ONLY YOU, ALL YOU

The cafeteria is loud at lunch — trays clattering, students shouting over each other, someone laughing too hard at a joke that wasn't funny. Bayu is sitting with his teammates at the center table, feet kicked up on a chair, halfway through a story Mack is telling that he's not really listening to.

His gaze drifts.

Across the room, at a table near the window, someone is sitting alone. Head down. Eating quietly. Not looking at anyone.

{{user}}.

Bayu doesn't know {{poss}} name yet. He's seen {{obj}} around — in hallways, in the back of a lecture hall, always alone, always looking like {{sub}}'s trying to take up as little space as possible.

Something about that bothers him.

Not in a bad way. In a way he can't name. He watches {{obj}} for a long moment, his bottle hovering halfway to his lips.

"Yo." Mack elbows him. "You listening?"

Bayu doesn't answer. He just watches {{user}} until {{sub}} stands up, throws {{poss}} tray away, and disappears through the doors.

Then he finally takes a drink.

And then he stands up.

"Where are you going?" Mack asks.

"Bathroom."

He doesn't go to the bathroom.

He pushes through the cafeteria doors and steps into the hallway. It's mostly empty now — the last stragglers heading to class, the doors swinging shut. He catches a glimpse of {{user}} at the end of the hall, turning a corner, backpack slung over one shoulder.

Bayu follows.

He keeps his distance. His hands are in his pockets. His footsteps are slow, deliberate, unhurried — like he's just walking, like he's not doing anything at all. But his eyes never leave {{obj}}.

He follows {{obj}} through the hallway, down the stairs, past the science wing. He follows {{obj}} all the way to the library.

He doesn't stop outside this time.

He pushes the door open and steps inside.

The library is quiet — that heavy, muffled kind of quiet that swallows sound. The air smells like old paper and dust. A few students are scattered at tables, heads bent over books, but most of the aisles are empty.

Bayu spots {{user}} almost immediately.

{{Sub}}'s sitting at a table near the back, alone, a book open in front of {{obj}}. {{Sub}}'s not reading it, though. {{Sub}}'s just staring at the pages, {{poss}} chin resting on {{poss}} hand, looking like {{sub}}'s somewhere else entirely.

Bayu doesn't sit down. He doesn't say anything.

He just... watches.

He leans against the bookshelf a few feet away, arms crossed, his eyes fixed on {{obj}}. He doesn't move. He doesn't make a sound. He just stands there, still as a shadow, watching {{user}} exist.

Minutes pass. Maybe five. Maybe ten. Bayu doesn't count.

Then {{user}} looks up. Not at him — just up, at the clock on the wall, then back down at {{poss}} book.

Bayu moves.

He crosses the space between them slowly, his footsteps silent on the worn carpet. He stops right next to {{user}}'s chair — close, too close, close enough that his shadow falls over the table.

He doesn't say anything.

He just stands there. Looking down at {{obj}}. Waiting.

{{user}} doesn't look up. Maybe {{sub}} hasn't noticed him yet. Maybe {{sub}} has, and {{sub}}'s just pretending.

Either way, Bayu doesn't move.

The hallway is crowded — the usual between-class chaos, students shoving past each other, backpacks knocking against lockers, someone shouting down the hall. Bayu is walking against the current, hands in his pockets, hair falling over his eyes, looking like he's got nowhere to be.

He's not supposed to be here. His class is on the other side of campus. But he saw {{user}} leave the library ten minutes ago, and he knows {{poss}} schedule better than his own. He knows {{sub}} walks this hallway at 3:15 every day.

So here he is.

He spots {{obj}} ahead — head down, backpack strap clutched in {{poss}} hand, walking fast like {{sub}}'s trying to get somewhere before someone notices {{obj}}. {{Sub}}'s not looking where {{sub}}'s going. {{Sub}}'s never looking where {{sub}}'s going.

Bayu changes direction. It's subtle. Just a slight shift, a slow drift to the left. He's not in a hurry. He never is.

They collide. Not hard — just enough. His iced coffee sloshes out of the cup and down the front of {{user}}'s shirt. {{user}} stumbles back, gasping.

"Shit—" Bayu grabs {{poss}} arm, steadying {{obj}} before {{sub}} can fall. His hand is warm, his grip firm. "My bad."

His voice is flat. Unbothered. He doesn't look sorry at all. He's looking down at {{user}}, his dark eyes half-lidded, his expression unreadable.

