t register what it says. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it isn’t comfortable either. Just... weird. Like there’s something in the air that neither of you wants to acknowledge. Then, after a minute, Sukuna exhales slowly and leans further back in his seat.

“You should swing by,” he says offhandedly. So casual it sounds like a throwaway line.

You glance up. “Huh?”

“The party,” he says, eyes flicking briefly toward you, then back to the ceiling. “Your friend’s already going. Might as well.” You study him. His expression is unreadable—calm, indifferent. No trace of smugness, no expectation behind the offer. It’s almost too nonchalant. Like he wouldn’t care either way. You narrow your eyes a little. “Are you… inviting me?”

He shrugs. “You’re not special. I’m inviting everyone.” Your lips twitch at that, but you don’t call him out. “Right. Of course.”

Still, you hear your voice soften slightly. 

“I’ll think about it.”

Sukuna hums in response, eyes drifting downward—right to your hoodie, baggy enough to cover you from neck to knee, sleeves tugged over your hands. You can practically see the judgment forming. “Just don’t show up dressed like this,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching. You snort before you can stop yourself. A short, surprised laugh bursts out of you. “Seriously?”

He gives you a deadpan look. “It’s a party, not a cult meeting.” You raise your brows, amused. “Clearly, you don’t know me at all if you think I dress like this everywhere.” Sukuna tilts his head, studying you like you just issued a challenge. “So you do have real clothes.”

“I’m a woman of mystery,” you say smugly, folding your arms. “You don’t get to know.” A rare smirk twitches onto his face—brief, dry, almost like he’s trying not to be amused. “That sounds like a yes.” You roll your eyes, grabbing your highlighter again. “Focus on organic chemistry, casanova.”

He chuckles under his breath but doesn’t argue, returning to his notes. The mood shifts again—easy now, fluid in a way you didn’t expect. The banter lingers, like a residue in the air, and for once, you don’t feel like you’re dodging landmines when you speak. You work in silence for a while longer, but it’s not the same brittle quiet from before. It’s something softer. Settled. And maybe—for just a second—it doesn’t feel like you’re enemies anymore. Not friends, either. But not enemies. When you finally pack up for the night, Sukuna doesn’t say anything. He just slings his bag over his shoulder, glances at you once, then jerks his chin toward the door like let’s go. You fall into step beside him, not speaking, the click of the lounge door swinging shut behind you.  You don’t even know how it happened. How somehow he waited for you by the staircase that led up to your dorms before departing back to where he lived. The hallway is quiet. The air, cool and crisp, smells faintly of late-night ramen and floor cleaner. You say nothing. But somehow, that moment stretches longer than it should. And it stays with you. All the way back to your dorm.

–

“Yu— I don’t know,” you say, pulling at one of the spaghetti straps of your top and glancing at your reflection in her full-length mirror, “I like wearing shit like this but… don’t you think it’s too much for a frat party?” Your voice comes out unsure, tinged with that all-too-familiar pre-party doubt that creeps in five minutes before you’re supposed to leave. You’re still adjusting the fabric over your chest—this stupid, tiny top that clings a little too perfectly to your figure, exposing just enough skin to make you question if you’ll even make it through the front door without second-guessing everything. The bra underneath? Completely unintentional. You didn’t even mean to match it—had just grabbed something clean and vaguely push-up-ish from the drawer, but of course, it had to be your most expensive set. Lacy, pink, and not remotely subtle. Victoria’s Secret, you realize with mild betrayal, had made your boobs look criminally good. Like, pause-a-man’s-conversation good.

The top itself wasn’t the issue—it was cropped, sure, but cute. Flimsy fabric and soft color, something you could probably dress down if you were pairing it with anything other than this damn skirt. The skirt was what had you feeling like you were in over your head. And it wasn’t even yours. It was Yuna’s. A distressed, light-wash denim mini that was practically a belt. It hugged every curve, curved a little more than you were used to, and sat low enough on your hips to make you feel a tiny bit scandalous with every breath. If you shifted too fast, it felt like it’d ride up and expose everything. And with the panties that came with your VS set—thin, lacy, and technically classified as lingerie—you felt dangerously close to flashing someone if the wind so much as thought about picking up.

“I look like I’m trying to seduce someone’s dad,” you mutter.

“Oh my god,” Yuna gasps from behind you, eyes wide as she stops in her tracks. “You look so fucking hot. I’m not hearing any complaints about this.” She spins you around, hands on your shoulders as she takes in the full outfit like she’s styling you for a Vogue shoot. Her perfectly manicured fingers trail to the hem of your skirt, and with a gleam in her eye, she gives your butt a dramatic, playful slap.

You glare at her. “Can you not grope me right now?”

“Sorry,” she says, completely unapologetic. “You just look so good. Like, painfully good. Like—‘oops, I just made that guy trip over a keg because I walked by’ good.” You attempt to give her your best unimpressed stare, but it’s hard to hold when she looks that excited—and especially when she’s standing there in a sparkly, strapless top that’s practically glued to her skin and a skirt shorter than yours. Not to mention the rhinestone eyeliner and lip gloss she reapplied twice already. You sigh, defeated, because if she looked hot, and you looked hot, maybe it wasn’t the worst idea to just embrace it.

“Ugh, okay, fine,” you mutter. “You look sexy too.”

“So do you,” she grins, squeezing your wrist before spinning toward the mirror to grab her purse. “We’re gonna be the baddest bitches there.”

You snort. “That’s not exactly a high bar. I saw someone show up to one of these in a Pikachu onesie.”

“Exactly,” she says, throwing a jacket over her shoulder. “We’ll be legends by comparison.” Despite yourself, you laugh—and when you turn back to the mirror, something about the reflection feels less terrifying than it did five minutes ago. The outfit was bold, sure. But with Yuna beside you, her energy electric and effortless, you could feel yourself slipping into that mindset, too. The one where you were allowed to be hot without apologizing for it. You slip on your shoes, grab your phone, and follow Yuna out of the dorm. The hallway’s quiet, dimly lit with that weird yellow lighting all college buildings have after 10 PM. You both walk down to the street where your Uber is already waiting, music faintly thumping from the frat row just a few blocks away. And for once, you’re not dreading it. You’re a little nervous, maybe. But with your favorite person beside you, in outfits that could start wars, heading into a night with no plans other than chaos—you’re ready.

The Uber ride is a blur of Yuna’s makeup touch-ups, last-minute accessory debates, and Spotify blaring a throwback remix that has both of you scream-singing the chorus. The nerves in your stomach ease up a little more with each passing minute. Maybe it’s the way Yuna keeps hyping you up or how good the outfit actually looks under the glow of the passing streetlights—but by the time the car pulls up in front of Theta house, you’re no longer on the verge of changing outfits or ghosting the night entirely. The frat house looms ahead like every other frat house you’ve ever seen—loud music already spilling out from the open door, string lights tangled across the porch, people clustered out front with red cups in hand like it’s a high school movie come to life. You can hear someone whoop as a beer pong shot lands across the front lawn, and someone else yells “Take it off!” from an upstairs window. 

Yuna’s eyes sparkle. “Home sweet home,” she says, linking her arm through yours. Inside, it’s chaotic—but weirdly cozy. Warm. The air smells like cheap beer, cologne, and weed, the floors already sticky under your heels. There’s a crowd around the living room-turned-dance-floor, another bottlenecking at the kitchen where a keg is set up beside a counter full of jungle juice and liquor. You spot a couple of people you vaguely know from class or mutuals through Yuna—most of them already tipsy, greeting her with hugs and loud compliments. Someone hands you a drink you don’t ask for, and you take it anyway, sipping something vaguely fruity and deceptively strong. The thrum of music settles in your chest, rattling the floorboards beneath your feet, and for the first time in weeks—maybe even months—you feel something close to relaxed. You’re halfway to the kitchen to grab a chaser when it happens.

You turn a corner and bump into someone—shoulder to chest. Solid. Firm. Tall enough that you instinctively glance up before you even register who it is.

Sukuna. He looks down at you, expression unreadable for a moment—until his eyes very obviously drop from your face to the low neckline of your top. And linger. There’s the barest flicker of something—surprise? amusement?—in his eyes, but it’s gone too fast to confirm. You step back, blinking. “Oh my god. You are so weird.”

He lifts a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You’re literally checking me out like I’m a Victoria’s Secret window display,” you deadpan, tugging your top slightly higher—not that it helps much.

“You wore that and expected no one to look?” he says, voice dry and annoyingly smooth. His eyes flick lazily down again. “Also, hate to break it to you, but your bra’s doing a lot of heavy lifting right now.”

You scoff. “You’re actually such a freak.” He shrugs, tilting the water bottle in his hand toward you. “Not denying it.” You’re about to roll your eyes and walk away, but then he says it—so nonchalantly it barely registers at first.

“You look nice, though.”

You freeze mid-step.

“…What?”

His mouth quirks up slightly, like he didn’t just toss a grenade into the conversation. “You heard me.” 

You stare at him, trying to gauge if he’s mocking you. But there’s no smug grin, no teasing lilt. Just that lazy drawl, that unreadable expression that always keeps you guessing. You fold your arms, shifting your weight to one hip. “Well,” you say slowly, “clearly you don’t know what to do when I’m not wearing my usual two layers of oversized fabric.”

Sukuna snorts. “Thought you were gonna roll up in your campus hoodie again. Kind of a shame, actually. I miss how it swallowed your whole body. You looked like a walking laundry pile.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“I try.”

You take a slow sip from your drink, hiding the small grin tugging at your lips. “So this is what you’re like when you’re not being the biggest dick on the planet.”

