as above, so below

I mean— he did have a flicker of a thought pass by his brain about you cheating, but then remembered how you had waited an entire week to gather up the courage to hold his hand and the thought was quickly disregarded.

Psh. You? Cheating? You glared at every man that even tried to talk to you, as if they had made a mistake by even daring to enter your space.

You slammed your laptop shut and sent your note pad flying across the room in a hurry, rushing to erase all evidence of what you had been doing when your eyes met Sukuna’s narrowed pink ones. Freezing in the act, your arm still outstretched to where you had thrown the notepad. Flustered, and a little disheveled and you tried to act innocent, muttering a “h-hi ‘kuna..” while busying your hands with fixing the pillows.

Sukuna found the room empty except for the flustered, blushing woman he loved more than anything. His brows furrowed in confusion when his eyes trailed across the room to notice the laptop shut, and your glittery pen and notepad thrown out hazardously on the floor near a potted plant. His eyes narrowed further, a long sigh passing through his nostrils when his pupils slowly trailed back to you.

You blinked at him innocently, playing up the oblivious act to a 100, despite the heat you felt all over your face and just how much you just knew you were absolutely screwed. You swallowed, acting as if you hadn’t just been watching porn seconds before. You mumbled a terrible lie, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa, “I was just.. working on my assignment for bio,” you nodded at your very very bad lie.

Sukuna's eyes narrowed as he took a few steps towards you, his gaze darting between your flushed face, the closed laptop, and the notepad lying haphazardly on the floor. He knew something was up, knew that you were hiding something from him. The way you shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, the way you avoided his gaze... it was all so fucking telling.

You were never a good liar, were you?

“Working on your assignment, huh?” he drawled, his deep voice tinged with a hint of skepticism as he crossed his arms over his muscular chest. “Funny, I could've sworn I heard some pretty loud ass moans coming from in here… sounded nothing like you typing away on a laptop.”

He took another step closer to you, his tall frame looming over your smaller one as he bent over his hips slightly. He could feel the way your breathing had quickened, the way your chest was rising and falling quickly beneath your shirt.

“Come on, baby,” he coaxed, his voice softening slightly as he reached out to tip your chin up with his fingers, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You don't need to lie to me, sweetheart. I know something's up. What were you really doing before I got home?” He asked. His tone was gentle, but you knew better than to lie to him and potentially make him mad.

Last time that had happened you found yourself sentenced to sleeping alone on the couch, while a pouty sukuna was sleeping alone in your bedroom.

He could see the hesitation in your eyes, the way you bit down on your plump bottom lip nervously. He wanted to lean down and pull it between his teeth, to bite it gently as he kissed you. But he held back. He wasn’t gonna fuck you just yet, he had to figure out what the hell those moans were first.

He knew he had to tread carefully here, had to find the right balance between being understanding and being demanding. He didn't want to make you feel bad for exploring your own desires and curiosities, but he also needed to know that you trusted him enough to say ‘sukuna I was watching porn!’ So he could applaud you before dragging your ass to the bedroom.

You whined before making him sit on the couch right next to you, plopping him down comfortably on the soft futon, before you got up and picked up your note pad with the neatly written notes from the floor. Walking back to him with trembling steps you plopped comfortably down on his lap, sighing softly and showing him what you had been doing.

Your handwriting was cute and neat as always, with the cute little drawing on the side, despite how lewd the words were. “The video showed the wife teasing her husband before sex with something called a strip tease? I don’t know what that is but I’ll try it for Sukuna!” Sukuna read one of the dot points aloud, as you sighed wearily and defeated, completely embarrassed.

Your brain was already planning your funeral.

You opened your laptop, about to explain to him what you had been watching before the loud lewd sounds of moaning bursted out from your laptop. You quickly jumped out of sukuna’s lap to shut down the porn video that you were ‘learning’ from.

“I don’t-.. watch anything like that for my free time usually, by the way..” You mumbled embarrassed and shy.

Sukuna's eyes had widened in surprise as he scanned over the notes scribbled in your neat handwriting. He couldn't help but let out a small snort, looking away to try and stifle his laughter.

“Hey! I can see you laughing at meeee!” You whined and punched and slapped at his chest, gently enough to not hurt him.

While he took in the lewd words and the cute little doodle of a woman on top of a man with both of them having dumb little smiley faces . Fuck, the way you had written out your little to-do list, complete with hearts and silly faces next to each point… as if all the words weren’t the most pornographic descriptions ever.

“A strip tease, huh?” he murmured, his deep voice a low, teasing rumble as he looked up at you with a smug smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. ”Baby, you don't need to learn how to tease me. I'm already putty in your fucking hands.” He said, already making you weak in the knees from just that smirk of his.

He reached out and took your hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze as he pulled you down onto his lap. He loved the feeling of your soft, plump ass pressing against his thighs, loved the way your small frame fit so perfectly in his larger one.

“But if you want to practice fucking with me in allll different types of positions, I'm more than happy to let you,” he said, his voice growing thicker with desire as he slid his hands up your sides, his thumbs brushing along the sides of your breasts. Just itching to inch closer to where he could properly pinch and pull. “In fact, I fucking insist on it, baby.” He whispered into your ear. “C’mon, it’ll be fun… practice every new foreplay thing or sex position you learn. Only on me.”

He could see the embarrassment in your eyes, when you blurted out a “huh?” He could feel the way you squirmed shyly in his lap. But fuck, he loved that you were trying to learn how to please him, loved that you wanted to make him feel good in every way possible. It just showed how much you cared for him, how deeply you loved him.

“I’m not gonna judge you for watching porn baby, but I’d rather you to just watch the tapes we’ve filmed” he breathed out a little hazy, already imagining all the filthy things you’d discover on your own and try with him for the first time.

You whined to him, grumbling at his last words and narrowing your eyes onto his pink ones. “I didn’t watch porn because I was horny or anything.. I have you to help me if I feel like that anytime..” you admitted to him pouty before sighing and looking away. You hesitated before whining again and letting your insecurities spill.

“I just feel like you won’t love me as much if I keep being boring in bed..”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow before pulling you closer again and narrowing his eyes, his rough fingers gripping your chin and making you face him. His glare made something inside you ignite, something between your legs throb a little. “Don’t you dare call my girlfriend boring. Do you even know how fucking hard I am right now? Just from you sitting in my lap?”

He couldn’t have his girlfriend (whom he loved very much) doubting her worth. In fact, he’d fuck those worries out of you.

Right now.

The next thing you knew was that you were dumbly whining into the mattress, ass up as he had a large hand pushing your face down, pounding into you. You didn’t need to watch porn or anything to please him.

You were already doing such a good job already! Squeezing him… squirting everywhere… drooling into the pillow.

Sukuna groaned loudly, his deep voice a low, animalistic rumble as he pistoned his hips forward, driving his thick cock deep into your tight, wet pussy. He could feel your silky walls clenching around him, gripping him like a tight glove as he fucked into you hard and fast, just the way he knew you needed it.

“F-fuck fuck fuck, baby, you feel so fucking incredible,” he grunted, his hot breath fanning over the back of your neck as he leaned down to growl filthy praise into your ear.

”So perfect, like you were made just for taking my fucking cock…”

He slid a hand up your arched back, his long fingers splaying out over the smooth skin of your shoulder blades before he pushed you down harder into the mattress. He loved seeing you like this, loved the way your ass jutted up and out, the perfect target for his hard thrusts. He could see your tits squishing against the pillow, could hear the way you whimpered and mewled with every slam of his hips against your plump ass.

“You don’t—shit… fucking need to learn a goddamn thing from porn, sweetheart,“ he panted, his voice strained with pleasure as he fucked you harder, faster, spurred on by the feeling of your slick walls squeezing him so fucking tightly. “Y-you're a fucking natural, b-baby. The way you fucking squeeze me—oh shit you’re so tight… the way you squirt all over my fucking cock... fuck, it's so fucking good, sweetheart.”

He could feel your thighs trembling beneath him, could sense that you were getting close. He knew all the signs, knew every little sound and shiver that meant you were getting closer and closer to your orgasm.

He was a good boyfriend. He always put your pleasure before his.

“That's it, baby.. f-fucking take it,” he commanded, his hips slamming against your ass with brutal force as he fucked you into the mattress. “Take my cock like the good slut you are. Fucking soak my dick with your sweet cum, baby…”

Maybe… you should’ve just stuck with the vanilla sex.

oh.

oh.

he must underestimate you.

slowly, you rub the soles of your covered feet back and forth against his crotch, feeling the bulge twitch and throb at the attention inflicted on it. now, sukuna's trying to save face, staring stubbornly at the tv and pretending his dick's not overreacting to some faint touches.

you laugh. "you're so sensitive. think you can cum just from this?"

"i haven't the faintest idea what you're referring to."

you laugh and turn your feet so that your soles are placed together with his chubbed bulges in between. you rub up and down and side to side slowly, rolling his dicks and pressing them together in the thin sweatpants he's wearing tonight. hideous thing, he thinks. he only wore it because you bought it for him after he'd been wearing robes around your home.

wanting him to have more casual, comfortable clothing, you bought him a couple pieces of loungewear - mostly in gray - and gave it to him, reassuring him tht nobody's meant to see him in it but you.

and here you are, taking advantage of his love for you and willingness to wear the thin fabric that makes the print of his dick visible through it, an easy way for you to watch his cocks grow and react whenever your feet rub on them just right.

with how hard he is, there's little space in his sweats and even less in his custom-made boxers, so the friction you're giving him is just causing his cocks to press together, mixing pre-cum leakage since his tips are touching.

sukuna tips his head back. "fuck, what are you doing, human? this is obscene," he pants, unable to stifle his sounds. the remote control in one of his four hands clatters to the sofa cushion as he focuses on your feet between his strong thighs, not even interesting in playing it cool anymore.

the fabric of his sweats bunches and stretches over his thickening shafts, pressing against all the ridges and veins and heightening his sensitivity. it's different from if he were bare, or if it were your hands wrapping around his dicks. there's so much stimulation with both your feet on both his cocks through his clothes; that he just can't hold it in much longer.

the heads of his cocks keep rubbing quick circles against each other with each pump of your feet on him, having created a large wet spot on the front of his pants. you laugh softly, and he grits his teeth with embarrassment, a dark flush spreading across his cheeks. "do not- hnghh- mock me..." he tries to get out, but just manages to slur all his words together as his groans take over.

you continue moving your feet up and down in a long, rhythmic, stroking motion, the precum leaking out of him smearing along his dicks and acting as a heavy lubricant. the heat and mosture is trapped between fabric and skin.

you increase the pressure, squeezing his cocks together and curling your toes around the swollen heads, the movement a heavy, dragging sensation that makes his hips twitch upwards involuntarily. "you havin' fun, kuna?" you tease upon seeing the fucked out expression on his face, and he grits his teeth with aggravation.

"ill get you - fuck - back for this in just a moment, believe me..."

he breaks off into another heavy groan.

by now, the entire front of his sweatpants are soaked from pre seeping out of both his tips.

sukuna's close. close to cumming in his pants from some foot rubbing. so pathetic.

you pick up the pase, feet moving in frantic, inconsistent motions so that all of him is stimulated at once, effectively milking his cock through his pants. at some point, he shudders, grabbing fistfuls of his pink locks to keep himself calm. but its hard when you keep rubbing your toes on his sensitive tips, squeezing and rolling them against one another, while your sole and heel press into his shafts.

sukuna uses two of his hands to press your feet together a little harder, lifting them up and down on his dick quick and rough; making them press all up on his cock until finally, a fresh bout of wetness spreads on his pants.

he grunts your name as he cums, keeping your feet on him while he bucks up into them, his other two hands gripping the back of the sofa to keep him stable as he cums from both of his swollen tips.

convulsing, more and more cum pumps out of sukuna, your feet squeezing it straight out of him.

your feet keep grinding the hot release into the cloth of his pants, mixing it with sweat and the patch of pre from earlier, making a sticky mess all over the pants. some even seeps out and rests on the outer seam because of the thin fabric. you've made such a mess of him.

So much is familiar, and of course it is — things don’t change that much, even if it has been years since you graduated. The same oak tree everyone used to fight over in the summer stands tall. Same hedges, same brick walls, and cobblestones. Same mascots and crests plastered on banners and plaques. 