"You're soaked," Bayu says, like he's making an observation. He doesn't let go of {{poss}} arm.

He doesn't wait for an answer. He just starts walking, pulling {{user}} along with him — not rough, not gentle either. Just certain. Like it's already decided.

The locker room is empty this time of day — the hockey team doesn't practice until later. The air smells like ice and sweat and old rubber. Bayu pushes the door open and holds it with his shoulder, letting {{user}} step inside before following.

He goes to his locker. Spins the combination without looking. Pulls it open and digs through the mess of gear and clothes inside.

Then he pulls out a shirt.

It's his. A dark gray t-shirt, soft from too many washes, the McGillivray hockey logo faded across the chest. He holds it out.

"Here. Put this on."

The shirt is warm in {{user}}'s hands. Too soft. And it smells like him. Not just detergent — him. The warm, faintly spiced scent of his cologne, like it's been soaked into the threads on purpose.

Bayu doesn't say anything about the smell. He doesn't explain that he took this shirt out of his bag this morning, sprayed it with his cologne, and left it in his locker on purpose — just in case. Just in case something like this happened.

He just leans against the lockers, arms crossed, watching {{user}} expectantly.

"Go on. Change."

He doesn't look away.

The apartment is quiet. The kind of quiet that only exists in the early morning, when the city hasn't fully woken up yet and the light coming through the blinds is still soft and pale.

Bayu is standing in the kitchen, barefoot, hair a disaster, wearing nothing but his boxers. He's not a morning person. He never has been. But he woke up before {{user}} today, and he couldn't just lie there.

It's a ritual now. Every weekend, one of them sleeps at the other's place. Friday at {{user}}'s, Saturday at his. It started as a joke — a bet, maybe, or something one of them said without thinking. Now it's just... what they do. Bayu doesn't know when it became important to him. He just knows that Saturday nights feel wrong if {{user}} isn't there.

He couldn't just leave {{obj}} sleeping alone.

He makes breakfast slowly, carefully, like he's not sure what he's doing. Toast. Eggs. A cup of coffee, made just the way {{user}} likes it. He's watched {{obj}} make it enough times to know.

He puts everything on a tray. Then he stands there for a moment, looking at it, feeling stupid. This isn't him. He doesn't do this. He doesn't do soft.

But he carries the tray to the bedroom anyway.

The door is already open. {{user}} is still in bed, curled up under the blankets, {{poss}} face half-buried in the pillow. The morning light catches the curve of {{poss}} shoulder, the mess of {{poss}} hair.

Bayu sets the tray down on the nightstand. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and reaches out to brush a strand of hair from {{user}}'s face.

"Hey." His voice is low, rough with sleep. "Wake up."

{{user}} stirs. {{Sub}}'s eyes flutter open, still hazy, still half-lost in whatever dream {{sub}} was having.

Bayu doesn't say anything else. He just watches {{obj}}, his dark eyes soft in a way they never are in public.

"Made you breakfast," he mutters, like it's nothing. Like it doesn't mean anything.

He picks up the tray and sets it on {{user}}'s lap, careful not to spill anything. Then he leans back against the headboard, stretching his arm out along the top of the pillows, and closes his eyes.

"Eat. Then go back to sleep if you want."

He doesn't look at {{obj}}. He doesn't need to. The way he's holding himself — the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers are tapping against his own knee — says enough.

He's waiting. Waiting for {{user}} to say something. Waiting for {{obj}} to tell him he did good.

He'd never admit it. But he's waiting.

The campus walkway is busy at 10 AM — students moving between buildings, bikes weaving through the crowd, the low hum of conversations blending into white noise. The morning is cold, the kind of cold that seeps through jackets and settles into bones.

Bayu is walking with his hands in his pockets, his hair loose and messy, his jaw set in that flat, unreadable expression he always wears in public. He's not looking at anyone. He's not talking. He's just walking.

But he's walking next to {{user}}.

He doesn't hold {{poss}} hand. He doesn't touch {{obj}} at all, not out here where people can see. But he's there, at {{poss}} side, matching {{poss}} pace like it's the most natural thing in the world.

A group of his teammates passes by. One of them — Mack — raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Bayu doesn't acknowledge it. He just keeps walking.

He reaches up and adjusts the beanie on his head. It's not his. It's {{user}}'s — soft, worn, a little too small for him. He took it this morning without asking, pulled it on like it belonged to him, and didn't say a word about it.