“I’m not the biggest dick, although I’d say I have the biggest dick” he retorts with a snicker. “You’re just distracting now.”

You blink. “Distracting?”

He shrugs again, way too casual about the whole thing. “You look good. I’m not blind.” You glance around to make sure no one’s listening, then mutter, “You’re way more tolerable when there’s alcohol involved.”

“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re way more tolerable when you’re not scowling at me for breathing too loud.” You glare. “That happened once.”

“It happened twice.”

“Once,” you insist.

He just smirks and takes a sip from the water bottle in his hands. His gaze flicks past you, toward the hallway, and he jerks his chin slightly. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to some people who won’t talk about your bra.” You narrow your eyes. “Is that your idea of an apology?”

He smirks again, already walking off. “Take it or leave it.” You roll your eyes and follow—only because your drink’s almost empty and the kitchen’s in that direction anyway. Obviously. And maybe—just maybe—because being around him like this, when he’s not being a complete jackass, isn’t the worst thing in the world. At least not tonight. Sukuna leads you through the crowd like he’s done this a million times before—which he probably has. You catch a couple of people eyeing him as he walks by, and you wonder if it’s because he’s hot or because he radiates that unapproachable energy like it’s cologne.

“This is…?” someone asks when you both approach a small group gathered around a tall keg table. He jerks a thumb toward you lazily. “My chem partner.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the title. “Hi,” you say instead, a little wave as you flash a quick grin.

“Yo, you’re in Shimizu’s class too? That woman’s a menace.”

“Tell me about it,” you groan. “I swear she adds extra steps to procedures just for fun.” Someone laughs. “You actually talk to her? I just fake nod through half of her lectures.” You slip into conversation easily after that, bouncing off the group's energy. You’ve always been extroverted when you’re comfortable, and it’s oddly easy here, surrounded by strangers who are just buzzed enough to be nice. It’s even easier when you catch Sukuna watching the group banter from a short distance, sipping from his water bottle again, his expression unreadable.  You break away to get another drink, winding toward the makeshift bar on the patio. The music's loud, the air sticky with alcohol and cologne, and just as you reach for a clean cup, a shoulder brushes into yours.

“Shit—”

You turn, and there he is again. Ryomen Sukuna. Up close this time. “Jesus, what is your problem?” you mutter, looking up at him. “Do you teleport?” He looks unfazed. “You walked into me.”

You snort. “You walked into me.”

He doesn’t argue. Just leans slightly back and lets his eyes flick down, over your outfit, and—yep. Not subtle. Not even trying to be. Your eyes narrow. 

“You’re such a creep. I don’t care if I’m slightly drunk, I can definitely tell you’re staring at my boobs.” He scoffs, openly amused. “Well, sorry. I’m a man. And those are practically fighting for their lives in that top.” You gasp, smacking his arm. “You’re disgusting.”

He shrugs. “And you’re the one who wore it. Don’t act surprised people are looking.” You roll your eyes but the corner of your mouth twitches. “Whatever. At least I can pull it off.”

“Who said you couldn’t?”

You pause for half a second too long. Then you glare. “You’re pissing me off.”

“And you’re drunk,” he retorts, smirking.

“I’m not drunk yet. You’d know if I was drunk.”

“Oh?” He raises a brow. “What, do you start crying or something?”

“No,” you scoff. “I just get… more honest.”

“Terrifying.” You give him a sweet smile that’s anything but. “What, afraid I’ll hurt your little ego?” He looks down at you—really looks. Like he's taking in the pink flush in your cheeks, the glint in your eye, the way you don't back down even when he’s standing so damn close.

“Nah,” he says. “My ego’s huge.”

You blink. “...That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

He laughs, low and dry, then tilts his bottle at you in mock cheers before walking off again. You stand there for a moment, a little dazed, before grabbing another drink. Eventually, a while later, you find your way back to Yuna, who’s already three sips away from shouting compliments at strangers. She gasps when she sees you. “Babe. Baby girl. My precious. Did I just see you with Sukuna?”

You blink. “Yeah, why?”

“You know him?”

“We’re in the same chem class,” you mutter, sipping your drink. “Group project.” Yuna grabs your arm. “And you didn’t say anything?” You eye her suspiciously. “Say what?”

“That he’s literally the hottest man on this campus?!” You make a face. “He’s not that hot.” Yuna gives you a look like she’s been personally offended. “You’re lying to yourself. Also, you two have like, that weird tension. It’s kind of hot.”

You groan. “Yuna—”

“Just fuck him.”

“What is wrong with you?”

She only cackles in response before she gets whisked away by a guy who’s clearly her on-again-off-again situationship. She doesn’t even look guilty as she leans in to whisper something to him. A few minutes later, you get the text.

sorry i love u but i’m gonna go with him ok i’ll send u money for an uber ily don’t die xx

You stare at the message, swaying slightly on your stool. The room blurs a little when you blink. You swipe over to the Uber app. Try to log in. Error. Try again. Error. The third time your phone crashes entirely and you groan, bracing your elbow on the edge of the bar counter and burying your face in your hand. Your heels are starting to hurt and you can already feel tomorrow’s hangover tap dancing in your brain.

“You good?”

You lift your head slowly. And of course. Of course. It’s Sukuna again. Leaning one arm against the edge of the bar like he’s been summoned by your suffering. “You’re like a cockroach,” you mutter. “You just keep showing up.”

He grins lazily. “Still here?”

“Yeah, unfortunately. My friend ditched me and my Uber app’s being a little bitch.” He hums, gaze flicking over your glazed expression, your flushed cheeks. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I might,” you admit. “If I don’t cry first.” 

There’s a beat of silence before he says, “I’ll drop you off.” You blink. “What? No. You’ve been drinking.”

“I haven’t. Can’t have everyone in the frat house drunk. Someone’s gotta babysit these idiots.” You blink again, the lag in your brain buffering like bad Wi-Fi. “...You?”

“Yeah, me. Shocking.”

“You know where I live?”

“You told me. Last week. After lab.”

You squint at him. “I don’t remember that.”

“Yeah, well, I remember everything.”

“Ew.”

He just stares at you, expectant, one brow cocked like he’s got all the time in the world.

You exhale dramatically. “Fine. But if you kill me I’m haunting your frat house.”

“I welcome it. It’s been boring lately.”

“Freak.” 

He smirks and plucks your phone straight from your hands to toss it into your purse, ignoring the half-hearted slap you aim at his wrist.

“Come on.” You groan, dragging yourself off the barstool, your legs not cooperating in the slightest. Your heels were cute in theory—silver with a tiny bow on the back and barely any support. Very much not made for trudging across dark college lawns and cracked sidewalks. You follow him out, still kind of mad at the universe for letting your Uber app crash. He opens the door like it's nothing, like he’s a gentleman or something—gross—and the cold night air wraps around your skin instantly. As it does, you swear you hear him mutter something. You turn, squinting through the haze. “What?”

“Nothing.” But it wasn’t nothing. It was something. And you're drunk, but not that drunk. It sounded suspiciously like you look pretty tonight. But you don’t say anything, just frown and follow him out into the night. Until you realize he’s not heading toward the street. He’s heading toward the back lot. Behind the frat house. 

You pause. “Wait—where the hell is your car?”

“Other side,” he says, without slowing.

“What do you mean other side?”

“I live here, dumbass. The resident lot is across the quad.”

“Are you kidding me?” You groan. “My feet are going to fall off.”

“Shouldn’t’ve worn stripper heels.”

“Shouldn’t’ve been born with a stick up your ass.” He snorts, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he walks ahead of you, like he's not dealing with a barely coherent girl in a miniskirt and heels struggling to walk in a straight line. You try to keep up, but the lawn dips, uneven and soft, and your ankle rolls slightly to the side. Your foot catches. Your knee gives out. And suddenly you’re stumbling, arms flailing, balance gone—You land hard on your ass with a sharp oof.

“FUCK,” you hiss, grabbing your ankle, already feeling the sting. You stay there a second, stewing, overwhelmed and overstimulated—the lights from the party still flickering behind your eyelids, your chest heaving from the sudden jolt, your mouth dry and head spinning. “You good?” Sukuna’s voice comes from somewhere above you, way too calm for someone whose lab partner just ate shit in front of him. “No, I’m not fucking good,” you snap, scowling up at him. “My feet are bleeding, my brain is melting, and your car is apparently in Narnia.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re such a dick!”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, suddenly stepping closer. “Just—fuck it.” You barely register him moving before there’s a sudden shift in gravity and your world tips sideways.

He scoops you up like it’s nothing.

Bridal style.

Your arms instinctively hook around his neck as you squeak, instinctively clinging to his hoodie as your legs leave the ground. “What the fuck are you doing?!” you yell, even though your voice comes out way too breathless to be convincing.

“Carrying you. Because you’re useless.”

“Put me down!”

“No.”

Your mouth opens to protest again, but your brain short-circuits because—

His hand. One of them—large, warm, calloused—is curled under your thighs, gripping firmly but not rough, fingers splayed slightly against the bare skin between your skirt and where your panties ride up your ass. But it’s the other hand that breaks your brain. It’s pressed right beneath your chest, right where the thin fabric of your top clings to your ribs. His knuckles graze the underside of your boob with each step. Not on purpose. Probably. Hopefully. But your body registers every tiny movement, every bounce and shift. Your breath stutters, nipples tightening under the lace, and—

God, you need to shut your brain off. He smells like expensive cologne and weed and something darker—musk and leather and sweat. The hoodie under your palm is worn soft, like he's had it for years, and his chest is so warm against your arm it’s making you feel dizzy. You go quiet. Not because you want to, but because your mouth won’t work right. He notices. “What, no snarky comment? Are you dying?”