But, as you’d expected, things are different too. New faces, naturally. A wing was added to the Psychology building after the department received greater funding for their contribution to mental health research. The old noticeboards have gone digital, glowing screens cycling through events you can’t decipher. You don’t see many older professors; you wouldn’t be able to tell who’s a professor and who’s not anymore when professors and students have grown closer in age.

“Time really does fly, huh?” 

In spite of any changes, however, you still feel right at home here. The steps you took from building to building are embedded in the soil. The phantom of your laughter echo in the halls, overlapping with generations before and after you. Even if you graduated a while back, you’ll always be a child of academia.

Although you’re elated to be back, you can’t help but feel melancholy.

A trip down memory lane doesn’t feel right without one of the people that took prime real estate, after all. 

It just isn’t the same. 

“Stop ignoring me.”

Shuddering, you sigh wistfully. “It’s like I can still hear him.”

“You can kill me in your mind all you like,” the voice begins, dryly, “it doesn’t change the fact that you know I’m right; Kindles cannot ever be superior to a good, old, physical book.”

You scowl, and turn to look back at the man trailing behind you. “They say wisdom comes with age but you’re proving them all wrong, aren’t you, babe?”

Kento’s rubbing his glasses clean from the slight fog that’s made the lenses difficult to see through. His cheeks are ever so slightly pink from the cold, and they’re the only markers that he’s bothered by the weather. Unlike you, who’s missing the warmth of Malaysia. He barely even tanned.

He reminds you, “We’re the same age, my love.”

“Yeah, well, I wear it better,” you respond haughtily. 

Sliding his glasses back on, he blinks a couple times before hastening his steps to reach your side. He holds your hand in his and tucks it into his pocket, where a handwarmer lies waiting. A thumb rubs your knuckles. Kento smiles to himself. “I’m inclined to agree on that front.”

“Okay, so you can also agree with me about how Kindles are a fine alternative to physical books. I really don’t know why you look down on them so much — they’re so practical. You can have multiple books all in one place, they’re smaller and more portable than a book, they weigh much less, and you can adjust the font and page colours. They’re more accessible, Ken. You need to get with the times.”

He nods. “I see your points, and I’m not saying Kindles are to be scoffed at. I simply mean that, if given the choice and you have no accessibility needs, one ought to choose physical copies, and support the ever-dying paper industry.”

“You mean the paper industry that’s killing trees?”

Kento glances down at you. “Are you arguing that the manufacturing of Kindles has zero environmental impact?”

It’s a trap, you recognise it. He’s trying to bait you. It’s not going to work.

Squeezing his hand, you tug him to the direction you want to take him: down the scenic route as opposed to the shorter path to your destination. He doesn’t put up a fight. 

Casually, you say, “No, of course not. Everything has a carbon footprint. But it’s all about minimising your impact, and decreasing the number of books, and pages, that have to be printed in favour of having them digitally available, supports that. I don’t think you can argue against the point that Kindles are more environmentally friendly than physical copies.”

“So being environmentally conscious and friendly is the goal. That’s your main point? It’s the underlying reason for any decision you make regarding what you read and in what medium you read it in?” 

Without waiting for a response, Kento continues, “Would you say owning three Kindles, two more than you really need, is environmentally friendly? And if so, what would your response be to me pointing out that since you bought your first Kindle, barring the fact that you bought two more, the rate at which you purchase physical copies hasn’t decreased.”

In a flash, you yank him inside a random building. It’s in the process of renovation. The alumni newsletter said it’s going to be a ‘Wellness Centre’, whatever that means. 

There’s no one here. The lights aren’t even on. Only the natural light from the gloomy sky lights the hall full of caution tapes and unemptied boxes. 

You shove Kento against the wall and kiss him.

His hands fall upon your waist reflexively. 

Lips move together so easily, so comfortably that you grow dizzy already. There’s nothing careful about the way he kisses you. No measured distance, no polite hesitation. Just heat, and the sharp edge of something that could be likened to deep satisfaction.

Kento exhales against you, fingers tightening at your waist to anchor himself. Your hands curl into his coat, tugging him closer and closer still, until there’s no space left between you at all.

Every breath, every shift, every small sound echoes back at you.

A thigh of his parts yours. The apex of yours meets it unhesitatingly. You’re wearing jeans, and despite the layers between you, you can feel the hardness of his muscular thigh. Your hips grind down on him with a gasp. 

“Distracting me with your body?” he breathes out. “This must be an admittance of defeat.”

Your hand finds the bulge you knew would be there. When you grip him, he sucks in a sharp breath and throws his head. A light thud resounds. “You wish, Kennypie,” you whisper, rubbing his already-hard clothed cock in time with how you rub your clothed clit on his leg. 

Truth is, you believe physical copies are superior to digital. Always. You were a Classical Lit student, and forever a snob, you’ll happily admit. 

What you won’t ever admit is that Kento is right.

You’ll take any camp opposite his just to feel the thrill of debate.

Faster than you had snatched him to the dark, he spins the both of you around and pins you to the wall. He sucks your bottom lip, then your neck where your pulse is. Kento untangles your scarf, pulls down the zip of your coat along with his descent, and comes to kneel before you. 

“No, darling,” he exhales. Your thighs squeeze together. “My wish is to taste you.”

Threading your fingers through his hair, you let him unbutton your jeans and pull them down. Goosebumps rise. He soothes warmth into your skin with his palms. With a giggle, you ask, “Again? You just ate me out this morning, Ken.”

Rare mornings where you could sleep in are usually spent with him settled between your thighs, or you between his. Why wouldn’t they be?

As he guides one foot out of the jeans, he nuzzles your thigh. The tip of his nose grazes the frilly hem of your panties. “Who said I’m limited to only once per day?”

The both of you really shouldn’t be doing this. If you get caught, you won’t be expelled; that’s not the punishment non-students face. It’s jail time. But there’s no one here, and there are no cameras. The campus is near empty because of the gloomy weather, and the way he’s started mouthing at your pussy through your panties feels too good to stop. 

“Fine, but be quick, okay?” you tell him. “Our friends’ll be waiting, and after we scolded Sho for being late at the last dinner party, it’ll be a bad look if we’re late now.”

Kento hooks his finger on the gusset and pulls it aside. He makes a dreamy sigh at the sight of your puffy lips, glistening with your juices. A thumb of his parts the lips so he can see your clit and press a kiss to it. 

You jolt.

“I’ll be quick,” he mutters, sounding wholly unconvincing. “She’ll get over it if we’re late just this once.”

Then, he’s licking a stripe up your slit, collecting your wetness on his tongue. “So sweet,” he says. “Always so sweet for me, for Kento, aren’t you, sweetheart?”He’s burying his face deeper between your thighs, desperate to get as close to you as possible.

 You squirm against the wall, panting. “We’re not going to be late,” you insist. 

The end of your scarf tickles his forehead. You move it away, wanting to have an unobstructed view of his face as his tongue flicks the sensitive bundle of nerves over and over again. 

Nodding absentmindedly, he agrees, “No, we won’t be late…but it won’t be so bad if we are.”

Groaning, both in frustration and in pleasure, you repeat, “We’re not going to be late, Kento. I swear to God, you better not mess around.”

Two fingers worm their way inside your entrance, stretching the tight ring of muscle out. You feel the long digits reaching deep. They force your gummy walls to expand around them. You’re flushed, pulse racing. If anyone were to catch you now, there’d be no explaining your way out of this. 

His glasses have fogged up again. It irritates him. He takes the thing off with a hasty hand and pockets it. You like him with his glasses, but you like him with his eyes drinking you up more.

Kento curls his fingers over that spot he knows well. You moan, hips stuttering onto his face. His words come out muffled when he says, “That’s up to you, sweetheart. Admit I’m right, and you’ll get your orgasm and your high horse.”

Tempting, you think. 

He knows you so well. 

But not well enough.

Throwing your leg over his shoulder, you fully commit to getting your orgasm one way or the other. “I would rather be late to every event we have for the rest of our lives than admit you’re right in any capacity, Kento,” you announce resolutely. 

He chuckles. “Of course you would. My stubborn, stubborn girl.”

That’s the last you hear from him before he’s wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard. The pressure inside builds and builds. You can’t deny his skilled tongue and years of knowing your body in and out, perhaps even better than he knows his own. 

You cum with a slap of your palm over your mouth, stifling the scream. “Fuck, Ken,” you groan.

Through it, he keeps sucking and curling his fingers. He’s elongating your pleasure, making sure you can ride your high, and his tongue, to your heart’s desire. 

And just when it starts to get too much, you shove him away from your pussy. He doesn’t let you create too much distance — greedy hands grip your hips. He presses himself close, covering your body with his body heat. 

Movement heavy with the remnants of your orgasm, you fight to release his cock from the tight confines of his tailored pants. It lands heavy in your palm, tip flushed and leaking. You feel the rush of his blood, the way it makes the length pulse and his veins prominent. You stroke him a couple times just to hear him murmur your name in that slutty voice of his. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he rasps. His hips are rutting into your hold. 

“Are you gonna fuck me, Ken?” you purr. “Are you going to christen this building before it’s even been built?”

Kento nods. He kisses you, as though unable to bear being apart from you for too long. The taste of you lingers on his tongue, and you don’t mind it. He pulls away enough to reply, “Yes, darling. I want to feel you, want to make you feel good.”

You kiss him again, smiling. “You always do, Kento. Go on, I permit you to put it inside.”

He lets out a low laugh. “How kind.”

Kento hikes your leg up on his hip, allowing his cock glide through your swollen, slick lips first. He coats the length with your juices. Lewd noises squelch, and upon the initial contact, you both gasp into each other’s mouths. 

Soon, he can’t wait any longer, and the fat cockhead is prodding your pussy as though knocking politely. It enters you slowly. Inch by inch. Being careful of the fact that he hasn’t been able to give you as much foreplay as he would have wanted. 

The stretch is so familiar, so good that your back arches off the wall. “Oh, fuck, Ken.”

“I know, my love,” he murmurs. “Me too.”

Under the layers, you sweat. You’re aware of the fibres of his sweater you borrowed brushing your skin, of the hairs sticking to the back of your neck, of how his clothes and yours makes the closeness feel dull. It’s not like being in the comforts of your own home, of being naked and in bed, and feeling skin on skin. 

Restless, you whine, “Ken, put it all in.”

A kiss to your forehead and he’s doing as you asked. 

The two of you moan when his pelvis meets yours. You’re flushed together, and it’s glorious. There’s a slight sting but nothing that doesn’t make your eyes roll back.

Kento croaks, “You feel so warm, so tight, so -hngh- soft. God, sweetheart, you’re perfect. So, so perfect.”

Your hips rock together. It’s not like the purposeful, drawn out lovemaking you do at home. You’re not teasing, playing games, or rutting against each other knowing there’ll be more rounds after this. 

This is quick. It’s fast, it’s uninhibited, it’s animalistic. You’re merely racing towards your peaks, humping each other like dogs, and grunting and moaning like so. There’s nothing sophisticated or elegant about the slapping of skin, about the clash of lips with teeth, or of the way your fingers dig in whatever body parts you can latch onto. 

“Is it nice to be back, Ken?”

Panting, he flexes his jaw as he tries to ground himself enough to think. “Y-yes, darling. It’s nice to see what’s changed and what hasn't.”

In between kisses, you respond, “Right? I mean, things have changed, but being here makes me feel like I’m a student running late for class. It’s lovely.”

He grinds his pelvis into yours, rubbing your clit till you’re almost drooling. “Yes. It is. It reminds me of the old times with you, and our -ah fuck- friends. It gets h-harder and harder to see them every year.”

“I know,” you say, hips working down on his cock. “Thank you for arranging this reunion, Ken. It’s so desperately needed after all the travelling.”

Kento cups a tit through your clothes. He kneads the fat and you jut your chest out for him. “They’d all been wanting to see you after all your success, sweetheart. It was pretty easy to organise when they want to see the award winning star in our circle.”

You grin and clench down on him. He hisses. “Oh, stop you. It’s not like you’re hiding in my shadows.”

“Someone h-has to keep these big-ego writers in place,” he responds playfully.