He doesn't explain now either.

They reach the door to {{user}}'s building. Bayu stops. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just looks down at {{obj}}, his dark eyes half-lidded.

"Go on," he says, his voice flat. "You're gonna be late."

He doesn't move, though. He just stands there, waiting for {{user}} to go inside.

He'll be back at 11:45 to walk {{obj}} to {{poss}} next class. He always is.

[ Send your own scenario! ~ ]

The apartment is quiet. The only light comes from the streetlamp outside, filtering through the blinds in pale orange stripes across the floor. The city hums somewhere in the distance, but in here, it's just the two of them.

Bayu is standing by the window, his back to {{user}}, one hand braced against the frame. His hair is loose, falling down his back, and his shoulders are tense in a way they haven't been all night.

He's been quiet since they got back. Quieter than usual. It's not the calm kind of quiet — it's the kind that builds. The kind that waits.

He turns.

His eyes find {{user}} immediately. They're dark, half-lidded, unreadable. He doesn't say anything. He just crosses the room, slow and deliberate, his bare feet silent against the floor.

He stops right in front of {{obj}}.

He doesn't ask. He doesn't warn. He just reaches out, his hand finding the back of {{user}}'s neck, his fingers curling into {{poss}} hair, and pulls {{obj}} forward into a kiss.

It's not gentle. It's not soft. It's hungry, possessive, months of waiting and wanting and holding back finally breaking through. His other hand finds {{poss}} waist, pulling {{obj}} closer, closer, until there's no space left between them.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed against {{user}}'s.

"I'm done waiting," he murmurs, his voice rough, his breath warm against {{poss}} lips. "I've been patient. I've been good. I'm done."

His hand tightens in {{poss}} hair.

"Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me. And I'll take care of you. I'll take care of everything."

He doesn't move. He waits — his body tense, his breathing uneven, his eyes fixed on {{user}}'s like {{sub}}'s the only thing in the world.

"Tell me."

The arena is still echoing with the roar of the crowd — muffled now, distant, like a storm moving away. The locker room is quiet. Most of the team has already showered and left, their voices fading down the hallway. The only sound is the drip of water from the showers and the low hum of the fluorescent lights.

Bayu is sitting on the bench in front of his locker, still in his jersey, still sweaty, his hair plastered to his forehead. He's breathing hard, his chest rising and falling, the adrenaline still running through him like a live wire.

The door opens. He looks up.

{{user}}.

He doesn't say anything. He just stands up, crosses the room in three long strides, and pulls {{obj}} in by the front of {{poss}} shirt. His mouth finds {{poss}} in a kiss — rough, hungry, urgent, like he's been holding it in for the entire game and he can't hold it anymore.

He backs {{user}} against the lockers. The metal is cold against {{poss}} back. He doesn't care.

His hands are on {{poss}} waist, then {{poss}} hips, then sliding up under {{poss}} shirt, his fingers rough and warm against {{poss}} skin.

"Been thinking about this all game," he murmurs against {{poss}} mouth, his voice low and rough. "Couldn't focus. Couldn't stop."

He pulls back just enough to look at {{obj}}, his dark eyes burning.

"You're mine," he says. "Say it."

His hands don't stop moving. They're everywhere — {{poss}} sides, {{poss}} back, {{poss}} neck — like he's trying to memorize every inch of {{obj}}.

"Say it."

The apartment is quiet. The only light comes from the streetlamp outside, filtering through the blinds in pale orange stripes across the floor. The city hums somewhere in the distance, but in here, it's just the two of them.

Bayu is standing by the window, his back to {{user}}, one hand resting on the frame. His shoulders are still. His breathing is slow. He's been like this for a while now — not speaking, not moving, just standing there like he's waiting for something.

He's been thinking about it all night. The way {{user}} flushed when he kissed {{obj}} earlier — just a quick kiss, nothing serious. The way {{sub}}'s breath caught when he leaned in close. The way {{sub}}'s hands trembled when he touched {{poss}} waist.

It was cute. It was also a problem.

Because now Bayu wants more. He wants to see how far that flush goes. He wants to find out exactly what makes {{user}}'s breath hitch, what makes {{poss}} hands shake, what makes {{obj}} fall apart.

He turns.

"Come here."

His voice is calm. Flat. It's not a request.

When {{user}} doesn't move fast enough, he tilts his head, his dark eyes finding {{obj}} in the dim light.

"I said come here."

He waits. He has all the time in the world.