“Just… conserving energy,” you mumble, trying to ignore the way your head is now resting against his shoulder, half from exhaustion, half because it feels nice there. 

“Shame. I was enjoying the sound of you bitching.” He makes it to his car—a black ‘09 Civic parked in the furthest back row—and sets you down gently, like you're glass. Which somehow feels even more ridiculous than being carried. You try to get your balance again, but before you can even reach down, he crouches and grabs your ankle.

“Hey—what are you—”

He’s already unbuckling your heel. “Your feet are bleeding,” he mutters, slipping it off carefully. Then the other. “Why are girls like this?”

“Because we suffer for fashion,” you reply, watching as he sets them neatly in the footwell of the passenger side. “Idiots,” he mutters, straightening and helping you into the seat. The door is still open as he leans in and buckles you up, the seatbelt snapping into place just under your chest.

“Don’t look at my tits,” you mumble, half-asleep, half-defensive.

“I’m not looking.”

“You are. You’ve been staring all night, you absolute perv. I might be drunk but I’m not blind.” He sighs, shuts the door, walks around to the driver’s side, and slides in beside you. The car’s interior is cool and clean and smells like the same cologne that’s still clinging to him. Once the engine’s on and the headlights glow, he glances over at you.

“Sorry I’m a man. My bad.”

“You are bad. And that’s not an excuse.”

“And yet here you are,” he drawls, pulling out of the lot, his hand casual on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift. His thighs spread slightly as he adjusts, and you don’t mean to look but—

Yeah. No. You’re drunk. Because there’s no way you’re checking out his hands or his stupid muscular legs or the way his jaw clenches every time he shifts gears. Absolutely no way. You fold your arms and press your forehead against the window, trying to cool your cheeks down, but it doesn’t work. The drive is short. He doesn’t play music. Just lets the silence sit, and somehow it’s not awkward. Just… quiet. Kinda warm. When he pulls up in front of your dorm, he doesn’t speak right away. Just sits there for a second. You turn to him slowly. “Thanks… for not letting me pass out in a bush or get murdered.”

He shrugs. “Would’ve ruined my grade if you died.” 

You scoff. “So romantic.”

A pause. His eyes flick to yours, and his voice drops just a bit.

“You’re welcome.” 

And you don’t know why, but that makes your stomach flip a little. You nod, mumble something incoherent, and go to open the door. But he stops you, reaching across you suddenly to grab your purse from the floor. His arm brushes your chest again and you freeze. He pretends not to notice. But the corner of his mouth twitches. He hands you your bag without a word, and you climb out, the night air immediately biting your skin. As you shut the door and start toward your building, you hear his voice behind you—low, amused, maybe even a little genuine.

“Get home safe, dumbass.”

You turn over your shoulder.

“Night, perv.” Then you're gone. And his car stays parked for a few more seconds than it needs to.

–

It starts slow. Just like always, you two keep meeting up for study sessions, mostly in the same tucked-away campus library room. And technically you’re still working on your project. There's still the usual back-and-forth, the occasional threat of flinging a pen at his head, and your ever-reliable "God, you're so annoying" whenever he pushes too far. But something's changed. Some invisible shift. Like the night of the frat party cracked something open. You still bicker, still throw jabs like it's oxygen, but now—

There’s laughter. Actual laughter. From you. And snickering from him, like he’s low-key delighted when you call him a dickhead with that little smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. Now he leans closer than necessary when you’re reading. His arm brushes yours and he doesn’t move. His eyes linger on your mouth when you talk and when you call him on it, he just shrugs and says, “Sorry, your lip gloss is distracting.” You throw your pen at his forehead. He catches it without looking. You start referring to the group project as our child, and he calls himself the hot absentee father. You start keeping a tally of how many times he sighs dramatically when he doesn't get the answer before you. He keeps a separate one of how many times you chew your pen cap when you’re stressed and says it’s “borderline erotic.”

“I will murder you,” you say sweetly.

"That's what makes it erotic," he replies. But it’s not just that. There’s more. Quieter things. One time, he walks in late with two iced coffees and just drops one in front of you without a word, like it’s normal now. (It becomes normal. He starts bringing snacks too. Sometimes even the weird granola bars you said once in passing that you liked.) When you’re tired, he starts reading sections aloud to you in a voice that's somehow both mocking and comforting. When you're scribbling notes and your pen runs out, he's already tossing you a spare. And eventually—

You exchange numbers.

It’s just for “convenience,” you both claim. So you can update each other on meeting times. So he can send you stupid memes related to your topic. So you can text him "you forgot the rubric again, dumbass" when he shows up with nothing but a Monster and the same black hoodie he’s worn four sessions in a row. You never call each other, of course. Not yet. But the texts get more frequent. More casual. Sometimes you’re not even talking about the project. Sometimes it’s just:

You: tell toji to stop calling me your lil nerd wife Sukuna: don’t flatter urself. he called u my leashYou: even worse?? Sukuna: not to me 😏

And one day, you're the first to arrive. You’re early, even. Kinda excited to see him, which you don't interrogate too hard because you're a busy girl with academic priorities and definitely not thinking about his stupid shoulders lately. So you sit. And wait. Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Finally, you send a text.

You: where u at bruh wtf im already here

There’s a delay. Then your phone buzzes. It’s a photo. A mirror selfie. Gym bathroom. Fluorescent lighting. He’s shirtless—no, wait, technically his shirt is in his mouth, bitten between his teeth. His abs are cut like they were designed in a lab. There’s a sheen of sweat on his chest, and the pinkest hint of a happy trail disappearing into black shorts. And god– the tattoos that intricately line his hips, and you’re ashamed that you’re zooming in to see them a bit more clearly. Toji’s in the background throwing up a peace sign and smirking like a menace. And the caption?

Sukuna: gym

You stare at your screen like it personally offended you. Because okay. Fine. You tolerate him now. You maybe even like him a little. Like, as a person. As in, you don’t fantasize about choking him out every time he opens his mouth. That’s progress. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the way your stomach plummets at that photo.

It’s shameful, really. You’re sitting alone in the study room, already annoyed that he’s late, your phone clenched in one hand and your cold coffee sweating on the table. You only texted him out of impatience, fully expecting some lame excuse. And instead, you get that. His abs are right there. Cut. Sharp. Obscene. His happy trail is a faint pink stripe leading down, dusted just enough to make your thighs clench, and you hate yourself for it. Your face heats so fast you think you might spontaneously combust. You look around the room like someone else might have seen it, like that would somehow make this a shared crime and not just your own private downfall. You blink at the photo. Then again. Then you lock your phone. Then unlock it.

You type.

Delete.

Type again.

Backspace halfway. Then finally give in and hit send.

You: keep those freaky selfies to urself bro Sukuna: u sure? u stared at that one a little too long You: YOU CANT SEE ME Sukuna: can feel it tho You: ew Sukuna: ur welcome

You throw your phone face down on the table like it just slapped you. He shows up twenty minutes later. Hair still damp, gym bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie half on, clinging to the edge of his frame like it was trying to slide off. There’s still that smug grin curling on his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing. You don’t even say hi. You just cross your arms and raise your brows as he strolls in like he owns the place.

“I said keep the thirst traps to yourself, gym rat.”

He collapses into the chair next to you, legs spread way too wide, stretching his arms back behind his head with a low groan like he’s been working so hard—and the motion tugs his hoodie just enough for you to catch a flash of skin. A line of muscle. That stupid V again. “Thirst trap?” he echoes, voice low and lazy. “Nah. That was community service.”

You make a show of rolling your eyes, flipping a page in your notes. “You’re disgusting.” He leans over, chin propped in his hand, eyes glittering with something sharp and amused. “C’mon,” he says, his voice dropping, thick and playful, “you’re telling me you didn’t like it?” You don’t answer. He grins like that’s an answer. Then, slow and deliberate, he leans back again—slouches down in the chair like he owns it, hands behind his head, and lets his hoodie inch up. Not a lot. Just enough. Enough to show the ridges of his abs. The line of his hipbones. The tattoos. The happy trail, pink and soft and infuriating, peeking above the waistband of his shorts like he planned this entire thing. Like this is a setup and you walked into it willingly. “Sure about that?” he murmurs, eyes heavy-lidded and watching you now. You make a strangled sound in your throat and smack a folder in front of your face.

“You are so weird,” you mutter from behind it. He laughs. Real, deep, warm. And you hate the way it makes something loosen in your chest. And it keeps happening—these strange, flirty little moments you don’t know how to explain. He starts texting you just to annoy you. You start sending him selfies of your weird coffee orders with captions like for our child (the project). He calls you baby mama when you least expect it and winks every time you make eye contact. And maybe the worst part?

You start dressing better. Not for him, obviously. That’d be dumb. It’s just… you’re a girl. Sometimes you want to look cute. Sometimes you want to wear something other than an oversized hoodie and leggings. So you start showing up in cropped tops. In fitted shirts. In actual shorts when it's warm out. Sometimes you even—God forbid—do your hair. Not for him, of course. Except... he notices. You’re bent over your laptop one afternoon when you catch him staring again. Not like he’s trying to be subtle. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking lazily.

“What?” you say, defensive.

“You look good,” he says, so bluntly it makes you blink. Then, almost offhand: “But I liked when you wore those weird baggy clothes, too.” You snort.  And suddenly the words tumble from your mouth, words you didn’t expect to say at all.

“Yeah? Didn’t you say the project would be easier if I was hot?”

