rinsie

[rinsie]

AFTER DARK. Armin Arlert (CH. 6) (18+)

☰ pairings: Armin x Reader, Slight Eren x Reader

┌─ ✮⭒｡ story summary: Armin was tired of being seen as an innocent, goody-two-shoes, little flower boy. Instead, he wanted to be seen in a more romantic and…sexual light. You just couldn’t turn down a sweet boy like him, so you agreed to hone his charms and teach him special…skills.

And he turned out to be much more powerful (and hotter) than you'd ever expected.

└─ ✩⭒｡ story #tags: fluff, angst, smut, friends to lovers, friends w benefits, drama, jealousy, hurt/comfort, manipulative armin, virgin armin, loss of virginity, childhood friends, lots of tension, nerd armin, and then he glows up, love triangles, unrequited love, gaslighting, lots of buildup

☰ CHAPTER SIX. armin's first

┌─ ✮⭒｡ chapter summary: Things get heated. Things get so, so heated.

└─ ✩⭒｡ chapter warnings: smut (p in v sex, fingering), fem bodied reader, loss of virginity, petting, literally most of this is foreplay

wc: 9.7k

☰ table of contents | previous chapter | next chapter

In the dim of your living room, your eyes could only see him. And right here, on the plush of your couch, your body only knew his. 

Armin held you, secured you, and grounded you, strong arms snaked around your waist as you became all too aware of your intermingling bodies. The squish of your thighs against his, the unashamed press of your tits against his chest, the weight of his breaths against your lips…

You could still feel the tingle on your lips where he’d last kissed you, a ghost of his touch. 

Above you, the clock ticked louder and louder in your ears, louder than the blood that rushed to muffle your hearing and the pounding of your pulse, a looming reminder that it was late. That you had work in the morning. That you were running out of time. 

That you shouldn’t be doing this.

Another sound intruded on you. A voice, his voice, running rampant in the back of your head.

Will your roommate be home soon?

The fact that he’d asked that question…just what did he want?

And on top of that, you had already confirmed that, no, your roommate wasn’t going to be home any time soon. In fact, she wasn’t going to be home at all, meaning you’d have the entire night with him alone, undisturbed. 

Sitting here, Armin quietly eyed you, curious and content yet half-lidded and torn by lust. He suddenly silenced your thoughts with a kiss, swooping in hard, teeth clashing, causing you to instinctively grab his face to ease him down. 

The kiss oozed of messiness, an exchange of saliva and wet, meshed-together lips that barely held any rhythm. The feeling consumed you fully—the warmth and fervent press of his lips—as you slowly guided him. 

Lost in the intensity, you instinctively swiped your tongue against his bottom lip. He jolted, pulling away. 

You thought that was so cute of him, seeing him like this. So ironically innocent.

“S—sorry,” he stuttered out, a bashful look on his face. 

Your brows furrowed, worried that you had done something wrong. “Did I go too far?”

“No, it’s just….” He tightened his grip on your waist, burying his face into the crook of your neck. “God, I’m so nervous.”

Squeezing your hands on his shoulders, you reassured him, “It’s okay. We can go slow.” 

“Okay.”

Armin smiled up at you, so sweetly and boyishly—so contradictory to the thoughts you’d been having about him. But even so, he was still nothing like the little boy you’d known. Not when he was gazing at you with that blush, reddened and far-gone, and that glint of lust—that hunger—in his eyes. 

You still couldn’t believe he was here with you. If you’d known you’d be kissing your childhood friend ten years down the line, you’d probably flip out in disbelief. 

But he’d matured so much from then. That boy was nothing like the man under you, holding onto you. Nothing like how tempting and alluring and irresistible he looked right now. 

His palms flexed around your waist, once, then twice, then dragged up the sides of your torso, slowly, almost mindlessly, then back down. Pressed up like this, chest-to-chest, you could feel the racing of his heart so hard that you felt yourself rattling. And even though his hands had stopped shaking, the fast, repetitive thump inside his chest told you more than anything else ever would. 

Sitting in silence, hearts beating out of sync, you let him roam your body like that. Slowly and hesitantly, like he hadn’t quite fully grasped the situation. 

"You're a good friend,” he mumbled quietly, no longer meeting your eyes, fixated on where he was touching you instead. 

Cheeks heating up at the praise, you shuddered with a laugh that sounded a little too strained and nervous. 

You were a good friend? No, he was a good friend. He was the whole reason you wanted to do this in the first place. A good, caring, considerate friend that you would never turn down even if it meant putting your friendship on the line. 

“I trust you. I wouldn’t ask anyone else this,” he continued. 

Breathing in deep, you cupped his face affectionately. “No, please, you’re so good to me. How can I say no to you?” 

His hands stilled, and you could see how his eyes instantly softened. Armin’s right hand fiddled with the hem of your shirt, eyes meeting yours momentarily before darting away. 

“Thank you. So…can we keep going?” 

Your lips lifted into a small smile, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at his eagerness. “Yeah, um. Do you…want to try using tongue now?”

As soon as you’d finished that sentence, you fought down the nervous, embarrassed lump that rose to your throat. It couldn’t get any more straightforward than that. 

“Yeah,” he replied breathlessly and nodded.

“Slowly, okay? We’re just gonna ease into it. When I lick your lips, open your mouth a little. And then after that, it’s like…” You swallowed, tensing. “Um, I don’t really know how to explain it. Just try to match me.” 

He gazed at you with so much anticipation that you could almost taste it. Sliding your hands back onto his shoulders, you latched onto his lips again. 

This time, there wasn’t a rush. Just slow, methodical, and relaxed movement as you relished the softness of his lips. You loved this feeling. Soft and sweet, like him. 

His hands began roaming your body again, starting from the sides of your chest down to the tops of your thighs. His palms slightly brushed the outer parts of your breasts, but it was still nowhere close to where you really wanted him.

You took this as a cue to mimic him, hands gliding down to his biceps where you gave him a light squeeze. Even though you knew he worked out, you were still surprised to feel the dips and tautness of hard muscle. It wasn’t that you forgot, it was that you didn’t normally expect it from Armin, someone usually so nice and mellow. 

As you trailed down his stomach, you could feel the defined ridges of his abs under your splayed palms, and you swore you almost moaned. For someone with such a cute face, he had such a strong body. 

When your tongue finally soothed over his bottom lip, he parted his lips ever-so-slightly. And the moment you slipped your tongue in, he let out a small noise that was so, so quiet. Your tongues met, warm and wet. 

You could tell he was hesitant, but you continued at the same pace, slowly licking into him and swiping your tongue over his. He’d completely stilled, hands etching themselves harder into your waist. As you were letting yourself taste him, something tugged on your heart, weighing heavy. 

Because it dawned on you that you were making out with Armin. 

Something so intimate and passionate like this could only be reserved for lovers, not for friends.

Armin reluctantly slipped his hands under your shirt. Just right there, right at the threshold of your torso and not any further, like he was testing the waters. He held you there, only tasting. Your breath hitched, startled by the warmth of his fingers, but the flow of the kiss remained the same. 

The pressure of his tongue was soothing as it moved against yours, and he was getting the hang of it little by little. And the moment it seemed to click—where it felt like you’d reached the perfect rhythm and the perfect amount of energy—you moaned into his mouth to let him know he was doing good. Thank God he was a fast learner. 

Cradling his neck into your arms and threading your fingers into his hair, you rolled your hips into him experimentally, pelvises meeting. You heard him inhale sharply, but he didn’t break the kiss. He only tightened his hold on you, pushing you down slightly as he rolled his hips, matching you.

The friction felt so undeniably good. You knew he felt good, too, because you could feel the area of his crotch stiffen under you.

It was like that for a while, the two of you grinding on each other, so focused on outdoing the other that the kiss wasn’t even a kiss anymore. Just a mix of messy lips and hitched moans and saliva. So much so that you had to wipe away the drool at the corner of his mouth. 

You were the first to pull away for air. 

“How was it?” he instantly asked, licking his lips. They were swollen, and that gave you the urge to kiss him again. 

“Just a little messy. But good. You did good for your first time.” You laughed. 

He laughed with you, bringing a thumb to swipe over the corner of your mouth. “Sorry about that.” 

Just like that, the two of you shared a cute moment, and you began to think that nothing would change between you—that you two would still be friends and embrace these moments no matter what. 

As the atmosphere from your makeout session died down, you were left with one final thought. 

What now?

“Hey…” you started. You didn’t even know how to word this. Do you know where this is going? Do you even want to keep going? 

You stood up, all too abruptly like you were running on autopilot as your brain tried to catch up with your body, hands detaching from his neck and thighs from his lap. You looked at him warily, wedged between the coffee table and his parted legs.  

Armin frantically stood up, too, half hard in his pants as he reached for your forearm. “Something wrong?”

It was late, you remembered again. 

But now, in this lapse of judgment, you guessed it didn't matter if you should or shouldn't continue. Not when he was staring at you, pleading with his eyes—with his body. You could almost hear his heart thumping out of his chest.

You wondered if he could hear yours, too.

“Um,” you trailed off, wondering how to save yourself.

Before you had the chance to recollect your thoughts, Armin cut you off. “Sorry, um. I mean, I know it’s late…if that’s what you were going to say. I should probably go. You did say I should only stay for a little bit—”

“No—wait, no.” You pressed a palm to his chest. 

Armin subtly tilted his head, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “I thought you had work in the morning?”

“I know, but...” Your eyes trailed down to his crotch, suddenly guilty. “Do you want to stay?”

He regarded you with a look of uncertainty, hands hovering beside your arms like he was about to hold you. “Yeah…?”

“Then…what do you want to do?” It came out in a slight whisper, and you instantly wanted to slap yourself for that question because, one, it was definitely the wrong question. All you wanted was clarity as to whether he knew where this was going, and two, what did you mean by what he wanted to do? 

You could feel his eyes burning into your head, but yours were averted to where the neckline of his tee dipped down to reveal his collarbone.

He gulped. “What do I want to do?” he parroted, breathing in a steady breath. “Um…what do you mean?”

You pursed your lips, knowing you were going to sound desperate. “Was kissing…all you wanted to do?” 

He looked visibly taken aback now, lashes fluttering as his eyes flitted over your form in surprise. 

“No…” 

“Then what?” 

Maybe you really were desperate as you stood here so close to him, pushing your thighs together in an attempt to quell the ache. 

“Well, I think—I think you know,” he mumbled shamefully. “Don’t make me say it.” 

“Say it. Please? I just want to be sure.”

He pursed his lips, too, while contemplating, flushed a deep pink on his cheeks. “I want us to…go the whole way. I want you.” He cleared his throat. “To teach me.”

For a long moment, you were convinced you stopped breathing. 

It was so loud now. Your heartbeat was so unbearably loud, reverberating and bursting through your ears. A breathless silence filled the room.

He didn't waver. Not once. He only gazed straight into your eyes—straight through you, irises deep and blue and overwhelming and darkened by lust. He'd lost that innocent, bright shine long ago.

The beat of your heart only quickened, even quicker than what it already was.

Was this it? Was this the next step? Was this it after all of those needy kisses and flimsy touches and longing, vulnerable stares? 

Nevertheless, a sense of relief washed over you. You wanted this, too, despite the fact that you were risking something precious to you. Something irreversible.

Not that'd you stop now. 

And then you were onto him, capturing his lips in a sloppy kiss. He returned it just as quickly, rough and intimate. His hands slid to your waist and held you tight against his body while you clung onto him like it was the end of the world. 

Licking his lips teasingly, you murmured in between the kiss, “My room.” 

He broke away a little, muttering a little “okay” before you cut him off by pressing your mouth back onto his. 

When you pulled away, he surprised you with his next words. 

“Can I carry you?” 

Without hesitation, you lightly jumped onto him, and he caught you, carrying you effortlessly in his strong arms. You loved the feeling of his hands on the back of your thighs, firm and warm. He was so surprisingly muscly that you wanted to squeal. 

The walk wasn’t far in your small apartment space, and you quickly found yourself being placed gingerly onto your bed and your limbs untangling from his body. He stood there like he didn’t quite know what to do. You scooted back onto your pillows, beckoning him to come closer. 

“Get on top of me.” You tugged on the front of his tee. “Like this.” 

He stumbled onto your bed, settling in between your legs as his hands braced him up. You tugged him even closer still, and he fell to his forearms. 

You looked up at him only to find him blushing, a dark, rosy color tinting the apples of his cheeks, watching you with eager eyes as his chest heaved with heavy breaths.

Heat bubbled in your stomach. “Are you sure you want to do this? Remember, this is…this is for you. This is about how you feel.” 

“I’m sure,” he answered quickly. 

Then, Armin kissed you for the millionth time tonight, but this time, it was short yet thorough, like he just missed your taste. 

“Kiss me on my neck,” you urged, craning your head. “Just don’t leave any marks.”

Armin dipped down instantly, but he stilled for the next second, hesitantly staring at your neck. The conviction finally hit him and his lips met your skin, ticklish and titillating and warm. He peppered slow kisses along the juncture of your neck, leaving one long, suckling kiss—one hard enough to make you feel good but soft enough not to leave a mark. You could tell he was unsure about his movements, so you softly grabbed him by the hair to bring him to a specific spot. 

“Right—ah—there. Yeah,” you assured him as he gave another suckling kiss. 

“Is this good?” he asked timidly into your skin, and you could feel the tickle of where his lips moved. 

You hummed in response. “It’s good. You’re doing good,” you replied, words tumbling out of your mouth in an awkward way. 

He pulled away, and his eyes raked over your form, suddenly stopping at your chest. While you should’ve been excited, something else happened. Something like dismay filled his eyes as his brows twitched downwards. 

“Is this Eren’s sweater?”

Oh. 

“Yeah?” you weakly breathed out, voice pitched a higher octave than you’d like.

His eyes flitted back to your face again, still strewn with an emotion you couldn’t quite place but knew wasn’t good. 

“Can I take it off?” he asked, pawing the hem of your sweater. He seemed confident almost, but you knew that the barely discernible, nervous strain in the thrum of his voice gave it all away.

You nodded wordlessly like the air had been punched out of your lungs.

Armin grabbed onto the hem of your sweater with both hands, peeling it off you so slowly that you couldn’t tell if he was teasing you or just simply nervous. Your stomach coiled in anticipation the farther he went, with each inch of skin he revealed. He was so agonizingly slow—or maybe you were so impatient that it felt like time had slowed down—yet the rush of cool air against your torso was instant. 

The moment he reached your bra, your heart seemed to beat out of your chest, and you needed to steady your breathing. 

He stopped and looked for only a minuscule second, as if he didn’t dare to stare any longer, and picked up the pace, pushing the last of your sweater above your raised arms. 

“Pants, too,” you whispered softly. 

With shaky hands, Armin obediently worked them off, past the fabric of your panties, all the way down your legs. 

He’d seen you in a bikini before, but it was different this time. You were laid out all nicely in front of him, clad in a bra and thin panties. On your bed, for him. 

The newfound cold nipped everywhere at your skin, goosebumps prodding up your arms and legs. 

“Take my bra off for me.” You said shakily, turning to your side to give him access. “You know how?” 

He laughed out what seemed to be a mix of a chuckle and a scoff. “I’m sure it isn’t hard.” His knuckles brushed the skin of your back as he took hold of the straps and unclasped your bra. You could feel his hands shaking against your back. “Easy.” 

As he slid it off of you, that heavy feeling in your heart resurfaced, and you began to feel self-conscious.

But it was just Armin, you reminded yourself. 

Your upper body was now completely bare to him. The cool of the air swept over your already-hardening nipples. 

Armin only stared at you. Didn’t say a word. Just outright ogled you with raw, unfiltered desire in his eyes as his hands twitched where they were resting near his thighs. 

You grabbed both of his hands, placing his palms directly on your chest. “C’mon. Touch me.”

Gulping hard, he leaned into you, broad, unpracticed hands cupping your tits, squeezing just once. Then his hands started moving, experimentally pushing and squeezing over the plush of your tits, palms grazing over the peaks of your pebbled nipples. 

You clamped your eyes shut, letting yourself go for the moment. It felt so pleasant, just steady friction against your sensitive breasts. 

Armin’s hands were soft—that much you already knew—just as everything else was about him. But while his hands were soft and gentle, his gaze was hard. He was so fixed and focused on you, blue eyes practically dripping with unbridled lust. 

He cupped your tits again, a soft nudge, then his hands slid down the curve of your waist. You could feel the trail of warmth that his fingers left on your skin. It clung to you even as his hands moved away to rest on your abdomen. His thumbs pressed into your skin so briefly that his touch might’ve been a spasm of a finger as the bottoms of his palms grazed against the hem of your panties. 

The warmth followed down the curve of your hips, down your thighs, and down to your knees. You shifted your legs closer to your body, and his hands quickly cupped the underside of your thighs, squeezing once. 

You knew this was his first time, so you let him explore your body as your hand came to his cheek to pull him down for another kiss. His tongue prodded at your lips, and you happily welcomed it. 

His hands were everywhere now—your thighs, your hips, your waist, your shoulders, your neck, your arms. You could tell he was losing rhythm between keeping up with the kiss and touching you, but you couldn’t care less. 

He pulled away first, leaving a string of saliva hanging between your lips. 

“Armin, play with my….” The embarrassment hit you again. You didn’t even want to finish your sentence, but luckily, he seemed to understand. 

“Oh.” His fingers found your tits again, thumbs swiping over your nipples before he lightly pinched them, tugging them upwards. “Like this?” 

You gasped and squirmed. “Yeah. Like that. Just very lightly. Try rolling them between your fingers.” 

His thumb and index finger met with your nipples, and he did what you told him, twisting and rolling your nipples between his fingers. 

That elicited a little whine from you. “Feels nice.” 

Armin continued his ministrations on you as he alternated between tweaking your nipples and groping your tits whole. It was sensual and quiet, save for the sound of your soft moans.

He suddenly sighed, eyes clouded. “You’re so pretty,” he whispered softly and fondly.  

You didn’t answer. Instead, you smiled at him and let your cheeks heat up from his compliment. It caught you off guard. Because somehow, in a suggestive moment like this, he managed to make it sweet. Judging from the tone of his voice, you knew it was genuine. 

Because he was a genuine guy.

You cupped the back of his head and pushed him toward your chest. “Put your mouth here.” 

He doubled back, eyes wide, but didn’t waste another second to envelop his lips onto your chest. He followed your orders so easily—like a dog to its owner—that you couldn’t help but chuckle at the charm of it. 

For a second, you wondered if he needed guidance, but when his tongue laved over your breast, you only held his head tighter as your back arched off the bed in pleasure. His eyelids fluttered shut, feathery, blonde lashes resting against his cheekbones. He kissed your nipple just as he kissed you, licking and sucking meticulously and thoroughly. 

One of the things that you liked about Armin was that he was such an adaptable learner. Took things he learned and applied them somewhere else. Not that any of this required any big skill, but he just did it so well and so quickly. 

You grabbed his hand and brought it to your other nipple, and he quickly understood, playing with you like he did before.

Suddenly, his teeth took hold of your nipple—just a light graze, and you gasped again. You felt the ache between your thighs throb, shamelessly getting wetter. Where did he learn to do that? 

“Okay, that’s—that’s good.” You tapped his cheek. “Over here now.” 

His mouth unlatched with a pop and he switched to the other breast, repeating the same routine. You felt the remnants of his saliva on your skin mix with the cool air, tingling. 

You were sure your panties were drenched now. Sure that the arousal made the fabric stick to you. 

Armin pulled away, licking the spit from his lips, and looked right into your eyes. “Was that okay?” he asked innocently. 

“Mhm,” you hummed, but you were convinced it came out more as a whine. You clutched a handful of the fabric of his tee. “Off.” 

He sat up straighter, surprised but willing. “Off? Okay, okay.” Armin reached behind him to grab the collar of his T-shirt, and in one swift yank, it came off. He threw his shirt on the floor like the rest of your clothes, and you were left to ogle at his body. 

Your eyes raked over the smooth planes of his chest, his slim waist, and the hard, toned stomach where your hands had previously felt. 

Even at pools and beaches, he opted for T-shirts with his swim trunks. And the last time you’d seen him shirtless, he wasn’t this jacked. 

“I never get to see you like this. You’re so—you’re so built.” The fluster was so evident in your voice as you trailed your fingers down his torso. 

He shyly laughed, pink on his cheeks. “Thank you.” 

“You’re so pretty, Armin.” Before the embarrassment and weight of your compliment caught up to you, you quickly grabbed the hem of his jeans. “Take—take this off, too.” 

You eyed the bulge beneath his pants, hard and begging to be freed. 

You gulped. Now you two were really getting into it—seeing and doing something so intimate. You had no problem undressing yourself, but when it came to him…

He nodded as his hands fumbled with the button and zipper, thumbs slotted in between his waistband as he shakily pulled them down. You helped him get them off, anticipation and nervousness coursing through your veins. 

Once his jeans were off, he seemed even bigger now. You could see the clear outline of his dick straining against his boxers, and it was messing with your head. This was your best friend, for crying out loud. Both of your most intimate places were each just a layer away, just inches away. 

“Fuck, I’m so—” His eyes scanned over you, from the eager expression on your face, to your bare tits, and to your legs that were spread to accommodate him. “You don’t know how hard I am right now.” 

You gulped again. “Yeah?” you teased, palming him through his boxers. 

He sharply inhaled and cursed low under his breath, but before you could go any further, he grabbed your wrist. There was a look of worry on his face—maybe it was desperation, you thought—and you wondered if you did something wrong.

“W—wait. I want to know how to make you feel good.” 

Your face morphed into one of surprise. Armin wanted to please you first. 

You felt the arousal creeping up on you. Felt it soaking your panties again. 

You breathed out slowly, and for a second, the words died on your tongue. He was going to see you fully naked. Only a flimsy piece of fabric away from erasing the line between your friendship and this…whatever this was. 

“Yeah, that’s good. Wanting to please your partner first, that is.” You regained your footing. “Help me take them off?” You eyed him innocently and pulled his hands towards your body until his knuckles touched your panties. 

He stared for a moment—definitely at the wet, darkened patch over your crotch. Armin finally took hold of the hem of your panties, fingers hot against the skin of your pelvis. Unblinking, he pulled them down gently, agonizingly slow. You could feel your slick sticking to your panties and the fabric grazing your almost quivering thighs. In an instant, cool air rushed to you. 

His eyes never left you as he pulled your panties past your knees and ankles, so fixated and eager that he made you nervous. The coil in your stomach returned, tense, like it was moments away from bursting. 

