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You regret the heels five minutes after arriving.
The music thumps from somewhere deep inside the house, bass rattling the windows like a heartbeat. Fake cobwebs hang from the porch lights, and a grim reaper animatronic groans weakly whenever someone walks by. You glance down at your costume—half-effort witch, half-regret—and then at Kiyoko, who looks effortless as usual in black velvet and lace, sipping something glowing neon green from a plastic cup.
You tug your jacket closer around your costume and scan the crowd with mild horror. Someone in a blood-splattered lab coat is doing a keg stand near the couch. A girl in fairy wings is crying in the bathroom doorway.
You really don’t want to be here.
“Loosen up,” Kiyoko grins, nudging you forward. “It’s Halloween. You’re allowed to be mysterious and hot.”
You roll your eyes, stepping into the warmth and chaos of the party. It smells like cheap fog machine fluid and someone’s spiced body spray. Costumes blur past you— some cute, some cursed.
“Remind me why I let you talk me into this?” you mutter, glaring at Kiyoko.
She grins, adjusting the devil horns on her head. “Because I promised you free drinks and hot guys in costumes.” You arch a brow. “So far, all I see are freshmen in body paint and one very cursed Pikachu.”
Kiyoko laughs, already leading you toward the kitchen. “Relax. It’s still early. The hot ones show up late.”
You squint into the mess of bodies and bad costume decisions. Someone walks past dressed as Shrek, except he's shirtless and covered in green body paint. Two girls in matching angel costumes are arguing near the kitchen, and somewhere, a smoke machine is choking to death.
You weave your way through a mess of costumes: fake blood, fishnets, and feathers everywhere. You’re barely holding onto your sanity when you catch a flicker of movement—someone standing by the window, half-hidden by the curtain.
Red and black suit. Mask fully on.
Spiderman.
You don’t know why you look twice. Maybe it’s the way he’s leaning—too casual, too still. Like he’s watching, not partying. He’s got a cigarette between two fingers, the ember glowing faintly as he lifts it to his mouth.
You roll your eyes and look away. Of course. Some guy decided to be “edgy Spiderman” tonight. Cool. Original. Probably thinks he’s God’s gift to women because he bought a tight suit and started chain smoking.
You don’t know it’s him yet. But you should’ve guessed.
Ten minutes later, you're still standing by the kitchen doorway with Kiyoko, arguing whether punch counts as a real drink, when someone brushes past you from behind—a firm hand at your waist, warm through the fabric of your costume.
“Pardon me,” a voice murmurs near your ear—low, smooth, confident.
You barely register the words before you're being guided aside—firm, smooth pressure, and then gone. You spin, your skin still tingling from where he touched you.
“...Holy shit,” you whisper.
Kiyoko raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“Did you see that?” You point toward the disappearing figure. “That Spider-Man guy just, he waist-grabbed me.”
“Waist-grabbed?” Kiyoko laughs. “That’s not even a word.”
“It is now,” you mutter, pulse still racing. “We need to find him.”
“Why?”
You shoot her a look. “Research purposes.”
What starts as a game becomes an obsession. You weave through the crowd, scanning for red and black, for lazy cigarette smoke. You want to say it’s because you want Kiyoko to see, but really...you want you to see. Again.
Every guy in a Spiderman suit tonight looks like a party store tragedy. But then you see him—tall, lean, with the suit clinging too well, walking toward a hallway and slipping into a side room with the ease of someone who doesn’t need to look back.
You follow, heart in your throat.
The door’s cracked. You step inside quietly.
He's by the window, back to you, mask in his hand, cigarette glowing at the edge of his mouth. Smoke curls around him like it knows better than to get too close.
You freeze.
The dark hair. The lazy posture. The way he turns—
And then you see him.
Rintarō Suna.
The guy you’ve been at war with since second year. The smug, passive-aggressive, emotionally constipated nemesis of your academic and social life. The same guy who called your writing "passable" and your sarcasm "cute in a try-hard way."