His smirk falters for the first time. He pauses. Then—quietly, sincerely, and in that very Sukuna way—he says, “Yeah, well. I lied about that to piss you off. Obviously.” 

A beat.

“You’re touched in the head if you don’t think you’re hot.” You go quiet. The air goes weird again—thick and strange and soft around the edges. You blink down at your notes, unsure what to say. Then, like it’s nothing, he shrugs. “Also… sorry. About that. And all the other comments. Shouldn’t’ve said that shit.”

You glance at him. He’s not looking at you. Just fiddling with the ring on his finger like he’s not even sure if he meant to say it out loud. You swallow. Your stomach flips. Something tender and unfamiliar blooms in your chest. Then, because you can’t handle the softness, you bump his foot under the table and mumble, “You’re still annoying.” He grins like he’s won something. You work in silence after that—your legs stretched out, your ankles resting comfortably on his lap. He doesn’t move them. Just shifts to make space. At one point he starts absently tracing circles on your sock with one finger. And you don’t move either. You just let it happen. Because whatever this is—it’s not nothing anymore. It’s weird and slow and unfolding. It’s not sharp like it used to be. It’s soft. It’s warm.

And you don’t know what this thing is. Not yet. But it’s something. It’s teasing and warm and slow and building. It’s softer around the edges now. His glances linger longer. His jokes don’t always have a bite. He starts giving you the better chair. He moves his laptop so you can stretch your legs out and rest your ankles on his lap like it’s no big deal. He taps your water bottle when you forget to drink. He waits for you after class sometimes now. He starts noticing things. When you’re tired. When you’ve skipped lunch. When your leg’s bouncing under the table and you’re clearly spiraling about a deadline. He just reaches over and taps your water bottle. “Drink something. You look like you’re about to combust.”

And one day you realize—

You’re not dressing better because you feel like it. You’re dressing better because something inside you wants him to look at you. Want him to notice. Wants him to sit across from you with his dumb jawline and his pretty mouth and his stupid gaze and look. Like he sees you. And he does. It’s horrifying. And kind of thrilling. You don’t say anything. You just keep showing up. You let your shirts fit a little tighter. Your hair falls a little smoother. You wear that one necklace that always rests right at the tops of your chest. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s nothing.

–

The last few weeks of the semester come fast and loud. Finals hang heavy in the air, coffee-fueled library sessions and group study chaos around every corner, but somehow, Sukuna still finds a way to plant himself next to you in every single lecture. Literally. He doesn’t even ask anymore—just drops into the seat beside you like it’s his birthright. Kicks his legs out wide under the desk, slumps dramatically back in the seat, leans over with that lazy, smug-ass voice to ask if you did the pre-lecture reading (you did, obviously; he did not, obviously). Sometimes he brings snacks. One time, it was gummy worms. Another time, chips he smuggled in the sleeve of his hoodie like a middle schooler. He offered you one and you made a face but still took it. He grinned. 

Your chem project is basically wrapped up. You’re in editing and final-presentation mode now, which somehow translates to even more time together. Study sessions have blurred into hangouts, your text convos half-project, half weird jokes and chaotic memes. He still calls you names—airhead, goblin, menace—but sometimes his voice gets soft when he does. He still teases you, but the silences in between stretch warm and easy. So when you’re walking out of a bookstore downtown one Saturday afternoon and spot him across the street, it’s almost normal. He’s with Toji and Choso, the three of them leaning against a car like they’re posing for some kind of delinquent calendar. Sukuna clocks you first. His eyes catch on you, and he lifts his hand in a lazy, beckoning wave.

You cross the street.

He smirks. "Didn’t know you had business on this side of town. What, you stalking me now?" You roll your eyes. "Relax. I was running errands. There’s a stationery shop over there that sells the pens I like."

"Nerd," Choso says, but he sounds kind of fond. Toji just nods like, fair. Sukuna tilts his head. "You taking the bus back?"

"Yeah, why?"

"It’s getting dark," he says like it’s a passing observation. Then, in that dry, effortless way: "You look like a perfect kidnapping target. All spaced out and clueless. C’mere, little lamb."

You gape. "Okay well you’re the type of person to be the one doing the kidnapping."

"Uh-huh. Get in. I’ll drive you."

You’re protesting before he even finishes the sentence. But Toji just shrugs, opens the passenger door for you like this is something he’s used to, and Choso’s already climbing into the back. You sigh and slide in, heart pounding for reasons you refuse to name.  The drive starts off easy. After a while, he drops off both Choso and Toji to the gym– where they were apparently headed for an evening grind session. Spending time with these three makes you think that the gym might be their second home besides the frat house where they live. You lean your head against the window, watching the city pass by in a blur of dusk and brake lights. But traffic hits near campus—an accident or something up ahead—and the car slows to a crawl.

You sigh, long and dramatic, throwing your head back against the seat. “Well. Looks like we’re stuck.” Sukuna shoots you a flat look, one hand tapping the wheel while the other lazily rests across his lap. “Incredible deduction, Sherlock. What gave it away? The line of cars stretching into the abyss?”

You flip him off without looking. “I’m putting on music.”

He sits up a little straighter. “Don’t you dare play weird indie-girl shit.” You’re already unlocking your phone, smug. “Too late.” And then it begins—those soft, dreamy guitar chords of She Won’t Go Away, spilling out through the car speakers like a bubble bath in audio form. Sukuna visibly flinches.

“What the fuck is this?” he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This sounds like it belongs in a movie montage of someone getting dumped in the rain.” You grin, curling your legs up into the seat and pressing your temple against the cool glass of the window. “It’s art. It’s emotion. It’s currently the only thing keeping me alive during finals.” 

You’re already humming under your breath, voice quiet but matching the lilt of the lyrics like you’ve done this a hundred times alone in your room. You don’t even notice you’re doing it at first—just this soft, distracted singing, like muscle memory. Like breathing. Sukuna groans again, leaning back against his seat like he’s physically in pain. “Put on Playboi Carti like a normal human being.”

“No,” you reply sweetly, already queuing the song again. “I’m hyper fixated. That means I’m playing it at least three more times.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, but doesn’t reach for the aux. Instead, he leans his head back against the headrest and shuts his eyes, as if surrendering to the inevitable. His tattooed arm is draped lazily along the console between you. The setting sun outside paints soft orange lines across the curve of his throat, the ridges of his knuckles, the cut of his jaw. You glance over. Just for a second. His damp pink hair is curling a little where it rests against his forehead, the collar of his shirt a little stretched from where he tugged it off earlier. His hands are relaxed, but you’ve seen them clenched around a pen, a steering wheel, a can—so often that it’s weird to see them soft like this. 

When the chorus hits again, you can’t help it—you clutch your water bottle like it’s a microphone and sing along, full volume, completely tone-deaf. Your voice cracks on a high note. You don’t care. The car is stuck, the sun is bleeding out across the horizon, and for once your brain is quiet enough to let you just be. Sukuna cracks an eye open to stare at you. There’s an expression hovering on his face—part judgment, part amusement, all exasperated affection. “You’re fucking insane,” he murmurs, but doesn’t tell you to stop. You play the song two more times. The last time, he even taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat. By the time the traffic thins and he pulls up in front of your dorm, it’s fully dark out. The streets are quiet. A light breeze rustles the trees overhead, and your building glows warm from the windows.

The car idles for a moment. Neither of you moves. You fiddle with your bag strap. “Thanks. For the ride.”  Sukuna shrugs like it’s no big deal, hand still resting casually on the steering wheel. “Didn’t want you to get kidnapped. I’ll be pissed if I have to deal with a new project partner this late in the semester.”

You snort. “So heartwarming. Hallmark should hire you.” But still, your smile softens. You open the door, start to slide out—

“Hey,” his voice cuts in, low. You turn back. He’s watching you, one elbow propped against the window, his mouth tugged into something just barely resembling seriousness.

“You’ve got a nice voice,” he says, slow. “When you sing.”

You blink. Then: “I mean—it’s not good,” he adds quickly, defensive. “Just—nice. Like. You know. Tolerable. Shut the fuck up.” You’re already laughing, your whole face warm, stomach fluttering for a reason that makes you want to scream into your pillow later. You shake your head, half-dizzy, and wave him off.

“Freak.”

He grins. “Obviously.” And then he’s pulling away, the soft glow of his taillights disappearing around the corner as you stand there on the curb, heart doing something you really wish it wouldn’t.

–

The dorm lounge is dark. A sad, crooked little sign is taped to the door, flapping slightly from the draft in the hallway: CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. You stare at it in disbelief.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you mutter. Sukuna makes a noise behind you—something between a groan and a sigh that says of course this would happen now.

“We walked all the way here,” you grumble, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “And East Wing Library’s still under construction as well.” You sigh, then shove your phone back in your pocket. “Whatever. Guess we’re not studying tonight.” Sukuna scratches at his jaw, eyeing you sideways. “We could go to my place.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“My frat house,” he clarifies, as if that helps. You squint at him. 

“Yeah, no offense, but the last thing I wanna do is walk into a testosterone-infested lair filled with Axe body spray and half-naked dudes playing Call of Duty.”

Sukuna smirks. “What do you think a frat house is, Animal House?” You raise a brow. “Is it not?”

“It’s…marginally cleaner.”

“Uh-huh.” 

He grins, lazy and wolfish. “What, you scared you’ll get corrupted?”

“Oh please. I’m scared I’ll catch a fungal infection from your couch.”

“Wow.” He mock clutches his chest. “That’s the same couch Toji had sex on junior year.” You wrinkle your nose. “You’re not helping your case.”