“My place is sitting on your face or riding your -ngh! keep going- c-cock, right, Ken?” you ask, batting your lashes up at him.

He kisses your forehead. “Whatever you say, my love.”

Something about the fact that he’s more dressed than you are has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. It’s the way he looks composed, but you know better: his cock pulses every time your walls clench down on him, and he throws his head back, Adam’s apple bobbing. It’s how you lick up the sweat beading on his neck when he does, and he grips you harder. 

The rate at which he’s fucking inside you is increasing. You’re being jostled against the wall, feeling every bump and grind as if your senses are heightened. You no longer feel cold or conscious of being caught. All you can think and feel and taste and hear and see is him.

“I’m close,” you grit out. “I’m so close, Ken!”

“I’ve got you, my love,” he promises. He grabs the back of your other thigh. You’re held up in the air by his hands, boots dangling and jeans dragging on the floor. Like this, he reaches even deeper.

Your tits bounce with every rutting, and you wish he could be sucking on one. You wish you could rub yourself all over him. You wish there weren’t layers keeping you from him. That you could be as loud and wild as you want. 

Combing your fingers through his hair, you yank his head back and command, “Yield, Kento. Submit to the -hah- love of your life and tell her she wins.”

His eyes narrow. “Or what?”

You grin. “Or I won’t cum.”

And he knows you mean it — you’re far too stubborn to succumb to pleasure, especially when there’s victory on the line. So he shakes out of your grip and rushes to dive his face forward. “You’re right,” he whispers to your ear, breathing warmth to the heated skin. “You’re always right. Kento’s wrong, about whatever we were arguing about this time, about everything.”

A breathless laugh carries into the humid air. “Damn right.”

One particularly perfect thrust against your g-spot has your vision spotting, your legs shaking, and toes curling. You cum with a silent moan. Kento groans into your neck, grip bruising as your clenching milks him to his own orgasm. 

This will be somewhere between your sixth and eight orgasm of the day and it’s just as strong as the first. 

Sex with Kento — wherever, however, whenever — is always mindblowing and mindmelting, a fact you rejoice in after concerns of age getting in the way. Of course neither of you are objectively old; your backs and joints are just fine. But you’ve been together for years now, and people often talk about how the chemistry fizzles. 

Thankfully that has yet to happen.

“Oh, s-sweetheart,” he murmurs.

“Mm, Ken,” you say when the pleasure begins to subside. “We didn’t wear a condom again. Now your cum’s gonna be dripping out of me and onto my panties.”

He throbs. You laugh again. 

“I’ll clean you up, darling,” he replies. 

Kento presses a kiss to your cheek and pulls out. The shift is abrupt enough that you both suck in a breath, the cold air rushing back in where there had only been heat a second ago. An emptiness fills you. Your cunt clenches around nothing.

You land a little unsteadily when he sets you back on your feet. 

He’s about to get onto his knees. You stop him. “No, Ken, we’re going to be late.”

He looks conflicted for a second before he checks his wristwatch and reluctantly nods. “Yes, you’re right. Again.”

“Naturally.”

Like trained criminals, you quickly fix your clothes back up and get rid of any evidence. He tugs your jeans back up, giving you some time to replace your panties with a wince at the coldness. His hands zip your coat back up, then tucks your scarf inside. He fixes your hair, and you his. Kento slides his glasses back onto his nosebridge and blinks furiously to adjust his sight.

With last checks, you two give the other satisfied nods and head on out, though not without him sneaking a kiss and you smacking his ass.

“I can’t believe we’ve been on campus not even half an hour and we’ve already desecrated a building. We haven’t matured at all,” Kento mutters under his breath when you get back on the right path and near your destination. 

Looping an arm through his, you reply, “I know. Isn’t it great?”

Amused, he glances down at you and holds your hand. He brings it up to his lips and presses a kiss on your knuckles. “The greatest.”

You laugh. 

Then stop.

Up ahead stands a woman you could never forget. And when Kento stills too, you know he’s thinking the same thing. 

Mrs. Collins doesn’t look like she’s aged a day — there’s sprinklings of colour in a head of greys, in spite of the wrinkles she bears her skin is still tight, and there’s a sharpness in her eyes that hasn’t faded away. 

She’s wrapping her scarf around herself. Without needing to ask, you know where she just came from. It oddly brings you some peace to know she hasn’t left.

You don’t know if she remembers; it’s been some years and you only worked for her for a couple months. Or if she does remember, would she say anything? Would she pretend she doesn’t know you, never did anything, and you’re just another passing figure?

“Well, hello, my dears.”

So she does.

It’s impossible to tell if that brings you comfort or not. 

“Hi, Mrs. Collins,” you say. Nanami cuts you a look but you give him a reassuring squeeze. “It’s been a while.”

“Has it?” she asks, not sarcastically, but rather genuinely, as though she finds it hard to keep time and it was just this morning that she stepped inside the library with the intent of setting you up, and she’d now stepped outside. 

A part of you is surprised she’s talking to you, that she’s entertaining this conversation, when she could walk away and go about her day. There’s no obligation to talk to you at all. You’re no longer students, no longer employed by her, no longer young and naive.

Her eyes slide over to Kento. “Mr. Nanami, are you not going to greet me?”

You’ve never spoken to him about her since before you graduated; neither of you bring it up. And you never found that fact odd — there were almost much more interesting and pressing things to talk about. 

“Good afternoon. We don’t wish to keep you. Please don’t mind us,” he replies, coldly. Well, it would seem warm enough to anyone who didn’t know him well. To you, however, you might as well be standing next to a glacier. 

She hums. “Still haven’t forgiven me, I take it.”

No, Kento doesn’t seem to have; he’s as rigid as can be, as distant as possible, and paler than ever. You squeeze his hand. He doesn’t squeeze back.  

It must haunt him more than it haunts you.

You don’t think about her and what happened very much, to be frank. You’re too busy to do so. It would be a lie, though, to say you don’t sporadically recall how you were used. Sometimes when you’re staring out the window and drinking coffee. Sometimes when you’re getting in a car. You’ve thought about what you would do and say if you saw her again, if she would ask for an apology, if you would cuss her out, blackmail her. 

Right now, when the opportunity has risen and there’s no better time, you can’t seem to do any of that.

Because the person you see in front of you isn’t this cruel, callous monster of cosmic proportions who deserves to be dragged by the hair. She isn’t going to turn you to stone or tip your boat over. She’s not the devil, the mother of all demons, the shadow under your bed.

She’s just a woman who loves books. 

And you’d do anything for the things and people you love too.

“I forgive you,” you tell her suddenly. The words leave your lips without you realising it.

Mrs. Collins purses her lips. If she’s surprised by your words, she doesn’t show it. “I never asked for forgiveness for what I did.”

“I know,” you say. “I know, and I forgive you. What you did, what happened, didn’t stunt my growth, didn’t stop me from graduating, from entering the real world with pride and confidence, and didn’t stop me and Kento from being together. What you did made me stronger. I forgive you.”

Maybe you were never even really mad at her. Maybe you’d forgiven her a long time ago, around the same time that Kento asked you to be his girlfriend and you never looked back.

The older lady processes your words for a second or two. She even looks you up and down. Then she looks at Kento, and asks, “And you?”

“I can’t.” 

Does disappointment flicker in her eyes or mere acknowledgement? Does either in yours?

Whatever the case may be, that’s all there is left to be said here. At least that’s what you think until she opens her mouth again as though the act is an afterthought.

“I read your book, dear. It’s a rather popular stock in the library.”

“Thank you,” you say automatically, a reflex you’d picked up on the book tour. 

“It’s not a compliment,” she replies. “It’s just a fact.”

It lands like a compliment, and you take it as such.

“I’ll be looking forward to the sequel,” she says. With a final, acknowledging nod, she turns. Mrs. Collins doesn’t strut off immediately though; she pauses and adds casually, “Best of luck, Mr. Nanami.” Then she goes and disappears around the corner, leaving behind a mist of warm air. 

For a moment, the two of you just stand there under the dark clouds. As far as interactions with someone you once knew and who fucked you over goes, that wasn’t so bad, right?

You rub Kento’s arm and lean your head on his shoulder. “Are you okay, Ken?”

“I’m sorry.” You look up at him. His shoulders are still tense. His gaze fixed ahead. “I know it’s unfair to resent her, especially when you’ve graciously forgiven her and I have no right to hold any moral high ground, but I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

You figured as much — he can’t forgive himself, and so he can’t forgive her, because forgiving her means forgiving himself. It’s too soon and he’s as stubborn as you so your reassurances will only go in one ear and out the other.

“No, Ken. It’s okay. Really. Process things however you need to.”

Kento replies with some heaviness, “I’ll forever be grateful you forgave me, when you shouldn’t have.”

Sighing, you grab his face and force him to meet your eyes. “Kento, it was so long ago. You’ve apologised a millions times back then, and couldn’t even get it up for the first month or so when we started dating out of guilt, remember? I know you’re sorry, hon, and I know you’d never do anything like that again. We’re not going to spiral over something that happened eons ago.”

He leans into your touch and sighs too. “You’re right, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bring down the mood.”

“Better now than later, at lunch,” you say, shrugging. “Remember not to let Shoko’s teasing yet the best of you, ‘kay, Kenny Benny Bear.”

At the old nickname, he grimaces but otherwise says nothing. 

Looping your arm back through his and marching on, you add, “Plus, I can’t say I didn’t deserve it even just a little bit. Remember when I swapped your copy of The Iliad before the exam and your average went down by a couple points?”

Kento smiles at the memory. “You only did that because I changed the time zone on your laptop in the study room when you weren’t looking and made you late for the guest lecture with Phicshonal Lehjendaree Dyrektore.” 

You throw your head back and chortle. “Oh my god, yeah! I was so mad. I’d been looking forward to that for weeks.”

“It was a good lecture too,” he notes fondly. “You really missed out.”

A smack on his chest does nothing but make him smile harder. 

“Ugh, whatever, asshole,” you say though you’re smiling too. “We were both stupidly childish, weren’t we?”

“Very,” he agrees.

The two of you cuddle close together, one could say for warmth or for comfort. In spite of the weather, of the dip in the mood, you walk on feeling light. Campus is really quite beautiful in Autumn, with the vibrant reds and oranges and browns of the leaves, and the emptiness of the streets between buildings.

It’s a good day to be with friends, you think. 

Soon, the library comes into view. 

Whereas many buildings have had some tweaks done to them, the library remains just as you remember it. Marble pillars, tall doors, golden lettering, stone stairs, and a welcoming glow to it that you’re sure only you and other nerds can see.

You were a little surprised that the meet up point would be here, especially when Kento was in charge of making the plans, but now that you’re at the foot of the stairs, you’re glad it’s here. Now it really feels like coming home.

A ping alerts you both. Kento checks his phone, and clears his throat. He stiffens again. “We’re going to be late. Let’s head inside.”

You nod and follow him up. He grips your hand tight to make sure you don’t slip on the stairs.

The doors open with a soft push.

For a second, you don’t understand what you’re looking at.

Then— faces.

Familiar ones. 

Needa and Frend, grinning too wide. Shoko beside them wriggling her brows at you as Haibara jumps excitedly behind her. Your parents, his, family and friends scattered in little clusters, all turned toward you with that same unmistakable look. Expectant. Bright. Soft in a way that makes your chest tighten before your mind can catch up.

You blink.

The library — the same one you spent years in, arguing and studying and fighting — has been transformed. The harsh overhead lights are gone, replaced by a gentler glow. Lamps lit up. The dreary, old curtains have been swapped for lush velvet. There are no students. No quiet shuffling, no turning pages, no whispered conversations.

Just melodic music.

A string quartet is tucked near the far end where the reading tables used to be. Bows glide over strings, slow and aching and beautiful threading through the air and tickling your skin, which is growing warmer from both the attention, the shock, and the protective temperature of the indoors.

There’s bouquets of flowers on mahogany tables. Petals littering the floor, thickest where you come to stand in the centre of the huddle under a chandelier of twinkling lights. Soft whites, pale pinks, a few deeper hues woven in. They curl around the ends of shelves, rest along tables, and climb just slightly where they shouldn’t.

Your heart starts to pound, hard enough that it drowns out everything for a moment. 

Slowly, you turn.