“You have got to be kidding me,” you breathe.
He blinks, then smirks. “Hi.”
“You knew it was me?!”
“You weren’t wearing a mask,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And I said pardon me.”
“So you think it’s okay for you to just casually grab my waist?”
“Yeah. It was crowded.” He exhales a trail of smoke, looking you up and down, unbothered. “Besides, you didn’t not like it.”
You splutter.
He flicks ash out the window, unhurried. “You’re still drooling, by the way.”
Your cheeks burn. You want to throw something. Maybe him.
“I hate you,” you say, breathless.
“I know.” He grins, leaning back against the windowsill. “And you followed me all the way here. Interesting, isn’t it?”
You’re not sure what you hate more—the fact that he’s right… or the fact that you still want to kiss him.
You glare at him, crossing your arms tightly across your chest—half because you’re trying to look defiant, half because your heart won’t stop pounding.
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re obsessed with me,” Suna replies coolly, flicking his cigarette out the open window.
“I was trying to show Kiyoko what a waist-grabbing perv you were, actually.”
“Is that why your hands were shaking?”
You inhale sharply. “You are—the worst.”
He’s moving before you realize it—two slow, measured steps until he’s in front of you, close enough to feel the heat off his skin despite the cool October air. He smells like smoke and cinnamon from the awful party candles, and it’s unfair how good it works on him.
“You really didn’t know it was me?” he asks, tilting his head.
You try to hold his gaze. Fail. “You had the mask on.”
He smirks. “That’s all it takes? Hide my face and you melt at one little touch?”
“I did not melt.”
Suna leans in, voice dropping. “You chased me through a house party.”
“I thought you were hot.”
“You still do.”
You want to deny it. You really do. But your breath catches, and the silence says everything.
His hand comes up slowly—like he’s giving you the chance to pull away—and brushes a piece of hair from your face. His fingers linger, grazing your cheek, and suddenly the space between you feels like it’s charged with static.
“Still hate me?” he murmurs.
You don’t answer. You’re too busy grabbing the front of his suit and yanking him down.
It starts with your hands in his hair — not gentle, but urgent, tugging him down as your mouth finds his. His lips meet yours without hesitation, like he’s been waiting for this moment all night, maybe longer. Maybe always.
His mouth is hot, demanding. The kind of kiss that makes your knees forget how to function.
His hands are everywhere — one sliding up your back, the other gripping your waist, pulling you against him like he can’t stand the distance anymore. You feel the hard lines of his chest through the suit, the way his thumb strokes slow circles against your hip as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.
And then he presses you back — gently but firmly — against the wall beside the window, his body pinning you there. You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue brushing yours, deliberate and slow. You shiver.
It’s not just heat anymore. It’s intent.
He groans quietly against your lips.
It's not sweet. It’s not careful. It’s years of eye-rolls and sarcastic comments and stolen glances that you both pretended meant nothing. You kiss like you’re still arguing—biting, breathless, barely pausing for air.
You break away for a moment, breathing hard, and he watches you with hooded eyes, lips flushed, chest rising and falling like he’s been running.
“So,” he mutters, voice rough. “Does that mean you don’t hate me?”
You turn your head away, breathless. “Only if you keep touching me like that.”
He smirks, satisfied. “Deal.”
Your response is to kiss him again — harder. Slower.
This time, it’s deeper. Less of a clash, more of a pull. You wind your arms around his neck and he groans, low in his throat, as if something in him’s finally giving in. His hand trails up, fingers brushing the underside of your jaw as he tilts your face to kiss you more thoroughly. His lips move against yours with a lazy kind of confidence, like he has all night and he’s going to make sure you feel every second of it.
And you do.
Every roll of his mouth against yours. Every subtle drag of his thumb over your lower back. Every little pause where he just breathes you in, eyes fluttering shut like he’s trying to etch this into memory.
Your fingers trail down to the zipper at his neck. You hesitate. His eyes flick down, then back up to yours, and he leans in, voice low.