You felt like a virgin all over again. You were embarrassed—even though you knew you shouldn’t be because it was just Armin—and on the brink of clamping your legs together, but you couldn’t because his body was right in between you, even closer than you’d noticed before. 

“God, you’re so…” Armin gulped. He was quiet, muttering to himself, struggling to find his words, and nervously pushing his hair back. It fell back messily onto his forehead. “What do I…what do I do now?” 

Clutching his hand between both of your palms, you shaped his hand into a “thumbs up” sign and brought it to your slit, spreading yourself with one hand. “This is the clit. If you…if you didn’t already know.” 

His thumb grazed over your clit, and a twinge of pleasure shot up your lower body. 

“I know.” 

Armin thumbed your clit some more, swiping circles and pressing down lightly. You could feel yourself get wetter by the second.

“Is this good?” he asked. 

“Mhm. A little faster—oh! Yeah, that’s good.” Your hips bucked as he sped up. “You—you could also use your middle and ring finger.” 

You demonstrated with your hand, and he quickly followed, pressing his fingers onto you again. 

This time, he started off slow and worked his way to match the pace from before. 

“A little lower.” And suddenly you were arching off the bed. “Oh! Wait—”

“Am I doing it right?” he interjected, voice shaky. He was watching for your reaction, blue eyes boring into your face. 

You nodded as the pleasure spread through your lower body. He wasn’t the best, but he wasn’t bad in the slightest. He made you feel good, nonetheless. The pads of his fingers were warm and smooth, rubbing all the right ways against your clit. 

“You wanna move down now?” you asked. 

Wordlessly, his eyes flicked down to your entrance, and the urge to clamp your legs shut returned to you again. You were dripping—you had to be, slick with your wetness pooling around your center. He lingered for a second before his attention diverted back onto your face. 

“Show me how.” He said, adamant. 

“Just know that…” Your fingers ghosted over his knuckles. “You don’t have to necessarily make me cum. This is just to stretch me out. To prep for the real thing.”  

He regarded you with a tiny frown and peered at you hungrily through his long lashes. “What if I want to?” 

Your heart skipped a beat and your stomach simmered with warmth. 

“Well, you can.” You nodded and swallowed the lump in your throat, unsure of what to say. Taking his hand in yours, you isolated his middle and ring fingers and held them close to your entrance. As you did so, something tingled and churned inside your stomach. Nervousness, you thought, apprehension, maybe. Not in a bad way, but in the way that every next step with him left you remembering just how private and raw this was. 

“Just like that,” you whispered. 

With a gulp, his fingers slid into your soaked cunt. You were so wet and tight, and you knew he could feel it. Feel it envelop his finger, warm and so, so slick. You instinctively clamped down on him as he pushed further. 

“Oh, God…Y-Y/N,” he all but stuttered out. “Is—is this what it…”

The desperation showed clearly on his face: lips parted, brows knitted, and eyes drooping with lust.

You grabbed his wrist. “K—Keep going.” 

His fingers reached their hilt inside of you, and you had to resist squeezing down on him. He felt like no other guy you’d been with. Because he really wasn’t any other guy. 

He pulled them out swiftly, fingers and knuckles now tainted with the remnants of you. “What—what else?” he choked out. 

The absence of his fingers left you wanting more. With your grip still on his wrist, you tugged his hand closer to your center. “Curl your fingers like this. When you’re inside.” You choked, too, and cleared your throat. “Just keep moving.”

“Like this?” He entered you again, gently, and pressed against a spot inside you that drove your hips to lurch off the bed. 

You nodded weakly, whining. “More.” Your hand on his wrist urged him out, pulling backward. Confused, he slightly resisted. But when you pushed him back in, he seemed to understand the hint.  

Armin pressed into you, thrusting his fingers in and curling them right at that sweet spot that had you gasping out. He slid in and out so easily, guided by the slickness of your insides, and worked slowly, almost teasingly, but you squeezed his arm, encouraging him.

“Right there,” you gasped out. “You’re doing so good.” 

He groaned in response, a borderline moan. “H—Here?” And curled right into your G-spot. 

You let out an abrupt gasp, akin to a stuttered breath, hips bucking upwards as pleasure seeped into your insides. His pace was reckless, but the calculated way the pads of his fingers pushed and grazed against your G-spot had your stomach twisting and your heart racing. 

Beside you, you noticed his other hand fisting the bedsheets. Reaching out, you put a hand on top of his. “You okay?” you asked breathily.

Armin glanced up at you, eyes blown out, pupils dilated in such a starved, animalistic way that looked so out of character. He surprised you by lacing his fingers between yours. 

“Can I kiss you? Please?” 

It caught you off guard, but you didn’t get to register your shock before you were crying loud with a particularly hard thrust. “Please. Please.” You didn’t know why he was even asking. 

Armin’s lips crashed onto yours, capturing you in the most heated kiss of the night. Immediately, he dominated the kiss, all spit and tongue, lips hot and molding together with a firm press. His fingers kept fucking into you relentlessly, filling the room with lewd, wet sounds. 

His other hand held yours still, squeezing once before letting go and landing on your waist. 

“Just wanna feel you,” he mumbled. 

Nodding, you strung your hands through his hair as he caressed your waist and tits. His palms grazed over your nipples, making you shudder and bite back a moan. 

The coil inside your stomach winded tight and kept winding tighter and tighter when his fingers hit that spot again. The pleasure swirled through you, wave after wave, your hips lurching off the bed and your hands gripping his hair even tighter. 

You moaned into his mouth. “So close.” 

He groaned, drawn-out, lips wet with saliva, swallowing the noises that came out of your mouth. 

“You’re doing so good,” you praised. 

Armin whimpered at that—whimpered—and picked up the pace, faster, harder. It was sloppy, but it wasn’t imprecise. He flicked up into you so perfectly until you were stretched out and dripping, and until it finally snapped. 

The coil snapped. 

“Armin, I’m—I’m cumming! Don’t stop!”

“Hol—Holy shit, Y/N—”

The coil snapped, and sweet euphoria coursed through you, rushing through you like open floodgates. You gushed onto him in the same way, cunt fluttering against the thickness of his fingers. The feeling hit you like a truck and filled you whole. 

“Can’t believe this is happening,” he mumbled under his breath in a desperate whine. 

You pulled him into a desperate kiss—or was it that he pushed the kiss onto you?—and he dipped down to embrace you. The twitching weight of his clothed cock brushed against your thigh. It wasn’t intentional—at least you didn’t think, but it only reminded you of what was to come next. 

As he slowed down, you felt your cum leaking down his knuckles and onto the bedsheets. 

“Was that…good?” Armin timidly asked between heavy breaths. Above you, he panted like a dog, even more than you, pretty pink lips parted as if he was the one being fucked. So cute. 

You stayed quiet for a moment, relishing in your subsiding orgasm, fatigued and cozy. 

“Mhm. That was amazing. You did amazing for your first time.” 

He visibly relaxed, slumped back onto his heels, and sighed. “Really? Th—Thank you.” 

Even from above you, he looked submissive, face filled with a desperate need. You giggled at his shyness. The irony of it. “Yes, Armin, you…you just made me cum. That’s…”

Uncertainty weighed down on your tongue. Impressive? Was it really impressive, or should it have been expected from him? A part of you knew that he didn’t need any effort. Not because he was somehow a natural or that he was a fast learner, but that it was him, and that gives your body enough stimulation to push itself off the edge. 

Hazy and blinded by your orgasm and the strong presence between your legs, you stopped yourself from dwelling on it any further.

“Y/N, what do I do with this…?” He lifted his hand, still slicked with your fluids. His middle and ring fingers parted further, and your shiny, milky cum stretched between his fingers. The sight almost made you gape, such a contrast to the curiosity and genuine concern brimming in his eyes. 

“Taste it.”

He sent you a look so incredulous and so quick, those blue eyes widened to the depths as if your suggestion meant total absurdity. “Taste it?”

“Taste it. It’s hot when men do that. Or, you could also make the girl taste it,” you pushed, rising from your spot. You grabbed his wrist, leading it closer to his mouth. 

He hesitated and tensed, but when his eyes met yours, you only leaned in, urging him with a look in your eyes. He complied quietly and stuck out his tongue. 

The sight was lewd. His face reddened impossibly more, up to the tips of his ears, as his mouth engulfed his two fingers wholly. He crinkled his nose so subtly that you couldn’t tell what ran through his mind. He tasted your fluids on his tongue, sucked it for a second, then swallowed. 

Armin’s fingers slid out with a little pop, and you didn’t waste another moment to cup his face and pull him in for a kiss, tasting yourself when you pressed your tongue against his. He moaned at the sudden intrusion but melted into you easily. You could already feel his improvement as he reciprocated your energy and licked your mouth so nicely that the naturalness of it baffled you. 

A passing thought in your head told you that this might’ve been too much for his first time, but when he dragged his clothed dick against your clit, you knew he enjoyed this as much as you did. You both shivered a little from the contact, prompting him to pull away.

“So…” he started, voice tiny and breathless. “What’s next?” But the way his eyes darted to your bare, leaking pussy and then to the bulge in his boxers suggested he knew exactly what came next. 

You looked, too. Looked at the tight fit of his boxers on his bulging cock. Something about it—the unexpected size of him—made you giddy. Swelled your stomach with an indescribable weirdness. 

“Take your boxers off.” Though you asked him, you couldn’t stop yourself from sneaking your hands to his hips and taking hold of the waistband. “Can I?” 

He nodded hurriedly and gulped, tension and desperation etched on his face. 

You pulled his boxers down, and with a little lift from his hips, you got them down to his strong thighs. Immediately, his cock sprung up against his abdomen, leaking precum that beaded down his red, aching tip. You licked your lips and gulped involuntarily at the sight because he was just so…

“Big…” you whispered softly. 

“What?” He sounded out of it, like his question hadn’t carried any weight, rubbing a palm over his eyelids and pushing it into his hair. Like he couldn’t believe his eyes. An unspoken awkwardness filled the air as Armin removed his boxers completely. “Is—Is something wrong?” 

He sat in front of you, naked in his entirety. Broad, smooth chest, taut, defined abs, muscly arms, thick thighs, and the softest, sweetest face that did not match the rock-hard, needy cock between his legs. 

“Armin, I…I didn’t know you were so…big.” 

He sputtered out, “W—What? I’m—I’m really not.”

He looked so nervous, so unsure. So sweet and so submissive. Instead of answering him, you wrapped both hands around his dick, lightly squeezed, and swiped a thumb over the slit where his precum spilled. You spread it down his shaft, wetting him with his own fluids. 

“Agh…fuck…” he groaned, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. When you started jerking your hands up and down the length of his dick, his head moved forward and his hands came to cup your face. His hips bucked up with every jerk. You sensed his stare, but you were too occupied playing with his pretty dick.

“You’re so beautiful,” he complimented quietly. He gulped so hard you heard the small breath that followed after. “I wish you could see how you look right now.” 

“Yeah?” you teased, looking up at him between your long lashes. His eyes, lidded and drooping with lust, scanned your body, from your face to where your legs parted and revealed your slit. 

“I don’t think you understand how pretty you are to me.” He inhaled sharply and brought a hand to squeeze the area where his shaft met his head, right over where your hand rested. “I could just cum looking at you.” 

You didn’t expect that from him. He was just so obscenely honest, wasn’t he?

“Y/N.” He suddenly stopped you with a hand on your shoulder. “I think—I think that’s good…don’t wanna take the spotlight. I’m here to please you.” 

Your chest warmed at his words, and you fought down the urge to continue pleasing him to release your hands. 

“O—Okay,” you stuttered out, gulping and shivering all in one breath. Your body moved on its own and reached for your nightstand. Deep in the last drawer, stashed behind all of your cluttered knick-knacks, sat an unopened box of condoms. Three, actually.

Shakily, under his watchful gaze, you tore apart a box and unveiled a singular, foiled package. 

"Oh, you have a lot." He stared in mild disbelief, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth, eyes crinkling. If you knew any better, you'd think he was smirking under there.

“It's not what it looks like! Sasha gifted it to me as a gag gift. I haven't done anything in a while,” you quickly defended, trailing off quietly at the end. 

He didn’t respond, eyes fixed on the package between your fingers. The air held still, deathly silent beside the sounds of the crinkling wrapper. He had a hand wrapped around the base of his cock, very lightly squeezing. 

“You know how to put on a condom?” you finally spoke up. 

“I think so.” He nodded. 

“Want to do it?” 

He hesitated, and you caught the exact moment an idea clicked in his head. “No. Want you to do it.” 

Something about that riled you up. Something about him watching you. Something about your dainty hands near his aching, needy cock, too impure for the likes of him. 

He whimpered when you started sliding the condom down the length of his cock. The sweet sound of it rang through your ears. Made your heart lurch and your stomach heavy. When you finished, your head lifted to look him in the eyes. His cheeks were flushed so pink you wanted to kiss the color off of them. 

“Ready?” You ignored the way your voice shook, borderline a stutter, and circled your arms around his neck. 

“Yes. Please,” he whined. He was speaking with his eyes—begging with his eyes.

In one fell swoop, you both clambered down onto the sheets. And in this moment, when your eyes met his in a sweet remembrance, it felt like time had stopped, and all the anticipation you’d ever felt plummeted back into the pit of your stomach and built back up all over again. 

He loomed above you, flushed, domineering, and most importantly, nervous.

You only wanted one thing. 

"Please. Need you inside me."

He inhaled a deep, unsteady breath, holding back a whine. 

Then, you felt the tip of his dick brush against the slicked mess of your opening, and you clenched around the empty, ghostly graze. The hands on your thighs pressed into you with a little more pressure at the contact. He was shaking. His whole body was shaking.

“P—Put it in slowly, ‘kay? Don’t want to hurt the other person.” 

Armin listened, and in that final moment of anticipation, he slid in slowly, just the tip. You both gasped at the feeling. You were so, so wet and your heart beat so, so fast and his skin against your skin felt so, so right and so, so warm. The stretch had yet to creep up on you but you were already squirming under his touch. 

He pushed into you, the feeling of him inside warm and fulfilling. He let out a strained “shitttt” as his hands moved to dig into your waist even harder. Eyes squeezed shut, he seemed to lose himself in the pleasure. You could tell by his labored breaths and flushed cheeks that he already was so, so sensitive.

With a final push, he bottomed out, touching a spot deep in you, far deeper than your fingers or his fingers or any other man that had come before him. And God, were you wet. Instinctively, your pussy clenched around him. 

He hissed, pinning you down with his pelvis. “Don’t. Don’t do anything. Please, or I’m going to cum.” 

And then it hit you—that you’d finally done it. That you’d just taken Armin’s virginity. 

You had. 

Shit, you clamped down on him again, and this time, he groaned and abruptly pulled out. 

“Y/N,” he warned, voice drawn with honey. “I am not going to last,” he said, exasperated. 

“It’s okay. It’s your first time.” You placed a hand on his cheek. “Besides, you’re with me. You don’t have to worry about it.” 

He leaned into your touch, nuzzling into your hands, then gave you a small frown. 

“Then how am I supposed to make you feel good?”

“Trust me. You’ll always make me feel good.”

With a cute—yet sinful—smile and a hard swallow, he lined himself up again, hands on your thighs, and gave an experimental thrust.

You whined at the intrusion, reminded again of how he fit so perfectly. How the hardness of his cock dragged so pleasantly against the slickness of your pussy. 

And he did it again and again. Thrusted into you, albeit slowly, again and again. You’d let him intoxicate you again and again until all your body knew was the shape of his cock.

He moved deliberately, relishing every inch sheathed inside of you. He’d pull out with all the time in the world, dick coated in your wetness and eyes locked on where your bodies intertwined, and thrust back in with the most fervor and impatience.

The slowness of it, the intimacy of it—you couldn’t help but buck your hips in hopes of more. 

With soft moans, his thrusts sped up, and without a warning, you felt him fully, the whole weight of him spilling inside of you. His hands slid up to your waist as his head tipped forward. You arched your back into him in a silent plea, finding yourself yearning for his pretty lips, the knot inside of your stomach swelling with pleasure. As if he could read your mind, he drowned your lips in a feverish, hot, kiss, burning your mouth with his tongue. 

Every thrust met with the slap of skin-on-skin and the squelch of your fluids. It echoed through your bedroom walls alongside your muffled, whiny moans. You let yourself sink into the pleasure, letting him know that you felt good—that he made you feel good. 

Because truly, he did nothing wrong; it all felt so right with him. 

As he broke away from the kiss, leaving yet another string of saliva between you two, you took the chance to grab his hand. 

“Play with my body. Like here.” You placed his palm onto your breast, squeezing it with his hand underneath yours. “Or here.” You sensually dragged his hand down to your slicked-up, aching clit. 

Wordlessly, he complied, gulping down a constricted moan that bobbed his Adam’s apple. Armin rubbed your clit like you’d taught him, watching your hips wriggle under his touch.  

As a reward, you tightened around him. Oh, did you like seeing him lose composure. You liked picking him apart. You liked plucking the petals off of this innocent, little flower. And judging from his dazed, barely present expression and the hands gripping hard onto your hips, you knew he liked it too.

He whined again, and the sound rang in the air in a soft whisper. So vocal, wasn’t he?

“Don’t be afraid to make noise. I wanna know how good you feel,” you asserted through lidded eyes. 

Armin hummed a noise of confirmation, but it came out more of a moan as he juggled responding to you and recklessly pounding into you. You could tell he felt good—too good—as did you. 

The ebb and flow of pleasure swam inside you with each fill of his cock into your pussy, waiting to burst. You felt so close yet far away, but you let him experiment, toying with you, trying every angle in both erratic and deliberate ways. 

“Fuck!” you both cursed simultaneously with a perfect thrust into that spot inside of you. Your back arched off the bed unwillingly, arms clasping around his back and nails digging into his skin. 

Armin moaned oh-so-sweetly. “I’m so close!” he panted out, a borderline whine. 

“Cum for me. Please, Armin. Do it.” 

And his hips never stopped. Kept fucking hastily and sloppily into you in chase of his climax and in chase of the sweet yelps pouring out of your mouth. You spurred him on, almost able to taste his final moment. 

But the moment never came. You could hear the relentless, wet smack of your colliding bodies and the mix of low groans and hearty moans tumbling from his lips. His hips still never stopped, still chasing, still tasting. 

You couldn’t believe he lasted this long. He really did want to hold out for you, to make you feel good. 

Mewling again, you tightened your arms around his neck, the warmth scalding but the softness soothing under your fingertips. “Touch me. Please.” 

His fingers pinched your perk nipple before you could even finish your sentence. He rolled the bud around with his thumb and forefinger until he heard you moan, finally laying a palm down to squeeze your entire tit—and squeezed hard. You relished in the way his hand trailed down, slowly, to where he could swipe his fingers over your throbbing clit. 

Right now, all you knew was the shape of his cock. Heat radiated from his body and wrapped around you in a warm embrace. His breath tickled your earlobe, face hovering just above the crook of your neck. 

Oh, please, it felt so good, so intimate. Everything about this. Everything about him. 

"I love you. I love you so much,” he rasped through squeezed-shut eyes.

You looked at him wide-eyed, confused, and spellbound within the haze of lust, so out of that you believed your ears played a trick on you. It slipped out of his lips so wantonly you believed he uttered the words accidentally.

Your room suddenly felt too stuffy and a hundred more degrees hotter. A lone, oddly watchful bead of sweat rolled down your brow. 

It took him only a second of your silence before he started nervously blabbering in your ear. "Um, wait, sorry. Shit. I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. I got lost in the moment. I’m sorry.” 

He slowly inched away from you, but you paid no mind and pulled him back onto your lips. 

You didn’t care that, caught so deep in emotion and pleasure, he said “I love you” during sex—during his first time, no less. His first time with you. And now, after it happened, you didn’t care to warn him of that taboo. You wanted to selfishly indulge in the possibility that he’d always say it to you, regardless of who he shared his first time with. 

In your pleasurable bliss, you let yourself give in. “I love you too, Armin.”

He pulled away abruptly, your lips pulling apart with a wet click, disrupting the strange magnetism between the two of you. 

"I'm sorry,” he whispered, then kissed you full force. 

His love seeped into every pore of your body when he started thrusting into you again, full and hard and deep and starved. He didn’t spare you a chance to breathe with the way his mouth and cock engulfed you whole. 

A mixture of whines, moans, and smacks filled your bedroom once more. The pounding rhythm between your legs grew sloppier, though still unyielding and energetic. You wanted to cry out, louder than ever and let your neighbors know because everything felt so unexpectedly good. Armin. Your best friend. 

You ran your hands through his already-messed-up, blonde hair. You loved this look on him, a side of him that people never saw. Disheveled, falling apart, and...crazy.

He leaned back on his knees, still moving his hips, lust-filled eyes a dark, stormy blue that raked over your body. 

And he did something you didn't expect of him—like he let it slip, like he couldn't keep his composure anymore. 

He smirked down at you. 

But you were convinced it was a mere twitch in your delirium, disappearing when you blinked. 

His tip brushed your G-spot again, and you finally did cry out. “Right there! D—Don’t stop!” 

Armin groaned in response, choking on his words, and suddenly laved a tongue over the pulse point in your neck. “You feel—you feel so good! I can’t hold…!”

That coil in your stomach thrashed with the need to burst and taunted you with the promise of an orgasm. You felt tight all over, so constricted with pleasure and emotion and heat. 

“Y/N, you’re driving me crazy, I’m cumming, I’m cumming, I’m—”

“M—Me, too! I’m close. Cum for me, please.”  

With one last thrust, he came, moaning loud, spilling hot cum into the condom. You felt him twitch inside you as a gradual warmth filled your insides. 

Fuck, that did it for you. You came right behind him, wrapping your legs around him tight like a vice, white-hot pleasure consuming every vein in your body. In that moment, you kissed him and clamped your eyes shut, focusing hard, your cunt squeezing down on him to wring out the last of his orgasm, fluttering and pulsing so uncontrollably hard. It was like your pussy never wanted to let him go, wanted to relish the last of that feeling of home when his cock rooted deep into your pussy. 

All the while, he spewed praises at you, some dirty, some sweet.

You couldn’t tell how long the two of you took to come down, to stop kissing, for your cunt to stop gushing, and for him to pull out—because it seemed like that moment lasted forever. Your cum coated your pelvis, his pelvis, your thighs, his thighs, and the already-soaked bedsheets.

With bated breaths and shaky hands, he pulled off the condom, tied the latex up, wrapped it in a tissue from your bedside, and threw it onto the floor where it landed among your sparsely scattered clothes. 