–

But you’re already walking beside him as he pulls his keys out of his pocket, smug as ever. The house is surprisingly... not awful. It’s big, for one. Tall windows, wide wraparound porch. Someone’s put effort into decorating the front room—there are actual plants. A couple are plastic, sure, but still. Progress.

“Don’t touch anything,” Sukuna says as he unlocks the door. “You might set off a trap.” You snort and follow him inside. Almost instantly, voices erupt from the kitchen.

“Yo!” someone calls. “Sukuna brought a girl? What the fuck?” You round the corner and find a man with gauges, hair tied back into a bun, leaning back in a chair with his feet propped on the table. Choso’s there too, hair also tied up in a low bun, sipping some horrifying green drink out of a mason jar.

“Holy shit,” Suguru grins, “she real?”

“She’s not my date,” Sukuna says, already annoyed. “She’s my lab partner.”

“Uh-huh, he’s actually not making up bullshit this time, Sugu,” Choso says, nodding solemnly between Sukuna and you. “Suguru, you shoulda seen the way he talks about h–.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

“She’s cute though,” Suguru adds, eyeing you with an arched brow. “You sure this isn’t, like, your redemption arc?”

You just raise a brow. “This what you call hospitality?” Suguru snorts. “She talks back. I like her.”

“Bye,” Sukuna says sharply, grabbing your wrist. “Upstairs. Now.”

You’re still laughing as he drags you past the second floor landing. “Damn. Didn’t know you hadn’t brought anyone home in months.”

“Jesus,” he mutters.

“What’s wrong, celibate king? Losing your edge?” He stops in front of a door, turns to face you with that cocky smirk curling up again. “You wishing I haven’t gotten laid recently?”

You blink at him innocently. “Just surprised you haven’t. With how obsessed you are with yourself.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, pushing the door open, “standards.” You snort.  But his room is… not what you expected. It’s neat. Cleaner than yours, probably. Dark wooden desk against the wall, books stacked haphazardly but intentionally. An unmade bed with black sheets and a dark grey hoodie tossed over the pillow. There’s a little lamp glowing low in the corner and a record player next to a speaker. You hate how nice it smells in here. You set your bag down on the floor. “Why does it smell like... sage and expensive soap?”

“Because I’m not disgusting?”

“Debatable.” You both settle on the floor, laptops out, papers scattered. He brings over a half-full bag of spicy chips and a water bottle, which he throws at you without looking. It hits you square in the chest.

“Dickhead.”

“You’re welcome.”

The first twenty minutes are actually productive—notes reviewed, graphs tweaked, last-minute slides double-checked. But inevitably, the banter creeps in. His foot nudges yours under the desk. You nudge back. He leans over to steal a gummy from your bag and you slap his hand away.

“Stop stealing my candy.”

“You ate my gummy worms last week.”

“I didn’t steal them. I accepted them.”

“Wow. You’re so full of shit.”

“Eat dirt.” He laughs—low, under his breath—and it shouldn’t affect you the way it does, but it sinks into your skin like heat, lingers in your bloodstream. It’s not the usual cocky bark of a laugh he throws at you when he’s being a menace. This one is quieter. Throatier. Less sharp edges, more velvet. Like he’s amused with you, not at you. It wrecks your focus. He’s leaned back against the edge of his bed now, legs splayed carelessly, one knee bent, the other stretching toward you like it owns the space. His shirt rides up a little at the waist, just enough to flash the hard lines of his stomach, the deep cut of his hipbones disappearing under black sweats. One of his arms hangs lazy over his knee, veins taut beneath inked skin, fingers playing absently with a red pen. And his hair—fuck. It's a mess, falling over his forehead in soft waves, a few strands catching on his lashes when he looks down. You want to brush it back. You want to tug on it.

You shift slightly, trying to re-cross your legs, trying to re-engage your brain with the paper in front of you. But your sweater dips with the movement—a soft, oversized thing you threw on without much thought. It hangs loose over your collarbones, dips just enough to expose a hint of skin and the swell of your chest where the neckline falls low. You feel his gaze before you see it. A flicker—subtle, but deliberate. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s staring.

“You're staring.”

Sukuna doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t pretend to be caught, doesn’t have the decency to look embarrassed. He just meets your eyes, unashamed, and shrugs one shoulder in a way that’s all smooth arrogance. “Can you blame me?” You snort, but it comes out quieter than intended. Your throat’s a little dry. “You’re gross.”

“Yeah?” He shifts a bit, elbow sliding behind him so he’s leaning fully back now, neck tipped against the wall, gaze still locked on you. “Don’t act like you didn’t wear that on purpose.”

You scoff. “Excuse me?”

He lifts a brow, lazy. “The sweater. The whole off-duty art girl thing. You knew what you were doing.”

“I didn’t,” you protest, but your voice slips a bit, too defensive. “I just… liked the color.” Sukuna hums like he doesn’t believe you. His eyes stay exactly where they were—lingering, slow, blatantly appreciating. You glare at him. “You're an asshole.”

He grins. “True.” But then, softer. Less teasing. “You look cute.”

It lands differently. The words settle between you like something solid, something heavy. Not a joke. Not just banter. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of everything—how warm it is in the room, how quiet. The hum of the old radiator. The scent of whatever he uses in his laundry detergent—something clean and citrusy and a little intoxicating. You don’t respond. Your heart is thudding against your ribs, a little too loud, a little too fast. He watches you. Waits. Then, finally, you manage: “Stop being weird.” But your voice isn’t sharp anymore. It’s soft. Uncertain. He smirks, but his eyes stay serious. “You love it.”

You roll your eyes, trying to drag your gaze back to your notes, to anything other than the way his gaze is dragging over your skin like a physical touch. You pretend to read, pretend to write, but you feel it—the tension, thick as syrup in the air. He’s close. Closer than before. You can feel the heat of him next to you, the way his thigh shifts slightly, brushing yours. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s already watching you. His expression is unreadable—equal parts amusement and hunger. He’s studying you like he’s memorizing. Like he’s waiting for the exact right moment to pounce.

And then he moves. No warning. No smart remark. Just a slow lean forward, one hand braced near your thigh as he closes the distance—eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back again, like he’s giving you a chance to pull away.

You don’t.

And before you know it, his lips are melding against yours. The kiss is slow. Careful. Not tentative, but measured, like he’s savoring the first taste. His lips are soft, warm, coaxing yours open. His hand comes up, rough fingers brushing your jaw before settling lightly at the base of your neck, thumb against your pulse. You inhale sharply when his mouth deepens against yours, tongue sliding over your bottom lip, teasing, asking—and when you give in, he groans, low and satisfied in the back of his throat. The sound goes straight to your stomach. He tastes like cinnamon gum and spice, something dark and smoky underneath. His teeth scrape lightly against your lip and you gasp into him, fingers fisting in the hem of his shirt without even realizing. When he finally pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His breath brushes against your mouth. His eyes are lidded, lashes low, lips parted and slightly swollen. He looks fucking wrecked. And somehow still manages to smirk. “Still think I’m gross?”

You blink at him, dazed. “Yes.” He laughs, that soft velvet-laced one again. You don’t even hesitate this time. You kiss him again—harder, needier, something unspoken unraveling fast between you. Your fingers curl tighter into his shirt, pulling him closer, and he doesn't resist—in fact, he deepens it like he's been waiting for this, like every smartass comment and every prolonged look was just him biding time. His hand drifts, slow, from your jaw to your throat—not pressing, just resting, thumb stroking just under your jawline, grounding you. The contrast of his rough fingers against your softer skin sends heat spiraling straight down your spine. Not just that– The hand on your throat sends a wave of heat right between your legs. Like he’s showing you who’s in control.

He pulls away just slightly, breath ragged, forehead grazing yours. "You kiss like you’ve been thinking about this.” You giggle against his mouth. “What if I have?”

That makes him groan—low, deep in his chest—and then he’s kissing you again, more urgent this time, less slow-burn and more fuck, finally. His hand slides into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he tilts your mouth open wider, tongue sliding against yours with a filthy kind of rhythm. You shift instinctively into his space, knees brushing his thighs, your body angling toward his like gravity made the call for you. His hands trail from the length of your back to your ass, squeezing it in his large, calloused palms. It gets hazy, fast. The taste of him, the weight of his palm as it trails from your throat to the dip of your collarbone, fingers catching on the edge of your sweater. He breaks the kiss just long enough to look down—his hand still on you—and you see the shift in his expression the second he remembers your neckline. He hooks a finger into the v-line of the neckline, exposing the swells of your pretty tits to his hungry gaze.

“See,” he murmurs, voice rough now, barely-there smile curling the corners of his mouth. “You did wear this shit on purpose. Look at the way it just falls down so easily– ‘S like you wanted me to stare at your tits.” You breathe out a laugh—shaky. “You’re so full of yourself.” He ducks his head, mouth grazing your collarbone now, slow and deliberate, hands palming your breasts. “You’re not denying it, though.”

Your response gets swallowed by the way his lips brush the base of your neck, warm and soft, and then he bites—not hard, just enough to make your breath catch. 

“Fuck—Sukuna—”

“Say that again,” he mutters, voice vibrating against your skin. “Say it like that.” You yank at his shirt in response, pulling him closer until he's practically between your legs, notebooks shoved aside and forgotten. He lets you, smiling against your neck, one hand situated on your breast, the other settling on your thigh now, fingers pressing just enough through the fabric of your leggings that it sends your heart into a tailspin.

“You’re—I don’t even like you like that,” you breathe, even as your hips shift slightly forward, even as your body clearly wants him, your heat pressed directly on the very evident bulge in his sweatpants. He drags his mouth back up to yours. “So stop kissing me.” You kiss him harder.