Kento is there.

On one knee.

The music, the light, the people — everything fades at the edges until it’s just him, steady and sure despite the way his hands shake just slightly around the small box. 

The ring catches the light. 

Your breath leaves you in a quiet, startled exhale.

“I’d ask if you would do me the honour of making me the happiest man in the world,” he starts, staring only at you, “but you already have, so I suppose the better question is…”

Tears well up in your eyes and you already have the answer at the tip of your tongue pleading to be screamed. 

“Do you hate me enough to marry me?”

Soon as he clocked in this morning, he’d claimed victory over the fact that he was first to arrive. It was a flimsy excuse for a competition, but you let it slide. Nanami took you to the women’s bathroom — well, he initially tried to lure you to the men’s, and that just wasn’t going to happen so you dug your heels in — and was initially going to eat you out whilst you were sitting on the toilet lid but you insisted.

You roll your eyes. You’re always sweet and agreeable, just with people who aren’t bitter and hard to agree with because they’re wrong. Aggrieved, you grip his balls too fast and too hard all so you’d hear his sharp intake of air and feel his cockhead bump the back of your throat.

“Mm, fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

Tossing his head back, he explodes in your mouth with no other warning except for the final throbbing of his cock.

You swallow it all. Whilst you get to your feet, you think about how much easier it’s becoming for you to take him down your throat, for you to swallow his cum, and generally tolerate his entire being. 

“Thank you,” he mutters.

“Don’t mention it,” you reply, wiping your lips.

He’s still panting by the time both of your phones ping.

“It’s Mrs. Collins,” you announce, frowning.

Nanami tucks himself back inside his slacks. “I wonder what she wants.”

The two of you exit, taking advantage of the fact that the library has yet to open to the general campus. You both wash your hands in relative silence as though he hadn’t been bruising your throat and smacking your chin with his swinging balls for the last ten minutes.

Outside is clear too.

You walk to her office, down from the second floor.

A little worried, you ask in a hushed voice, “You don’t think she knows what we’ve been doing, do you?”

He takes a second or two to think about it. Then, certain, or at least wanting to convince himself he’s certain, he answers, “No. We’ve been careful.”

Though as he says those words, you know that, with the awkward air hanging over you, neither of you really believe those words. The absolute truth is, you haven’t been very careful at all. In fact, it wouldn’t be a stretch to say you’ve been indulging in being careless too much; it turned you both on to know you could be caught by anyone at any second. 

Eventually, you both reach her door. You knock. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Collins,” you say in unison. 

She’s sitting behind her desk, rubbing at her temple with one hand and holding her reading glasses with the other. A beckon with her hand has you sliding in a seat across from her desk, Nanami in the other. 

Despite yourselves, you share a glance — this looks serious.

Mrs. Collins exhales slowly, setting her glasses down on the desk with a soft clink.

“Yes, good morning,” she replies, though there’s a weariness in her voice that immediately puts you on edge. Her fingers press briefly to her temple again before she straightens, folding her hands together in a way that feels…rehearsed almost. 

“I’ll get straight to the point,” she says. “No point in beating around the bus with you two.”

Your spine stiffens.

Beside you, Nanami goes still.

Is this it? Is she going to out you two for indecent behaviour? Is she going to reveal CCTV footage of your pussy being munched right by the feminist literature section and lecture you on the irony of it all? Did you leave behind evidence? A panty, drops of cum she got forensics to do DNA tests on, or witnesses?

Are you going to be fired?

Expelled?

Sent to jail?

Drawn and quartered?

“There have been some…adjustments made to the department budget.” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “Unfortunately, the library has not been spared.”

A beat.

You feel your stomach drop — for a different reason than you’d been anticipating. Relief doesn’t settle inside. How could it when a different bomb’s been dropped on you?

“We’ve had our funding cut,” she continues, more firmly now. “Quite significantly.”

Silence settles over the room. You glance at Nanami, and he’s already looking at you — sharp, assessing, like he’s trying to piece together the implications before they’re fully spoken.

Mrs. Collins doesn’t leave you waiting long. “As a result,” she says, “I can only retain one of you through to the end of the academic year.”

The words land heavily. For a moment, neither of you reacts. 

“What?” you blurt, sitting forward before you can stop yourself. “You can’t be serious.”

Nanami’s jaw tightens, though his tone stays controlled. “On what basis is that decision being made?”

Mrs. Collins sighs, as though she’s already had this conversation a dozen times in her head. “That,” she says, “is precisely the difficulty.”

You swallow, exchanging another quick glance with Nanami. You can see it in his expression too: the rug’s been pulled from under him. This wasn’t what he was expecting. Too much uncertainty rides along in her words. 

Mrs. Collins continues, oblivious. “You’re both excellent in your own ways. Truly outstanding,” she says. “But I don’t have the resources to justify keeping you both on. So…” She leans back slightly, eyes moving between the two of you. “I’m giving you a choice.”

That growing knot in your stomach twists again.

“You may decide between yourselves,” she says plainly. “Or, I will observe your work over the course of the next three weeks and make the decision myself.” The room feels smaller suddenly. “By the end of the month,” she finishes, not sounding the least bit pleased about any of this, “I will inform one of you that your contract will not be extended. Whoever gets to stay will have the opportunity to work for the last month or so of the academic year, and as long through summer as they please.”

You let out a quiet, incredulous breath. “You’re asking us to…what? Compete for a role we already competed for?”

That truly shouldn’t be such a disgusting word to utter; you’ve been competing for years. Now, however, when it’s being enforced by a third party, it feels cheap, ridiculous, completely and utterly absurd. 

“I’m asking you to be practical,” Mrs. Collins replies, not unkindly. She is not happy with the turn of events herself. “This is an unfortunate situation, but it is the reality. You needn’t do anything but be yourself. I’ll take on the burden.”

Another pause. The ticking of a clock somewhere in the office suddenly feels deafening. You glance at Nanami again, but this time it’s different. Not shared amusement nor quiet complicity. Something tighter. More uncertain. Because for the first time since this whole…thing between you began, the two of you are being placed on opposite sides of something real.

Mrs. Collins folds her hands again. “I’ll give you some time,” she says. “But not too much. I expect an answer soon.” Her gaze lingers, measured, final.

“You may go.”

Neither of you moves immediately.

And when you do stand, it’s slower than before, like an invisible thing has shifted between you on the way in, and neither of you quite knows how to step around it on the way out.

Nanami’s the first to speak ten minutes later as you’re both opening the heavy doors and letting the early birds reserve their seats. He says, “There’s no conceivable way we’ll agree on who should stay and who should leave, so I suggest we leave it up to her. It’s the fairest option.”

Already walking away to push a heavy cart down the shelves, you follow him. “You’re not actually considering competing for this role, are you?”

“What’s so wrong about that?”

That familiar wrinkle between his brows has appeared as he frowns down at you. He begins shelving the books away cool, calm and collected, like he always is, and it’s irritating you more than usual.

“Um, maybe the fact that we’d already competed to have this job in the first place? And now she’s just taking it from us? After all the interviews, the bullshit application forms and the ‘tell us something no one knows about you’ farce?”

Sighing, he leans against a shelf, arms crossed. “We have no choice — the decision was clearly made above her head.”

“So that’s it?” you ask him. “You’re fine with us having to fight each other for a job?”

Nanami looks at you over the rim of his glasses. There’s a certain weight to his question when he counters, “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing this entire time? What’s the difference now? Apart from the tangible consequences looming beyond our…”

You don’t need him to finish his sentence; you got it.

Technically, he wasn’t wrong — a thought you keep to yourself. Competing is something you’re familiar with. Even once you both secured the jobs over many other applicants, you were aware that the competition hadn’t ended. You were always going to have to be on your A-game to show him up, for your pride and satisfaction.

However, you can’t seem to shake off the feeling that something’s different this time, something irreversible, a loss that the loser will suffer that neither of you are ready for. 

“You’re aware then that we’ll have to really give this our all, right?” you say, finally coming to a conclusion he already reached. “We can’t keep sneaking around, blurring lines, getting involved with each other. If we’re rivals, we’re rivals.”

He swallows hard and adjusts his glasses. Nanami extends a hand out.  

“May the best man, or woman, win.”

You don’t shake it. You walk away from him and from the conversation with pursed lips. Under your breath, you mutter, “Oh, she will.”

The rest of the morning is spent not in each other’s pants but rather in a blur of menial and meticulous tasks that leave barely a moment to breathe or fucking think — collecting returned books, helping people find what they’re looking for, checking books out, giving recommendations, cataloging a fresh shipment of books that seems to have doubled overnight, your fingers sticky with dust jackets and your eyes straining to read tiny print on the spine labels, and blah blah blah. 

Nanami is elsewhere, reshelving rare texts, stamping due dates, checking inventory lists, or killing babies, you don’t know.

Once, you caught sight of him and a girl. She gave him a shy smile, and he returned a warm one back. You didn’t hear their conversation, you don’t know what she wanted, and what he replied, and you realised it’s probably best — if she can successfully distract him, that would be wonderful.

Generally, though, you try not to think too much about him; getting caught up in what your competition is doing, after all, is a sure-fire way to lose your footing. 

But perhaps tension in your shoulders did release when you notice she’s nowhere to be seen after and he’s still here, as serious as he always looks when he’s focused. 

The library is large, but the quiet makes every movement sound like an announcement, and you’re acutely aware of the other’s presence without needing to see him.

When your paths cross, it’s brief, perfunctory. You’ll reach for the same cart, hesitating a heartbeat too long before sliding past each other, shoulders brushing lightly, eyes flicking up and meeting, just for an instant. Each glance is careful, loaded with silent calculation. 

Neither of you smiles, neither speaks, but it’s a conversation all the same. 

A warning, a challenge, a question: who will falter first?

It’s nearing lunch break — when you can clock off, grab some food with your friends, and then head off to your afternoon classes.

You’re behind the desk, taking over for Loretta, one of the older ladies. Stamping due dates, a voice makes you look up.

“Hey,” he says, leaning casually against the counter. Tall, well-dressed, a little sun-kissed from the outdoors, with a smile that’s perfectly practiced. “You’ve been avoiding me, huh?”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

He grins, tilting his head as if that should explain everything. “I gave you my number weeks ago. Why haven’t you messaged me?”

Your eyebrows knit together in confusion. “I…what?”

Is he drunk? Do you need to call campus security? Maybe he’s a crackhead; the well dressed, rich-looking kids were always on coke, you’ve noticed.

The guy laughs, a little embarrassed, but persistent. “Yeah. Remember? I gave it to—” he glances to the side of the desk where Nanami had been helping with the returns earlier— “your coworker here. Asked him to hook me up.”

Something clicks in your brain. You pause mid-stamp, eyes widening. “Wait…you’re telling me you’ve been trying to reach me…through him?”

“Uh… yeah?” he says, shrugging, still smiling like it’s not a big deal. “He said he’d get me your attention, but—” he gestures vaguely—“guess that didn’t exactly happen.”

There’s nothing you can do but blink. The whole conversation’s confusing you so badly. What on Earth is happening?

When he doesn’t see you fawning, he sighs and mutters to himself, “Shoulda listened to the others. That guy’s really not helpful at all.”

Others?

Over the past month, several guys in the library had given you looks, had lingered a little too long at the front desk, and nothing ever happened. Sure, they’d come up to you and directly ask, but you’d turn them away because you’re too busy trying to put away the most books. You didn’t think much about any of it. 

Things are starting to make sense and simultaneously only leave you more confused the more you try to think about it now.

You look toward the stacks, half-expecting to see him watching. 

And there he is, precise as always, shelving a row of books, perfectly still, expression neutral but eyes flicking toward you ever so slightly. Nanami can’t do subtle even if it kills him.

Gazes clash.

Something thrums beneath the surface. You swallow.

The guy at the desk, oblivious to the internal storm, smiles again. “So…lunch? Or are you gonna make me beg?”

You stare at him, then at the silent figure of Nanami across the room, and finally mutter, half amused, half exasperated, “I think you’re going to have to wait your turn.”

And just like that, you’ve made up your mind.

He’s in the cloak room of the conference hall when you seek him out right before lunch break, after you’ve completed the imminent task at hand. It’s a tight space but that doesn’t stop you from bulldozing your way in and taking him by surprise with a slap on the back.