“Curious, huh?”
You smirk, breathless. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
And you do. Over and over.
Eventually, he pulls away just far enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you still catching your breath. His lips brush the corner of your mouth — soft now. Intimate.
“You gonna regret this tomorrow?” he asks quietly, like he means it.
You think about that. Then you shake your head. “Only if you stop.”
His smile is slow, wicked. “Guess I’m not done saving you yet, then.”
The cold air slaps your cheeks the moment you step outside, but the heat between you hasn’t gone anywhere.
You’re still flushed, lips tingling, mind fogged over with the taste of him, and not to mention—aroused.
Suna tosses you the spare helmet like he’s done it a thousand times. “You sure?”
You meet his gaze. He’s still got that look — smug and unreadable, but something gentler underneath, like he’s just as rattled as you are and pretending not to be.
You nod.
You don’t know what this is. You just know you don’t want it to stop.
The motorcycle roars to life beneath you. You cling to him, arms wrapped tight around his torso, your cheek pressed between his shoulder blades. The wind stings your eyes, but it doesn’t matter. The world blurs into nothing behind you, and all you feel is him — the steady rhythm of his breathing, the flex of his body under your hands, the subtle smell of smoke still clinging to his jacket.
He doesn’t say a word the entire ride.
Neither do you.
You don’t need to.
His apartment is dim, quiet, and smells faintly of coffee and sandalwood. Clean, minimalist. The kind of place that shouldn’t feel warm — but it does. Maybe because his presence soaks into everything.
He sets the keys down. Takes off his jacket. Glances at you like he’s waiting for you to speak.
You don’t. You cross the room in two steps, grab the front of his suit, and kiss him again.
This time it’s slow.
Your lips meet his with heat, but there’s no rush now. You kiss him like you’ve got time — like you want to learn the shape of his mouth, the taste of him, the way he breathes when you press your body to his.
He responds instantly. His hands are on your waist again — god, that waist, like he can’t stop touching it — pulling you flush against him as he walks you backward, mouth never leaving yours.
You hit the couch with a gentle thud. He follows, straddling the space beside you, his knee brushing your thigh, his hand tilting your chin up as he kisses you deeper — mouths sliding, breath mingling, the silence between you charged and heavy.
He pulls back just enough to look at you.
“You really didn’t know it was me,” he murmurs again, almost like he still can’t believe it.
You shake your head. “Not until you took the mask off.”
A pause. Then he grins — slow, sharp, devastating. “You really liked that waist grab, huh?”
You shoot him a glare, cheeks burning. “I will leave right now.”
“No, you won’t.”
And you don’t.
Because then his hand slides under your shirt.
Not in a rush. Not crude. Just palm to skin — warm, steady, fingers grazing lightly up your back like he’s trying to learn your shape.
Your breath stutters.
Then he kisses you again, rougher this time. Less banter, more hunger. His hands grip your hips, guiding you onto his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs as you settle there like you belong. You feel every inch of him beneath you, the hard tension of his body, the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.
Your hands are under his suit now, sliding up his chest, feeling muscle and heat and the sharp rise of his breath as you explore him. He leans into your touch like he needs it. Like it’s anchoring him.
He kisses down your throat — slow, deliberate — lips dragging over skin as if he’s trying to undo you one inch at a time. His voice is barely a whisper: “Still hate me?”
You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “Yeah,” you say, breathless. “But I want you more.”
That wrecks him a little. You can see it — the tension in his jaw, the flicker of restraint in his eyes, like he’s one second from losing it.
He doesn’t answer.
He lifts you off his lap in one smooth motion and carries you toward the bedroom.
“You’re impossible,” he mutters.
“So are you.”
He takes a step toward the bedroom, then pauses.
Your breath catches when he turns around slowly, still holding you in his arms, eyes flicking down to your face like he’s weighing something heavier than lust.
“No,” he mutters under his breath. “Here.”