Armin slumped down on you, wrapping strong arms around your waist in a suffocating, hot embrace. You gladly welcomed his weight. 

It smelled of sex, sweat, and the dwindling remnants of his cologne.

You laid there, catching your breath. 

You did it. He did it. You finished taking his virginity, and he successfully made you cum during the process. 

And everything left you wondering…

Why was that…good? Sex with a virgin. Sex with your best friend. Did you even teach him enough? Because that was definitely a learning experience for you. The post-orgasm clarity hit you now like a slipper to the face, and you couldn’t wrap your head around what just happened. 

Sleepily, you broke the silence, “Good job, Armin. You did amazing. You’re attentive, a fast learner, and just already so good to me. You made me cum twice. For a virgin.” A hearty laugh parted from your throat as you strung your fingers through his mussed hair. “I guess you aren’t one anymore.”

Armin remained silent. Was he already asleep?

In the quiet darkness, your heart started beating fast, even after the sex. Laying here felt domestic, like somebody made this bed for the two of you to snuggle in tonight, like a real couple. 

Armin, face wedged between your sheets and your shoulder, hugged you impossibly tighter when he shifted to look at you. 

“Thank you. I love you, Y/N.”

He breathed those three words with so much adoration in his eyes, gazing at you longingly beneath his thick, long lashes. The blue of his eyes shone brightly even in the dim lighting and through the hair obscuring his face. 

“I really do love you,” he continued. “Not because of the sex. But because you’re a good friend. Thank you for letting me be vulnerable.”

Oh my gosh. You really didn’t deserve him. You’d exchanged your fair share of sentimental, platonic “I love you’s” to each other, but this one wrenched your heart like no other. Especially after sex. 

He left you at a loss for words. But sleep tugged at your eyelids and your mind screamed at you to clean up and your post-nut clarity still remained unresolved; you couldn’t think of a reply even if you wanted to. 

Even overwhelmed, your heart called out to him and you mustered up something. 

“I’m grateful to have you as a best friend. I love you,” you gritted out. 

Wrong. So, so wrong. Right now, this conversation was getting too emotional for a strictly physical agreement. But you didn’t lie nevertheless, and you didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise. 

Feeling grimy, you wriggle under his hold. “We should clean up. It’s good for women to pee after sex.”

As the final rip of the bandaid, he pecked you on your jaw. “I can’t.” 

Your face twisted in confusion, still clouded by tiredness and the daze of lingering thoughts. “You can’t?”

“I can’t help it,” he suddenly mumbled. 

“Armin, what are you—”

You didn’t get to finish your sentence when you felt something poking your thigh, stiff and hard. 

Armin groaned deep in his chest, the sound rumbling against the shell of your ear as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. 

The hands that were once wrapped around your body slowly released their hold and grabbed onto your hips, hard and impatient. Armin started rutting into your thighs, dragging you along with him. 

Your heart stuttered for a moment, in disbelief that he could keep going and that you would have to keep going, but your pussy clenched around nothing at the promise of something more.

“Can’t help it. I’m—I’m hard again.” 

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[rinsie]

“oh, you poor thing…” you murmur, stroking megumi’s hair. he’d been caught in the rain during the walk home yesterday, and had come down with a bit of a cold. the seven year old is curled up next to you on the couch, his head resting in your lap.

you glare at satoru when he scoffs from his end of the couch, the tip of his nose rosy and dripping with snot. “i was caught in the rain too, you know.”

“take some nyquil.”

you don’t even bother to spare his suffering a glance.

“can i have hot chocolate?” the little brat asks, his request followed by a weak cough. “my throat hurts.”

it’s almost ten in the evening, and the kid’s already brushed his teeth. there’s no way you’d say yes—

“of course! i’ll make some for your sister too.”

satoru’s mouth falls open - because he can’t breathe through his nose and because he’s shocked. “can i have some too?”

“i’ll make you tea with lemon and ginger,” you reply, carefully adjusting megumi on the couch as you get up. you even steal his blanket, draping it over the kid’s curled up form.

megumi peeks one eye open as soon as you leave, and satoru swears the smirk that follows is directed to him.

people have told him that kids are supposed to be gifts. but later - when he’s watching a lame documentary and choking down some bitter lemon ginger tea as megumi is spoiled with sips of chocolately heaven - he thinks they must mean gifts from hell.

_____

your lips are brushing over satoru’s collarbone when he wonders if he’d locked the bedroom door.

but then you bite and all his concerns go out the window.

your breath is hot against his skin, picking up when his hands grip your waist. chests rising and falling, the two of you love in sync. slow, deep kisses are exchanged in time with gentle grinds—

“i’m hungry.”

it makes satoru startle, banging his head against the headboard as you sit up, stuttering as you both turn to face the doorway.

“megumi,” you gasp. “how long have you been standing there?”

the blush colouring his cheeks is answer enough.

“i’ll make you something to eat,” you offer, leaving your boyfriend with a very unfortunate situation as you climb off his lap, shooting an apologetic look over your shoulder as you herd megumi out of the room.

satoru swears the kid shoots him a smug grin over his shoulder.

this, he thinks glumly as he heads to the bathroom to try and calm himself down. this is why he needs to stop doing nice things.

_____

exhausted can’t even begin to describe the way satoru feels after a long day of bugging nanami and exorcising curses.

he’s practically dragging his body through the apartment towards the bedroom, wanting nothing more than to strip out of his uniform and fall into bed next to you.

but he can’t, because the first thing he sees when he opens the bedroom door is megumi hogging his side of the bed.

you press your index finger to your lips as soon as satoru opens his mouth to protest. “tsumiki’s at a sleepover,” you explain.

“so? i’ll carry him back to his room—”

you make a noise if protest, waving his hands away as you whisper, “it’s his first night here without her.”

hands on his hips, satoru examines the very little free space left on the bed. “so that means you’d let me sleep on the couch?”

he doesn’t like sleeping alone. hasn’t liked it ever since you’d moved in and he’d decided he liked waking to the warmth of your body next to his.

“well, you could sleep in megumi’s bed.”

“or you could wake him up,” he counters loudly on purpose, earning a shush and a glare from you in answer.

“this is a good thing,” you insist once you’ve ensured the kid’s still asleep. “it means he trusts us!”

“but i’m tired,” he whines, even stamping his foot a little for emphasis. “i wanna cuddle with you.”

“fine,” you relent with a little sigh. “but you have to wake him.”

gleefully, he goes to shake the kid awake. he’s about to do it, but all it takes is one look at the peaceful look settled over that little face. over the year he’d gotten to know megumi, he’s only ever worn a scowl, or a look of general boredom. so to see him like this, finally settled into the household…

it’s enough to make the sorcerer smile, even as he sets up the makeshift bed of blankets on the bedroom floor.

_____

“sharing is caring,” satoru proposes the next afternoon at the dinner table. it’s just him and megumi right now, as you’d just left to visit shoko. “so you can cuddle with her on the couch, but the bedroom is all me, got it?”

megumi frowns, staring at the list (can he even read yet? gojo has no idea) “but what about movie night?”

“fine, but only for a little bit. after that she’s all mine.”

he takes the kids shrug as agreement and moves on.

“knocking,” he starts with the utmost seriousness. “is a very important thing to do when any door is closed. and next time tsumiki is out, you’re the one sleeping on the floor.”

(they both know that’s not going to happen, but it doesn’t hurt to try.)

once the terms of their deal are finalized, they shake on it.

“so we’ve come to an understanding, good. because i’d rather have you as my bro than my foe,” he says, dragging the edge of his thumbnail across his throat for emphasis.

megumi rolls his eyes before sauntering off to his bedroom, and satoru sighs, letting his forehead hit the tabletop with a dull thud.

he’d fought off suitors vying for your attention before, but never one as tough to beat as this one.

[rinsie]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。the dictionary definition of a rich boy

synopsis. that rich guy who won’t stop asking you out is your partner for this project—send help

contents. pre dating rich boy! gojo, college! au, implications of a zenin being pushy on the first date, satoru being distraught you went on a date lol, pre relationship shenanigans with the cutest loser boy !!

word count. 3.8k (it’s literally all just him being a handful)

notes. thank you niku my most cherished gojo stan for comming this (and giving me the most ridiculous tip) i adore you so much :,) mwah 💋

he’s late—gojo is late. in fact, he’s very late, by forty-five minutes and thirty-two seconds to be exact. you aren’t really the count-by-the-second type of person, but somehow when it comes to that irritating, smug, too-talkative brat that you’re stuck with…well, you can’t help but be petty and use the seconds against him too.

he shows up close to an hour after your agreed time, waltzing in with a grin on his face—and, oh, you should kill him. he has the audacity to send you a wink when he walks over, coming up to your table and pushing his sunglasses down his nose just a bit to look you in the eyes over the lenses. 

what kind of person wears sunglasses indoors? surely only the kind that are nothing but trouble.

“aw, you’re here already,” gojo hums, “that excited to see me?”

“you’re late,” you spit.

“am i? i could have sworn—”

“now it’ll get dark by the time we get through what we planned for today,” you glare. he looks enthused, positively delighted by the statement—it’s almost as if you’ve offered him candy. 

“well, then i’ll just have to walk you to your apartment,” he offers smoothly. 

what a jackass. of course, just as expected, he’s still attempting to worm his way into your personal life (and likely your pants) in the most obnoxious of ways. over your dead body, however, will you ever allow him to know where you live, let alone accompany you on the way. you value your sanity, and having a conversation with gojo satoru longer than you absolutely have to seems like the most efficient way to fry every nerve and brain cell you have left.

“absolutely not,” you grit, “you can call me an uber. you pay.”

“alright,” he nods, “i’ll get an uber for you. but i’ll need your number to make sure you made it home safe. otherwise, what kind of partner would i be?”

typically, any normal pair of partners are meant to exchange numbers for a project—it would be the easiest form of communication, and more importantly, you can spam call if gojo decides not to carry his weight instead of just hoping and praying he checks his socials. but you can’t let him have your number—he’s not trustworthy enough for that. the last thing you need is him bombarding you with texts, or worse: calls, in the middle of work and class. so instead, you strictly inform him that any and all communication will occur via social media.

he pouts at that—it’s a cute pout, you have to admit. it’s slightly dangerous, too, because had you not had the self-control you do, you might have caved. but then he lights up at the prospect of you adding him back on socials. 

i’ll get your number one of these days, he says confidently. his confidence is as aggravating as the way he clicks his pen in the middle of class. he still chooses to sit right beside you despite all the free and very available seats the entirety of the lecture hall has. 

but no, he insists on sitting right next to you—and you? well, you have to hope you don’t get charged with homicide by the end of every class from the constant clicking he makes you endure. despite all that, gojo is surprisingly smart, which means your project might not be so doomed. 

he’s annoyingly smart, actually—he never takes notes, and just when you think the professor has him cornered by asking him a question when he’s seemingly dozing off, he answers immediately with the correct answer. 

you hate him.

“absolutely not happening,” you grumble, opening your laptop, “anyway i think we should start with—”

“well, i hate to inform you,” he sighs sadly as if it genuinely pains him to say this, “but i’ve actually deleted all my socials.”

“what?” your eye twitches.

“yeah,” he nods, “it’s a bit of a cleanse if you will. staring at your screen all day and finding value in fake posts is not good for mental health, you know? i’m trying to be more in tune with myself. it’s been a real self-journey.”

before the end of this project, you might either be a college dropout or an inmate at the county jail. you’re not sure, either is equally as possible.

“gojo satoru, i am sick of your games,” you spit, “we both know—”

“and i would hate not being in touch with my partner since it’s a crucial part of this project for us to work together,” he hums, something of a smug look plastered on his aggravatingly gorgeous face, “that thirty percent deduction for ineffective partner communication would be such a shame to get when we’re working so hard already on this, wouldn’t you agree?”

is he threatening you? for your number? with your grade? he is, you realize—and you clench your fist tightly around the phone in your hands as he eyes it with a knowing look on his face. he has you right where he wants you, whether you like it or not.

“you’re an asshole,” you spit.

“i’m a mental health advocate,” he gasps—he has the nerve to act offended, even as he’s so obviously enjoying working you up like this. you wish he’d drop dead immediately. maybe you could take his card from his wallet as his cold body lays lifeless on the table and order yourself a new laptop if he did—that would be ideal. 

“i saw you post on your story last night—”

“you didn’t watch it,” he pouts, “i posted a shirtless gym selfie just for you—wait a second, you pay attention to my story, huh?” he cuts himself off with a smirk, wiggling his eyebrows at you, “c’mon, you don’t have to force yourself to skip them. you know you wanna watch them.”

“no, i don’t,” you seethe, “it was just the first one at the top. stop being self-important—”

“anyway,” he drawls, eyeing your phone again. you want to splash your coffee in his face. “i’ll need your number,” he sniffs, “the crushing disappointment of you skipping my story made me realize i’m too focused on getting social media validation, so i’m taking a break. it’s the best thing for me to do in my headspace right now. hope you understand.”

“are you kidding me?” you stare at him. he grins before shaking his head.

“i would never joke about mental health,” he says seriously—it’s not as serious as your desire to slap him, however.

“fine,” you take a long, slow sip of your coffee to calm down, “give me your phone.”

“oh, you’re gonna set your own contact?” he brightens, immediately handing you his phone. it’s brand new—the newest model, in fact. it’s barely been a few days since it dropped. truthfully, you’re not even sure why you’re shocked—of course, he, of all people, would upgrade immediately. “how intimate,” he gushes, “it’s almost like we’re going on a date—”

“do not text me outside of project purposes,” you interrupt, thrusting the phone back into his hands, “got it?”

“you got it,” he grins triumphantly.

—————

like all things he does, gojo finds a roundabout way to keep his word without actually keeping it. it’s his secret talent, you think—finding loopholes through all the technicalities of things.

hey when ur free can u read over my portion? i just finished

btw r u going to that frat party this wknd? u don’t seem the party type haha but u should come 

i’ll introduce u to suguru! he’s my best friend he’s super nice u’ll like him

oh and when do u wanna meet this week? promise i’ll be on time this time ;)

you make sure to only respond to the questions regarding your project—just because he technically kept his word and started the conversation centered around the project before getting off topic doesn’t mean you have to indulge him. and the way he types is infuriatingly annoying—who shortens every possible word like that? only him, you think.

okay, maybe you’re just nitpicking now, but every time you see his name pop up on your screen, your mood sours tenfold. you decide to answer as dryly as possible.

k i’ll look. we meet same time as last.

the period at the end should add the perfect touch—you grin to yourself in pride at that one. instantly, bubbles pop up and indicate he’s typing again. your smile very quickly drops.

wow ur a rly dry texter aren’t u?

that’s ok i don’t judge

so how bout the party? 

i can be ur escort ;) 

it’ll be fun!

from his side of the screen, gojo watches as your contact shows notifications silenced at the bottom. he pouts to himself—no party, then, he thinks.

—————

gojo satoru, the guy who seemingly has everything he could ever want, likes you. 

frankly, he’s not really sure why—at first, he finds you mildly amusing, and he thinks it’d be fun to have a short fling with you perhaps. somewhere along the line, however, that changes. he watches you dedicatedly take notes in class, no matter how tired you seem from work the night before. he notices the way you chew on your bottom lip when you’re really focused—it’s actually very cute, he thinks. and he’s entertained by the way you always have some smart little retort waiting on your tongue. you’re not boring—and more than anything, you leave him a little humbled. it’s refreshing, and he kind of likes it, if he’s being completely honest.

he’s never liked anyone before—it’s a weird feeling. at best, he’s had a crush where he could appreciate that someone is generally pleasing to the eye and has a personality that might mesh well with his, but he’s never yearned for someone before. 

it just so happens to be his luck that the same person he wants more than anything in the entire world (for the first time ever, too) seems to hate his guts. it also happens to be that the same person he wants more than anything is currently getting asked out by some kid from the zenin family. right in front of him. and you’re saying yes. 

why on earth would you say yes to a zenin of all people? don’t you value yourself? 

gojo can admit that he’s had his fair share of heart robbing and tear inducing moments—he’s not exactly someone with the best track record for commitment, but at least he doesn’t use people for his own benefit. plus, he does, in fact, actually plan on committing to you. that zenin boy most certainly can’t be any good news if he’s anything like naoya, who gojo has met on a multitude of occasions, and knows very well is a scoundrel of a guy. 

“see you at nine?” he hears the zenin (what was his name again?) ask you. you nod, smiling sweetly. 

why don’t you smile sweetly at him like that? he buys you coffee every week. sure, he only gets to buy you the coffee because you have no choice but to meet him for the project, but he even offers to get you a slice of cake—you don’t ever accept, though, so he ends up eating both. but you do like coffee, very strong coffee that’s probably not sweet enough for his liking, but you enjoy the coffee he buys you nonetheless, and that has to count for something.

“sure, see you at nine,” you hum.

gojo watches in absolute shock (and abject horror) as you look down shyly. as soon as the zenin boy walks away, he stomps up to you.

“hey, what gives?” he asks petulantly, making your face paint on that irritated look that it always seems to adopt when he’s in the vicinity—how rude.

“what do you mean?” you ask tiredly, “i don’t speak toddler, so please use your words—”

“why’d you say yes to that zenin boy—”

“he has a name. it’s—”

“who cares what his name is? he’s an asshole! he won’t treat you right even if his mother’s life is on the line—”

“oh, and you would?” you raise an eyebrow, glaring at him. how is it his place to tell you who’d treat you right and who wouldn’t? how is it his place to even care?

“i would,” he gasps at the accusation, “you’d date a zenin but not me? how come?”

“because you’re annoying,” you counter like it’s obvious.

okay, now that is technically fair—gojo has heard his fair share of you’re annoying’s from people in his life. in fact, a good amount of them come from his own mother, but he’s also dashingly handsome, very good in bed, has soft hair, is tall and muscular, can buy you whatever you like, and can be smart and funny too if you really don’t care for those kinds of things. he’s the entire package and more. and more importantly, he’s not from the zenin family, and that automatically means you’ll actually be treated with an ounce of respect.

he looks at you incredulously, feelings a little hurt. “that’s not true! name one annoying thing i’ve done—”

“you laughed in the middle of me speaking in class.”

“that wasn’t at you! suguru showed me something funny on his phone—”

“and you took like twenty minutes in line ordering the most sweetest drink on the menu while i was running late—”

“you can’t use that against me, that’s not fair! i’m a paying customer, i should be able to get whatever i want. plus, it’s technically not my fault you were late.”

“you rubbed in the fact that you had a black card.”

“you mentioned it first!”

“you were late to our first meeting for the project.”

“okay, that was an honest mistake! people are allowed to make those, you know—”

“i don’t want to go out with you,” you say frustratedly, “and it’s really annoying when you act like a spoiled brat that can’t handle the word no and keep on insisting, okay? so leave me alone unless it’s to discuss our project—which weighs fifty-five percent of our grade, by the way, so don’t even think about getting lazy.”

he is not lazy, he wants to argue.

but before he can, you roll your eyes and take a step to walk around him, leaving him there to blink in shock. okay, he thinks with a huff, so you’re playing hard to get. that’s no matter, he’s good at the chase anyway. 

—————

the date doesn’t seem to have gone well. gojo can tell because your eyes are slightly red and puffy, and you’re extra grouchy today in class. your professor seems to have noticed, too, because instead of calling on you today, she calls on gojo extra as a rare show of mercy. 

gojo doesn’t mind—this class is surprisingly easy, and he’s bored half the time anyway. he might as well indulge the uptight professor in an ugly brown pencil skirt and answer her pretentious questions that aren’t as complex as she thinks they are. 

“so,” he finally breaks the silence, “how was your date—”

“if you’re looking for a chance to say i told you so, just get it over with, you jerk,” you grumble. he raises his eyebrows in surprise before both hands go up in surrender.

“i wasn’t,” he says genuinely, “you just…uh…you look upset, is all.”

you hesitate for a short second, gauging his sincerity for a moment before sighing and slumping on the desk, cheek resting on your arm. gojo resists the urge to poke the soft flesh—it’ll probably make you mad, and you’re already in a bad mood. 

“he was…pushy,” you say quietly, “i don’t really believe in taking things far on the first date. he didn’t like that.” instantly, his fists clench tightly, eyeing you from the side carefully, almost in concern. “nothing happened,” you wave off, “but he did make me feel disgusting,” you mutter.

“yeah, well, he is a zenin,” he points out, “they’re…well, my family’s known them for a while. my mom hates them.”

you look over at him in mild interest, raising an eyebrow. “don’t tell me there’s drama in the rich community,” you gasp, “i thought you all just came as one to sip fancy wine and laugh at the poor together.”

he snorts, throwing you a toothy grin that you think for a moment is kind of cute—but that doesn’t mean he’s any different from the rest of the rich folks. someone of gojo satoru’s caliber has no business mixing with someone of yours—it’s common knowledge. gojo has everything he wants, and if he doesn’t, it’s a simple matter of asking before it’s his. there’s simply no way you can mold into his world to be what he needs you to be, and when the time inevitably comes when he realizes you’re not what he wants, well…you’d like to save yourself the wounded pride and crushed soul while you can. 

“sometimes we have fancy appetizers too with the wine,” he jokes, “don’t forget those.”

“oh, my apologies,” you chuckle. gojo likes it when you laugh, he decides. it looks much better than when you’re glum—he thinks seeing your lips quirked in anything other than a smile is a waste of your perfect features, and he can’t have that.

“my mom married my old man in this stupid arranged marriage or something,” he explains casually, like it’s just the norm. you suppose it is—for the rich, at least. you wonder briefly if gojo will have a marriage planned for his future, too, and you wonder if he’s okay with that. surely it’ll be some wealthy and fancy socialite of a girl that fits his family’s standards. someone who’s not you—not that you care anyway, you wouldn’t marry him regardless. “my grandma wanted her to marry the zenin, but she said no. said he treated her like a piece of meat every time they met, so she settled for my dad instead. lucky her, 'cause now i’m her son,” he beams. 

settled—something about the way he says it makes you think his parents must not really care for each other as a husband and wife should. it makes you think briefly about what his childhood might’ve been like, not watching his parents happy and in love the way they should be. but still, the way gojo talks about his mother is fond, with a gentle smile on his face as he recalls the things she’s told him. you can’t help but smile a little too.

“i think that makes you the lucky one,” you snort, “you’d still be her son. just that you’d be a zenin.”

he crinkles his nose at the thought, dramatically shivering and making you giggle. “gross,” he gags.