“What— What are you doing here?” he asks, twisting his neck to look back at you. 

“Punishing you,” you say, casually. You wind your arms around his hips. You find his soft dick with ease.

Nanami grunts.

In the narrow confines, he puts up a fight at first, something about right and wrong you’re sure, and the competition for the one assistant librarian role, but he quickly loosens up with a long sigh. “What have I done now?” he wonders, resigned.

With expert skill, you take his cock out. It’s already so heavy even though it’s only now starting to chub up. Lightly, you pet it, bringing it to full mast. 

Meanwhile, your head is buried between his shoulder blades. You tease, “A little birdy let me in on your shenanigans.”

One of his hands envelops yours. It drags your palm up and down the length at the pace he likes. Nanami groans. “Get to the point. You’re frightening me.”

“Always so on guard with me, aren’t you?” you say, smiling. “I’m talking about how you’ve been hoarding all the numbers guys have been trying to give me.”

Nanami stiffens. 

Slowly, like he’s being careful not to set you off, aware you’ve got him by his literal dick and balls, he says, “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” you sing.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Fine, yes, I have been withholding the many numbers and messages men want me to pass along. But it is only because I believe it is unprofessional, and certainly not because of whatever you’re accusing me of.”

Thumb guided by his, you collect the bead of pre that’s escaping his flushed tip. You smear it on his pretty, pink cockhead. He’s fully hard now, and the familiar heat, weight, and length has your mouth salivating. 

“Oh, so you didn’t purposefully and proactively stifle a possible competition for who could be asked out more while on the job? God, you’re such a baby. You knew I’d win by a longshot because not many people want to date your grumpy ass, so you didn’t even let me know I was being asked out at all. Wow. Really. Wow.”

Nanami exhales. “Yes. That’s exactly it. You got me.”

“Yeah, I got you by the dick. Now that I’ve found you out, you have to accept my punishment. Them’s the rules.”

You round his body. The warm light from the flickering bulb doesn’t do much to illuminate the small space. With coats sandwiching you in and hangers rattling, you peer up at him. 

There’s a vanity behind you. 

Leading him by his dick, you get yourself up on it and slot him in between your legs. Nanami casts a shadow over you as he eyes you suspiciously. You don’t blame him — just hours before, you two had decided to go back to your old ways and compete as fiercely and as normally as you always have. 

Now, you’re stroking his cock and spreading your legs so he can see the wet spot that’s grown on your panties.

He releases a shaky breath. 

“I don’t understand,” he mutters, deeply troubled if the furrowing of his brows and the tentative placement of his hands on your bare thighs are anything to go by. “Why are we playing games at all? I thought we’d made an agreement to take the competition for the permanent role seriously. I thought…I thought you’d never talk to me again, much less touch me.”

You watch him seek out your sopping pussy, thumbing the clit and prodding the wet spot. With little patience, Nanami pulls your panties to the side and feels you skin to skin. You moan. 

“I thought that too,” you tell him, lifting your shirt to reveal your bare breasts to his eyes. His mouth parts. A finger of his slips inside your pussy with ease. “But I realised something — our games didn’t just start when we got the job. We’ve been playing games since we met: who can correct our professors more, who can find a way to insert ourselves into discussions more, who can get better marks, who can get the best compliments, who frequents the Dean’s List more often.”

Nanami bends down. His lips grazes your chest, skimming and basking in the softness of your skin. He travels down the valley between your breasts before pressing a kiss to the curve of one. All while he’s worming a second finger inside your drenched pussy, wringing out slippery squelches muffled by the coats around you. 

“Don’t you -hah- get it, Nanami?” you ask him, back arching. “Everything is a game between us. So why don’t we just commit to it? Just stop pretending? We can keep playing our games whilst we let Mrs. Collins decide which of us she wants to keep. I don’t know about you, but I need the orgasms.”

He finally takes a nipple in his mouth, sucking it into a hard bud. His thumb rubs your pussy’s bud too. “Kento,” he says. 

“Huh?”

His tongue flicks your nipple at the same time he curves his long, slender fingers against your g-spot. You gasp. 

“If we’re committing to our ridiculous games, then you should commit to calling me Kento when I’m knuckles deep inside your pretty pussy, don’t you think?

You laugh. “You’re such a narcissist you’ve got a fetish for your name, don’t you?”

“I plead the fifth,” he says, squeezing your tit as he makes his way down your stomach.

Nanami’s about to kneel and have a go at your cunt when the doorknob rattles. 

The two of you freeze. 

You only have a second to process what the hell’s about to happen before he carries you in his arms and tucks you both at the back, behind some thick, furry coats. 

Someone’s in here. You don’t turn to look to see who, lest you make a noise. Instead, you clutch him tightly, face buried in the crook of his neck as he grips you up by your ass. Nanami breathes low and even despite the redness of his face. 

It’s dark and crowded enough in here to blend in if whoever the person is doesn’t go looking through the coats. And it’d honestly be fine if his cockhead wasn’t prodding your clit. 

His cock has slipped through your pussy lips. You’re pressed up against it. Every slight shuffle, every inhale, every minor adjustment has him rubbing your pussy. 

He whispers right into your ear, bare audible even to you, “Stop. Moving.”

“You stop moving,” you fire right back.

When his grip slackens a little, it leaves you sliding down his length. Nanami reflexively hikes you up higher the very moment it happened. Which is a mistake. Because he had just effectively rubbed you up and down his cock.

You whine, fingers threading through his hair and pulling for a tether. He hisses. 

A shit show is what this is — each reaction has an equal and opposite reaction and each of those has you oozing more juices on his cock, making the slip and slide easier, and all the more pleasurable.

The person’s still here; they’re humming as they use the very same vanity you were sitting on. 

They left the door open, and the light thrumming of life beyond covers a little of the noises you two are making. You hope, at least. 

“Kento,” you whine, hips moving on your own now. 

He shushes you. “I know, I know. Me too. Just bear with me, alright?”

You’re grinding on him now, using the length of his cock and the prominent veins there to stimulate your poor clit, and he can’t do a thing about it. Nanami throbs here and there when your clit nudges his frenulum or the slit of his tip. 

Whoever the newcomer is, they’re taking their stupid fucking time. You want to strangle them. Especially when they trip over something and send a bunch of things clattering. “Ah, fuck,” they groan. 

The act itself is harmless. Accidental. A mercy because it means they’re distracted with re-righting whatever mess they’ve made. 

But you can’t find it in yourself to be grateful because it had startled you and Nanami. Your bodies jolted, sending you higher up his hold and falling down right onto his dick.

His tip pushes in.

You barely manage to bite back your moan. 

Eyes wide and body tense, you stare at him in the shadows. Through his glasses, his eyes are just as wide as yours. His jaw is clenched tightly, grip on your body bruising. “S-stay still,” he commands shakily. “I’ll pull out.”

“No,” you find yourself breathing out before you can process the word. When he stares right through you, disbelieving but so badly wanting to believe, you find the courage to say, “No, I want it. I want it so bad, Ken. Please?”

Nanami’s eyes almost roll back. “Yes, baby. Fuck, if you ask so nicely, how am I meant to say no?”

All he has to do now is lighten his grip on you; you slide down and down and down until he’s buried to the hilt and you’re feeling fuller than you ever have. His size is almost impossible to manage but you’re so wet, so needy, that it only takes a couple winces and fluttering of your walls. 

Foreheads pressed together, you moan into each other’s mouths, lips just touching.

Feet pad away. 

A door closes.

“You’re so tight,” he groans louder, unhesitating to exploit the fact that it’s just you two in here again.

“So big,” you whisper. 

He emerges you both from the stuffy corner and walks over to the door. Each step has his fat cockhead prodding your g-spot over and over again. He locks it without breaking eye contact. 

The heat in his gaze sets your skin alight. 

Nanami sets you down on the vanity, still inside you. He pinches your chin and says, “Are you sure about this?”

You roll your eyes. You clamp down on him.

He gasps, cock throbbing inside you.

Swallowing down the choked, animalistic noise about to creep up his throat, he snarls, “Always so difficult with you, isn’t it?”

To your satisfaction, he starts rutting into you. Shallow thrusts at first, testing the waters, getting used to your warmth and the exact feel of your walls. Then faster and deeper, bumping the exact spot that has you mewling and writhing. 

“Here?” he asks, voice hoarse. He splays a hand out on your lower belly, pushing down a little. You cry out, back arching. “Oh yes, I see now. This is where you feel me most, no?”

God, he feels so good. 

There’s no barriers between you, and if he was anyone else, you’d be deeply worried. But Nanami is Nanami. He’s cleaner than a surgery table. 

“Ken,” you moan. “Harder. Fuck me harder.”

He nods, lips to your head as he holds you close. He rams his cock in with greater force, rattling the whole desk. 

You whine. “Yes! Yes! Just like that.”

“Tell me how to please you,” Nanami whispers, cradling the back of your head before it can hit the mirror behind you. “Tell me everything about you, about what makes you feel good, your fantasies, who you want me to be, what you want me to say.”

Arms wrapped around his neck, you shake your head, fucking down onto him. “This is great. It’s perfect. God, hngh! J-just be yourself. Keep fucking me like this.”

Nanami groans. 

“I hate how good you feel,” he confesses, angry. “Hate how perfect your -ngh fuck!- body is, the sounds you make. How one touch, one look from you, has me weak in my fucking knees.”

He pulls your head back by your hair. His hazy eyes scan every inch of your face, drinking up every wince, every flutter of your eyes, every gasp out of your lips. He wants to be mad. He wants to say something insulting, something to make your cunt clench down on him. But when you mumble his name, Nanami’s whole face softens.

Burying his face in the curve connecting your neck to your shoulder, he presses a kiss there. “God, you drive me insane.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. “I’m surprised you haven’t cum the moment you finally felt a woman’s insides.”

His lips twitch.

“And I’m surprised you haven’t melted with how wet you are around my cock.” 

Nanami pulls out and spins you around before you can make a retort. You see yourself in the mirror. You make eye contact all the way as he pushes back inside you.

The way he bites his lips, blows air out to get some clarity, flush and sweat — you can’t take your eyes off him, can’t unnotice all these things about him. 

Soon his pelvis is flushed with your ass. He pummels his cock in and out at a rhythmic pace, controlled and measured. Your eyes roll back. The squelches, the slapping of skin, the fwop fwop fwop, everything is simultaneously muted by the intensity of the pleasure blooming inside your core and heightened by the finite space between you. 

He can’t seem to decide whether he wants to watch his cock entering you or to watch your face scrunch up in bliss. With a frustrated growl, he finally decides instead to shut his eyes tight. 

Weak.

Both hands sneak under your body. He gropes your swinging tits in one and rubs your clit with the other.

“Are you going to cum for me?” he asks though it’s not a question, not really.

You grind back into him, wanting him deeper and deeper as you near your climax. Unable to help yourself, you answer, “I’m gonna cum for me.”

Nanami’s low chuckle sends chills down your spine. His dark eyes keep you pinned through the reflection.

“Then cum,” he says.

And you do.

He stifles the too-loud moan that was about to alert the whole library to what you’re doing with a palm slapped over your mouth. You don’t care. Muffled moans are subdued and spasms wracking your entire body, the waves of euphoria race through you, rendering you a dumb, soaked mess. 

“Ah, fuck!” Nanami’s hips stutter. “T-too tight. Don’t -fuck- s-squeeze down on me.”

“No, w-wait,” you stammer, unable to lift any of your tired limbs to physically prevent him from cumming where he shouldn’t.

But it’s too late. 

He orgasms right after you.

Hot, searing cum explodes inside you. It paints your walls white. You pant, made dizzy by the feeling of his pulsing cock staking its claim inside your pussy. 

“So good, so good, so fucking good,” he gasps. 

The two of you catch your breath, neither one pulling away. His hands are still all over you, squeezing and absorbing the sensations of a flushed, clammy body. You hope the two of you were quiet enough not to be noticed.

He softens inside you. Finally, he pulls out. 

You wince. 

“Forgive me,” Nanami mutters, rubbing a hand over your pussy as though to soothe it. 

When he pushes two fingers inside, wringing squelches out with your mixed juices, you reach back to smack him. “Hey!”