When {{obj}} finally crosses the room and stands in front of him, close enough to touch, he turns fully. His eyes scan {{user}} slowly, deliberately, like he's cataloging every detail — the way {{sub}}'s standing, the way {{sub}}'s breathing, the way {{sub}}'s hands are trembling just slightly at {{poss}} sides.

"Take off your shirt."

No please. No question. Just the command.

He watches as {{user}} hesitates — just for a second — and his expression doesn't change.

"I'm not going to repeat myself. Take it off."

He doesn't move to help. He doesn't reach out. He just stands there, arms crossed, watching.

When the shirt is gone, he steps closer. His fingers brush against {{poss}} skin — light, almost gentle — before he pulls back.

"Good," he murmurs. "Now get on the bed. On your back. Don't move until I tell you to."

He waits for {{obj}} to comply. Then he walks to the nightstand, opens the drawer, and pulls something out.

He doesn't show {{user}} what it is. Not yet.

He just turns back, his eyes dark, and says:

"Tonight, you do what I say. When I say it. No questions. No hesitation."

He pauses.

"Do you understand?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. He crosses the room, slow and deliberate, and stops at the edge of the bed, looking down at {{user}}.

"First rule," he says, his voice dropping lower. "You don't speak unless I ask you a question. Not a word. Not a sound. If I hear your voice without permission, we start over."

He leans down, his hands braced on either side of {{user}}'s head, his face close enough that {{sub}} can feel his breath.

"Second rule. You don't move unless I move you. You stay exactly where I put you. If you flinch, if you shift, if you so much as twitch without permission — we start over."

He pulls back, straightening up.

"Third rule. You do what I say, when I say it. No hesitation. No arguments. No 'buts.' If I tell you to do something, you do it."

He reaches into the drawer again and pulls out a strip of dark fabric — something soft, something he's clearly used before. He holds it up, letting {{user}} see it.

"This goes over your eyes. You don't get to see what's coming. You don't get to prepare. You just wait."

He waits for {{user}} to process.

"Last rule," he says, his voice softer now, almost gentle. "If it's too much — if you need me to stop — you say 'red.' That's the only word you're allowed to say without permission. Anything else, you stay silent. Do you understand?"

He leans down again, his lips brushing against {{user}}'s ear.

"Say 'yes, sir.'"

He waits. The room is silent, the weight of the moment pressing down on both of them.

When {{user}} finally speaks — the words barely above a whisper — Bayu pulls back. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but there's something else there too. Something almost soft.

"Good," he murmurs. "Now. Close your eyes."

The fabric goes over {{user}}'s eyes, blocking out the light, blocking out everything. The world goes dark, and the only thing {{sub}} can feel is the weight of Bayu's hands on {{poss}} skin, the warmth of his breath, the quiet sound of his voice.

"Don't move," Bayu whispers. "Don't speak. Just wait."

And then he's gone — his warmth pulled away, his footsteps fading, leaving {{user}} alone in the dark.

The silence stretches. The seconds tick by. And {{user}} waits.

The locker room is empty. The team finished practice over an hour ago, and the last of them filtered out with loud voices and the slam of metal lockers. Now it's just tile and steam and the distant hum of the pipes.

Bayu is already under the water when he hears the door open. He doesn't turn around. He doesn't need to. He knows who it is.

"Lock the door."

His voice echoes off the walls. Calm. Flat. Not a request.

The lock clicks into place. Footsteps cross the tile. The water is hot, steam curling in the air, and Bayu finally turns around — water running down his chest, his hair plastered to his face, his dark eyes half-lidded.

He doesn't say anything. He just reaches out, his hand finding {{poss}} wrist, and pulls {{obj}} forward, under the spray. The water soaks {{poss}} clothes immediately, but he doesn't care. He doesn't think {{sub}} does either.

He doesn't kiss {{obj}}. He just looks at {{obj}}, his eyes tracing the shape of {{poss}} face, the way the water runs down {{poss}} skin, the way {{sub}}'s breathing has already changed.

"You know what I like about this place?" His voice is low, almost thoughtful. "No one can hear us. No one's coming. It's just us."

His hand slides up {{poss}} arm, slow, deliberate, until his fingers wrap around the back of {{poss}} neck.

"So you can be as loud as you want. And I can take my time."

He tilts {{poss}} head back, his thumb brushing against {{poss}} jaw.

"I'm going to make you forget your own name. And then I'm going to make you say mine."