“well, now you have her to thank,” you hum, “your dad would’ve been…whoever the zenin she was supposed to marry is.”

“yeah, well, trust me,” he mumbles, his smile dropping ever so slightly, “my old man’s not that big of an upgrade from a zenin. even my grandfather’s sick of him. imagine being such a douche, your own dad can’t stand you.”

you’re learning more about gojo in one sitting than you ever imagined (or planned) to learn—part of that is because he seems like he’s the type to overshare on the first meet; the other part…well, you have to be honest with yourself, it’s not exactly a bad pastime hearing him talk about himself. gojo is an odd piece of work, and you can’t say you hate learning about the little pieces that come together to make him so weird. 

okay, perhaps weird is a bit rude, you think—he’s…unique.

“oh, so you’re the dictionary definition of a rich boy, huh?” you hum, resting your cheek on your hand as you sit up and face him—gojo, for a quick moment, feels his heart stutter when you talk to him like that: with your undivided attention like he’s the only one in the room. 

“what makes you say that?”

“daddy issues is like…the first thing in the rich boy starter pack.”

he laughs at that, smooth and almost sweet—it’s a dangerous thing. it’s easy to attract you to him, like a bee to honey, with the way his lips curl like that, showing off his dimples. but the bees can easily turn into maggots—and you don’t want to find yourself as a dead carcass by the end of this.

“i don’t have daddy issues,” he says smoothly, “that old man should sleep with both eyes open. if anything, he has son issues.”

“you’re hands down the oddest person i have ever met,” you mumble.

“what was that? did you say hottest? yeah, i know—”

“shut up, jackass,” you scowl, shoving his shoulder when he leans closer with a bat of his lashes. he laughs, and so do you—and just for one, quick, momentary instance, gojo satoru is not so bad. dangerous and a bad choice maybe, a setup for a big mistake perhaps, something you should stay away from, in fact. 

but not so bad. 

“how about i show you what it’s like to go on a date with a gojo,” he grins, winking easily. he’s persistent—very persistent, you note. “you might like it a lot more than a zenin.”

“no, thank you,” you hold a hand up, “never going to happen.”

“never say never,” he hums, “you might eat your words.”

—————

“hey, satoru?”

“that’s not my name.”

“that actually is your name,” you say tiredly.

“hmph,” satoru rolls over, dramatically tugging the blankets over his body as he shuffles away from you, “not to you, it’s not.” 

you sigh, pursing your lips at his antics. “oh my god. okay—hey, toru?” you correct yourself. and just like that, he turns back around, grinning brightly as he inches closer until his head is resting on your chest.

“yes, baby?” he says sweetly, earning a roll of your eyes as your fingers weave into his hair. it’s soft—you don’t think you ever want to let go.

“it’s way better dating a gojo, by the way,” you murmur, “than a zenin.”

“oh yeah?” he grins smugly, arm draping over your body as he kisses your jaw, “i told you it would be, didn’t i?”

“i haven’t dated other rich families to compare, though,” you tease, “you might get replaced.”

“unlikely,” he chuckles, “no one,” there’s a kiss to your jaw, “will love you,” another kiss to your cheek, “like me.”

finally, there’s a slow, soft kiss to your lips—and when he kisses you like that, you have no choice but to believe him.

satoru sooooo sends multiple texts back to back he just like me for real

[rinsie]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。GOODBYE KISS — GOJO SATORU. (rich boy! au)

contents. college! au, rich boy! gojo, established relationships, morning cuddles wif toru <3, morning tantrums with toru too lol, ft. our fav: momjo !!

satoru’s head is on your chest as he snores softly—normally, you adore the feeling of him so close to you, but right now, it’s five minutes until your wake-up-for-real-this-time-or-you’re-late alarm will go off. you’ve already hit snooze on the other six—how satoru’s slept through them all is a mystery to you.

you peer down at him, watching the way his lips are parted as soft breaths escape him in gentle sighs. his hair is messy over his forehead, and the sun makes his skin glow in that way only satoru could glow. you sigh, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, and as if he feels the affection in his sleep, he hums a little while still unconscious.

too bad you’ll have to break this peace in just a moment.

and this is going to work out poorly—you already know that. if you move from under satoru, he’ll wake up. if he wakes up, he’ll realize you’re trying to leave. if he realizes you’re trying to leave, he’ll have a meltdown. if he has a meltdown, he’ll surely win and convince you to stay. if you stay, you’ll miss class and fall behind on the notes. if you fall behind on the notes, you’ll procrastinate on catching up. if you procrastinate on catching up, you’ll know absolutely nothing by the time the next exam rolls around. if you know nothing by the time the next exam rolls around, you’ll have multiple mental breakdowns and lose yourself to stress the night before as you cram all in one sitting.

simply put, your entire grade resides on the fact that satoru is currently sleeping on your chest, and he definitely won’t let you leave.

you try anyway—and just as you suspect, you fail.

“huh? wha—where are you going?” he groans, rubbing his eyes as he blinks them open. “wait a sec—baby no,” he whines.

“shh, toru, you’re dreaming,” you kiss his forehead, “i’m not actually leaving.”

“i’m not stupid!”

“shhh, your dream is tricking you,” you insist, “i’m still right under you.”

“you can’t gaslight me! i’m not falling for your tricks,” he huffs, “how gullible do you think i am?”

very, you want to say—but that would be a bad idea.

“you’re not stupid at all, toru,” you say sweetly, “you’re the smartest man i’ve ever met.”

“this is definitely not a dream because you’re even meaner to me in my dreams,” he raises a brow, “dream you would never be this nice.”

“what do you mean i’m mean in your dreams?” you gasp. you’re not mean to satoru—you wouldn’t have to yell at him if he just behaved half the time.

“they’re more like nightmares,” he huffs, “last one, you made me sleep outside. that was rude.”

“how could you dream me being a jerk?” you ask, offended—and before he can answer, your wake-up-for-real-this-time-or-you’re-late alarm blares.

satoru glances down at your phone and stares for a moment—and then he flops back against his pillow as he whines miserably.

“don’t leave,” he begs, “please, just skip this one class for me? i get so cold in the mornings,” he pouts.

“then put a shirt on,” you sigh.

“i’ll be lonely!”

“not if i’m bullying you in your dreams, apparently.”

“baby, i can’t sleep without something to cuddle,” he tries again—that one almost makes you cave. you have to admit that cuddling isn’t something you enjoy passing on either, but class is important. more important than class is your sanity that you would like to keep intact instead of lose while cramming six chapters in one night.

“cuddle my pillow,” you sigh, “satoru, please. i’m already late.”

“just this once, okay? i won’t ask again,” he says innocently, his eyes wide and pleading as they peer up at you.

“you said that last time.”

“last time i crossed my fingers,” he winks, “so it didn’t count. so now you have to—”

“goodbye, satoru,” you mumble.

he slumps in defeat, grumbling under his breath before rolling over to turn his back to you petulantly. you sigh, rolling your eyes—though fondly, before you head to the bathroom, getting ready for the day.

by the time you’re out, satoru has fallen asleep again—you know it’s because he’s stayed up late again to play video games with suguru. because you don’t want to disturb him from his much needed sleep (and because you don’t want to risk waking up him and dealing with another tantrum), you decide to gently pull the blankets over his bare chest and skip the goodbye kiss.

it won’t be a big deal if he doesn’t get a kiss goodbye while he’s asleep, right? he won’t even be awake to notice.

evidently, you realize in the middle of class that you’re wrong. very wrong.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤToday, 8:32 AM

baby boy 💋:

you left without a goodbye kiss???????????

are you ignoring me????????????

baby

sweetheart

sunshine

angel

peaches

i know you’re reading this.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤToday, 8:41 AM

mrs. gojo ❤️:

please answer satoru. i really don’t want a headache today

this is very short and silly sorry. anyway rip momjo she deal with too much that boy is a handful

[rinsie]

“okay! i finally have a plan for your bachelorette party!” shoko exclaims, rubbing her palms together gleefully. 

“shoko, no,” you start, closing your laptop with a sigh. “i already told you, i don’t need a party!”

with the wedding only a week away, the excitement was beginning to sink in for you, satoru, and all your friends. 

“at least hear my plan first,” she insists. “i’m thinking male strippers, penis straws—”

“count me in,” satoru says, joining you on the love seat. your fiancé wraps an arm around you, kissing your temple before looking to shoko. “what time should i be there?”

“no,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “no boys allowed at the bachelorette.”

“could i come if i was the stripper?”

that is an awful idea for so many reasons, the most prevalent being the time satoru tried to do a strip tease on your anniversary and broke his…you know.

but you promised you’d never talk about it again, so you’re relieved when shoko comes to the conclusion on her own.“you have the grace of those inflatable men at car dealerships, so absolutely not.”

gojo mocks her absolutely not in an obnoxiously high pitch, sitting back and fixing her with a petty glare. “who put you in charge?”

“i’m the maid of honour, which means i’m in charge of everything that happens at this bachelorette.” 

you hope that she misses the quick glance you and your fiancé exchange, wincing when you see she doesn’t. 

“what? what’s with the looks?”

“it’s just— tsumiki’s my maid of honour…”

you feel awful when her expression drops. “oh…”

“i’m sorry, i’ve been meaning to tell you,” you apologize quickly. “but she’s like our—”

thankfully your best friend recovers quick, shaking her head and sending you a smile. “you don’t have to explain. it’s okay, i get it. i’m okay with just being a bridesmaid.”

satoru takes a long sip of his drink. you look away guiltily.

“i don’t even get to be a bridesmaid?!”

you scramble for an explanation, looking to satoru for help. “well, he only has one best man and no groomsmen, so it’d be asymmetrical—”

“because that loser doesn’t have any other friends i don’t get to be in the wedding party?!”

“hey, i have friends!”

“you have nanami,” she deadpans, unimpressed. “you guys don’t even hang out.”

“actually, we’re planning on getting lunch tomorrow.” then, after a moment, “if we’re both free…”

“you can be our flower girl!” you blurt before satoru can embarass himself further. 

shoko sits back, considering this. 

“do i get to pick my own dress?”

“sure,” you agree.

“alright, deal. but i’m still throwing you a bachelorette party.”

“shoko!”

_____

“we are not crashing your fiancée’s party.”

“we don’t have to. i can crash it on my own.” satoru points out. 

nanami deeply regrets agreeing to be best man. deeply. “shoko specifically instructed me to stop you if you attempted to pose as a stripper.”

he only scoffs as if he isn't afraid of shoko ieiri himself. “only because she’s scared my pelvic sorcery is too powerful.”

“no, because you lack the grace of a dancer and broke your penis last time you attempted a strip tease.”

“what?! you guys know about that?!”

"of course," nanami shudders, gazing forlornly out the window of the cab because he has seen some shit. "we have a group chat."

[rinsie]

ex-convict geto who stays home with the kids while you’re at work. no one wants to hire him after he’s released so he stays home and takes care of things while you’re earning, and for a guy who spent a good time in prison, he’s surprisingly gentle with his hands—they braid hair and make snacks and fold laundry and tuck the blanket under the chins of his daughters. he’s done a lot of bad things, but he’s turned over a new leaf. cause his girls need him—and you? you need him too

[rinsie]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。yours, always yours

synopsis. satoru has always been yours—and he needs you to know you’ll also always be his

— word count. 2.4k (read the breakup fic first for better understanding, but can be read as a stand-alone)

— contents. fem! reader, college! au, rich boy! gojo, post-getting back together angst that gets a little heated <3, minors do not interact, fingering, unprotected sex, edging, satoru cumming too quick <3, creampie, tbh the smut is short and a lil rushed my b, it ends in fluff tho !! trust !! there is fluff !!

— notes. tbh this will probably get flagged rly fast but oh well u win some u lose some. anywayyyyy here is the make up sex bc yall nasties deserve it <3 jk love u guys

satoru falls first. and he falls hard. everyone knows it, it’s never been a secret.

“you want me to wash your hair?” you ask gently, kissing his shoulder as the water falls over his head. he hums, nodding absentmindedly as he stares blankly at the tiles of your shower wall.

“sure,” he mumbles, “don’t tug.”

“i never tug,” you roll your eyes, snorting. he huffs a small chuckle, but it’s not the usual laugh satoru gives you. it’s mechanic, almost—just there to fill the space. “baby?” you ask softly.

“yeah?” he asks, “oh, should i bend a little? sorry, i—”

“what’re you thinking about?” your hands cup his cheeks, gentle and warm from the hot water as it soaks his skin.

he shakes his head, trying to smile as he clears throat. “just how nice it is to be pampered. maybe i’ll let you break my heart every once in a while so i get my back scrubbed and hair washed like this.”

“satoru,” you insist. you know—and he knows it too. “tell me?”

“why’d you do it?” he mumbles, “why’d you listen to him?”

“toru, you know why,” you sigh, “you know i didn’t think there were any other options.”

“you could’ve talked to me,” he furrows his brows, “just because my stupid old man threatens you with my stupid inheritance doesn’t mean we have to break up.”

“i was afraid you’d choose me.” it comes out as a whisper, like a confession you can’t bear to admit.

“i would have chosen you,” he agrees, “why’s that bad? how’s that wrong—”

“you’re not thinking about the bigger picture,” you shake your head, “that company is yours. you’ve spent your whole life—”

“so what? was i supposed to give up the rest of my life for it too?” he asks tiredly—satoru’s defeated. he’s never been defeated, it’s the most magnetizing thing about him.

even before you date him. he asks and asks and asks no matter how many times you say no. because there’s always a chance you’ll say yes, and he’ll never stop as long as there’s a chance.

“i’m sorry,” you sniffle, lips wobbling, “i could have….i should have said something. i didn’t want you to make a choice young and then….and then regret it.”

“you think i’d regret you?” he’s wounded—absolutely wounded at the words.

satoru has always been careful, diligent and so, so meticulous to love you right, to love you how you need to be loved. hadn’t that proven enough? that he was in it for the long run—for forever? he’d been so sure you’d be his future, that the break up feels like waking up from a peaceful dream to a house fire—devastating, with smoke in his nose and lungs that he can’t breathe right, and everything gone within a moment before he can even register it.

he stares at the ashes in despair. nothing prepared him for the hollowness of not being yours—because satoru has never cared to make you his. all he’s ever wanted was to be yours.

you’re quick to remove him from everything, deleting pictures from your socials, untagging him from posts, removing him from your private stories and close friends list. he doesn’t understand how you could change your mind so quickly—and then he realizes you probably don’t. because he knows you—better than anyone ever has, satoru knows you.

so he’s comes to you, drenched from the rain, from standing outside your door even as the water pelts against his skin because he’s determined. he’s going to get an answer out of you, going to make you explain why you pulled him in so close, let him reside in your heart and fall asleep to the comforting rhythm of its beating—and then push him out like he’s nothing. what made you push him out?

and finally, when he does, when you let him be yours again and admit it’s never what you wanted, that it’s because it’s what his father wanted—well, satoru can’t keep his composure. don’t you know? hadn’t he always told you? hadn’t he poured his heart out and let you know every moment he’s always been stuck dangling from his father’s fingers? stuck somewhere between the sky and ground, too high to feel the floor under his feet but never high enough to feel the wind in his face.

you’ve always known, always listened—and fuck, you held him some nights too, let your fingers dip into his hair and soothe his sorrows of always being stuck.

satoru’s always been stuck, always had every choice made for him and every instruction carefully laid out on the table. and then you decided to make his choice for him too, walking away and choosing his future for him like he’s never had a say.

he’s always been stuck, but never with you—but now, he wonders if that’s changed.

“no,” you squeeze his cheeks, “no i don’t think you’d regret me….but satoru losing what you have is a big thing,” you mumble, “people work their whole lives not having a fraction of what you do. that’s a lot to let you lose.”

“i’ve never seen my dad kiss my mom,” he stares at you, hard and unwavering, his eyes stare into yours, “he’s never held her hand or made her laugh. and you know what she told me? that she would sell her share of everything to have what we do. why do you always look at me for what i have first?” he asks angrily, the water pouring over his shoulders as they shake, “why can’t you just look at me first for once?”

“i do look at you,” you insist, “toru, all i ever see is you—”

“then stop caring what he says,” he says louder, his voice echoing through the small bathroom of your small apartment.

everything about your home is small—smaller than satoru’s especially. but he loves it, thinks he’d rather be here than anywhere else.

because it’s yours. and as long as you’re here, the world fits into this tiny apartment, the galaxy too.

“okay,” you say shakily. and then you nod, looking him in the eye, “you’ll handle it?”

he nods, kissing between your brows, “yeah, i’ll handle it. who else is gonna take over that company anyway?”

“but what if he finds someone else? and then he—”

“he won’t. my grandpa will shred him.”

“but he’s old, and he stepped down, so what really can he do if your dad decides—”

“god, baby,” he groans, pushing your body against the wall gently, “i love your voice, but you talk so much. i’m wanna listen to something else.”

his lips find your neck, sucking gently at the skin, hand trailing to your tits before his thumb circles your nipple. it’s slow, deliberate, teasing as it rolls over the bud.

you whimper, clutching onto him as a breathy, “t-toru,” leaves your lips.

“yeah,” he nods, “that’s what i wanna listen to instead.” his lips are in a grin against your neck, kissing and biting until he reaches your collarbone. “anyone dm you after you took me out of your socials?” he asks bitterly.

“j-just one,” you admit through a stutter, “b-but i didn’t even open it! i wasn’t really—oh, toru,” you gasp as his finger finds your clit, spreading your legs as he lets out a soft growl at your words.

“what? just cause my face isn’t on your instagram suddenly you’re not mine?” he asks, thumb rubbing harsh circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves—you close your eyes, moaning as your arms wrap tightly around his neck. “you’re always mine,” he murmurs against your ear, low and careful so you hear him well, “yeah? got that?”

“got it,” you nod furiously.

“got what?”

“‘m al-always—oh, fuck,” you mewl as one finger prods at your entrance, gathering your slick before slowly sliding through your walls.

“c’mon, sweetheart,” he says firmly, “finish your sentences.”

“always yours, toru! always yours—please, please j-just…”

“just what?” he raises a brow.

“more,” you sob—it’s a broken plea as your hips thrust against his finger.

he’s quick to slide in a second, thrusting his digits mercilessly into your soaked cunt, his palm gliding over your clit as the slick sound of his fingers fucking you is almost drowned by the water in the back.

your water bill will be high this month. you decide it’s a sacrifice satoru deserves.

“you think someone could ever learn this body better than me? make you cum like i can? you think anyone will ever love you enough to learn you like i do?”

“n-no,” you pant, his fingers hitting that spot inside of you so perfectly, you feel that dull ache build up quickly. it’s good—everything with satoru is good. his other hand finds your chest to pinch a nipple, twisting and squeezing until your nails leave indents on his shoulders as you moan loudly. “no one—no one but you.”

“exactly,” he growls, “how could you leave me? how could you leave us?”

“‘m sorry,” you sniffle, whimpering when the tips of his fingers slam against that spongey spot of your walls, fluttering around him and squeezing him in. you’re close—so close that you almost don’t know what he’s saying anymore, too focused on the way your impending orgasm is approaching. fast. “i’m sorry, i’ll never—ever leave again.”

“say you love me,” he demands.

it sounds like he’s pleading, though, if you listen closely. there’s a small crack in his voice, a slight shakiness that makes you force your eyes open and stare at him and whisper, “i love you, satoru. i love you.”

and then he rips his fingers out—right before you’re about to cum. you gasp, pleading nonsense as you cling to him and buck your hips and search for something, anything to take you over the edge.

and then you hear a sniffle. is he crying? is that wet droplet on your shoulder a tear or the water? you’re too busy calming down from your orgasm dying before it ever came to focus.

satoru’s hard against your thigh, throbbing and painful to sink into you. he strokes himself a few times, whimpers as his thumb gathers the pre cum from the sensitive tip, smearing it along his length as he shakily lets out a quiet moan.

“f-fuck, i gotta feel you. please, can i? please—”

“yes,” you pull him closer, grinding your heat over his hard-on, “yes please, toru. more, need more.”

he’s sliding along your folds, dragging the tip of his cock along your entrance and smearing a mix of your arousal with his. and then slowly, ever so gently, he’s pushing into your after that, pushing past your walls and bullying into your soaked cunt, curving into you perfectly.

it’s only been a week—you feel like you haven’t felt him in years. but it’s familiar. you remember every part of him, including every vein that drags along your walls and makes your head spin. he remembers every part of you, including where that spot is that he needs to angle his hips to find.

he slams into you, hard and rough and fast—doesn’t even let you adjust your position to hold onto him tighter before he’s thrusting his hips and fucking into you desperately. you can feel him, every inch of his skin against you, every part of him that’s touching you. and you can feel the way his cock nudges past your folds, the friction burning pleasure through ever nerve.

satoru knows how to fuck you, just like he knows how to love you, he knows your body—every dip and ever curve, every place to touch and every part that has you gushing around him. it’s just the way he is, too good at giving you what you want, what you need.

when he moans, it’s breathy and he’s panting as he lets out those soft whimpers that make your head spin. “feel that? feel me?” he asks, grunting as you squeeze around his length.

“yeah,” you breathe, “‘m so full.”

“i need you. please, please,” he murmurs, “can’t lose you, baby. never you,” he chants, the quiver in his voice tearing you apart.

“i’m right here,” you gasp, lacing your fingers with his and squeezing his hand. he squeezes back, just to let you know he’s there too, “right here, baby. you got me.”

and then he cums, just as soon as you whisper that—he spills right into you with a broken cry, his hips rolling, needy and desperate and so, so lost on the pleasure. he’s too busy working himself through his high, trembling over your body to care he’s cum too quick—and you don’t have it in you to tease him. you can feel the hot ropes of cum filling you, painting your walls white, fucking deep into you as the blunt head of his cock slams into you without a second of hesitation.

but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter that brutal pace as his hips slam into you, perfectly kissing your sweet spot every time. and before long, you break—your head pushes back against the wall behind you, mouth parted as you wail his name and cum—hard. you’re quivering and spasming around his swollen cock, enough that he whimpers at the way you’re so tight.

it’s good, it’s always good. satoru makes you feel good. he’s the best you’ve ever had—the best you’ll ever find.

and then you hear it again, the sniffle into your neck as he clutches you tightly. you know for sure that wet droplet is a tear this time, and your fingers tangle into his hair as you stroke the wet strands.

“i love you, toru,” you murmur, “my sweet boy. i’m sorry, okay? i’m so sorry.”

“don’t do that again,” he huffs in between tears, “that was so mean. so mean.”