Nanami apologises again. He pulls his fingers out and clears his throat. The flush on his face renews with the suspicious glare you throw at him. “Sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“I know came inside of me,” you grouch, slapping his chest. “You’re lucky I’m on the pill, idiot.” To that, he has no reply. He only regretfully uses someone’s inside sleeve to wipe his fingers clean. Spinning around, you grimace. “Got anything to clean me up with?”

“I’d use someone’s coat or scarf, but I can’t vouch for how clean they’d be,” he mutters, troubled. He thinks for a second, looking around and patting his pockets. There isn’t anything. Nanami tucks himself back in, zips his pants up, then gets down on his knees before you.

“Woah, what’re you doing?”

“Cleaning you up,” he says simply, like it’s supposed to be obvious and he’s disappointed you didn’t work that out yourself. Firm hands spread your legs apart.

“Hey! No, don’t.” Your protests fall on deaf ears. Nanami won’t budge. He buries his face right up against your pussy, unhesitating to lap up the juices flowing out of you. “Oh, fuck, Kento. Y-you’re a freak.”

The man doesn’t seem to care that he’s eating his own cum out of you. Or maybe that’s exactly what he wants. You can’t tell, and you can’t think too much about it when he’s circling your clit with his tongue.

Nanami licks through your slit like a dog, just cleaning you up and all the wetness that’s made your thighs sticky. He says, “No, I’m thorough. We can’t leave behind any evidence.”

Your head leans back on the mirror, accepting that you’ve got no choice but to let him do what he wants with your cunt. Though that doesn’t stop you from remaking, “Please, you just wanted to taste me again. Can’t get enough, can you?”

It’s a joke. A statement made with humour. 

But his unwavering gaze — the way he’s looking up at you and reading every expression, every thought and flicker in your face and eyes — suggests he’s not when he ponders out loud, “Is that so wrong?”

Nervously, you gulp, then smile.

“Probably, but it’s too late now, isn’t it?”

Nanami kisses your clit so gently, so tenderly that your smile drops. 

“Far too late.”

.

.

.

Like something awakened, a dam burst, you two have been fucking nonstop.

Every opening and closing since Monday morning have begun and ended with sex in the storage room. Quick, dirty sex. Mindblowing sex. Neither of you can seem to get enough of how each other feels, of the momentary washing away of all that was looming by the end of the week, but your rivalry never ended. 

You two would compete to see who’d cum first in the toilet stalls, each taking turns to be on their knees. He’d eat you out as well as he could, pulling all his tricks, and you’d blow him like you wanted to suck his soul out from his balls. A timer would be going on your phone, and you’d battle it out to the very last second. Currently, you’re winning 3-2. 

The loser gets a stamp — one that you’d snatched from Mrs. Collins office — pressed right on their pelvis: Late Return.

They’d have to walk around like that till they can get home and wash the ink off. 

When you lost, Nanami had thumbed the mark right above your cunt, both his lips and your pussy lips still glistening. He hummed. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t misty-eyed. I’m gonna get you back.”

He looked up at you and smiled. “Of course you will.”

And when he lost, you stamped it high enough that whenever he reached up, it’d be visible by virtue of his sweater or shirt riding up. You passed by, running a nail across that sliver of skin. He shuddered. His cheeks reddened. He muttered, “Tease.”

You muttered back, “Loser.”

On Wednesday, you both started a game that involved not touching each other and seeing who could hold out longer. Of course, there were caveats: he had brought a vibrator with the intention of leaving in your panties, thrumming away at your sensitive clit, and you would send him faceless nudes every five minutes. 

The fun of it was that you could back out at any second; you could take the vibe out and he could just not open your messages. But he had given you his phone number for this reason and so it’d be a waste of your time to chicken out. 

It seemed easy enough at first anyway. 

For the most part, you could keep a straight face when dealing with other students and researchers. He’d pass by and press some button on the remote control he has all to hear your voice hitch or watch your eyes cross. In retaliation, you’d send him pictures and videos of you playing with yourself and moaning his name. 

He gave in first.

What broke him wasn’t the nudes, though they certainly pushed him close. No, what did it was the fact that you had experienced a full-body orgasm right in front of some guy asking you out. The guy was about to touch you, to ask if you were okay because you were breathing weird and all squirmy.

Nanami swooped in with a casual excuse of you being sick. 

You tried to hobble over to the nearest room, the coat room, but couldn’t make it any further than a study booth in the back corner. The same one you first blew him on. You were pawing at his cock, fishing it out right there and then, and he decided he couldn’t wait any longer.

So, whilst no one was there, he took you right in the booth, ducking low. 

“You showed him something you shouldn’t have,” he growled, a sound you’d never heard him make before.

Weakly, you argued, “That was your fault, asshole.”

And when he stacked two hardcover books over your lower belly, pressing on your bladder and driving you fucking insane?

You made a mess all over him that he forced you to clean up with your tongue.

Which was fine since he was going to be punished with pen markings all over his body as a result of his surrender. 

Vibe dead and tossed, you met up after in the break room, knowing that all the other staff members would be having a meeting about the budget cuts, and since they had yet to decide which of you they were going to keep, neither of you were privy to the information. And that too was fine, since it meant you had an hour or so to yourself on the comfortable sofa.

Gleefully, encouraged by the blush on his cheeks and the way he was throbbing right under your pussy, you drew ‘loser’, ‘inferior intellect’, ‘pleb’, and ‘my bitch’, among other things, on his bare torso. 

He protested each new label but with how you were grinding on his cock and pouting down at him to play fair, he couldn’t exactly fight against it. 

It was a delirious high to keep him pinned under you, covering his pristine skin with proof of your superiority. 

“Hush, Ken,” you scolded. He was groaning and complaining incessantly. It was hot. 

Nanami huffed, hands on your thighs as you straddled him. “You’re taking too long; there can’t possibly be any more space on my body.”

“Thou doth protest too much.” You gripped his face, smiling down at him, and said, “You’ve never looked prettier than with my name written right here on your chest, Kento.”

He pulsed right up against your clit.

Another quickie was slotted in before the meeting ended and the staff would be roaming around again. 

A fire drill has taken all the occupants of the library this Friday afternoon. Instead of following procedure, the two of you decided to stay behind, with everyone none the wiser. 

Nanami’s buried balls deep inside you, a hand splayed out over your back as he keeps you bent over one of the carts you use to transport books around the library. It’s empty and you’re clinging to the metal thing for dear life, moaning wantonly with every harsh shove of his cock inside your sloppy pussy. 

He’s holding the cart, dragging it back and forth the way he would with your hips. You have no choice but to let the cart yank you on his length.

“Ken,” you mewl, “we need to hurry. They’ll be back any time soon.”

He grunts behind you. “I know. But I will not cum until you do.”

Your clothes are still on, just slightly shuffled around to allow you to touch where you wanted. The clothes always stay on; you can’t seem to cross the line of being completely bare. Mostly because you two keep fucking in places where you could caught, and partly because it seemed to be an unspoken boundary you won’t cross. 

It hardly matters to you — his cock is all that you need to see. 

The way the hot thing bullies a path through your gummy walls is delectable. It’s honestly all you can think about in class or at home. He fills out every nook and cranny, stretching your walls and making sure you feel all of him. 

“You’re insatiable,” you say, riding the snappy movements of the cart. “You’re a sex maniac, just obsessed with me.”

Scoffing, he yanks the cart back harder. He thrusts in deeper. You cry out. Nanami retorts, breathy and hoarse, “Says the girl who chose to greet me by squeezing my cock through my pants. You were already wet when I touched you. Dirty girl,” he rasps. “Must have been thinking about me all day.”

“As if,” you mutter. Then, you add, “You were already —wait, Ken, deeper, yessss— you were already hard when I felt you up. Bet the sight of me was enough to get you going, huh?”

“I’ll admit to your —f-fuck, loosen up— a-accusations if you do.”

“Never.”

Nanami chuckles.

His hips are relentless. They never tire, never falter. Not till he’s about to come anyway. No one’s ever fucked you this good, and it kills you to admit to yourself that the person you’d deemed the devil just weeks before has the best dick game full stop.  

Ugh, you just love when he fucks you from behind, when his balls swing and smack against your clit, when he covers your back and groans right into your ear. 

It’s no wonder then that you cum mere minutes later. 

“Oh god,” you moan. “So, so good.”

“Hmm, fuck. Perfect. Just perfect.”

He slides himself out of you, coming to kneel behind you to eat the cum spilling out from behind. Yeah, after all the sleeping around, you still hadn’t enforced the rule of wearing a condom. It just seems so pointless when he’d already been inside you. And you don’t want a layer muting the feeling of his prominent veins scraping your sloppy walls. 

“Do we taste good, Kento?” you ask, smiling lazily. You reach back, drumming your fingers over the hand that grips your thigh in place. 

Nanami moves his hand to trap yours in his clutch. A thumb brushes over your knuckles. Voice muffled, he responds, “Mmm. Best choice of breakfast I rather think, though that’s mostly because of me.”

“Ugh, don’t act like I don’t often have to kick you away from my pussy because you won’t stop eating her out otherwise. Lying is a sin, Kento.”

He chuckles, suckling your pulsing clit. “So is pre-marital sex, but we’ve already done a lot of that.”

“See you in hell then,” you say, wistful.

“Yes. Save me a seat.”

The distant alarm stops by the time you cum again. Noises outside get louder. You two, like experienced criminals, rearrange your clothes so that no eyes would be able to tell what you’ve done. You even sneak around to blend in with the group, as though you had been out with everyone else.

It’s somewhat of an impossibility how you two managed to balance fucking like rabbits with your tasks. There’s not a single book gone unshelved, no student left waiting around, no emails about late returns unsent. In fact, Mrs. Collins had complimented you both on a couple occasions for how well you two worked. She seemed especially pleased that you weren’t arguing — though you’re sure if she knew what exactly you had taken up on doing, you’re not sure she’d keep looking at you with pride.

Naturally, the week passed by quicker than all the others before it.

And made the next week feel so much slower.

.

.

.

Nanami didn’t come into work.

His internship had set him on a project that would require his attention and efforts most. Or at least that’s what you heard from Mrs. Collins, who warned you that you’d have to be picking up his slack, at least until next week, when he should be back.

Which is great.

Really.

Because it can be an opportunity to show you’re better for this job than he is. 

A heads up from him himself would have been nice though. Why hadn’t he told you anyway? Sure, you were just fuck-buddies with much less emphasis on the buddies than the fuck, but still. And honestly with how this week is going so far, you’d place less emphasis on fuck too, since he hadn’t even opened any of the nudes you sent him.

The more you grumble about it, however — when wiping tables, logging returns, reshelving books, touring prospective students — the more you turn your negative energy to yourself. 

Nanami doesn’t owe you an explanation, nor does he owe your nudes a viewing, even if they are works of art. 

He’s never explained his own schedule to you, and you’ve never thought to do the same to him. Really, why would he tell you anything? And why do you care? You have toys and fingers you can use if you need to get off so badly. 

Once in a while, you’ll see him on campus, on your way to your respective classes. The two of you don’t pause to chat, don’t say hi, don’t even look at each other. Which is how it usually was between you. Although, there used to be the occasional glares or snide comments if the other gave a smug look after gaining higher marks on some essay. Or if you two just felt like it.

Now, there’s nothing. 

No one to look at with a ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ when someone spills their drink all over a table, or knocks over a pile of books you were reorganising. No one to mutter a quiet ‘what idiot gets Camus and Sartre mixed up?’ to or a ‘not it!’ if someone reports a clogged toilet in the men’s bathroom — and it was always the men’s.

Was this job always so fucking boring?

“Hi.”

“What.” The word spews out of you faster than you can process the one syllable the stranger uttered. You look up at the girl. She’s staring wide-eyed at you. Standing up, heat growing in your cheeks, you say, “I am so, so, sorry.”

She waves it off, shuffling on her feet. “No, don’t worry about it. I work at a bakery, so I understand what a bad day looks like when you’re dealing with people,” she says with a laugh. “I just wanted to know if you could pass a message along to the guy you work with. Um, Kento?”

How does she know his first name?

Did he introduce himself to her as such?

