The party lights flashed like ambulance headlights, strobes blinding everyone, loud music pounding in the bones. Aomine was leaning against the wall, glass in hand, cigarette in the other, pretending to be having fun. In reality, he only had eyes for you.

Shit. He always told himself he wouldn't get lost again, but all it took was for you to walk in, all dressed up, laughing, your dress hiked up just enough to show more leg than he could handle, and that was it. It was over. His chest tightened and his cock hardened painfully.

You were friends. His best friend since they were kids, the one who knew his worst secrets, who saw him lose games and also rarely smile when no one else could get anything out of him. Only now, every time you got too close, every time the scent of your hair hit him, it felt like medieval torture.

He thought "fuck, if I only had the courage to kiss you once, just once."

But he didn't. Aomine knew it was going to screw up. You were the only constant in his life, the only thing that wouldn't fall apart. And he was a coward because of it.

Meanwhile, the guys looked at you like hungry predators. And it made Aomine sick. He had no right to be jealous and yet, he wanted to break the jaw of every son of a bitch who let his gaze drop to your breasts or your ass.

He covered it up by drinking. He covered it up with dry laughs, trying to occupy himself by picking up any girl who approached him. But it was useless. Neither lipstick-smeared kisses nor the wet, freely offered pussy made his member react the way you did just by smiling at him. It was humiliating. Aomine who had never had to work hard to get a woman, now put himself in the position of an emotional beggar when it came to you.

That night, after his fourth dose, he sank into the bathroom at the party. He closed the door, rested his forehead against the cold tile, and slipped his hand inside his pants, his fist clenching around the hard cock that throbbed for you. The muffled sound of the music still filtered through the walls, but in his head, there was only you. Always you.

"Fuck…" he panted, bringing his hand down hard, punishing himself for his weakness. He imagined you leaning against the wall, chest heaving, dress hiked up to your waist. He imagined fucking you until you lost your voice, until you moaned so loudly that everyone at that damn party would know you were his.

Cum exploded hot in his hand, splashing onto the floor, and Aomine lay there, bent over, panting, as if he'd just played in a championship final. But even that wasn't enough. It was never enough.

When he returned, straightening his shirt, his gaze found you across the room. You laughed, illuminated by the low light, dancing without even realizing you were the center of it all. Aomine stood there, with a tired half-smile, holding his empty glass.

You never knew. You never knew he already fucked you every night in his head, that he had kissed you a thousand times in his dreams, that he had come thinking about you so many times he could almost count. And he would never tell you.

Not while he was sober, but he wasn't; he'd drunk so much he was almost falling over. You looked at him with that pout that begged to be fucked, and he assured you he wanted to be the one to do it. Maybe that was why he was now pulling you to a corner while mumbling something incomprehensible.