“i said i won’t,” you chuckle, fighting back your own tears, “how long are you gonna hold this against me?”

“how long do you plan on being mine?”

“well,” you pull him from your neck, cupping his cheeks as you wipe away tears and peck his lips softly, “i think….forever.”

“well, get ready, then,” he glares softly, “i’m gonna hold this against you forever too.”

“okay,” you nod, “that’s fair.”

“and i love you too,” he adds, “but block whoever dm’d you. it better not be that zenin boy.”

“block those girls who’s pictures you liked,” you shoot back, glaring at him with a pout of your own.

“don’t yell at me,” he mumbles, leaning into your touch as your thumb strokes his cheek, “i’ve had a rough week. you have to be nice.”

dabitee anon. are u seeing this. did u see the satoru who cums too fast. did u see it. report back if u saw this. i repeat, dabitee anon report back if you see this

[rinsie]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。PRINCESS — GETO SUGURU.

contents. non curse / modern! au, dad! suguru, mom + fem! reader, reader is referred to as “mommy” and “wife,” life with your daughters nanako and mimiko <3, embarrassingly self indulgent once again

suguru is prideful—you have to hold back a giggle as he gives you a short glare, unwilling to back down.

“it looks good,” he grumbles. you’re not sure if he’s trying to convince you or himself. “it’s great. stop being a jerk. the girls worked hard.”

“of course,” you nod, biting back a grin, “you look lovely. you hair’s never been better.”

“i can hear the laughter in your voice,” he accuses.

“i’m not laughing!”

he raises a brow, and you can’t help it. you giggle. his hair is positively ruined—there are knots and tangles and clips everywhere. you don’t know where one nest of hair starts and where the other ends. everything is everywhere at once and suguru….well, suguru is trying to convince himself this is okay.

it’s for his girls, he reminds himself—anything for his girls.

“you just laughed,” he mutters, looking into the mirror. his eyes are alarmed, but for pride’s sake, he throws on a carefree look as he shrugs. “i look like their princess. they said so themselves.”

“well, i’ll give you a point for sweetest dad ever,” you hum, pulling out a loose clip. “but i deduct five points point for falling asleep on watch duty.”

you come home from work and find a sleeping suguru at the foot of the couch with two toddlers hunched over his shoulders, working diligently at his hair. it’s cute—the way he looks as he sleeps peacefully, the way they look as they giggle and twist strands of dark hair with their small fingers. it’s heartwarming and makes you want to keep the moment frozen for just a bit longer.

but then you realize that irresponsibly, suguru has fallen asleep with two toddlers in the house—one of which (you eye a certain blonde) is a bit of a troublemaker.

“negative four?” he gasps, wounded.

“negative four,” you affirm, shaking your head in disappointment.

“i couldn’t help it,” he pouts, “it’s soothing having two sets of hands play with your hair.”

“well, good luck getting this mess out of your hair,” you chuckle, turning to step out of the bathroom—but suguru is quick. his hand snatches your wrist as soon as you take a step.

“hang on,” he tugs, pulling you back in, “you’ve gotta help me with this.”

“i thought you said it was fine,” you raise a brow, “it shouldn’t be much trouble.”

“i haven’t see you all day,” he insists, “can’t i have a relaxing shower with my wife as she washes my hair?”

“i showered this morning. see you after yours though—”

“okay fine,” he deflates, rolling his eyes as he looks off to the side, “this is….gonna take a while to fix.”

you grin victoriously. suguru grumbles under his breath.

“alright,” you poke his cheek with a satisfied smirk, “i’ll help you. if you say pretty please.”

——————

“daddy you changed your hair,” nanako whines in despair as soon as suguru steps out of the bathroom. you stifle a giggle as he looks down at her in alarm.

“sweetheart, daddy just had to shower and—”

“maybe he didn’t like it,” mimiko mumbles quietly from the side. her voice is glum—and like the doting mother you are, your smile drops as you feel your heart ache.

“what? that’s not true!” suguru sputters, “i loved it! mommy loved it too, right?”

the two girls turn to look at you—and because you have long realized that motherhood is the gracefulness of putting your children’s feelings above all else, even if it means lying straight through your teeth, you nod with exaggerated vigor.

“of course!” you say enthusiastically, “it was so unique! i’ve never seen daddy look so….pretty.”

suguru shoots you an unimpressed look as you bite your lip in amusement.

“he was a princess!” nanako brightens, a happy smile erupting over her lips. suguru grins as he melts, pinching the soft flesh of her cheek gently with a low hum.

“i was,” he nods, “wasn’t i beautiful?”

“oh, yeah,” you snort, “way too beautiful—you might dethrone me.”

“mommy we can make you a princess too—”

“who wants dinner?” you cut mimiko off quickly, smiling through the panic, “i bet everyone’s hungry!”

“me!” nanako raises her hand enthusiastically and you sigh in relief—crisis successfully averted. but only for now, you suppose. the devious look suguru gives you tells you this won’t be the last time the suggestion is offered to you.

“what a shame,” suguru sighs dramatically, “i wanted to see you all dolled up. maybe next time.”

and then he reaches down and pulls both girls into his arm, filling the room with giggles as he nibbles on their cheeks affectionately and saunters off to the dinner table. you can’t help but smile softly as you watch his retreating figure—suguru was made for fatherhood, you think, he fills the role so effortlessly.

and then….you hear a thump and a hissed curse under his breath in the distance.

“mommy, daddy said a bad word!” nanako calls, earning a panicked no i didn’t! from your husband. “now he’s lying,” she adds.

well….no one said he was perfect.

i just know nanako is simultaneously a daddy’s girl who also rats him out and tattles 24/7 bc she thinks it’s funny when he gets in trouble

[rinsie]

Gojo not taking care of brats more

[rinsie]

“babe. baaaabe. babe!”

“what, satoru?” you ask sharply, looking up from your laptop to where your boyfriend has spread himself across your couch, his legs in shoko’s lap. 

he lifts his shades to look at you. “was i your first crush?”

“yes,” you answer quickly.

you immediately return to the report you’re writing, missing the face shoko makes before she says, “that’s not true.” 

“ieiri,” you whisper harshly, but it’s too late. your boyfriend’s already jumped off the couch to lean his palms against your desk. 

“what? i wasn’t your first?!”

“you were,” you insist, glaring at your friend. “shoko is clearly misremembering things.”

“am i though?”

“you know what, it’s fine,” gojo sighs, slipping his shades back on and rolling the sleeve of his t-shirt up so he can flex. “obviously i’m way cooler than whatever lame schmuck high school you was crushing on.”

behind him, shoko’s scoff is the final nail in your coffin. “nanami is way cooler than you ever were.”

you slap your forehead, bracing yourself for gojo’s inevitable overreaction. 

but he doesn’t get the chance, interrupted by a light knock against your doorframe from, you guessed it, nanami kento.

“yaga said you wanted to see me?”

cue overreaction.

“you had a crush on— on him?” 

nanami swats gojo’s finger away from his cheek. 

“oh my god,” your boyfriend breathes, currently experiencing a quarterlife crisis. “you liked this emo nemo?”

nanami ignores him, sending you a questioning look. “he doesn’t know?”

“what is it now?” satoru asks, slumping back into the couch. “did you guys go on a date or something?” 

your lack of answer is enough for him to let his head fall back rather dramatically. 

“can you blame her?” shoko asks. “he was sexy back then. in an edgy, mysterious kind of way. meanwhile, you were like…if a string bean made love to a cauliflower.” 

even gojo doesn’t have a witty retort prepared for that. 

you decide to clear this up once and for all. “it wasn’t just about looks. you were busy after— after riko. you didn’t have time for a relationship or…for me. you wanted to get stronger and i didn’t want to get in your way.”

“you wouldn’t have been—”

“i would have.” you shrug. because you know him, and you know what he was like. “and that’s okay because we were still kids, satoru. and it was only one date! no need to get so torn up about it!”

_____

��what is this?” you ask later that night, when you find satoru hauling a huge box into your apartment.

“it’s a bowflex!” gojo explains proudly, patting the unopened box. “shoko said that i was built like a string bean, so i’m gonna buff up like nanami! and when megumi moves out next year, i’m gonna turn his room into a gym.”

you lean in the doorway, amused. nanami also has a home gym. “is that why you’re also wearing a suit and tie instead of your usual uniform?”

he does a show spin, letting you take it all in. you don’t even want to know how much it must have cost. “do you like it?” 

“you do look very handsome.” 

“i know,” he winks, cocky as ever. “now watch this.”

he brushes a few strands of hair over his eyes, lowering his voice a few octaves as he says, “taxes. office work. satoru, i respect you so much!”

you walk up to him, brushing the hair back to press a kiss to his forehead. “nanami would never say that last thing, but i do like the effort.” 

he loops his arms around your waist, returning the kiss and murmuring against your skin, “did it turn you on though? maybe i should get an office job—”

“satoru,” you whine, resting your forehead against his chest. “it was just a short-lived crush. and it was forever ago! i’m pretty sure you’ve had crushes that weren’t me.”

“nope,” he hums, resting his chin atop your head. “all i’ve ever wanted is you. all i’ve ever needed…is you.” 

[rinsie]

my two moods

So tell us how the first kiss goes between y/n and suguru in rich! boyverse 🙏🏼

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。IF ONLY — GETO SUGURU. (rich boy! au)

contents. college! au, rich boy! gojo + geto, reader is dating gojo, cheating (reader on gojo with geto), mutual pining, a make out kiss

notes. it’s uh….it’s here guys. the first installment of mr. geto “steal your girl” suguru. we have sinned the ultimate sin 🚶🏽‍♀️ rip satoru my babie </3

dating satoru should be enough—it was enough. but then suguru came along, and, well….suguru is magnetic.

his voice is that deep husk that sends shivers down your spine, his hair is long and frames his face so flawlessly, and when you catch a glimpse of his skin when his shirt rides up, you can’t help but think about the way he’s so defined. sharp, like he’s cut from stone, suguru is sculpted perfectly. satoru is everything you could have asked for….but suguru? he’s like a dream you didn’t think was a reality.

“hey,” he greets you sweetly as he opens his door, “you’re early. satoru hasn’t even left his house yet.”

early—you’re not early. you’re desperate. desperate to catch suguru alone. desperate to enjoy his company without feeling bad. desperate to stare at him while satoru isn’t there to notice. you didn’t come early by accident—you chose to be here before satoru.

“hi,” you grin, “you wound me suguru. don’t you wanna spend time with me?”

“i didn’t say that,” he chuckles, flicking your forehead affectionately.

suguru has always done that, he’s always been good at touching you in that casual way that’s so endearing and so dizzying—but it never crosses the line. his fingers tap against your forehead when he’s playful, and his hand steadies you on the elbow when you trip, and sometimes, he even hugs you with a squeeze that’s nothing more than friendly even though it makes your heart stop.

suguru is so alluring—and even when you have everything you need with satoru, you can’t help but want what you can’t have.

“i hope you got snacks because i require them,” you hum, sitting on island of his kitchen and swinging your legs back and forth.

“i did,” he snorts, “i got your favorite—”

he stops when he looks at you, has to pause and stare as you’re sat so casually in his home, looking so sweet and innocent and so, so pretty. you’ve always been pretty—you don’t even know it, how perfect you are. it makes you that much more desirable, makes him want to tell you every day until you believe him that you’re so god damn pretty.

and then he has to look away, has to ignore those thoughts that pop in his head about how it almost looks like you’re his, sat in his kitchen and asking for his snacks and smiling at his figure and seeking out his company. it almost feels like you’re his—almost.

so close, yet so painfully far.

it makes him a bad friend. he knows that—satoru has been glued to his side since he was a child. suguru doesn’t think there’s ever been a time he remembers without satoru, and he’s always liked it that way. loved it, in fact. satoru is a good best friend. the greatest, even. and he’s just as good of a boyfriend too—suguru should respect it, should put his head down and fight his demons and forget about his fantasies with you.

but then you pout as you whine, “gimme some, then. what’re you waiting for?”

“they’re for the movie,” he huffs, “don’t think i’ll share with you if you’re out of snacks before we finish the movie.”

“aw c’mon sugu,” you tease, giving him that dangerous smile of yours, “you’ll share with me, won’t you?”

yes. he’ll give you half of his soul if you asked. he’d carve out every bit of him to complete you if you needed him to, if you asked him to—he just needs you to ask. just once, he needs you to ask him.

“you’re a handful,” he mutters, “get your own snacks.” but he grabs a bag of chips from the pantry anyway, walks up to you and presses it to your hands. your fingers brush together as you reach—just at the tips, just barely for it to even count as a touch, but it makes you both still anyway.

he’s close. you can smell his cologne. he can smell your body wash. your fingers don’t pull away. his inch a little closer and feel your skin a little better. your face is close. his leans closer. and then you’re leaning in too—why are you leaning in? why aren’t you stopping? why isn’t he stopping?

and then it happens. his lips are on yours before you even realize it—you don’t even realize it, that’s the worst part. you don’t even register that you’re kissing suguru, your boyfriend’s best friend, the only one he has, because you’re so busy being lost in the feeling. his lips are warm, so soft and delicate and fuck, they’re a bit chapped and it only makes you want him more.

what other imperfections does he have? besides chapped lips, what else is there to discover? maybe his hair isn’t as soft when he hasn’t washed it after a few days. maybe his hands are a bit rough and calloused. maybe he has a scar or two from his childhood.

you don’t know, but you need to find out.

your hands are cupping his cheeks, making him lean into your mouth shakily, arms pulling you closer desperately. his arms are strong—they hold you tightly like you have nowhere else to go. and then when you take a chance as slip your fingers into his hair, to feel those strands you’ve only ever been able to stare at, he whines against your mouth.

like he wants more. like he needs more. like he’s always ever wanted more.

“c’mere,” he pants, “closer.”

you can’t help but listen. can’t help but lean closer and let him stand in between your legs as you’re sat on that damn kitchen island—you’ve kissed satoru against this same island. in secret. in a kiss or two you sneak when suguru doesn’t look. in a hopeless daze of want and need that always turns into more as soon as you’re both in private.

and now you’re kissing suguru. and it’s not enough. you need more—you feel like you can’t live without more.

“suguru,” you murmur, just because you need to taste his name on your lips when they’re whispered like that—like he’s yours.

“yeah?” he breathes, forehead pressed to your as his lips hover over your mouth—his breath is shared with yours, breathing you in and exhaling you out so you can inhale him too.

your hands are back on his face, thumb tracing the skin of his cheek so gently, it almost hurts that he’s gone this long without feeling you.

“i just wanted to say that,” you mumble, pecking his lips softly. he hums happily, closing his eyes as he leans into your hand and smiles.

“yeah?” he chuckles, “say it again—”

“guys i’ve finally arrived! the answer to your prayers,” satoru calls, opening the front door from the distance, “i know you’re bored without me. don’t worry, i’m here now.”

you pull away faster than lighting when you hear satoru, like suguru’s touch is the spark that’ll kill you if you let it near. he steps away, watches in slow motion as you plaster that lovesick grin on your face as satoru walks in and leans in to kiss you so softly—so carefree, so openly. like you’re his. like you belong to him. like you’ve only ever wanted him.

does satoru even realize? does he even notice the dazed look on your face and the plumpness of your lips? does he even notice the way your breath is short and a little puffy?

“toru what took you so long,” you pinch satoru’s cheek, “i’ve been waiting for you.”

“missed me huh?” satoru wiggles his brows—giddy, he’s always so giddy to be around you, always so happy to have you as his.

satoru is so lucky—and the worst part? he realizes it too. he doesn’t take you for granted, doesn’t ever leave an opening for suguru to take.

“don’t get a big head,” you roll your eyes, wrapping your arms around his neck as he slots himself between your legs—right where suguru was just moments ago.

“yeah, satoru,” suguru says before he can help it, staring right into your eyes as he speaks, “don’t have a big head. what if we didn’t miss you?”

“don’t be mean suguru,” satoru pouts, “you always miss me.”

if only he knew, suguru thinks, if only.

OH GOD. I FEEL SO BAD. but i love it 🤭

[rinsie]

“let me take you to dinner tonight.”

you look up from the handful of tulips you’re binding with twine to meet reo’s expectant gaze. 

“no.”

“come on,” he grins, taking the bouquet and placing it with the others. “we eat together all the time. in fact, we’ve already shared one morning coffee and one afternoon picnic. that’s basically two dates.”

“you mean the morning you brought me an overpriced coffee and the afternoon you almost fought a pigeon over french fries in front of my flowers?” 

he doesn’t seem to see anything wrong with your statement, nodding fervently. “yeah. we’ve covered morning and afternoon. the next natural course of action is to have dinner together.” 

he must read the hesitation in your expression, placing a hand over yours. electricity zips through your veins, but you don’t pull away. 

“hey, no pressure. no expectations,” he tells you softly. “just think of it as dinner between friends.”

“can i at least think about it?” 

“of course.” he checks his watch. “you have about ten hours to decide because i kind of already made a reservation.”

of course he did. because for all of your banter, he knows you could never say no to him. 

“okay, fine, i’ll go out with you. but only because you’re cute when you beg.” you decide, rolling your eyes when he does a quick fist pump. 

“i am cute, thank you. and i know i said to think of it as dinner between friends, but if at any point you feel the overwhelming urge to kiss me, you have my complete consent.” 

“go to work, reo,” you laugh, gently pushing his shoulder. 

“i’ll text you the details!”

_____

reo isn’t sure why he’s so nervous. he’s always been great at first dates– better than average, some might say. but something’s different this time around. maybe it’s the restaurant’s lighting, or maybe it’s the fact that it’s his first date with you. 

he’d come a little early and ordered a bottle of wine, knee bouncing under the table as he scrolled through his phone in an attempt to chase his nerves away. 

thankfully it’s not long before he spots the hostess leading you to the table (a few more minutes and he certainly would have spiraled). he’s quick to stand, walking around the table to greet you.

“hi,” he says, handing you a bouquet of roses before pulling your seat out for you. 

“these are beautiful, thank you,” you say, reo beaming as you gingerly hug the blooms to your chest.

once you’re both seated, he sneaks a glance at you before opening his menu. you look a little nervous, restlessly shifting in your chair and shifting your gaze around the room. 

“i’m sorry,” you blurt, curling in on yourself as if you’re embarrassed. “this place is– i probably should have googled it first. i’m so underdressed, i feel like everyone’s looking at me...” 

“of course they’re all looking at you. you’re the prettiest person in the room.”

(and, oh man, the way you look at him when he says that…it was like being bathed in soft sunshine. he could sit there and bask in it all day.)

but you lift your menu to hide your bashful expression and reo reaches across the table to pour you a bottle of wine, just to give himself something to do with his hands. 

“everything’s so expensive,” you murmur. 

the restaurant he’d chosen was one he was familiar with, customary for business meetings. he supposed it was on the higher end of the price range, but it only added to his ability to impress. 

money can’t buy happiness, but it can buy you a nice dinner and a pretty good bottle of wine. 

“i asked you out, i’m paying.” 

“we can just split it–” 

“it’s fine,” he waves off. “but if you insist, you can just cover the next one.”

you look up from your menu, amused. “we just sat down and you’re already asking me on a second date?”

he meets your gaze, grinning. “can you blame me?”

_____

despite the initial shock you’d received upon entering the restaurant, you slowly feel yourself begun to loosen up. maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s the fact that reo is…admittedly a really good date. 

(not just because he’s nice to look at, in a nice shirt with the two topmost buttons undone and trousers that hug his rear perfectly)

as the night wears on, you tell him a bit about yourself. about the things you like to do in your free time, your pet at home, how you ended up running a flower stall in the concrete jungle of downtown tokyo. he listens intently when you talk, asking questions here and there to convey his interest.

though he mostly keeps the conversation focused on you, he tells you about himself too. he talks about the recreational league he plays with on the weekends and the roommate that’s been his best friend since high school. he even talks about the charity gala he’s going to next weekend, representing his family’s business (it’s legit, you can google it! he laughs).

you actually know of the gala he’s talking about. it’s an annual fundraiser, and the order they’d put in at the flower shop you used to work at was one of the most expensive you’d ever seen. 

he insists on ordering dessert, the two of you sharing a piece of cheesecake as the night draws to a close. but before it does, you have to ask, 

“why did you ask me out?” 

he looks at you, seeming genuinely confused by your question. “what do you mean?”

you set your fork down, shrugging. “i’m not really your…type.”

“i have a type?” 

“influencers, ceo’s daughters, models…” you say, to list a few.

“you did google me when i was in the bathroom,” he laughs. he doesn’t seem offended, just amused.

you did google him, which is how you know he’s had a string of high profile relationships - and eventual breakups.

“your last date,” you remember. “why didn’t you see her again?”

he takes another bite of the cheesecake, chewing thoughtfully before answering, “nothing was wrong with her. she just weren’t right for me.”

“but i am?”

he pauses, then answers confidently, “i think you might be, yeah.” 

“is this the part where you tell me that we’re soulmates?” you tease, nudging the tip of his shoe with yours under the table. you’re trying to maintain a cool composure, but your heart is doing somersaults in your chest.

“no, because i’m a businessman,” he answers, nudging you back. “i believe in free will. when i see an opportunity, i just go for it. i’m not going wait for the universe to decide when i’ll get to be with my one true love.”

“so you believe in the human experience. subjective and objective choices. what about fate?”

“isn’t fate just a result of everyone’s choices? something inevitable, unavoidable.”

“description’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?” you counter. “think of it this way, i chose to set up my stall outside the restaurant, but it was fate that you were heading into it that night, which led to me being in this moment with you.” 

“one could argue that was just coincidence,” he points out. 

“you could. but maybe it was serendipity.” 

“now you’re just making up words,” he laughs, prompting you to throw your napkin at him. 

then he leans his elbows on the table, interlocking his fingers and resting his chin atop them. “to put it simply— i am here right now. it wasn’t some inevitable thing because i chose to be here. with you.” 

influencers, ceo’s daughters, models. he could be with anyone else in japan, but he chose to be here with you. at the beginning of the night, you weren’t really sure what to expect from him, judging from your brief encounters at your flower stall. you’d known he was decently charming, sure, but tonight you’re getting the full picture. 

and the way he looks at you now…it was like you hung the moon and stars. 

“i like when you say it like that,” you admit, feeling heat bloom across your cheeks. 

“the philosophy course i took in university is paying off then.” 

you’re about to do something completely stupid like kiss him when you realize just how quiet it is in the restaurant. you’d been so distracted, so enamoured with the man in front of you that everything else had blurred into the background.

you lean back to look around. it’s completely empty, save for the waitstaff and hostess. 