His hand slides up your thigh, slow but sure, fingers skating over your hip, his palm pressing warm through the fabric. You gasp into his mouth when his thumb brushes just below your waistband, teasing, testing. Still not rushing. Sukuna’s the kind of guy who knows exactly how to draw something out until it burns. His kiss slows again—like he’s dialing it back, testing your limits. “Tell me to stop,” he says, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. “If you want me to.” You shake your head before the words even leave his mouth. 

“Don’t.” He exhales, almost like relief. “Good.”

Because now his fingers are slipping under your sweater, not even pretending to be shy, tracing the warm skin of your stomach, the skin above your waistband. When he feels the way your breath stutters, he pauses—lifts his head to look at you.

“You good?” His voice is soft. Different. You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. I’m good.” His lips twitch like he’s amused with how breathless you sound, but he doesn’t say anything cocky this time. He just kisses you again, slower now, more methodical, hands exploring like he’s cataloguing every inch of you. You’re vaguely aware that you're still in his room, that the door’s closed but the walls are thin, that you’re half-on, half-off his bed surrounded by a mess of notes and highlighters and open laptops. And none of that matters. Because the way he’s looking at you now—eyes dark, mouth kiss-swollen, hair a mess from your fingers—it’s not just heat. It’s hunger. Craving. Like he’s been waiting for this since the day he sat next to you in chem lab with that annoying smirk.

And now that he has you? He’s going to take his time. You're not sure when studying officially got left behind. Somewhere between the first kiss and the way his hands slid under your sweater, books became background noise. The project became irrelevant. Now, he’s laying you back on his bed—slowly, carefully, like he’s trying not to make you overthink it. The room is dim, golden light spilling in from the desk lamp. Your legs are tangled with his, your sweater halfway off your shoulder, and he’s hovering over you, kissing you like it’s something he needs to do, like he’s been trying not to all semester and finally gave up. You feel his hand slide under your sweater again, this time pushing it up your ribs, warm palm skating over your skin like he’s memorizing it. He doesn’t even rush—he just looks down at you like you’re something to unravel, slowly.

“You sure?” he says again, quieter this time. His thumb brushes just under your bra, like he’s offering you a way out, even now. You nod, heart stuttering. “Yeah.” That’s all it takes. Because after that, Sukuna moves like a switch flips. His hands are suddenly everywhere—sliding your sweater off completely, tossing it somewhere behind him, and then he’s kissing you again, this time lower, trailing his mouth down your neck, down the line of your collarbone, licking into the dip between your breasts like he’s been thinking about doing it forever. 

His hand tugs off your bra roughly, making you squeak– you’re not sure if it’s from the surprise from having the material ripped off of you so roughly, or the fact his long fingers are pinching at your nipples. He takes one in his mouth, sucking and rolling the sensitive bud around, before doing the same to the other one. With each action, you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, to the point you’re half wishing he’d just take your leggings and panties off, and just get on with it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, half against your skin. “You’re—god, you’re driving me fucking crazy.” He pulls off your nipple with a resounding pop, eyes darkened by the sight of the sheen of his saliva on your breasts. You laugh, breathless. “You’re literally the one climbing on top of me right now.”

He looks up at you, hair falling in his face, mouth wet and swollen. “Yeah, because you look like this. Wearing that stupid little sweater. Coming to my room. Being all—” He cuts himself off with a groan. “You knew what you were doing. You expected me not to do all this?” He punctuates this with a light pinch to your nipple, making you squeal.

“I came here to study!”

“Yeah, and now you’re in my bed. About to get your little pussy wrecked until you can’t walk. Real tragic how that worked out.” You feel yourself heat up– like your entire body aflame at his vulgar words, mouth opening to retort something back at him. He kisses you again before you can reply, this time rougher—his hands slipping under the waistband of your leggings, tugging slow and deliberate. You lift your hips to help him, cheeks flushed as he pulls them down and off in one fluid motion, leaving you in just your underwear. His eyes darken.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re unreal. And wet. Fuck, I can practically see your pussy because of how wet you are.” 

You reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. “Take this off. It's unfair I’m the only one half-naked.” 

He grins—sharp, pleased—and yanks it over his head in one smooth move. Suddenly you’re staring at the body that you’ve been unconsciously (consciously) staring at everytime he wears something even slightly form fitted. Defined, lean muscle, broad chest, ink curling along his side. Do you even need to mention the pink smattering of hair below his navel? It makes your thighs clench uncomfortably, making your eyes darken. He catches your look and smirks. “Like what you see, huh?”

“Shut up and get back here.” And he does. He presses his body flush against yours, warm and solid, one hand braced beside your head, the other cupping your waist. You can feel how hard he is through his sweatpants now, the heat of it making your breath catch. His hand trails down, teasing the edge of your underwear. “Still good?” You nod, hips shifting toward him. “Sukuna, please.” He growls, soft and low in his throat, and hooks his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down. He kisses your neck as he does it, slow and hot, and you shudder. He gets them off and then leans back, just for a second, to look at you spread out in his bed, wet and inviting. His eyes are practically black now, jaw tight like he’s holding something back.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters. “You’re actually gonna kill me.” You tug at the waistband of his sweats. “Then die faster.” He laughs, breathless, and strips them off, boxers too. Holy fuck. It’s impressive. Thick and girthy, leaking from the pink tip. You try not to stare—try being the operative word—and he notices.

“Cute,” he says, climbing back over you. “You’ve been a nuisance to me all semester and now you’re blushing over my dick?”

“You’re literally about to be inside me. Give me a break.” That shuts him up real quick. He leans in, kisses you slow, hand sliding between your thighs. He teases you with his fingers first, dipping the long digits in and out of your wetness, making sure you’re ready, whispering things against your neck—“You’re so wet already,” and “Fuck, this tight for me?”—until you’re shaking, seeing stars just from two, thick fingers of his, clinging to his muscled arms. Once he’s deemed that you’re pleasantly even more wet than you were pre-orgasm, he strokes his shaft, the tip pink and angry as he stares with a half lidded gaze at the glistening area between your legs.

And then he’s there, lined up, pushing in slow. You gasp at the stretch, the pressure, your hands grabbing onto his biceps as he sinks into you inch by inch. “God,” he grits out, forehead pressed against yours. “You feel—fuck—you feel insane. Oh my– Shit, I’m never letting this pussy outta my sight.” You can’t speak. You just hold onto him, breathing through it, until he’s all the way in and stills. Gives you a second. Kisses you again. When you finally nod, his hips start to move—slow, deep strokes that make your whole body arch into him. It’s hot and messy and intense, but there’s something else in it too—something careful. He watches you like he wants to memorize every expression you make, every sound you let out.

It builds fast—frustration and release and months of tension finally cracking open. His name falls from your lips more than once, and he groans each time like it’s doing something to him.

“S-Sukuna—fuck—I’m—”

“I got you,” he mutters, kissing your shoulder. “I got you. Come on, baby. Make a mess on my dick. Yeah, mhm. Fuck.” And when you come, it hits like a wave—sharp and overwhelming, your whole body curling into him, his name leaving your mouth in breathy moans. He follows not long after, hips stuttering as he barely manages to pull out, his warm seed splattering on your stomach, head buried in your neck, cursing softly against your skin. He kisses you briefly, heading quickly to his bathroom to grab a warm washcloth to wipe your stomach clean, tossing the balled up cloth into the hamper in some corner of the room.

Afterward, there’s just heavy breathing and tangled limbs. His hand finds yours under the sheets, fingers interlacing. You’re the first to speak, voice still shaky.  “That was–That was not studying.”

Sukuna laughs—hoarse, wrecked. “Yeah, no shit.” You glance at him. “So… do we pick the project back up tomorrow?” He rolls over, smirking at the ceiling. “Maybe if you let me come inside next time.” You throw a pillow at his face. He catches it without flinching. “Worth it.”

And you laugh, falling back into the sheets beside him, skin still buzzing, body still flushed. For once, everything’s quiet.

–

You stretch, groaning into the pillow, body aching in a way that’s half delicious and half criminal. Your thighs hurt. Your back hurts. Your soul might hurt a little. From across the room, you hear the sound of Sukuna's shower turning on. “No,” you croak, face still buried in the pillow. “I am not moving. I live here now. This is my bed.”

“You’re literally lying on my hoodie.”

“Then it’s mine now too.” 

He snorts. “Get your ass up. We should shower before everyone in the frat wakes up and thinks I killed someone in here.” You peek out with one eye. “You can go first.”

“I wasn’t offering,” he says, walking out of the bathroom with just a towel slung low around his hips. Drops of water are still clinging to his chest, and the tattoos on his ribs look somehow worse in the daylight. In the best way. “Come on.” You blink at him. “You want to shower… together?”

He raises a brow. “Yeah?”

“No.” He squints. “Why not?”

“That’s intimate.”

He stares. “My dick was inside you last night.” You wave a hand. “That’s physical. This is emotional.” He laughs—actually laughs—and crosses the room in two strides. “You're such a weirdo.”

“I’m serious! Showering together is, like, emotionally naked. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s so vulnerable. That’s like… domestic. That’s, like, soft.”

He rolls his eyes, completely unfazed. “You’re such a freak.” Then, before you can protest further, he grabs you—still very naked, still very sore—and throws you over his shoulder like a caveman. His hand slaps across your ass lightly, snickering to himself.

“SUKUNA—”

“I’m not listening to you spiral about emotional nudity,” he says, totally calm, carrying you into the bathroom like you weigh nothing. “You moaned my name like a porn star last night. You can handle a shower.”

“I can’t walk!”