They don’t seem to be close friends, one because he has a very small number of friends, and two because she almost didn’t remember his name.  

The girl’s pretty: brown hair in a ponytail, kind eyes and a warm smile. She looks like the kind of girl you bring home to mother. And she bakes?

Nanami loves bread; you’ve seen him snacking on pastries and sandwiches far too many times not to notice that. She can bake for him, or at the very least, get him a discount at the bakery she works at. Bet he’d like having sex in the toilet stall at a bakery. The smell of a pain au chocolat can get him off.

“What is it?”

A blush blossoms on her cheeks. You fight the urge to frown in disgust. Is she blushing because of that guy? The blond with poor eyesight? The one who wears business casual clothes everywhere? What kind of sorcery did he use on her?

“Oh, um, I guess I just wanted to tell him I really enjoyed the book he recommended to me when I was here last week. I’ve been looking for him every day but I haven’t seen him.” A thought occurs to her. She adds, “Maybe I can tell him myself — do you know when he’ll be back?”

“No idea,” you lie through your lying teeth. 

Disappointed but not discouraged, she suggests, “Could you ask him?”

“I can’t.” Another lie — you have his phone number now, but it’s not like you can explain to her that you only have it because you were sending him nudes. 

Baker girl sighs. She smiles at you, a smile so full of goodness that you have to mentally swat the instinct to hiss at the burn. “Alright. Then, could you tell him that I’d love to hear his thoughts on the book over coffee? I hope I’m not giving you too much trouble!”

“Sure. I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you!”

With that, she strolls away, still smiling, still blushing, and no doubt thinking of him.

Turning to the books in front of you, you finally scowl. 

“Nanami? Seriously?” you mutter.

The same Nanami who called you a strumpet under his breath for suggesting that he would have been a concubinus in the Roman era with how passive he is? The Nanami that stretches his legs out to trip you but claims he’s simply exercising his right to take up space? The Nanami that was literally eating you out at the very same spot you’re standing in now?

Ugh, there really is no accounting for taste.

Thankfully the message she left with you was short and brief, easy to remember. You ponder over it every hour of every day — as you work in the library, as you’re in class, showering, walking through campus, meeting up with friends, laying in bed awake.

The end of the day at the end of the week arrives pretty soon after.

Waving goodbye to the nighttime caretaker, you exit through the front doors.

You’re exhausted. More so than usual. 

Technically, you had done two people’s worth of tasks. And perhaps it was just your annoyance clouding your judgment, but you could have sworn it was busier than ever this week. The burden of doing the grunt work finally caught up to you; your feet hurt, your back aches, you feel greasy and hideous, and ready to burn down libraries for no reason.

Fresh air envelops you, and it helps a little.

The cold night air is lovely. A much needed relief after spending a whole, stuffy day in the heart of academia and after back to back morning classes. At least the weekend is ahead of you. That’s something, you guess.

“Hey, pretty lady.”

The voice slurs a little around the edges.

You turn your head and immediately regret it.

Some guy lurches toward you from the direction of the dorms, one hand stuffed into the pocket of a puffer jacket that looks like it’s seen more beer spills than washing machines. His cheeks are flushed a blotchy red, eyes glassy, hair flattened in strange directions like he’s run his hands through it one too many times tonight. There’s a plastic cup clutched in his other hand, whatever’s inside it sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

It’s a typical frat guy.

The kind of guy you’re rarely ever around as a Classic Lit student, and as what most people would call a nerd. 

Yet, here he is, passing by the library, right on time for you to be walking home in the dark, alone. Terrific. Fantastic. Just great!

He grins at you — the confident grin of someone who has absolutely no reason to be confident. “Where you headed?” he asks, leaning a little too close, the sour-sweet smell of cheap alcohol drifting over. “Party over at Sigma something. You should come.”

You stare at him.

Frat Guy takes your silence as encouragement. “I mean—” he gestures vaguely at you with the cup, nearly spilling it, “—you look like you could use a drink. Loosen up a little, y’know?”

His eyes drag down and back up again in a way that makes your skin prickle.

“Bet you’d be real fun once you’re not all…” he waves his hand again, searching for the word, “...uptight.”

A laugh escapes him as though he said something clever. He leans against the brick wall beside you, missing slightly and having to correct himself.

“So what’s your name, pretty lady?” he presses, smile widening. “C’mon. Don’t be shy.”

Full body shuddering, you ignore him and start walking off. There’s streetlamps lighting paths, and you do see the silhouettes of a couple people walking by in the distance. Worse comes to worse, you’re ready to drop kick the guy as soon as he shows any sign of being a problem. 

Which, right on cue, he does.

“Hey,” Frat Guy says, losing his dopey smile. His voice has dropped an octave, taking on a deeper, darker tone, and you stiffen. “Who the fuck do you think you are ignoring me? You think you’re all that, you fucking loser?”

Your steps don’t stop.

Behind you, you hear his shoes scuff faster against the pavement. “Oi,” he calls, irritation bleeding into his voice. “I’m talking to you.”

You’re already turning slightly, gauging distance, weight shifting instinctively to the balls of your feet. If he grabs you, you’ll—

A hand settles lightly on your shoulder.

Neither grabbing nor restraining. Just there. Warm. You know that hand. You’ve felt that hand, but it’s never provided comfort, reassurance, not in the dark of the night, and certainly not when it shouldn’t be here at all.

“Is there a problem?”

You look up.

Nanami stands beside you. 

His tie is loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. There’s still the faint stiffness of the office about him — creased trousers, polished shoes, suit jacket draped over one arm — but the long day clings to him too. A shadow of fatigue beneath his eyes. A faint crease between his brows.

He glances down at you first. A quick once-over. Checking. Then his gaze shifts to the guy behind you.

It sharpens.

Frat Guy squints at him, clearly trying to process the sudden appearance of a tall, broad man in business clothes standing between him and his intended target.

“Who the hell are you?” he scoffs.

Expression unchasing, he steps forward just slightly, positioning himself so you’re fully behind his shoulder. “A passerby,” he says calmly. “Who noticed you harassing someone who has clearly chosen not to engage with you.”

Frat Guy lets out a drunken laugh. “Oh, she wants me.”

“She walked away.”

“So?”

Nanami tilts his head a fraction. It’s such a small movement, but something about it drains the air from the space between them. “Then the conversation,” Nanami says evenly, “is over.”

“Fuck. You. Four. Eyes.”

“Hey, I call him Four-Eyes! Well, not really, but I’ll start, you dickless piece of shit,” you yell.

Uggo reddens even more in the face. And when Nanami snickers, that’s when he reacts: he lunges forward for Nanami with his teeth bared and his fists clenched so tight the knuckles have turned white.

You get in between before he lands a punch. With a swift kick to the balls, you both watch as he doubles over, heaving and red in the face. He clutches his groin, veins popping in his forehead. He wheezes. 

Oh, fuck. You definitely kicked him too hard. Like hard enough that his testicles definitely turned back into ovaries inside of him. 

You make eye contact with Nanami, who’s wincing with second-hand ball-pain. 

“Run.”

You both bolt down a random direction. Cool air whirls past you, pushing your hair back. You pump your legs, feet pounding the ground. He’s right beside you, running with ease, though with less heavy breathing, you bitterly notice. 

Laughter rings out. 

It’s only until your lungs begin to hurt that you realise it’s yours. And his. 

What you did was a crime. And Nanami’s an accessory to the crime. Which is fan-fucking-tastic because it means you won’t go down alone. Or could you rely on self-defence? It hardly matters. You both fled the crime scene together, laughing shamelessly, and disturbing the peace.   

You’ve never kicked someone in the balls before. It felt pretty fucking awesome.

Eventually, you reach a good enough distance from the library, from the scene of the crime, and come to a slow stop. 

“Why would the assailant go for me instead of you?” Nanami asks, bewildered as he processes what happened. “You were the one who called him a ‘dickless piece of shit.’ And I cannot get blood on my work clothes. Certainly not for someone who thinks Shakespeare was a homesexual fraud.”

“He is.”

“He is not.”

“Oh, cause you were there?”

“Were you?”

“In spirit, yes.”

“Well, then in spirit, you are deluded, and as always, wrong.”

“Whatever.”

“Hmm.”

Releasing a breath, you run a hand through your hair. “I can’t believe I kicked him in the balls. What a rush.”

“I can’t believe he called me ‘Four Eyes,’” Nanami muses, half-humoured, half-offended. “Having glasses does not give me two new eyes. It basically only makes my two existing ones work the way they should.”

You pat him on the back. “Sure.”

The two of you begin walking, reorienting yourself based on where you are. For a while the only sounds are your voice, the distant thrum of music from somewhere deeper in campus, and the soft rhythm of Nanami’s footsteps beside yours. Soon, that asshole becomes what feels like a figment of your imagination. So does the adrenaline. 

The fight in you weakens. Slackens. He doesn’t comment on it. On any of it.

When you can’t stand the silence any longer, you ask, much calmer and less worked up now, “Why were you there? By the library, I mean. I thought you’d be coming back from your internship.”

Nanami hikes his bag high up on his shoulder. “My commute involves walking through campus at this time.”

“Liar,” you say not a moment later. “The publishing house is not anywhere near here. You’d have to go out of your way to be on campus to get to your place — and before you say something about how I must be stalking you if I know where you live, I want you to know I overheard Haibara remarking quite gratefully that you live near the big supermarket. So spare me.”

A small twitch comes to life on the corner of his lip, one you would have missed if you two hadn’t just walked under a streetlamp. Clearly amused, Nanami responds, “Fine, you got me. I came by because I wanted to gloat.”

“You’re lying again.”

He glances down at you. “Are you suggesting I’m not capable of doing something for completely self-serving, sadistic reasons?” he wonders, a teasing lilt to his voice.

Laughing, you answer, “No. You’re more than capable. I’m saying, you’re not the type to admit to it. They’re more inside thoughts.”

Nanami chuckles and doesn’t argue. 

Instead, he wonders, “How was the library?”

“Oh, you know,” you begin, shrugging, “same old, same old. Real dickhead behaviour not warning me, by the way. That you’d be gone the whole week.”

“Did you miss me? Is that it?” he teases. “I did not peg you for the sentimental type.”

You scoff. “Of course I didn’t miss you. If anything, I missed your tongue. Or your dick. You know how annoying people get me so tense.”

Adjusting his glasses, he points to a dark spot behind a tree. “If you’re in quick need of release, I’m sure we can manage something before the next person passes this trail.”

“I know you’re joking,” you start, feet slowing down, “but that would actually be nice.”

A hand at your back pushes you along, forcing your walking to pick back up. “There are limits to how public our sex can get. Move along.” 

‘Boo,’ you almost say. That, or ‘pussy.’

Shaking his head, Nanami says, “I did debate over whether to tell you. It’s…difficult for me to know the do’s and don’t’s of our new dynamic. And truthfully, seeing as you didn’t reach out to me with a complaint, I thought you didn’t care.”

If he’s expecting you to rebut that, then he’s sorely mistaken. Because you don’t care. You really do not care. It was nice to have him gone, actually. You had more room to breathe. You didn’t have to worry about him scolding some poor soul about their preference for translated works on account of their inability to read the original text, didn’t have to share the sixth floor seating area when you needed some downtime, or anticipate him scoffing at your chosen book for the week.

“It’s fine,” you mumble loud enough for him to hear. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Nanami hums.

With a small frown, you mull your next words over. “Some girl wanted me to pass a message on to you.”

That piques his interest. “Oh? What did she say?”

“I don’t want to tell you.”

A laugh escapes him. It’s loud. It takes you both by surprise. 

You thought he would have been mad, would have thought you were playing games again, wanting to take a little revenge against him. On the contrary, he seems entertained. 

He continues walking with you. His suit and tie are wrinkled with the day’s hard work (and the running), and despite the slightly dishevelled look to him, he still looks like he could charm the pants off any recruiter. You can tell he hasn’t been on a break from responsibilities — whatever they did to him on that internship this week has dragged him through the mud. 

Good.

That’s precisely what you wanted after you had to clean up what smelt like piss on a spot on the carpet by the children’s development section, which was a concern in and of itself. 