“did we stay past closing?” you frown, wondering how you’d lost track of time. 

“it’s fine,” he assures you, reaching across the table to place a hand over yours. “i told you i made a reservation.”

“for the entire restaurant?!”

again, he doesn’t seem to see anything wrong with your statement. “what did you think i meant?”

[rinsie]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。09:08 AM — GOJO SATORU.

contents. manga spoilers, satoru keeps the scars bc that’s character development ok, post canon, insecure! gojo / reverse comfort, you sit on his lap, ig angst to fluff, embarrassingly cheesy look away pls :,)

satoru, since he’s come home with those scars, has always evaded your hand. you’ve tried a few times, have reached out to cup those cheeks you miss holding—but he’s managed to grab your hand and kiss it every time.

it’s smooth—like everything else he does, satoru dodges your touch smoothly. with an easy grin. with a teasing glint. it’s slick and all too natural, and almost undetectable. but you know him better. you know him better than anyone has had the pleasure of knowing him, you like to think. and you know that satoru doesn’t let your hand meet his cheek, not even the edge of his jaw, on purpose.

“good morning,” you smile, reaching forward to lay a hand over his face. satoru, with his eyes still closed (as expected), grabs your hand and plants a soft kiss to the back as he hums.

you’re almost certain he can sense the way your lips tug into a frown.

“mornin’ sweetheart,” he says lowly, “watching me sleep? that’s a bit creepy,” he teases.

“i can’t help it,” you hum, “you’re too handsome.”

this is rare—giving satoru compliments easily is rare. usually, you make him work for them, keep him waiting on the tips of toes before finally giving him that praise you know will go straight to his inflated ego. but sometimes, like now, you think he deserves to hear it—unfiltered and raw and filled with truth.

satoru is handsome. always has been. always will be.

“aw,” he cracks an eye open, “maybe i should let myself get scratched up a bit more. maybe you’ll talk nice to me more often.”

“i mean it, toru,” you frown, insisting, “you’re handsome. so handsome.”

your hand reaches for his face again. he turns his head this time, feigning a yawn as he stretches before sitting up. there’s a slight bit of tension in the air now, his lips tighter in his smile as he hums before turning to you and poking your nose.

“well, aren’t you sweet,” he smiles almost bitterly.

you haven’t seen his smile reach his eyes for a while. he doesn’t meet your gaze through the mirror in the mornings as you brush your teeth together anymore, doesn’t wink at your reflection and make you roll your eyes. he doesn’t spam your camera roll with pictures of himself anymore when you’re in the bathroom, doesn’t leave you with those silly faces and smug grins that make good wallpapers. he doesn’t even crack those annoying jokes anymore, doesn’t whine for you to admit he’s the most handsome guy you’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting as his face digs into your neck.

instead, satoru dodges your touch. he kisses you briefer these days, avoids looking in the mirror, smiles like he has to—not like he finds a reason to.

“you don’t believe me?” you ask gently, furrowing your brows, “you know i’d never lie to you.”

“i didn’t say that, did i?” he asks, waving a hand casually. “c’mon let’s go brush our teeth. you don’t wanna kill me with that morning breath do you—”

“satoru, you’re still handsome, you know,” you say gently. you decide to rip the bandaid off as you add, “even with these.”

for the first time, your hand manages to reach for his face without him pulling away. you think it’s more out of surprise than anything, that it’s because he wasn’t expecting you to be so straightforward instead of trying to be subtle like usual. for a second, you think he might just put his infinity up—but he doesn’t ever. not around you.

but you can see it, the way his knuckles twitch a little like he’s clenching them. the way he’s so still, it’s almost like he’s willing himself not to tense. the way he doesn’t even lean into your touch like he always does.

he doesn’t want your hand on his face, but you stroke a thumb over a scar anyway, cupping his cheek as you study his face up close.

it’s still him—still satoru with that sharp nose and those rosy cheeks, still satoru with those long lashes and perfect jawline. there’s rough, marred bits of skin that meet soft, supple ones. you feel over the dips of where each scar starts slowly, committing each one to memory.

they’re newer parts of him, ones you don’t know very well yet, ones that remind you of the ugliest parts of the world—but they’re a part of satoru now, and anything that’s a part of satoru can never be ugly. no matter where they come from, no matter what they’re a reminder of.

not if it’s him.

“you think so?” he asks with a tight grin, “is my money maker still money making?”

“don’t be greedy,” you quip, “you have plenty of money.” and then, softly, you add, “but i’d pay a good fortune or two to wake up to this every day.”

“good thing i give it to you for free,” he hums, “i’m generous, you know?”

“what a catch,” you grin, “generous, strong, rich,” you list, making an amused grin stretch across his lips, “handsome,” you add. his smile falters a bit at that. “satoru, i’m serious.”

“oh, i love when you get all serious,” he whistles. he’s deflecting—you expect him to, but you’re not backing down. one leg swings over his hips, and then you’re climbing onto his lap, right there where he can’t avoid you. but he finds his attention to your lips, still smooth as ever as he avoids meeting your eyes.

“satoru—”

“oh? you want to do this already? it’s barely—” he makes a show of glancing at the clock before turning back to you with a suggestive grin, “—nine am. but i guess we can have a little fun before—”

“i don’t care about these, you know,” you murmur, pulling your head back when he leans in for a kiss. your finger lightly traces the scar by his left cheekbone, making him frown.

“see? you’re basically admitting you have to look past them,” he groans frustratedly—it’s the first time satoru’s acknowledges his scars. it’s the first time he’s finally let himself look upset without trying to hide it behind a forced grin and a dry chuckle.

“i don’t,” you frown, “sure, they’re new,” you admit softly, “and i don’t like being reminded you got hurt. but they’re not ugly—you’re always pretty.”

“there’s so many,” he mumbles, “they’re everywhere.”

“i think they’re cool,” you shrug, “they make you look tougher. less like a spoiled princess.”

“hey,” he pouts, “i’m not spoiled.”

“you’re a bit spoiled,” you chuckle, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck—his lips quirk up, and you can’t help but notice how real it looks for once. “but i suppose you deserve it. not because you’re handsome though. because you deserve good things—just for being you,” you insist.

his lips are quivering a bit, and he’s blinking faster now. you ignore it, though, taking your sweet time as you lean down and kiss along the edges of every scar on his face, tracing your lips along where the old skin meets new.

“that’s cheesy,” he mutters, “now you sound like a therapist.”

“i mean it,” you say firmly, “and i meant it when i said you’re handsome too.“

“handsomest guy you’ve ever met, right?” he bats his lashes—they’re a bit hopeful, though, and you smile as you gently kiss the corner of his mouth before nodding.

“definitely,” you nod, “you’re the prettiest.”

“am i?” he grins, “now i’m more spoiled. who’s fault is that really?”

“i’ll allow it for today,” you snort, “today you can be spoiled. i’ll humble you tomorrow.”

“we’ll see,” he hums.

your hands cup his cheeks as you lean down for a kiss, and satoru’s hands clasp over them gently, holding them in place—and when you kiss him delicately, like the sun meets the moon as your lips touch, like your world revolves around him as pull him closer, you think satoru is unfairly handsome.

and you’ll have to remind him that a bit more often.

he’s my liddol sourpatch :(

[rinsie]

— take a chance with me.

kamisato ayato x fem!reader

"disregard the world, and run to what you know is real."

genre. smau + narrations, modern/college au, romcom, angst

warnings. unrealistic depictions of college life, language/profanities, spontaneous updates, grammatical errors, he fell first but she fell harder troupe (other warnings will be on the chapter itself dw!)

sypnosis. as a struggling teen, love is a concept that's buried in the very back of her mind. love is just not her priority- but he just wouldn't give up. what a stubborn guy.

or; a certain kamisato wants to prove that his love is worth taking risks for.

status. on-going (19.03.23)

taglist. open! lmk if you want to be added by commenting on this post only. thank you!

profiles — w friendshits | tu's backbone

table of contents !

act i. then, it was just me

ch. 01 - give me a smooch

ch. 02 - emotionally unavailable

ch. 03 - eat the rich

ch. 04 - cockroach spray

ch. 05 - not on the menu (☕)

ch. 06 - homewrecker

ch. 07 - eat him up

ch. 08 - completely ajax's idea

ch. 09 - never trusting men

ch. 10 - denial is a river (☕)

act ii. like salt-rose topaz

ch. 11 - tu announcement

ch. 12 - the will of the archons

ch. 13 - gang gang

ch. 14 - take a chance with me (☕) | part 2 (☕)

ch. 15 - they're flirting

ch. 16 - put a leash on it

ch. 17 - couples are so selfish

ch. 18 - tomorrow? tomorrow.

ch. 19 - kuni bonk (☕)

ch. 20 - 5 star michelin (☕)

act iii. turn my world around

ch. 21 - hard to get

ch. 22 - in my eyes

ch. 23 - someone like me (☕)

ch. 24 - me when

ch. 25 - crying begging

ch. 26 - zouzou on the case

ch. 27 - unusual tastes

ch. 28 - it's so hard to love you (☕)

ch. 29 - ghosted

ch. 30 - real or not real? (☕)

act iv. love makes us crazy

ch. 31 - ends meet

ch. 32 - dont be a coward

ch. 33 - let's talk (☕)

ch. 34 - family gathering

ch. 35 - be okay (☕)

ch. 36 - oopsie

ch. 37 - slow and steady (☕)

ch. 38 - couples derogatory boo

ch. 39 - wow shocker

ch. 40 - straight to the heart

finale.

kuki's note.

please don't mind the timestamps unless stated otherwise

pictures used on some tweets do not define the look of the reader in any way :) they are just placeholders or used for the overall vibe!

all chapter names are subjected to change unless it's alr published ofc :p

[rinsie]

STILL WITH YOU ★

pairing: michael kaiser x gn reader suggestive + ex fwb to lovers + hurt/comfort (3.9k words)

a/n: i love kaiser but this was horrible to go through so i will never even think of writing for him again. thank you so much to mitzi (user mitsies) for helping me with this fic i love you to death you are the absolute sweetest !!!!!!!! <3 if there are mistakes just … ignore … im tired of this fic :sob:

alexis ness is an asshole.

you don’t know him personally, but given how he stood you up on the first date — which was, in all honesty, more humiliating than infuriating — that much could already be established.

“trouble in paradise?”

there’s a headache pulsing behind your eyes and through your temple, but whether it stems from your current predicament or the four shots of vodka you’ve downed is beyond you. though, when you think of it now, you’re pretty sure the answer doesn’t lie within those two options, but instead, on the guy next to you.

“not now, kaiser,” you warn, shooting him a glare for added emphasis, which he deflects with a cocky smile that soon turns into a faux pout.

“come on sweetheart,” he whines. “it’d be a shame to leave you all alone now, don’t you think?”

you tell him no in a heartbeat; without any hesitation, your conviction unwavering — and he deems you as a liar; that you answered far too quickly for it to be true. so like a complete fool, he goes, sorry? as if you’d change your mind in the span of twelve seconds.

“no,” you reiterate. “i don’t think so.”

casually, and almost too effortlessly, he moves his seat closer to yours, swiftly dragging the stool’s metal legs against ceramic tiles until he’s only an inch away from you. “really?” he drawls.

now, kaiser’s not usually one for staring; he thinks it’s unattractive for anyone to be so blatantly obvious with their intentions. at the same time, though, he can’t control the way his eyes bore into your figure; the curve of your waist, the slope of your nose— that damn outfit you’ve got on; so dangerously revealing yet somehow modest enough to leave plenty of room for anyone’s imagination to wander.

fuck, he thinks. all this for someone else?

the prospect of you being with a man other than him has kaiser losing all sense of rationality. “let me buy you a drink at least,” he offers; a calculated suggestion to keep his cool, even though his fist is balled and clenching into the fabric of his pants.

for a brief moment, you consider. if you played your cards right, he might even pick up the rest of your tab — but the last thing you need is to fall into his trap once more.

you wonder how many times he’s done this; how many strangers he’s tried to woo with his charms; how many times he’s managed to succeed, but those thoughts are dismissed just as quickly as they were conjured. because really, it’s none of your business anymore, not after he’s made it very clear to you — drew the line in bold, brutal ink — where you stood in his life.

“no thanks. i’ve had enough to drink,” you decide, unsure whether it’s for the entire night or just right now, but regardless of the answer, you need to get out of here — get far away from him before the alcohol catches up to your system and rewires your brain to go along with whatever plan he has.

“enough for you to come back to me?”

“i’m not coming back to you.”

kaiser places a hand over his chest, clutching at his shirt theatrically as if your words amounted to being struck by lightning. though, for someone as dramatic as him, it doesn't come to you as a surprise anymore; just another one of his antics to roll your eyes at.

“you pain me, liebling," he remarks.

“don’t call me that,” you respond sharply.

and it’s so resentful, the way the sentence slips past your lips, like you’re still bitter and seething with rancor; like you still haven’t managed to wash away the remnants of your past relationship—arrangement, with him, even after all this time.

it’s fucking humiliating, but it’s true. you have never known kaiser the way you thought you did, and you will never have him the way you wish you could.

unfortunately for you, he’s oblivious to the way your mood sours. “but you are my darling,” he drawls, grinning at how you’ve gone quiet, chalking your silence up to some sort of compliance. and so he keeps on prodding; keeps on poking at you until you’re patience wears thin and the thread snaps.

"shut up."

“i’m just saying—”

“kaiser,” you interject, every trace of tolerance now drained from your body. “stop it. i’m serious.”

"i just want to talk,” he explains, smile falling then, voice lowering to a serious note when he now catches the expression on your face; eyebrows knitted as you will yourself to maintain your composure. you’re on the verge of blowing up, and while you wouldn’t mind unloading the burden on him, you don’t want to do it here — not in public. that’s too shameless.

"i don't care about what you want."

“i’m sorry, really. let’s talk, okay? please.”

the shooting pain of your headache increases tenfold at his determination. with how persistent he’s being, you might assume he loves you — that he wants you — but you know better than to think you have any control over him, and you’re sick of this twisted game of tug of war he’s trying to play.

without another word, you stand up — grab whatever you can that you think belongs to you, and motion for the bartender to accept a wad of cash that carries far too many bills for just four shots of liquor.

whatever, it’s fine. they might have needed it more than you did, but what you need right now is to leave.

kaiser, unyielding as ever, doesn’t fail to trail behind, keeping his steps at a careful distance so as not to further upset you. he observes the way you stumble as you make your way out the exit, and takes it upon himself to look after you — not that he has any right, but he can’t leave you alone in this state now, can he?

not like he ever had any plan on doing so.

“you’re drunk,” he points out, arms folded against his chest as he watches you hunch over a potted plant. it’s surprising how you managed to go this far into the night without toppling over, really; you’ve always been a lightweight.

and kaiser knows that. he knows so much more than just that, actually. from the soft whines you let out, breathy and desperate, as you claw at him to give you more, to the way your face falls flat in disappointment every time he tells you he can’t spend the night.

which is horrible, in all honesty — the recollection of his actions is far too cruel even for him. there are times kaiser feels the stinging impact of his words; their weight settling on his shoulders, anchoring and rooting him in guilt.

and he knows he’s an asshole; that much is obvious. but he also knows that he could never be just a stranger to you, and no matter how selfish it makes him seem to seize the sliver of opportunity that knowledge presents him, he’ll take it anyway.

“you’re drunk, liebling.”

you whip your head around to glare at him. “no shit,” you say, steadying yourself on your feet before turning to walk away, steps brisk with impatience. “and stop calling me that.”

once again, he follows. only this time, right next to you, mirroring your movements to make sure you don’t fall face flat on the concrete pavement. his presence is a bother in itself, but you don’t have it in you to push him away anymore; not when you’re exerting what little sobriety you have left on keeping your eyes open.

“i’m taking you home.”

“i’d rather get hit by a truck.”

“i’m serious, liebling,” he says, completely ignoring your prior request. not that you expected any different from him. “it’s dangerous at night.”

“shut up. i’m not—” you trip over your words. “—not in the mood.”

“it’s not safe.”

you want to tell him that he’s not safe for you either, but ultimately choose to hold back. you allow the words to die on the tip of your tongue, because you don’t need to make a fool out of yourself more than you already have. admitting that he still has some sort of reign over you might just be tantamount to death, and you’re about to feed into his egoistic, narcissistic, emperor role play.

“go to hell,” you spit.

he rolls his eyes. “stop being difficult.”

“stop being a pain in the ass.”

kaiser grits his teeth, now firm in his resolution that, at this point, there’s only one way to deal with your obstinacy. in a singular sweeping motion, he captures you in an embrace, throwing you over his left shoulder and keeping you there with a strong, steady arm despite your multiple protests for him to put you down.

because he is not going to put you down — not when you’re being so goddamn careless; not when you’re inebriated and on the verge of passing out somewhere on the streets. have you always been this stubborn?

“let me go!”

“quiet.”

“kais—fuck you!” you writhe in his grasp, throwing a few weak punches at him from behind, eventually giving up when you realize they only encourage him.

when he feels you go slack, he knows you’ve finally surrendered, which is enough to coax a triumphant smile to adorn his face.

“you’re the worst,” you murmur.

and he laughs, because god, he knows.

“angel love, i need your keys.”

“side pocket.”

“huh?”

“my bag, you fucking idiot.”

kaiser huffs, playful irritation evident in his demeanor. “so rude, my dear,” he says, reaching inside your purse, fingers searching for the familiar shape of metal amidst its contents before slotting the right one inside the door lock. it opens with a click, and kaiser, still carrying you on his shoulder, weaves his way through your apartment unit with ease, because he's been here before — far too many times for both of you to count — so he knows the quickest route to your bedroom.

"put me down!” you demand.

"soon."

"soon?!"

carefully, he lowers you into the bed. "yes, soon," he says. "now, actually." it's accompanied with a laugh, soft and light, and you can't help the way your heart flutters at the sound. part of you is convinced it's only because you're drunk. the other, bigger part, however, knows that it's because it belongs to him.

when you sink into the mattress, for the first time tonight, you feel like you can breathe. you slip your eyes shut in hopes to call it a day, but kaiser makes it impossible for you to remain in that fleeting moment of tranquility.

“we need to talk,” he says, planting himself down next to you.

“tomorrow,” you tell him, even though you have no intention of carrying it out.

he’s persistent, though, and knows it’s an excuse; a momentary escape from the present. “no, liebling. we need to talk about it now.”

you sit up, disgruntled; your back now resting against the headboard, legs folded. it feels odd, in all honesty, to have kaiser look so earnest when he tells you this. it makes you feel vulnerable—exposed, which says a lot, because he’s stripped you of every article of clothing in the past. several times, by the way.

“there’s nothing to talk about.”

“there is everything to talk about, love.”

“i told you to stop calling me that.”

“you said to stop calling you liebling,” he rebuts, wearing a cheeky grin. “not that i will, but you deserve a break from time to time.”

you hate it, the way he speaks to you so casually — so familiar, like he didn't break your heart months ago; as if you weren't just acquaintances, but friends.

everything is too much right now.

it’s too much — too fucking much.

and perhaps, it’s just the alcohol invading your senses; wholly responsible for turning you into an emotional wreckage and rendering you speechless. that’s plausible enough of a reason.

“y/n?” he calls out upon noticing how you've gone quiet.

or maybe it’s kaiser. kaiser, who has consumed you whole; infiltrated you body, mind, and soul — dipped into your life and remained even after he left. kaiser, with his ocean blue eyes, poisonous and beautiful all at once; a pandora box you should have never opened.

it’s impossible to orbit around him without falling a little bit in love — you knew this. you just didn’t reckon it would stay that way forever.

“y/n? are you—”

“you said it was just sex.”

the air around you stills.

“you said it would never be more than sex,” you tell him; half angry, and half ashamed for letting yourself get carried away by emotion. “what right do you think you have to come back for me now?"

a note of silence.

kaiser digests your words, allowing them to sink in — what they entail, where they'll lead him, what this means for the both of you — and swallows the lump building in his throat to prevent it from devouring him whole. this was surprising yet expected, to say the least. he'd ran through his head countless times the list of things he'd confess if given the chance, but now that he's right in front of you, he has no clue on what to say.

honesty and an egoist, what a terrible combination. it's a collision of feelings, a clash of treacherous emotion and a perpetual, confrontational turmoil with arrogance — all of which only lead to inevitable destruction.

it had never been his strong suit.

because for kaiser, to be honest meant to be bare; to allow himself to become susceptible to danger. to him, honesty and vulnerability were akin to death. it was like laying himself down on a surgical table and handing over the scalpel to a stranger. a stranger, who could always change their mind and take a stab at him instead.

and he has always been conceited; pompous and overbearing, haughty and condescending — so love was never meant to be in the equation, and he had never thought it would exist to him. but there's been a ringing in his ear since he left you, and an unusual prickliness buzzing in the air, imploring him to do something, which was easy to overlook at first, but soon became difficult to ignore.

so the days passed by with dormant yearning, and ended with his thoughts cycling back to you like clockwork, which he didn’t understand at all, because it was never meant to escalate past a physical relationship, anyway, and he figured it was unavoidable to part ways with you; that it was for the best. but there was an ache that settled in his chest; brooding and poking, until it hit him one night, like a punch in the gut, that it wasn’t just lust when it came to you, but love.

kaiser had arrived at two conclusions that day.

number one, that he had been in love.

and number two, that he was still in love.

dragging him back to the present, thought, he is struck with another — that he can no longer keep this love to himself. in the confines of your apartment; the sanctuary of his nighttime rendezvous and surreptitious escapades with you, kaiser feels the dam break. he feels all the repression, all the emotion he's shoved into the deepest recesses of his mind, let loose and break free from the chains of restriction.

it's wholly terrifying. there's an invasive worry within him that urges him to stop while he still can; to retreat before everything crumbles apart and leaves him in the rubble, but everything starts with denial, and everything ends with acceptance — this is his.

everything he's pushed in the back of his mind now lays on the tip of his tongue, aching for sweet release, begging for liberation, and this time, he allows it to happen.

"i don't have any right," kaiser tells you, honest. and then pauses to take a deep breath, trying to sort out his thoughts and gather his emotions; to compose himself, because his heart is racing and he doesn't think he's ever been this nervous before.

finally, in a low whisper, he continues.