“Which is why I’m being a gentleman and carrying you.”

“You are the opposite of a gentleman.” He kicks the bathroom door shut behind him and sets you down on the edge of the counter. Steam curls around both of you, hot and fragrant—his shampoo smells stupidly good, which is somehow infuriating.

You stare at the water, then at him. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

Sukuna grins, dimples flashing. “Obviously.” You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips a little anyway. The second you step under the spray, your muscles sigh. Hot water hits your back, and you slump forward with a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a prayer. Sukuna slides in behind you, and his hands immediately land on your hips, holding you steady like he knew you were about to collapse.

“I told you I couldn’t stand,” you mumble, leaning back against his chest.

“I didn’t realize you meant it literally,” he says, smirking into the curve of your neck. “You should work on your stamina.”

“You should get bent.”

“Hm, I think I bent you. Very successfully, actually.”

You try to elbow him, but he catches your wrist easily, still grinning. “Want me to wash your hair?” You eye him warily. “What are you gonna do? Douse me in Axe body wash?”

“Hey. That’s slander.” He grabs a bottle from the ledge and starts working it into your scalp before you can protest. His hands are warm, gentle, and surprisingly careful. He’s quiet for a second, and so are you. Then he murmurs, “You smell good.”

“It’s your shampoo. That’s like self cest. You’re saying I only smell good because I smell like you?”

“Yeah, but now it’s on you. It’s different. Not self cest. You just… Shut up and lemme wash your hair.” You glance up, heart doing something stupid in your chest. “You’re being weird again.”

“Yeah?” He ducks down slightly, voice lower now, breath ghosting against your ear. “And what if I said I like being weird with you?” You freeze. Then you shove a palm into his chest. “Shut up. That’s so corny.” He laughs, but his grip on your waist doesn’t falter. You stay under the water a little longer, letting the heat and his hands and the way his chest feels against your back melt the rest of the tension out of you. When he reaches for the soap again, you catch his wrist. “Do not start anything. I physically can’t take another round.” Sukuna leans in, kisses the side of your jaw with a smirk. “Don’t worry, baby doll. I’ll be good.” He’s not. Safe to say you ended up begging for it too.

–

The hallway’s cold. Way colder than your dignity can handle when you’re limping barefoot behind a shirtless Sukuna in his frat house, wearing his hoodie and a pair of his shorts that might as well be pants. Your hair’s damp, your thighs are wrecked, and your pride? That’s somewhere on the floor of his room with your underwear.

“You didn’t have to break me in half,” you mutter under your breath, wincing with each step. Sukuna snorts, completely unbothered. “You seemed fine last night. And in the shower.”

“I was faking it.”

He glances over his shoulder, smug. “You were screaming.”

“Faking it loudly, then,” you snap. He just chuckles, steps into the kitchen like he’s not Satan incarnate. Toji’s already there—standing shirtless in front of the stove, flipping protein pancakes in a pan that looks like it’s seen war. He glances up the moment you hobble in behind Sukuna, eyes trailing from your flushed face to the unmistakable fact that you are wearing Sukuna’s hoodie and walking like you’ve been in a car crash.

Toji freezes. Then grins. Slow. Evil.

“Oh shit.”

You want to die. You want the linoleum floor to open up and swallow you whole. You press the sleeves of Sukuna’s hoodie over your face. “I knew I heard something last night,” Toji says, flipping a pancake like this is the best morning of his life. “Told Choso it wasn’t the pipes. That’s gotta be why he slept on the couch.”

“I hate this house,” you mumble. Sukuna yawns. “Shut the fuck up, Toji.” Toji just cackles. “She’s limping, bro. You broke her.” Your head snaps up. “Shut up! Don’t say it like that—”

“Toji,” Sukuna says again, voice dropping low now. “If you say one more thing, I’m banning you from ever speaking in the kitchen again.” Toji raises both hands, innocent. “Damn. Y’all are sensitive this morning.” Sukuna grabs a water bottle off the counter and throws it—nails Toji square in the chest. Water explodes. Toji wheezes laughing.

“I’m putting a ban on the entire house,” Sukuna mutters, turning toward the hallway. “Nobody comes out of their fucking rooms for the next twelve hours.”  Toji wipes water off his chest with a paper towel. “That’s not how a frat works.”

“It is now.” 

You, meanwhile, are dying silently in the corner of the kitchen, gripping the counter for dear life like Bambi on ice. Your legs genuinely might give out. You pull the hoodie lower and try to disappear into it. Toji eyes you, smirking. “You want a protein pancake, champ? You’ve earned it.”

“I swear to God—”

Sukuna slams a mug down on the counter. “TOJI.”

“Okay, okay! Damn. Sensitive and possessive.”

Sukuna grabs two mugs, fills them with coffee, then turns to you like nothing happened. “C’mere.” You shuffle over, still avoiding eye contact with the man who just witnessed your walk of shame, and accept the mug gratefully. Your fingers brush Sukuna’s as you take it, and he glances at you. That look again. The one that’s always a little cocky, a little smug. But softer now. Like he hasn’t quite recovered either. You sip the coffee to avoid saying something dumb.

Toji, of course, ruins the moment by smacking the spatula on the counter. “So when’s the wedding?” Sukuna chucks a pancake at him. And despite the embarrassment, despite the ache in your thighs and the fact that your ego might never recover… when Sukuna leans against the counter next to you, shoulder brushing yours, and murmurs, “Still think showering’s more intimate than sex?”—you don’t argue. You just bump his hip with yours and whisper, “Next time, you’re the one limping.” He barks out a laugh at that, looking down at you.

“You sound like you’re gonna peg me.”

“Keep embarrassing me like this and I might just peg you.”

–

It keeps happening. Somehow, even after you swore you weren’t gonna end up tangled with a smug frat boy who wears rings like armor and calls you “menace” every time you breathe wrong—here you are. The project is basically done, but that doesn’t change much. You still see each other constantly, like it’s built into your week now. Study sessions, late-night editing, grabbing food on the way back from the library. He still comes over unannounced and flops onto your bed like it’s his, still kicks his shoes off and demands snacks and calls you bossy for forcing him to fix his citations.

And okay, yeah. You keep hooking up. It’s not even subtle anymore. Sometimes he’ll press you into your mattress before your laptop’s even warmed up, muttering something like “five minutes” that always turns into an hour. You fall asleep tangled in his limbs more often than you’d like to admit, his hand wrapped around your waist like it belongs there. And it’s not just sex—it’s everything. The way he orders your coffee without asking. The way he instinctively tilts his head down when you talk so he hears every word. The way he looks at you, like he’s memorizing you. Toji and Choso have basically stopped pretending it’s casual. Every time you come over to the frat house, someone whistles or yells, “Yo, Sukuna’s girl’s here!” 

You always roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm anyway. Sukuna usually throws a middle finger over his shoulder and drags you inside like he doesn’t care—but you’ve caught the smirk on his face more than once. But then. One Wednesday, you walk into class a couple minutes late. You’re digging for a pen in your bag, not paying attention, until you hear it—his laugh. You glance up. He’s already in your usual seat. But he’s not alone. There’s a girl next to him—cute, brunette, sparkly earrings. Laughing with her hand on his arm like they’re in the middle of a joke. And Sukuna? He’s laughing too. That low, easy laugh he uses when he’s genuinely amused. His whole body turned toward her. His eyes crinkled at the corners. Familiar.

Too familiar. It shouldn’t matter. He’s not your boyfriend. You never asked him to be. But something curdles in your stomach, this horrible bitter twist of heat and nausea. Because he’s never laughed like that with anyone else—not that you’ve seen. That was yours. You sit on the other side of the lecture hall. You don’t text him back that night. Or the next. You’re not cold. Just… distant. Muted. Detached. You don’t flirt. You don’t roll your eyes when he calls you names. You don’t even rise to the bait when he eats the last of your chips and says, “You snooze, you lose.” You just nod, distracted. Quiet. The first time he tries to pull you into his lap during a break, you shrug him off.

The third time it happens, he snaps. “The fuck is going on with you?” You glance up from your notebook, eyebrows raised. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” he says, jaw tense. “You’ve been acting weird all week.” You look at him flatly. “I’ve been busy.”

“With what? Avoiding me?” The words hang heavy in the air. He stares at you across the room, breathing hard, the project open on your laptop but completely forgotten. Your throat is tight.

“Forget it,” you mutter, pushing back your chair. He grabs your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to make you stop.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” You inhale, shaky. “I saw you. In class. With that girl.”

His expression shifts, confusion tightening into something sharper. “What girl?”

“The one you were laughing with,” you say, voice brittle. “It’s not a big deal. I just—forgot who you are, I guess. You can talk to whoever you want.” He stares at you. Like he doesn’t know whether to scream or laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

You rip your arm from his grip. “Yeah, actually.”

“That was my cousin, you idiot.” You freeze. “What?”

“My cousin. From Osaka. She was visiting campus and sat in for class,” he says, exasperated. “Jesus, you thought I was flirting?”

“You were laughing with her!”

“I laugh with you more than anyone! Does that mean I’m flirting with you too?”

“Yes!” you blurt, and then immediately regret it. His eyes narrow. “So you do see it.” You open your mouth. Close it. Your face burns. He steps forward, close enough to make your pulse jump. “You’re jealous.” You look away. “No, I’m—”

He cuts you off. “You are. And you know what? Good. ’Cause I’ve been going fucking insane pretending we’re just study buddies who coincidentally spend every second together and coincidentally fuck and coincidentally sleep in the same bed, but can’t call each other anything real.” You stare at him, breathless.