He kneels down, lays you back against the couch cushions, and stays over you, bracing himself with one arm while the other slides under the hem of your shirt again. You’re still reeling from the way he said it — low, like he needed to feel you now, not later, not in a bed with the lights off and the heat cooled down.
The couch is narrow. The closeness is impossible to ignore.
His thigh slots between yours as he leans down to kiss you again — slower this time. Deeper. He kisses like he wants to unravel you piece by piece, to drag the moment out just so he can watch you fall apart under him.
Your hands slide up under his suit, feeling the smooth skin of his back, the flex of muscle as he adjusts his weight on top of you. He groans softly when your nails graze his spine, breath hitching as his mouth leaves your lips to trail down your jaw.
“You’ve hated me for years,” he says against your skin, voice rough.
“Still do,” you whisper.
He chuckles — dark and warm. “Sure doesn’t feel like it.”
His hand finds your bare waist again — the same spot he touched earlier, the one that sparked this entire night — and he presses there gently, thumb sweeping slow, teasing circles.
“That’s so unfair,” you gasp. “You know what you’re doing.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” he replies, his teeth grazing the curve of your neck.
You arch under him, a soft noise escaping you before you can stop it. His hand slides higher under your top, pushing the fabric up — he’s not rushing, just watching your face the entire time, like every reaction is its own kind of victory.
“You’re not gonna make this easy for me, are you?” you say, voice shaking.
He smiles against your collarbone. “Never.”
And then your shirt’s off, and his mouth is on your skin — kissing, tasting, biting softly just to hear you gasp. You tug at the zipper of his suit, and he helps peel it halfway down, just enough to feel his bare chest against yours, warm and solid and real.
It’s clumsy in places — hips bumping, knees shifting — but you don’t care. You’re too busy kissing him like you’ll never get the chance again.
His hand skims up your thigh, deliberate, slow, and your breath stutters as you press your forehead against his.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” you whisper.
He leans in, brushing his lips against yours, softer now. “I was hoping it’d be you,” he murmurs.
The couch creaking under you as he finally presses you down completely, mouths meeting in hot, slow kisses that blur the lines between want and need.
You’re not sure how long it lasts.
All you know is the feel of his hands, his mouth, his body over yours — and how everything inside you is pulling toward him, over and over, like a tide you can’t fight anymore.
He rolled his hips against yours, grinding his hard length through the thin layers of fabric. A low groan rumbled in his throat at the exquisite friction.
breaking the kiss, he trailed his mouth down your jaw and neck, nipping and sucking marks into the tender skin. “so you’re the impatient type, huh?” he teased, hands making quick work of that skirt. "alright, I’ll give you what you want.”
He moved his head lower to your heated core, fingers hooking your pretty laced panties, pulling them down. He had you spread wide open on his couch, his fingers inching closer, grazing your inner thighs. You threw your head back letting pleasure overtake you completely as you felt his fingers near closer to your cunt.
His breath is warm on your skin, hands splayed on your thighs. His touch trails upward, closer, until he’s right there, fingers brushing your inner thigh, mouth hovering where you need him most.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dark and low. “All this, and you still say you hate me.”
You try to come up with something clever. Something sharp. But then his mouth replaces his hand, and your mind blanks out completely.
Your back arches, fingers threading into his hair as his tongue strokes you, slow, practiced, maddening. He takes his time, exploring every reaction, every sound you make, until you’re trembling and gasping and gripping the couch cushions like they’re the only thing keeping you grounded.
His name leaves your lips in a whimper. Maybe a plea.
He doesn’t stop until you come apart under him, thighs shaking, head thrown back in breathless shock.
When he finally pulls back, his mouth glistening, he climbs up over you again, kissing your jaw, cheek, and lips as if it’s a reward.
“I’m not done with you,” he breathes against your lips. “Not even close.”
His breath hitches as he watches you beneath him. His hands slide along your inner thighs, thumbs brushing up, up, until they reach your soaked cunt.