"everything about me should've pointed at you to stay away. i know i don't deserve it; to love is one thing, but to be loved is another — for someone like me, with this much insolence and pride, i know i don't deserve any of them, but i can't stop myself from loving you, and i'm sick of trying to pretend otherwise."

it feels foreign on his tongue, the word love; it's so strange, so heavy and unfamiliar, but it's the truth — he had loved you. he still does, and if you allow him to, he'll keep it that way forever.

but you can't find it in yourself to put any faith in his words. not yet. it's still too much. "no—no. you're lying. i don't—i can't believe you. you're lying."

"liebling, i promise you—"

"don't promise me shit!"

"—i am many things, but i'm not a liar."

"do you think i'm going to believe you?! do you think i can?! after everything you've done to me? you put me through hell, kaiser! i loved you, and you put me through hell!" more than angry, you feel defeated; like you've been put through the wringer and lost all the fight left in you.

"it's not—"

"you don't get to speak yet!" you let out an aborted sound of frustration. everything you had tried to bury just clawed their way out from six feet underground and shrouded you in anger. it wasn't even the alcohol talking anymore, you were sure of it. "i knew — god, i knew it was always just sex to you, but it was everything to me, and i allowed it to happen. i let you ruin me because i knew it was the closest thing i'd get to having you, and you still hurt me. and now you want to tell me that you love me?!"

"i do love you!" he says miserably. "i know it's hard to believe—"

"it's impossible to."

"let me fix things, please. i'll fix it. i'll fix us."

"there was never an us!"

kaiser smiles wryly, his heart on his sleeve. everything unspoken shines in his eyes; you want to refuse it, but it's so undeniable that you can't. "please give me one more chance, liebling. i promise, if you do, i'll never break us again."

"you told me you could never love me."

"i was wrong."

"you said you didn't need me anymore."

"i do. more than anything else, i need you."

"you broke me, kaiser."

“i know,” he says, taking your hand into his own, because you aren’t looking at him, and he needs you to look at him. “and i’m sorry. i'm so fucking sorry; for hurting you and taking too long to realize that i love you. but i do, i really do, and i’m here now. if you let me fix things, i'll show you that it could never be anything but love.”

“though—” he places a gentle kiss on the heel of your palm, eyes slipping shut like a prayer before unveiling to look at you once more. “—if you’re not ready, i can wait for as long as you need.”

you know it’s a promise; hear it in the way he says it with so much sincerity that it breaks you, see it in the way he gazes at you, sanguine and rueful — it’s so unlike kaiser — you don’t recall ever having witnessed this side of him, and you’re not sure what to think of it just yet. so for a long moment, you stay silent, motionless as you feel your heart hammer in your chest — and then you start to cry.

an abrupt fear slashes at him then. he reaches for your face, letting his slender fingers run along the apple of your cheek before wiping away a tear with his thumb. your cheeks, already flushed from the alcohol, grow patchy and streaky with your crying. a whirlpool opens in his stomach, a pit of guilt widening as you lurch into his hands.

“i'm sorry. please, i didn't mean to upset you.”

“you said—” you hiccup, sobbing uncontrollably, rendering kaiser’s pathetic attempt at damage control useless. “—you said it was just sex."

“i’m sorry. i’m sorry.” he tries calming you down, smoothing the back of your shirt with a gentle hand as if he was trying to work all the worry, all the ache, out from under your skin, internally sighing when your breaths start to even. “i’m sorry. forgive me. it’s all love now. i promise. i love you.”

you choke out, “you’re only saying that 'cause you're drunk.”

he laughs. “no, liebling. you’re drunk. i’m sober, and i love you.” he takes a brief pause, thinking. “though, even drunk, i'd still love you.”

“well, i hate you.”

another laugh. “i know.”

“you’re a bitch.”

and another. “well, this bitch is yours.”

“stop laughing. this isn’t funny.”

he leans in, nudges his nose against yours, and then pulls away. there's a beautiful smile plastered all over his devastatingly handsome face, and it lightens the load in your chest almost instantaneously. you can’t tell if you want to keep it there or slap it off of him.

“i love you, liebling. let me kiss you.”

you shake your head. “no.”

“please?” he frowns, lips jutted out into an exaggerated pout.

god, he’s unbearable.

you hate kaiser; you're sure of it. he's been the bane of your existence for the past few months, and the only reason you bail out on one night stands before they can even take your top off. he’s a hurricane in every sense of the term, and he drives you absolutely insane — makes your desperation border madness, and always has you second guessing yourself.

he’s downright horrible. he's the fucking worst.

and yet, inside of your chest, there is still only love.

“fine.”

with that, his lips are on yours immediately.

you taste like alcohol, and everything he wants in his life; it’s a sweetness that makes his head swim, drowns him in all his longing, strikes him with a fervent passion — desperate, as he presses himself against you, until you fall flat on the bed and he’s hovering on top of you, heavily panting, cheeks flushed with need, eyes flooding with desire. all for you. only for you. a summer storm, for you, forever. and he knows you see it – what you’ve turned him into. a tempest. because his expression is mirrored in your own.

"i love you," he breathes out.

you don't say anything in return. you don't need to. the two of you have always transcended past the need for words, so when you curl a hand around his neck, fingertips resting on his nape for a brief second before pulling him in for another kiss, he knows that you love him, too. your touch is cold ice against the heat building beneath his skin, the boiling of his chest. the only salve, his salvation.

and when you lift your hips to roll against the growing tent in his jeans — your breath shuddering into soft whimpers at the contact, hands slipping under his shirt in a familiar, fluid motion — he knows you want him just as bad.

"mihya," you whine, clawing at his back. "i need more. i need you."

and he laughs, deep and throaty, because god, he knows.

[rinsie]

all my love

pairing. itoshi rin x gn!reader

genre. fluff, slightly suggestive (towards the end) | established relationship | new boyfriend!rin 

content/warnings. 1.8k+ wc | characters are in their 20s ! | pro-athlete!rin | making out | narration heavy! | profanity | pet names | me and my word vomit | minimal proofread

in which: new boyfriend rin struggles to keep his affection within the delicate bounds of too much and too soon.

“he’s beefing with a phone now?”

“he’s beefing with anyone - anything, it’s actually a bit concerning at this point.”

“guys, stop. he can hear us, you know.”

itoshi rin sure does hear bachira, chigiri, and isagi talk shit about how he’s holding his phone tightly while glaring at the little screen. for once, rin paid them no mind and simply rolled his eyes. seemingly more focused on what is happening in his phone, or rather, what he is waiting to happen in his phone.

it’s stupid, he knows. he actually feels like he’s 18 again, back when he was pining on you so hard that he waited a whole day before you asked him to hang out. now at 23, after what felt like a whole century (he’s being dramatic) of wishing you were his, the day finally came. 

and once again, he’s here sitting, impatiently waiting for your updates about your silly grocery shopping you told him about just an hour ago. he wanted to tell you to wait, and that he’d come with you after practice. but before he could even send the message, he caught himself showing what he would call, for a lack of better term, lukewarm ‘feelings’ (it’s clinginess, he just doesn’t want to say the word himself, it’s distasteful in his own tongue).

he’s not clingy. he’s not needy. he doesn’t need to see you all the time. he doesn’t need to hear your voice or even receive a foolish text message from you. it’s not like he’s going mad about it this instant if you don’t update him. 

that's beneath him — or at least he firmly believes so before refreshing his notifications for the nth time for your long overdue text.

he could just text you first, right? to tell you how he hopes ego gets an urgent call from whoever, allowing them to leave practice earlier. tell you how desperately he wishes the earth would spin faster until he sees you again. and most importantly, tell you that he misses you, and he wants to see you despite staying over just a day ago for your weekly date.

after all, you're together now. he could simply just text you and let you know. what's the worst that could happen?

well, you might think he's being too much (he reached that conclusion on his own), and it might throw you off a bit — which is probably the last thing rin would want to happen. 

it’s too much, and too soon. no matter how long he had known it would be you for him, it doesn’t change the fact that the two of you are new to this. 

it has been nearly three months since you made it official for him, yet he’s still uncertain whether the length of your relationship could gravitate the spontaneity of him showing up to your place unannounced, or if he could ask you to stay the night after your weekly date, heck he doesn’t even know if could say those three damn words whenever he feels like it.

rin fears of overwhelming you. he can try and deny, but rin harbors big feelings that for as long as he could remember, stayed dormant for his own good. but now that you’re here, he’s afraid of putting it all out there for you.

rin thinks, or at least how he treats it, that your relationship is a new form of delicate. something he would need to handle with care, something he needs to approach slowly, even when all he wants is to give you all that he is— the good and even the bad that he would make better, just for you.

this is new and delicate. you are delicate. 

and rin knows his hands have never been known for their ability to handle something so precious.

sighing in defeat, rin threw his phone inside his gym bag, but as he was about to leave the locker room, he heard the faint buzz coming from his phone.

it was faint, barely detectable to some. but for someone who had been waiting for it for a whole damn hour, it felt like an angel whispered in rin's ear, letting him know that someone from above took pity on him.

“damn, that was fast. did you guys see that?”

bachira wasn’t lying. rin did turn to pick up his phone from his bag as quickly as one would turn when someone yelled ‘fire’. and for it, bachira received his second (it’s 2 pm, two is still a merciful number) glare of the day for pointing out his patheticness.

hastily, rin opened your conversation to be greeted by a photo of two different brands of protein powder followed by a harmless question from you, yet it almost burned him.

it’s your break, right? just wanted to ask you which would you prefer. i’m getting one of each for you to try if you can’t reply right away :D

fuck what he thought, he needs to see you – and he will. 

rin almost clicked the call button just to tell you he loves you. all because of some protein powder. just because you're so thoughtful and kind to him, it's downright unbelievable. he needs to hear your voice so he can process how real it is that you are his.

rin glanced at the clock of his phone. four more hours ‘til he’s free. four more dreadful hours, he can make do.

just before he got called by his team, rin quickly typed a reply to you.

Right one. Thank you :)

on the other end of the texting, you almost dropped both brands from your hands into your cart as you stared at rin's reply, particularly to the emoji he sent.

is this my boyfriend? you thought with a bemused grin. shaking your head, you placed his choice in your cart. you'd tease him about it when you saw him this saturday.

little did you know, even before saturday arrived, rin would be standing in front of you, hours after your last conversation. he was dressed in his sweats, wearing a white shirt, and had his gym bag slung across his chest. his hair seemed still damp from the shower, and as he looked at you, it was as though he just realized he had come here on his own.

“rin? what are you doing here?” you ask, breaking the silence first.

it was only after your question that rin realized he had more pressing matters to face than letting his eyes wander around you in your pajamas.

“i…” fuck. this is torture, and he curses himself for not finding the right words, “i wanted to see you.”

“you want to see me,” you echoed.

“is that fine?” rin’s voice came out strained with uncertainty.

a soft smile crossed your face, and you nodded. “of course…” you answered, “do you want to come in?”

rin nodded and slowly walked towards the entrance of your home, letting himself in as he dropped his bag on the floor. he still hadn't met your eye, reluctant to face what he might see in them.

instead, he indulged in the way you looked, seemingly so soft and warm to the touch in your flowing pajamas. his hands ached and itched with the urge to hold you close against him.

but he can’t – it was too much, too soon. 

“you can come here anytime you want,” you said, pulling rin out of his thoughts.

taken aback, rin took a few seconds to process what you said. “it’s not… too much?”

curious as to why he would ask that, you gave him a bashful smile. “it’s you, baby. why would it be?” 

and just like that, rin cast aside all of his hesitancy at the sound of your words, as if they were the green light signifying him to let go of the brakes holding his own affection.

rin took a step closer to you until you were inches away from him. your curious eyes followed every movement he made. curiosity immediately turned to bewilderment when you felt one of rin's firm hands on your waist, pulling you closer to him. his other hand settled in the curve of your neck below your jaw, gently guiding your face to meet his.

“how about when i hold you like this? still not too much?” rin's voice sounded hoarse, an octave lower. his hands roamed around your back, gently caressing your clothed skin.

“no…” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

rin exhaled with your response, the scent of fresh mint wafting around your face. his hand on your neck climbed up until you felt his thumb caressing the side of your lip.

“and if i tell you i love you— perhaps a little too much. how 'bout that? does that bother you?” 

so, this is what it is about.

feeling bolder than you were minutes ago, you caught rin's hand, enclosing it with your smaller ones as you guided it to your lips, leaving a featherlight kiss on his knuckles.

smiling up to him, you say, “never. i think i’ll love that.”

as the moment lingered in suspended anticipation, rin wasn’t able to suppress it any longer. he closed the distance between your lips with an urgency that bordered on desperation. the kiss was more than a mere meeting of lips; it was a collision of hearts.

his lips molded against yours, and his touch was not just gentle, but also fervent, as if trying to give you all that he is, without any reservation. his hands, once hesitant, now found their place on your waist, pulling you even closer to him, feeling the warmth of your body against his. his fingers traced a delicate path along your spine, memorizing every curve, every contour, as if etching your presence in his memory. 

as the kiss deepened, a soft sigh of contentment escaped your lips, inviting rin to explore further. he took the invitation, his tongue gently parting your lips to taste you more, more, and more.  because just when he thought it was too much, it was apparently not enough. he needed more – touch you more. 

when you both finally pulled apart, your breaths were intertwined, and your gazes locked. with a shy smile playing on your lips, still breathless and flushed, you ask, “and if i ask you to stay the night, is that too much?”

rin smiled, teal-eyes reflecting a glassy glint, “no,” he whispered, “i think i’ll love that, too.”

and rin also thinks he wouldn't mind being clingy and admitting he's needy if it's you— only when it's you.

because with you, he's not reminded that he was less, nor plagued that he might be too much.

to you, all of him was just the right amount of love.

note. i don’t know what this is but i miss him so i hope it’s something. if you’re new here, i am crazy about itoshi rin.

[rinsie]

☆ 𝗱𝗿𝘂𝗻𝗸 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 - ,, 𝗿𝗶𝗻

summary: you’re out on a date right now, this much he knows. alcohol makes people more honest sometimes and, in your case, it was the final push needed to unearth buried feelings.

warnings: gn!reader , characters in their 20s ! , some fluff , some angst , mostly intense pining and yearning and longing , drunk character , slightly suggestive towards the end , very description heavy , word vomit , not proofread !! word count: 7.1k a/n: this fic is actually. the bane of my existence. died and went to hell and became reborn while i wrote this which is why the quality suffers towards the end but alas! is it what it is + ty to @/mitsies for helping me write some of this bc i was rly suffering

the crowd to his right is alarmingly loud. enough so that he can barely hear his own thoughts swimming around in his head. rin supposes that it might be for the better—but that doesn’t make the sensation any less unpleasant.

a few of them slap their hands down onto the rickety wooden table, and rin watches with a wary eye as their ramen bowls teeter on the edge of spilling, broth making its way to the very end of the porcelain, but miraculously staying inside. 

he heaves another sigh and stares down his mug of beer, half-finished, froth beginning to disappear. he finished his bowl of ramen a while back, the bowl sitting empty to his left. now he’s just drinking—on his third beer, if he’s remembering correctly. 

he’s not quite drunk, but rin can feel the buzz of alcohol in his system, the warmth in his cheeks and a slight dizziness in his movements. he’s not even the biggest fan of beer, he’s not quite sure what he’s doing then, already making plans on a refill when he’s done with this one. 

maybe, he just wants to be drunk, craving that relief from sobriety even if he’ll resent his choices when he wakes up tomorrow morning. 

you’re out on a date right now, this much he knows. you told him a few days ago, bright-eyed and wearing that soft smile you always give him. you told him you were hopeful this time, even if you didn’t get so lucky in the past with your dates. you told him you were nervous because you’re always nervous for first dates.

“what if they see me and decide they don’t like me anymore?” you weren’t asking him for reassurance, simply muttering your worries out loud so that they don’t linger and grow inside your mind. but rin reassures you anyway.

he can’t imagine anyone looking at you and deciding you’re not worth their time, deciding you’re not the most beautiful creature to be living and breathing on this planet. his hand shakes, only a slight tremor that he recognizes but not you, when he places it on your shoulder. when you meet his eyes, rin sees himself reflected in your gaze; you steal the breath right out of his lungs without ever trying. 

“you’re being ridiculous,” he says, instead of telling you that you are the closest thing to divinity on this earth. “quit worrying about useless things,” he rolls his eyes, instead of cupping your cheek in his hand, feeling your soft skin against the roughness of his palm. 

you had agreed with him with a soft laugh and a shake of your head. rin is still clinging onto that twinkling sound even now as he sits at this ramen shop, sipping on his beer, feeling the tips of his ears grow hot. 

the memory of you, by extension, brings back the memory of your date tonight and he scowls. the group beside him only gets louder and there’s a pounding in the back of his skull. it spreads along the crown of his head and so rin gulps down the dregs of his beer, asks for a refill, and brings his hazy stare to the window.

the streetlamps are on, fluorescent beams of light piercing the darkness. behind them are flashing neon signs advertising various other restaurants rin could have disappeared into for the evening. 

he watches people walk by, in small groups, cheeks bunched up while laughter hangs off their tongues. something twists deep inside him, wrenched tight until it hurts and he’s prompted to take the first sip of his fourth refill of the night. 

rin is no stranger to these feelings—constantly feeling left out, like he’s missing something big in life. there is bitterness and resentment coiled together in his heart but he tries not to dwell on them. he hasn’t poked and prodded at that hurt in a while, not since he met you. it’s silly, he thinks, but your presence was something of a saving grace for him. unknowingly, you showed him that there are things he has that he should pride himself in; there are people in his life worth holding tenderly, worth speaking to softly. and you are one of them.

you are so wholeheartedly good, like sweetness runs through your arteries instead of blood. you are worth the nights he spent watching tv shows you mention in passing, reading poems you mindlessly gush to him about. and rin is not gifted in emotional intelligence like you are. he is neither creative nor soft-hearted enough to really understand what you’re saying, but he pretends and he listens. 

part of him suspects that all you really needed was for someone to hear you. 

he drags his stare back to the table in front of him, examines the shape of his hands pressed against the wood, overtop the rings lining the surface. rin decides then that even if this date of yours goes well, even if you and this person begin dating and experiencing everything he dreams of doing with you, he could never push you away.

he might stew in his own hurt for a little while, but rin could never stay away from you. not even if you hurt him, not even if you picked him apart and left him in pieces (though you would never—this he knows. not on purpose, anyways). 

his phone buzzes in the pocket of his dark wash jeans and he clumsily fishes it out, fingers not quite as dexterous as they normally are thanks to his inebriated state. 

it’s a message from you. you look so pretty in the picture he has set for your contact. he stares at it for a few seconds before he brings his attention to your text. it’s something of a struggle to read—everything keeps distracting him. the golden overhead lighting casts a glare on his screen and he has to awkwardly shuffle around in order to see the words.

from: y/n June 25, 2023 7:54 PM → are you busy rn? → you probably are nvm → sorry if i bothered you!!

he barely has the time to process his thoughts and by the time his brain catches up to his body, his fingers are already flying across the keyboard, trying to type out a response that is legible. 

to: y/n June 25, 2023 7:55 PM → nto busy → whats swrongg

your reply is immediate. rin tries to push down the spark of hope that ignites in the cavity of his chest. 

from: y/n June 25, 2023 7:55 PM → are you sure? → whats up with your spelling :P

his eyes flicker up to his earlier text, suddenly recognizing the few mistakes he made. rin groans internally and tries not to think about how he must be making a fool of himself in front of you. he’s almost certain that his spelling is suffering thanks to the beer he’s been drinking tonight, and he silently prays that it doesn’t get worse from here.

to: y/n June 25, 2023 7:56 PM → i’m aat a ramen n shpo → bere

he pauses, squints at his own words after he presses send. then rushes to fix his mistake.

to: y/n June 25, 2023 7:56 PM → *beerr

he wonders what you’re doing at this very moment. have you just gotten home from your date? were they kind to you? were they reluctant to let go of your hand when it was time to part ways? do they understand how lucky they are to have you so close, have you right there, just a touch away? 

from: y/n June 25, 2023 7:57 PM → LMFAOO okay well drink responsibly rin → i’ll leave you alone :>

it gets harder and harder to decipher the texts, but he manages to read the most recent one first and alarm spreads throughout him like it’s been injected into his bloodstream. some unknown force (his own subconscious perhaps) compels him to move, do something now before he loses his chance later. 

rin needs to see you. he’s just drunk, he reasons, but his heart is racing, drumming relentlessly against his rib cage and he needs to see your face.

to: y/n June 25, 2023 7:58 PM → joinn mee → heree

he manages to send his location to you. you ask a few times if it’s really alright, if you won’t be intruding on his night. he wishes he had the articulation at the moment to let you know that his night has been boring at best, and downright miserable at worst. 

you would be a more than welcome addition.

instead, he gives you a single word affirmative and you eventually relent, telling him you’d be there soon.

rin settles back into his seat, still acutely aware of the group beside him, loud as ever. he tries to finish off his beer in the time he has to spend waiting for you. he’s at the edge of his seat, sitting with bated breath. rin swishes around the amber liquid and frowns when some of it manages to spill into his hand.

you’d be here soon. something like relief settles into his system, something like anticipation, something light and airy. rin tells himself he’s just drunk, and he’s only getting drunker. that’s the only reason why there’s a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he thinks of you.