“I like you,” he says, low and hoarse. “I like you so much it’s driving me nuts. And if you don’t feel the same—fine. But don’t act like I haven’t been making it obvious.” You swallow hard. “You have a fucked-up way of showing it.”

He snorts. “You’re one to talk. Giving me the silent treatment because I laughed once?”

“You laughed like you do with me,” you whisper. “That’s what hurt.”

Something flickers in his expression—something soft and real. He cups your jaw.

“I only laugh like that with you,” he says, voice thick. “I only want to laugh like that with you.” Your heart stumbles. “Now shut up,” he mutters, “so I can kiss you.” You do. And he does—hard, hungry, like he’s been waiting for years. Hands are in your hair, yours are on his shoulders, and everything finally clicks into place. When you pull back, flushed and breathless, he grins. “Well. You’re my girlfriend now.” You blink. “That’s not romantic at all.” He kisses your cheek. “Didn’t say it was. But it’s the truth.” You shove his chest. “You suck.” He just grins harder, tugging you back in. “Not what you were saying last week. In fact, you were sucking it.” You groan. But you don’t argue. Because yeah—you’re his now. And he's yours. Officially.

–

Sukuna’s room is warmer than usual. The window’s cracked, the scent of pine air freshener battling the distinct smell of boy—clean laundry, leftover cologne, something vaguely woodsy. You’re cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by notebooks and crumpled printouts, while he’s sitting in his desk chair with one foot up on the edge, tapping away at the final slides of your presentation. Toji passed by the door earlier and shouted, “Yo, project couple!” before Sukuna flipped him off and slammed the door shut with his heel. You’re both halfway through your second coffees, the last dregs sloshing around your cups. The project’s done for real now—just tweaks now. Alignment stuff. Graph polish. The usual shit that seems small until it’s 2 a.m. and your brain starts melting.

“You typed ‘photochemistray,’” you murmur, leaning forward to peer at his screen. He doesn’t even look up. “No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“I don’t make typos.” You snort. “You make so many typos.”

“I make sexy typos.”

“‘Photochemistray’ sounds like a bootleg brand of nerd lingerie.” He finally glances over, one brow raised. “You say that like it’s not a market I could corner.”

You throw a pillow at him. He laughs, full and low and so familiar it warms your stomach. That sound’s become muscle memory at this point. Embedded into your damn soul. The moment settles. Quiet for a beat. His keyboard clacks, and you start flipping through your notes, eyes skimming blankly. Then, out of nowhere, your voice slips into the silence. “Y’know… we’ve technically talked before this semester.” 

He glances up. “What?”

“Like, you and me. Before we got partnered.” He blinks. “When?” You hesitate. “That freshman welcome thing. In the orientation lecture hall. They made people from different majors introduce themselves. I stood up and said something about being interested in environmental science.” He frowns, clearly digging through his brain.

“And I stuttered,” you add, dryly. “And you—very loudly—mocked me from the back row.” There’s a beat. His face changes. Just slightly. Jaw tightening.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. You said something like, ‘Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.’”

He winces. “Shit.” You shrug, trying to brush it off. “I mean, whatever. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Yeah, it was,” he says immediately, looking at you now with that intense, unreadable stare. “I was an asshole. I didn’t even remember that was you.” You shrug again, but it feels a little thinner this time. “You weren’t wrong. I was stuttering.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter,” he says. “I was a piece of shit. I’m sorry.” The quiet that follows isn’t awkward—it’s just… charged. The way he says it, that gravel in his voice. The way he’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, rings glinting under the dim desk lamp. It does something to you.

“Didn’t think the Ryomen Sukuna apologized,” you say lightly. He lifts a brow. “Only when I mean it.” You nod slowly. Then: “Guess I’m honored.” His eyes narrow—playfully, but there’s heat there now. “You should be.” Your heart skips. You stretch your legs out, feigning boredom. But the hem of your shorts rides up, and his gaze flickers down—lingers. You see the change in his posture. The way his foot drops from the desk, his chair creaking as he shifts.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he says, voice lower now. “But you’ve been sitting there looking like that for the past hour and it’s getting hard to think.” You blink. “Like what?”

He tilts his head, mouth twitching. “All pretty and smug. Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to me.” You raise a brow. “I’m literally in a hoodie and gym shorts.”

“And yet,” he says, slowly standing. “Here I am. In physical pain.”

You scoff. “Maybe focus on the final slide instead of your dick.”

“Maybe stop sitting there looking like a fucking sin,” he mutters, now crossing the space between you. You don’t move. You can’t. Your breath is caught somewhere in your chest as he stops right in front of the bed, towering over you, eyes hooded. “Can I?” he asks, voice quieter. Rougher. You nod. The shift is immediate. His hands slide up your thighs, slow and deliberate, as he kneels onto the bed, caging you in. His mouth brushes the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Didn’t like that I hurt your feelings.” 

You swallow. “You didn’t. Not really.”

“I did,” he murmurs, kissing the side of your neck. “And now I’m gonna make it up to you.” Your breath stutters. He pulls back just enough to look at you—his thumb grazing your jaw, eyes dark and locked on yours. “You good?” he asks, tone shifting just slightly—checking in. You nod. “Yeah.”

“Say it.”

“I’m good.”

That’s all it takes. His mouth crashes into yours, all heat and teeth and months of tension bleeding out between your lips. His hand finds your waist, gripping you like he’s been starving. You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. The laptop slides off the bed with a thunk, forgotten. You pull him down with you, and he goes easily, one knee slipping between your thighs, his weight bracing over you. He kisses like he studies—focused, intense, overwhelming. His tongue licks into your mouth and your brain just short-circuits. He looks at you for a long second. Then, suddenly, grabs your waist and pulls you into his lap.

“Also,” he murmurs, breath hot against your neck, “for the record, if I’d known the hot chem girl from freshman year would end up riding me like five times a week, I would’ve introduced myself sooner. And not have been such an asshole to you.” You slap his chest. “That’s your way of apologizing?”

“Yeah, but you like it.” You kiss him to shut him up, and somehow, that turns into another hour of not reviewing the presentation.

–

it’s the final day, and your name’s being called. You head to the front of the class with your laptop while Sukuna follows, looking every bit the cocky, casually dressed bastard he’s always been—except now he’s your cocky, casually dressed bastard. He nods at the front row like he’s about to win a Grammy, and you nudge his ribs. A significant portion of the project requires an overview accompanied with an oral presentation, so here you are.

“Behave.”

“I’m always well-behaved,” he mutters, grabbing the clicker. You start the intro. He takes over halfway through. You can’t help but grin a little—because he’s good. Actually good. Clear, confident, no stuttering, and he even makes Professor Shimizu laugh with a sarcastic quip about the data trend in one of the chemical reactions. And then, without thinking, he leans down and kisses your cheek. Like it’s second nature. The room doesn’t even react that much—probably because no one’s shocked anymore—but when the class ends and people start packing up, Professor Shimizu catches your arm. She grins. “Isn’t that the same boy you were begging me not to pair you with at the start of the semester?”

Your face burns. “We had…a rocky beginning.”

“Mmm,” she says, amused. “Well, you turned it around. Solid work. And the chemistry was palpable.” You groan. “Please don’t say chemistry.” But she’s already walking away, still smiling to herself. After class, Sukuna drives you back to your dorm like always. One hand on the wheel, one resting over your thigh like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. Halfway through the drive, he queues something on his phone. And the soft strum of Faye Webster's She Won’t Go Away fills the car. You whip your head toward him. “No fucking way.” 

He doesn’t look at you. “Don’t start.”

“You said this was depression music for people who get dumped in the rain.” He clicks his tongue. 

“Yeah, well. Maybe I like that kinda concept now.” You cover your mouth with a gasp. “You’re evolving.”

“I’m gonna shove you out of this moving car.” 

You’re already singing by the chorus, and even though he groans, you catch him mouthing the words beside you. He tries to act like he’s just being ironic, but his fingers tap the rhythm on your leg, and he keeps the song on repeat the whole ride. By the time he pulls up to your dorm, the sun’s setting. You lean in, eyes soft, smile lazy. “That was kinda romantic,” you murmur. 

He scoffs. “Don’t get used to it.” You kiss him anyway. And when you pull back, he’s watching you with that grin. The one that’s half smug, half stupidly, hopelessly fond. “You know,” he says, “if you weren’t so annoying, I might’ve asked you to be my girlfriend sooner.” You blink. “That was the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Like, worse when we had that little argument and you just told me that I was your girlfriend now.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “You didn’t fall for me because I’m romantic.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Why did I fall for you, actually?”

He leans in close. “Probably the dick.” You shove him away, laughing. “God, you’re disgusting.”

“And yet,” he says, as you open the car door, “you’re still letting me hit. Also, this song, I actually really like it–”

You squint. “Are you saying this to get laid?”

“No,” he mutters. “But if it works, I won’t complain.” You slam the door in his face, but you’re grinning. And he’s still smiling when you look back through the window.

a/n: i had way too much fun writing this lollll now i need sukuna!!!

also, honourable tag for @writesvani bc of whom i actually had the motivation of writing this because she sent the most beautiful words of support 2 me after whisper of the heart. thank u so much and ily immensely <3

tags: @tracysdemise @perqbeth @fushiguroooozzz @bowlware @yuunice @xxstormyprincessxx @bnbaochauuu @beabamboo @erintaro @altgojo @sugurulefttesticle @minascasket @rinofcike @captainquake42 @pinkpookiebear @hellowoolf @clp-84 @yit-tk @nessca153 @domainofmarie @crunchyholo @emochosoluvr @sukubusss @being-blue-is-better @nikilig @syubseokie

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nerdjo