Your breath catches, body tense as he parts you with his fingers, eyes locked on your face like he wants to see every second of how you fall apart.
“You’re soaked,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “From just my mouth?”
You open your mouth to reply, but then his fingers slip through your folds, and your words dissolve into a gasp.
He smiles. “That’s what I thought.”
He doesn’t rush. He teases, dragging his fingers over you with deliberate care, circling your clit just enough to make you twitch before pulling away again. Every touch is measured — not gentle, but patient, like he’s been thinking about this, planning how to ruin you just right.
And when he finally slides two fingers inside you, your whole body arches.
“Fuck—” you breathe, nails digging into his shoulders as he curls them just right.
“That’s it, baby,” he mutters, leaning over to press kisses along your neck, his voice ragged.
You pull him down and kiss him hard, your hips rolling into his hand, thighs trembling as he works you open with every stroke.
When his thumb brushes your clit again — firmer this time — your breath stutters and your head drops back against the couch. He watches you, eyes hungry and half-lidded.
He pumps into you deeper, faster, building you up with maddening precision, until you’re shaking under him, moaning his name like it’s the only word you know.
And when you come, clenching around his fingers, body going tight and hot with release, he kisses you through it.
You’re still catching your breath when he pulls his fingers out and brings them to his lips, licking them clean with a slow, knowing look.
He then sinks into you slowly, with a quiet gasp, a shaky moan, and the stretch of him is overwhelming. Your back arches, hands clawing at his arms, his back, anything, and he’s cursing against your skin, biting your shoulder just to stay grounded.
He’s deep.
His hips rolling slow, grinding into you like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel from the inside out.
You meet him thrust for thrust, moaning into his mouth, wrapping your legs around him to pull him even closer. The couch creaks beneath you.
Just the way he holds you down, the way he kisses you through every stroke, the way he whispers your name between gasps.
“Don’t stop,” you breathe. “Please don’t stop—”
And he doesn’t. He won’t.
Your second orgasm builds fast, pressure tightening in your core, your fingers clawing at his back, your voice rising as he thrusts into you deeper, faster, every movement hitting just right.
When you break, you shatter around him — crying out his name, body writhing, nails raking down his spine. He groans, curses, hips stutter as he follows you over the edge, burying himself deep one last time as he falls apart in your arms.
Suna’s arm is wrapped loosely around your waist, cheek pressed to your collarbone. His breath is warm and steady against your skin.
You could stay like this.
You should stay like this.
But there’s a spark still burning low in your stomach, a slow, greedy curl of heat that hasn’t faded yet. And when you shift your hips slightly and feel the twitch of him, still hard, you can tell…
He’s not done either.
You roll your hips again, slow, subtle, and he lets out a low groan.
“Seriously?” he mutters, voice rasped and wrecked.
You lift your head to look up at him, one eyebrow raised. “Don’t tell me you’re tired.”
His eyes flicker open, hooded and sharp. “Not even close.”
You smirk.
You slide a leg over him, straddling his waist, palms pressed to his chest as you lower yourself back into his lap.
His hands come up instinctively, gripping your thighs as he watches you through heavy lashes, like he’s not sure whether to worship you or let you ruin him again.
“Your hips are gonna be sore tomorrow,” he warns, voice barely above a whisper.
You lean down, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Worth it.”
You reach between you, guiding him back inside, savoring the stretch and the way his head tips back, jaw tight, eyes fluttering shut.
“Fuck—” he breathes, fingers digging into your thighs as you fully sink down on him, seated deep in his lap. “You’re doing so good for me.”
You roll your hips, drawing a strangled sound from his throat, his head thrown back, Adam’s apple bobbing as he groans loudly..
You start slow, rising and falling in his lap, hands braced against his chest, your hair falling forward as you ride him. His eyes never leave you, drinking in every movement, every curve, every breathy moan that slips past your lips as you move on top of him
You rock your hips slowly, savoring every inch of him, the way he stretches you open, the way he fills you so perfectly it almost hurts.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, hands sliding up to your waist. “So fucking pretty when you take me.”