-: ✧ :-

your night has been abysmal, to say the very least. it’s not often that you pity yourself but as you sit in your car, knuckles white around the steering wheel, you can’t help but feel it. you can’t stop yourself from feeling sorry for the state you’re in—for how your night unfolded. 

your date was a disaster; he was late, judgemental, rude and cruel. it’s hard for you to imagine that people like him exist, chock full of hatred for others. you managed to keep your composure in his presence, but in the safety of your car, your resolve crumbled. 

it’s beyond you why you felt compelled to text rin, and you feel utterly guilty for the scoff you let out when he revealed to you that he was at a ramen shop. 

even itoshi rin, a man who constantly seems to be at his wits end, is having a better time than you are. and you should be happy for him but you think about how he might be at this shop with someone else. and maybe, they’re seated across from him, but maybe they’re right beside him instead. and what if he has his arm around them? what if he holds their hand, laces their fingers together and promises forever?

when he asked you to join him, you asked if he was sure, purely out of courtesy. you hoped he wouldn’t take the offer back—you wanted to go, you wanted to see him. after this horrendous night, you needed a familiar face, even if that face belonged to the man you’re trying to get over. 

you suppose you’re just unlucky in love. having fallen for a guy so far out of reach, in a different world entirely. but falling for rin was natural, like you were always meant to be in love with him the way you are. unfortunately for you, rin is rather oblivious when it comes to these things; he’s bad at reading situations and he’s bad at reading you. 

you gave up on your feelings being requited a long time ago, deciding that if rin were to be in love with anyone, it would never be you. the two of you are friends and therefore, you’ve already built a place in his life. 

knowing this doesn’t make him easier to forget about. and it seems as though luck is not on your side either, pitting you against a man with a terrible attitude and a rotten heart. all your efforts to get over your childish crush on rin only ever deepened your adoration, only ever led you right back to him (as you are now, sitting in your car, eyeing the ramen shop). 

and it seems like fate and destiny, and all other major driving forces the romantics talk about, are laughing at you. hiding their snide remarks and mean-spirited giggles behind their hands, glancing at you with something vicious in their eyes. 

you take a deep breath and survey your surroundings, the doors to the ramen shop. it's crowded tonight, each table populated by more than one person. you carefully enter the shop and look for rin, trying to spot him amongst the crowd. he’s easy to find—the only person alone at a table meant for four.

seeing him unaccompanied makes the restlessness within you quiet down, though your guilt spikes up and leaves you uncomfortable as you shuffle over to his table. there’s a finished bowl of ramen and a mug of beer, nearly finished as well, sitting in front of him. rin has his head down, forehead resting against his arms.

you poke him softly, wondering if he was one of those people who get sleepy when they’re drunk. 

he rolls himself up slowly, drowsily meeting you stare with half-lidded eyes. you take in his flushed skin and messy hair and give him a soft wave (it’s awkward—your movements stunted like you’re only just learning how to bend your joints). rin continues to stare at you and you wait, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet, for recognition to flash across his features.

once he does put together who you are, he sits up straighter, correcting his posture and staring down fiercely at his hands. 

“hello,” he mumbles, refusing to look at you. you wonder briefly if he’s embarrassed you’re catching him like this, so obviously intoxicated and so obviously unlike himself. 

you laugh as you take the seat across from him. the noise catches his attention and he finally snaps his head up to look at you, brows furrowed as you settle into your seat. the atmosphere is warm and inviting in this shop, you can almost understand why he’s spending his night here instead of at home.

though, it is quite loud. you stray away from rin just to spare a glance at the table beside you, voices a touch too harsh and noisy. 

“you’re too far,” rin says, and it forces your attention back to him. though, it’s not like you want to be looking anywhere else. he pushes back the chair sitting empty beside him. “sit here.” it’s less of a suggestion and more of a demand and you try not to read into it, telling yourself he’s drunk and hardly in his right mind. 

perhaps, he’s just craving company. just like you were thirty minutes ago, alone in your car after one of the worst dates of your life. 

as natural as it feels to resist him and all the temptation that comes from him just existing, you humour him and move over to sit down next to him. it's harmless, you’ve decided, and you act like you can’t feel the weight of his stare drag along your side profile. 

you don’t order anything, too full from the light meal you had earlier. somehow, you don’t think you could stomach anything right now, no matter how delicious and inviting the ramen looks pictured on the menu. 

“so, why did you call me over here?” you ask rin, watching him finish off his drink with a hum. he’s only getting drunker and, vaguely, you think that you should stop him before he sinks further into this state. 

“i wanted to see you.”

picking at a divet in the edge of the table, you stare at him from your peripheral. there’s a part of you that wonders what this is and what you’re doing here instead of at home. rin looks sincere, even under yellowed lighting and with reddening cheeks. they say drunk words are sober thoughts, though you’re not sure whether you wish to believe that to be true. 

you smile at him, even if it’s not at him since you’re still keeping your head down, the gesture is for him. “you would’ve seen me tomorrow.”

rin scowls, draws his brows together. anger and irritation settle well into his features because he wears them quite often. but personally, you like the way he looks when he smiles. “i wanted to see you tonight,” he pokes his mug. he’s stalling. “after your date.”

the mention of your date feels like being drenched in ice cold water, a sinking feeling in your chest. you try to school your expression, keep yourself from frowning too hard, but you’re too late. rin is more perceptive than you expected, mirroring your downturned lips with an air of concern. you want him to ask, just so you can tell him it went poorly.

some part of you hopes that’s what he wants to hear, though you know it’s just wishful thinking. 

“it went poorly.” 

you nod, heaving a sigh, “he was unkind. i was too hopeful, i guess.” it’s your turn to pick at the table now, unwilling to face rin. you don’t know why you’re embarrassed, but you feel a bit like you had earlier; fate and destiny laughing at your misfortune. 

here you are, unpacking your terrible night in front of the man you’ve grown to love more than you should. unfortunate doesn’t even begin to cover it—you’re simply cursed. 

rin shakes his head firmly, sternly. “he’s a fucking idiot to let you go.” 

all at once, the room gets louder, noisier, and you’re hyper aware of the wooden table. your clothes are scratchy against your skin, despite having been perfectly comfortable half a second ago. head and heart at war, you try to fight the urge to look over at rin. 

in the end, of course, your heart wins and you spare him a furtive glance. he’s quick to meet your gaze and your breath gets caught in your throat. 

the air seems to grow heavier, thick with tension, and you swear you could cut through it with a knife if you so pleased. it makes your head spin, some unseeable force coaxing you forward, closer to rin. there’s a small voice in your head that’s telling you to get a hold of yourself, recognize that you’re being foolish and acting on impulse.

when you feel his warm breath hit your lips, you know you’re too close. when you feel the heat radiating off of him, you know you’re too close. when you smell the alcohol mixing with his cologne, you know you’re too close. when he says your name so softly, speaking it with a kind of reverence you don’t think you deserve, you know you’re too close. 

abruptly, you lean back, spine rigid against the back of the chair and rin looks pained. rin looks like he’s missing you—you don’t know if you like it or not. 

he says your name again, crumbles into his seat as he flags down a waiter and asks for another refill. you should stop him before he gets too drunk. rin waits until he gets his refill and only then does he continue, gulping down nearly half his mug of beer. 

“i’m glad,” he says, looking straight ahead instead of at you. you trace the curve of his cheek and the sharp line of his jaw with your eyes, glowing gold beneath the yellow lights of the shop. “i’m glad your date was terrible.” 

and you should be hurt, or perhaps offended. you should be feeling some form of anger after hearing this from rin, but instead, you’re merely intrigued. you’d like to think you know him well enough to know that he wouldn’t just wish ill will towards you. but before you could ask him what he means, he elaborates. 

rin takes another gulp of his beer. it’s three-quarters of the way done. “you should be mine, and i should be yours.”

he finishes off his beer. you can hardly breathe, as though someone is strangling you, an intense pressure at your neck. 

“i’m already yours,” he mumbles, speech slightly slurred and you remember that rin is drunk. “so tell me you’re mine.” he grabs your hand, fingers wrapped tightly around your own. his skin is warm and your heart is pounding, the rapid thrum of your heartbeat at your fingertips. 

“tell me you’re mine,” he pleads. you don’t think you’ve ever heard rin pleading for anything, let alone something from you. you hope and pray to anyone out there who will listen—you hope and pray that he won’t say the words your heart has been aching to hear. 

you pray. 

his blunt nails dig into your hands, rin takes a breath. “i love you, so please tell me you’re mine,” he rasps out, staring at you, waiting for you to say anything at all. the blue-green of his gaze has never felt so intense. 

distinctly, you hear yourself being laughed at once more. your life is a fucking joke. it’s got to be—someone, somewhere was probably having a ball watching you as you hold in a breath before exhaling and pulling your hand from his grasp gently, gently as you could. and no matter how careful you move, you can still see the heartbreak in his eyes when you reply, “i think it’s time you went home, rin.”

you can’t look at him. you feel him there, waiting and watching, but you refuse to look. instead, you scan the restaurant, waving over an employee, and you direct your attention to your fingers fumbling with the bills in your wallet as you pay his tab. rin doesn’t protest, having gone oddly quiet beside you, and you don’t think you’re a good enough person to be able to stomach looking at him right now. 

your mouth is dry. your stomach hurts. you’re hot beneath your collar and you sweat a little. fluorescent yellow lights are eating away at you, burning into your skin like a second set of stars. burning, always burning. 

you stand and grab his hand with the intention of leading him out to your car to take him home, feeling the added flames tickling your palms as he holds on so tight you feel your fingers curve. you think you might be sick.

the car ride home is quiet. he’s far too out of it to give you his address. you’ve never been to his home, a boundary you weren’t willing to push for both your sakes, and one that you’re glad he never took the time to get rid of. there’s nowhere else to go besides your home, so you grit your teeth and tell yourself it’s the right thing to do. 

past that, the only real conflict is rin’s initial refusal to get in the car and let you drive, because he refused to let go of your hand. eventually, you managed to make him settle for the passenger’s seat. the entire way to his apartment, you feel his eyes on you. you keep staring straight ahead, stiff as a board, unwilling to observe the way he watches you. because you know how he sees you. with hot, hot fire burning like a house set ablaze behind his irises. with such passion—like he wants to eat you alive.

you think about this as you drive. his confession, his stare; all of it. rin was drunk, obviously so—it wasn’t a valid confession. it was one, sure, but how much weight could you put into his words? it’s the plot of any rom-com, but how often were rom-coms reality? 

white knuckling the steering wheel, your thoughts return to his words. ‘you should be mine.’ ugly feelings smelt in the pit of your stomach. ugly, vile, wretched. you didn’t know anything about the night he’d had—what if he really was with someone else? and he was thinking of them? what if he was just simply lonely? a lonely man, in a lonely ramen shop, sitting lonely at the table, with his lonely glass of beer, saying lonely words to a lonely soul who was lonely enough to believe them? 

you exhale. it’d be foolish of you to allow yourself to, even for a second, delude yourself into thinking that any of what he said to you was real. you’d be stupid. you’d be practically asking to be hurt.

you think you’re smarter than that. so you suck up the hurt, you suck up your love, and you store it away.

his shadow blocks the light from reaching your door as he stands behind you. it doesn’t matter—your keypad lights up in green and you go through your code, rin’s hand brushing against your fingers. he’s still as silent as he was at the shop, and as silent as he was in your car. when you step aside to let him into your home, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you in with him. 

rin looks out of place in your cluttered home with walls covered in photos of friends, small trinkets and keepsakes from trips scattered across shelves and tables. there’s a stack of unread books sitting on the floor beside your couch, and you zero in on the sports magazine left open on your coffee table. rin looks back at you through his lashes, dressed in a windbreaker. but the rin in front of you looks like he doesn’t belong amongst your mess and in your life—tall, broad-shouldered, his presence is far too big to fit in with your existence. 

he doesn’t notice himself on your coffee table and you let out a soft breath. “let’s get you to bed, rin,” you say as you approach him slowly. and you should be the one treated this way, like a scared and wounded animal pressing itself into a dark corner. you should be the one carrying heartache in your gaze, not the man in front of you. not itoshi rin, who could get virtually anyone he wanted to, regardless of whether his personality is palatable to them or not. aesthetic appeal is mostly everything and rin is gorgeous. 

he doesn’t protest when you lead him into your bathroom and splash some water on his face, careful not to get his bangs wet. he doesn’t protest when you hand him a glass of water and tell him to drink. he doesn’t protest when you lead him into your bedroom and help him under the covers. 

the silence is nearly suffocating, his words weigh on your mind like a heavy hand crushing your skull. rin sinks into your pillow with his mouth drawn into a frown. you’re crouching next to him and you stare, you work your eyes over the slope of his mouth and the dip of his cupid’s bow, and the gentle fury in his eyes. so much of itoshi rin is a mystery to you. you don’t understand his affinity for the horror genre, or his tendency to speak with a sharp tongue when it comes to anyone but you. you don’t understand his dislike for popsicles with win or lose or lucky printed onto the wood. you can’t understand why he called you to that ramen shop tonight, or why he asked you to sit next to him. you can’t understand his confession and it’s driving you mad. 

you wonder if, in due time, you will slowly begin to put the pieces together. but you curse yourself, and the way this night has unfolded, because you know that everything you want an answer to will not reveal itself in the matter of a few hours. rin is hardly in the right state of mind to answer you anyway, no matter what they say about drunk words and honesty. 

your unexpected guest lays in front of you, counting the grooves in the plaster that coats your ceiling. heaving a sigh, you press your sweaty palms against your thighs and stand up. rin is still sporting a flush from being drunk—he’s clutching your blanket in one hand, the other resting against his abdomen. you turn on your heel and he reaches out, grabbing your wrist, searing his touch against you like he’s branding you with hot iron. “don’t leave,” he croaks out as you squeeze your eyes shut and gather all your courage, gather all your resolve. your heart is sitting in a lump in your throat and you can feel it beating in your skull, loud and heavy and erratic. 

“i need to sleep, rin,” you wriggle your wrist, trying to escape him. “you should too.” he only tightens his hold, pressing his fingers into the groves of you where you skin is stretched thin over tendons and bone. his hold is tight enough to bruise. 

rin is looking at you now—you almost wish it was the ceiling still. his gaze feels like fire, red and orange flames licking at your skin, leaving you scorched and bare. he’s never like this. he never faces you without any walls, keeping you at a distance. you’re growing to despise his honesty; he’s drunk. 

“tell me your mine,” he pleads, much like he did at the shop. he’s still holding onto you tightly, so tightly that it’s beginning to hurt. “i love you,” he tries again, just like he had before, but it doesn’t become any easier to hear. his words find their way around your neck like a noose, your breaths turn shallow, your skin is cold. you are freezing cold. 

you wrench free and you pretend like you don’t notice the way he shrinks into the mattress, obviously hurting, because you don’t think you have it in you to resist him any longer. 

“tell me this when you’re sober,” you say, picking at your nails. your voice is shaking and you feel utterly pathetic because rin won’t remember any of this come tomorrow. and you will struggle to forget this lonely man and his painful stare as he watches you leave the room.

you curl up on your couch with a few pillows and a fleece throw blanket you found tucked away in the corner of your closet. exhaustion makes your head feel heavy, you recount your day and your nose stings and your vision blurs and your heart twists and tears and screams inside of your chest. you don’t cry—you’re still and frozen like ice.

-: ✧ :-

rin wakes up with his head pounding, pain spreading across his skull and down his temples, down his nose bridge. every time he blinks and tries to adjust to his surroundings, his headache grows worse and the pain multiplies; it feels as though someone has taken an axe to his skull, trying to split it open. he takes a deep breath and shoves his face into his pillow. it smells like chamomile, it reminds him of you, and he breathes in once more. his mouth feels dry and cottony, sleep crusting his eyes. he takes another breath, drowns in what smells so strongly of you, and snaps his eyes open. his headache only gets worse but he looks past it and rolls over onto his back. he surveys the walls, the nightstand, the pictures on the walls—this is your room. 

for a moment, he simply admires. he can see you in this space as he looks around: at the dresser, shuffling through your clothes, in front of the mirror, on this bed. rin envisions you beside him, thinks about reaching out and tracing the dip of your spine, and rushes out of bed. he’s tangled in your sheets, he smells like your chamomile and whatever remains of his cologne. rin stumbles as soon as he stands up, losing his footing as the room tilts and his head spins for just a moment. he struggles with gathering his bearings but he manages and he straightens up, pushes his bangs out of his eyes.

rin digs back in his memory, filling in the gaps with logic, and trying to pull together exactly what happened last night. he hardly remembers what he ate or how much he drank, but he remembers you so well. the way you looked beneath the yellow lights, your kind smile and the way your hand had fit so perfectly against his. rin feels himself grow hot below the collar of his shirt, his jeans feel scratchy and the cotton of his shirt is more restrictive than anything. for a moment, all he feels is relief, intense and whole-hearted, like the weight of the world had finally been removed off his hunched shoulders. and it feels so impossibly good—so freeing—to know that you know now. 

the moment of reprieve is short-lived, however, when he recalls the last thing you said to him before you bid him goodnight. 

‘tell me this when you’re sober.’

panic hits him like a lorry barreling down the road, too fast for it’s own good, and the world rocks and tilts beneath his feet once again. rin reaches out a hand and steadies himself using the wall. the room is no longer spinning, he takes a deep breath and tries to calm his racing heart. it doesn’t beat any slower, it just sinks to the bottom of his stomach, settling in his gut. panic settles in him like frostbite, his hands and feet growing cold. there is hope in what you had said—you didn’t reject him outright. but rin knows you’re kind, far too kind, and you would never tell him the truth if he’s in a vulnerable state. especially if it was a truth he wouldn’t want to hear. 

he pictures all the ways this can go, him leaving this room and confronting you. you might ignore it all, you might move on as you always did and in the end, rin would still get to have you in some capacity. he would still see you in the mornings, holding a coffee as you greet him with a smile. he would still get to spend his lunches with you periodically. he would still be allowed into your life and into your mind. (it would never be enough).

alternatively, you might confront him first. you might reject him—he believes it to be likely. and if he were anyone else he might have been able to take it, work through the ache of losing you, and emerge as someone new. but he’s not anyone else, he’s itoshi rin. and itoshi rin is so in love with you that he forgets you’re not in love with him. he forgets that he can’t just smother you with all he has to give, every part of him he wants you to see and map out and know so intimately. itoshi rin is picky with who he trusts but he trusts you. he’s picky with who he loves but he loves you. he’s loyal to a fault, he will follow you to the ends of the earth, he will be anything and anyone you ask him to be. as long as you stay. as long as you don’t leave him behind.

rin feels a bit like a dog, always by your side, unable to see the same faults in you that you are able to pick at so easily. he supposes he sees you through rose-tinted glasses but, to him, you remain the same even if he were to break out of this fantasy of you he holds in his head. you could curse at him, spit words that slice and leave gashes like they are sharp blades. you could kick at his chest and break his ribs, step on his heart until it gives out beneath your weight. you could leave him to bleed and he would still crawl back to you. he hopes that you do not grow out of your spot beside him—that you do not grow tired of him. rin cannot be sure whether he can be without you. 

and so panic and nervousness and all it’s ugly cousins rear their heads and make him feel utterly sick. the fact that he may lose you stands between him and you, outside the bedroom. he can hear you moving around, the soft sounds of dishes and cutlery being moved around. but rin recalls how right it felt to be holding you, sparks flitting across his skin at your touch. and he may not remember all of last night, but he remembers everything that’s worth holding onto to; rin remembers every second he spent with you, down to the last detail of your clothes. and so, though he wonders how he can face you again, he knows that he must—you asked him to. 

you have your back facing him. the sunlight comes in from your open windows, along with the soft sounds of the city outside. you look comfortable, moving about your kitchen, grabbing plates and other utensils. the scene is so domestic and rin is filled with this overwhelming longing to have you like this everyday. it slinks up his spine and spills into the cavity of his chest, reaching up into his heart and settling there. there’s a tightness beneath his skin when he takes a breath, blood rushing and roaring in his ears, but he approaches you anyway. 

when he says your name, you freeze. rin watches every muscle in your body grow stiff at his rough voice, thick with sleep. you’re like a deer caught in the headlights, but you force the stiffness from your body and turn.

“good morning, rin,” you greet him, and he watches you move to plate some french toast. you always say his name so softly, like you cherish it—cherish him. the tightness in his chest eases up a bit and he feels a comforting warmth spread through him instead. if he were a dog, you are the one thing he would chase after over and over again. 

rin doesn’t know what to say. he hadn’t planned this far ahead and he’s never been good with words—he’s not like you are. rin finds that he still can’t read you as well as he wants to. he’s bad at this and he knows it; he tries anyway because he knows you’re waiting. (he hopes you are.) 

“i love you,” he blurts out. your smile drops and he feels like he’s made a grave mistake. he smooths his sweaty palms against his jeans, picks at anything he can possibly catch between his index and thumb. you’re still silent and so he continues to stare at you, hoping that you can see it in his eyes—see that he wants you more than anything else in this world. 

you sprinkle powdered sugar onto the toast. “are you sure? rin, i can’t– i’ll never be someone who fits in with the life you’ve built.” and he knows that you’re talking about the fame and the travelling and the tabloids. his face on billboards and magazines. and you must think you don’t have a place in this disorder, that you don’t fit in amongst his daily chaos. but if rin has to forcefully make space for you, then so be it. he takes a step closer—there’s a heaviness in the air that only grows as he approaches you. 

rin feels like an idiot. “i’m sure,” he takes your hand, “i don’t want anyone else.” 

you haven’t said it back. it’s all rin can think about as you take a deep breath and intertwine your fingers with his. you squeeze his hand—all rin can think about is the smoothness of your palm and the heat of your touch. “i felt like an idiot hearing you say that at the shop,” you begin, a sardonic laugh escaping your pretty lips. “you were drunk out of your mind and here you were—telling me you loved me.”

he watches your gaze turn sharp as you recount the memory, a crease settling between your brows. but you soften almost as quickly and your eyes dull in shades of heartbreak and yearning. it’s a look rin recognises so easily because he wears it when he’s around you. 

“it was all i ever wanted to hear from you.” he meets your gaze, searching, praying you will say it back to him. rin holds his breath and ignores the rush of his heart beating, tries to calm himself down just so he can be sure it won’t drown out your words. you hold his hand tighter, your nails dig into his palms.

“you could have been lying, saying whatever you wanted to say, ‘cause you were drunk.” an apology sits at the tip of his tongue. rin wants to make it better for you, he wants to spend his entire lifetime proving to you just how much he meant every word. 

you take his other hand, tilting your head to the side as you press your palm against his own. “it was too much, you know?”

and rin knows he’s acting hastily when he pulls away from you and stalks forward, backing you up against the kitchen counter. he drops his hands against the marble, fingers splayed out. he asks if he can kiss you before he says sorry. there’s a part of him that feels guilty for it, but he’s waited far too long to have you here, so close and almost his. you whisper a ‘yes’ and rin takes solace in knowing that you’re right there with him. 

his hands rest on your hips and slide up to your waist as he leans in, pressing against you. he places a kiss at the corner of your mouth, and when he feels you falter beneath him, rin brings his hands to your cheeks and really kisses you. he breathes you in, fervent in his pursuit to learn this shape of your lips and the cut of your teeth. the counter is digging into your back, your hands are at his shirt, wrinkling the material even further. rin ducks his head, kisses along the line of your neck. “sorry,” he rasps out, just loud enough for you to hear. “i’ll show you,” he adds, biting down at the juncture of your shoulder and neck.

“i love you, rin,” you breathed out, chest heaving as his hands dip below the hem of your shirt and settle on your bare skin. rin thinks of the french toast made, but the thought is fleeting as he pushes you up and onto the counter. 

“i meant every word,” he kisses you again, toying with the waistband of your sweatpants. 

“i love you.”

title is so on the nose i dislike this heavily but wtv i will get over it. eventually.