You feel yourself clench around him. His groan is strained and low, his rhythm stuttering just a second before he locks back in.
“Yeah, just like that,” he mutters, lips dragging down your neck, voice dipping into something darker. “You look so pretty like this. Taking me so well. Riding me like you were made for it.”
Your breath is shallow, your body trembling, your hips faltering from exhaustion. He notices. Of course he does.
“Aw, getting tired already?” he purrs. “Can’t keep up, baby?”
You open your mouth to snap back — something bratty — but before the words can form, his hands grip your waist, and he takes over.
He thrusts up hard, sharp and deep, his rhythm suddenly relentless.
You gasp, clinging to his shoulders, eyes flying wide as he snaps his hips again, this time deeper.
He keeps going, thrusting up into you with harsh movements, driving you down onto him again and again. All you can do is feel — every stroke hitting deep, the couch beneath you shaking, your breath coming faster with every thrust.
“Don’t go all quiet on me now,” he huffs, breath ragged. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”
Your mouth parts, the words caught in your throat, and he takes the opening to keep going, each thrust upward precise and brutal and so good, your thighs already trembling.
“Look at you,” he growls, hands sliding to your hips, holding you still as he thrusts into you. “Acting all in control, but falling apart on top of me.”
His voice softens, just slightly, warm at the edges. “You like this, baby? Letting me fuck you dumb on this couch?”
Your forehead drops to his shoulder. “Suna—”
One hand snakes between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles as he keeps pounding up into you. You cry out, every nerve sparking white-hot as the tension coils again, fast and brutal.
“You gonna come for me again?” he asks, lips dragging along your jaw, his voice filthy and reverent. “Come on, baby. Let me feel you. Let me ruin you.”
Your nails dig into his back as he takes over completely, hips slamming up into yours until the tension coils so tight in your stomach it snaps again — harder than the first time, your whole body trembling as you break.
“That’s it,” he purrs, nipping at your earlobe. “Such a good girl.”
He follows with a desperate groan, hips jerking one last time before he spills inside you, clinging to your waist like he never wants to let you go.
And then his mouth is everywhere.
Dragging along your throat, your collarbone, your shoulder — biting, licking, marking. He sucks a spot just beneath your jaw, hard enough to make you gasp, and you know it’s going to bruise.
“That’s mine,” he murmurs into your skin. “Wanna see it tomorrow when you try to talk shit to me like you didn’t ride me until your legs gave out.”
The room is quiet now. Too quiet for how ruined you feel.
Your legs are still shaky. Your skin’s flushed, tingling. Every muscle in your body feels like it’s been wrung out and melted into the mattress.
And next to you — lying flat on his back in nothing but boxers and the softest sheet you’ve ever felt — Suna Rintarō is asleep.
You roll onto your side, grabbing your phone from the floor. Resting on your elbow, you dial Kiyoko’s number.
It rings once.
Twice.
You whisper-scream into the receiver. “OH MY GOD, I just fucked him.”
“...Wait. Who?”
“…Suna.”
Dead silence.
“You—what—YOU FUCKED SUNA?”
“Twice,” you whisper, eyes wide, glancing over your shoulder like you’re about to be caught. “Once on his couch. Then again, when I was on top of hi—anyway. Twice.”
“You’re never going to shut up about him again.”
You sigh dramatically. “...You’re not wrong.”
Then from behind you, low, raspy, amused:
“Tell her I said hi.”
You freeze.
Slowly turn.
Hair tousled, one brow raised, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who just caught you whispering about him like a teenager.
“He told me to say ‘hi.’ BYE,” You hang up, mortified.
Suna pulls you close, wrapping his arms around your waist, and murmurs against your neck, “So. Twice, huh?”
You groan. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” he says, grinning. “You just fucked me.”
You swat at him. He catches your wrist and kisses your knuckles, pulling you even closer. You melt into his embrace, your head resting on his chest as his arms tighten around you.