“I do sincerely hope you don’t hate me too much for abandoning you this week,” Nanami muses eventually, returning to the previous subject matter. “Whilst it brings me great pleasure to imagine that crease between your eyebrows leaving a permanent mark because you couldn’t stop yourself from cursing me out every shift, I don’t very much feel like walking into a boobytrapped workplace come Monday morning.”

A small smile playing on your lips, you fiddle with the strap of your back as you say, “I was pissed. Like you wouldn’t believe. But I feel better now that I’ve seen you.” Your eyes meet. You hurriedly add, “Because you look like shit; I’m sure they put you through it at the publishing house, right?”

Nanami makes some kind of face, a mix between a grimace and a nod. “Hmm. There was some printing error for a book that’s about to have a big launch. There was a lot of scrambling happening.”

“What book?”

“The History of ‘Slut’ and How to Banish it by Phayk Rightur,” he answers.

Your jaw drops. You grab his arm. “You’re joking. I fucking love Rightur! She wrote about the history of sex toys and how deeply ingrained they are in history. One of my most favourite books ever!”

“So she did,” he replies, smiling. “And so it is.”

“How do you manage it?” you ask, smile fading. “Studying, attending classes, the internship, and being president of a society? I’d drop dead if I had to do all of that. I mean, I had a taste of it last year when I was working a part time job to afford a ski trip with my friends while I was on the committee for two societies. But president in your third year? Damn.”

You’re on the main road now, just walking side by side as cars zoom past. Light from stores, from headlights, and from overhead streetlamps keep you both clear as day to each other’s gazes. 

“A lot of late nights,” he replies humourlessly. Then something indiscernible passes in his eyes as he looks down at you. “I ought to thank you, I think.”

You blink. “Thank me?”

He nods, looking straight ahead now, posture straighter, renewed energy channeling itself though his bones. “Yes. Without you, I wouldn’t have been motivated to work late nights, forced to open my notes and read and read until I passed out at my desk from exhaustion; I knew if I slacked off at any point for any reason, you would have eaten me up.”

This is the first time he’s ever revealed personal information to you, willingly anyway. Most of what you knew about him came from your own observations and from things heard in passing. 

Now, he’s readily offering information.

And you don’t know how to feel.

You stay silent, afraid that if you speak the bubble will burst. Nanami strikes you as the kind of man who, if he realises he’s divulging too much, will pull back and restrain himself. Maybe if you keep quiet long enough he’ll tell you a secret so embarrassing you can lord it over him in the future.

“I hate late nights,” he starts with absolute certainty. “I hate booking office hours and sitting in dull rooms when all I want is to take a stroll through the park. I hate staying in the library longer than I need to when the weather’s lovely and my friends are pestering me to hang out. I hate flicking through pages and pages until I get papercuts. I hate drinking energy drinks and coffee at terrible hours, and ruining my diet, and relying on ginger shots to keep my immune system protected enough to sit through an exam.”

You’re not a fan of late nights either. 

Who is? 

All your friends would confidently say you hate them, in fact; you complain enough. Sacrificing parties and dinners out for dusty old books isn’t easy, and you love dusty old books. You love learning, not cramming dates and foreign names into your head. You love constructing arguments, not typing away for hours and hours until your eyes are red and words start to lose all meaning.

Suffice to say, there’s certainly been many times when you’ve driven yourself mad wondering what it’s all for, but failure is not an option for you. 

It just isn’t.

You never really thought about if Nanami felt the same way, if he hated late nights too. Maybe in the back of your head you just saw him as an absolute machine powered by vitriol and a need to be pretentious. Maybe you just never saw him as someone who struggled, not like you.

“I’m already set to graduate with honours, with an impressive résumé and enviable references, and I have offers for graduate jobs lined up. So all this unnecessary bullshit — pardon my French — leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.”

Frowning, you say, “What a long winded way to flex—” 

“But there was,” Nanami continues, the weight of his eyes landing on the side of your face, “and is, nothing I hate more than seeing you claim victory over me.” 

You look up at him, footsteps stuttering.  

He’s not looking at you, yet he’s aware enough of your positioning to pull you by the crook of your elbow closer to his side when a fellow pedestrian walks a little too closely. 

“You’re not a good winner: you’re loud, you want everyone to know, and you’ll never let any of your competition live it down. And that uncoordinated display you call a ‘victory dance’ you do all over campus whenever you’re the top of your class leaves me with so much second-hand embarrassment, I have to sit by a pond and really reflect on where it all went wrong.”

Rolling your eyes, you say, “Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m awful. I’ve heard that before. Mostly from you. But also from plenty of other people. Thanks for the reminder.”

Nanami shakes his head, still smiling. “It wasn’t intended as an insult. Granted, it wasn’t a compliment either. I simply meant to say that if it wasn’t for you, for our rivalry, I would not be where I am today. Do not let it get to your head though. It doesn’t mean anything more than a comment I’ll deny in the future, but I thought it’s something that should be said aloud at least once.”

Knuckles brush against each other. Neither of you snatch your hands away.

“Yeah, well, I guess I could say the same for you,” you reluctantly say, huffing uneasily. “I admit I wouldn’t have worked as hard as I did, and do, if it wasn’t for the incentive of rubbing it into your face that I’m better than you. Thanks.”

He chuckles. “You’re very welcome.”

You reach your apartment before you realise it. It hadn’t even occurred to you that that was where you were walking. The walk felt as long as it was short. Your friends will be up, doing their own thing in their rooms. They wouldn’t notice if you came up unless you announce yourself.

You don’t make your way inside. The two of you stand by the doors, leaning against the railings of a ramp facing the road. 

Why did he walk with you the entire way? His place is in another direction entirely.

That should have been your question. What comes out instead is, “Why didn’t you ask me what the girl said?”

“What girl?” he asks, blinking.

“The girl,” you say as though that should be enough to spark something. It doesn’t. Somewhat exasperated, you add, “The girl with the message she wanted me to pass onto you?”

“Ah.” Nanami drops his bag and jacket off on the ground. He crosses his arms and legs at the ankle. “I’m not sure. Perhaps I expected you wouldn’t tell me even if I asked, especially considering that I hadn’t been giving you other men’s numbers or whatever message they have either.”

You forgot all about that. It never even occurred to you to ask for what exactly they’ve said. 

“I would have,” you say. “Told you if you wanted to know, I mean.” Your eyes flit to him. “Do you? Want to know?”

He looks at you quizzically, likely suspicious of your sudden inability to piece together a full sentence. “I suppose so,” he replies, slowly, carefully. “What did she say?”

Your arms are brushing together. Neither of you move. Despite the chill of the night, you don’t shiver, don’t think you should scurry off inside where it’s warmer, where you can put your sore feet up and sleep like the dead.

“She was pretty. A baker. Or just works at a bakery, I don’t know. Brown hair, brown eyes, petite. She seemed nice. Dresses well too. Cute top, classy jeans, clean shoes—”

“The relevance of her appearance will soon make itself clear I hope,” Nanami sarcastically drawls. 

Biting the inside of your cheek, you shrug. “Just wanted to set the scene, maybe jog your memory.”

“The message will suffice.”

Why is it so hard for you to say it aloud? Why can’t you just tell him? It’s not like she said anything offensive or embarrassing. Maybe you’re worried he’ll be upset that you withheld the information for so long, that you buried the lede, or didn’t chase her up on it on his behalf.

Maybe…

“She said she liked the book you recommended to her last week.”

He hums. “Is that why you’re dragging your feet in telling me? Because you’re jealous that no one has given you that feedback?”

Offended, you turn to him. “Um, actually, no. A lot of people have told me that. More people than you, I’m sure.”

Nanami looks at you too. His eyes soften out of lethargy. “Then why are you upset? Did she say something to you, something insulting? Or was she rude? I know you’ve encountered your fair share of impolite people, as have I, but try not to let her ruin your mood. For every bad customer, there are many more good ones,” he reminds you.

“No,” you breathe out, feeling guilty not that he’s assuming the worst of her, of someone who has a crush on him. “No, it’s nothing like that. I told you she was nice. Really nice actually. I think you’d like her.”

“I’ve yet to understand the relevance of any of these comments,” he says, concerned now. 

People pass by. None that spare either of you more than a glance, the kind of glance people give strangers to make sure they’re not a danger. 

Although you’re in public, there’s a twinge of intimacy colouring the atmosphere, one that not even being pressed up in a storage room together can bring. 

Finally, you give in. 

Head slumping on his chest, you mutter, “She wants to go on a date with you. To discuss the book or whatever.”

If he’s surprised by the weight of your body leaning on him, he doesn’t show it. Nanami wraps an arm around you, patting your back. He bears both of your weight as he leans back on the railing and you slot yourself between his legs. Your exhaustion has returned and you can no longer stand on your own. 

“I see. And this is upsetting to you?”

He’s like a therapist gauging your reactions, trying to see if you need to be restrained and kept away from sharp objects. It almost makes you laugh. Fiddling with a button on his shirt, you mumble into his chest, “No, I don’t care.”

Nanami’s warm. Like a furnace. It’s nice. He also smells good in spite of having worked a whole day. So unfair.

“Of course you don’t. You’re far more concerned with beating me in our classes, in our library, and in life right, my little victory-fanatic?”

You nod weakly. “Yep. That’s it. You got me.” Slowly, you peer up at him. Whatever he sees on your face has his gaze softening again, though not with exhaustion this time. You ask, “Are you going to say yes to her?”

He tucks your hair behind your ear. “What would you like me to say?”

“No. I want you to say no.”

Where did the honesty come from? You’re really dying to know. Because that was a truth you didn’t realise you bore. How odd. How seriously odd.

His nose skims your hairline, lips brushing your forehead. “You’re in luck — I have no intentions of agreeing to date her, or anyone. I’m far too busy to be a very good partner I fear.”

You hum. “It’s great to be self aware.” 

The answer was a relief, but it also leaves you unsatisfied, restless, unsure. Let’s just chalk it up to sleep deprivation, you mentally decide.

“Before I forget,” he says suddenly, pulling away a little to pick up his work bag, though he keeps a hand at your hips, fingers drumming, “I snuck a little something away from the firm. A gift for myself, I thought, after all the work they put me through for minimum wage.”

Curiously, you watch him open his bag and pull out a big envelope. He hands it to you. 

“For me?” You don’t wait for him to reply; you rip open the envelope, eyeing him with a warning in case what’s inside is a dead spider or a mousetrap. It’s neither. A hard, flat thing is pulled out by your tentative hand. “Is this…”

He adjusts his glasses, pink tinging his cheeks. “It’s not quite of my interest. I figured you’d find it of more value than I would. Especially after I noticed you brought another of her book to class some time last year. Although, that being said, you are under no obligation to like it, a fact which you’ll no doubt make clear if history with you is anything to go by—”

“Kento, shut the fuck up.”

“Yes, alright.”

The hard, flat thing in question is a manuscript. Bound in a hard case, like a notebook with coil binding. When you open it to the front page, you see in uppercase and in bold, The History of ‘Slut’ and How to Banish it by none other than Phayk Rightur. 

Squealing, you jump into his arms, wrapping your own around his neck, and placing a long kiss on his lips before you can even think about your actions. Nanami’s grip on your hips tighten at first in surprise. He drops his guard, melting, and tugging you closer to him. 

His eyes are half-lidded, staring down at your lips and chasing them when you pull away with a fat grin. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” you repeat, peppering kisses all over his face. “This is the best gift ever!” 

You’ve never been given a manuscript before. It just simply isn’t a gift one could buy. And your family and roommates know very well how many books you have — this is by far the most valuable one you have. Who even knows how much it could sell for? Not that you would; you’d both get into a lot of trouble if the firm knew their intern had stolen from them.

Clearing your throat, you ask,“Do you, um… Do you want to come up? It’s late and you’ll have a lot of walking to do. It might be best to wait till the morning.”

Nanami brows are knitted together as he runs a finger along the seam of his lips. Something seems to pass in his eyes. A realisation. A dawning. A something you can’t quite figure out. He straightens up, picking up the work bag he placed on the ground. “No. I appreciate the offer. Haibara will be expecting me. Go inside.” He raises a taunting brow up. “I won’t go easy on you even if you come in on Monday with a cold.”

Is he rejecting you?

Does it sting or are you just cold now that he’s let go of you?

“Y-yeah. Alright.”

The two of you stare at each other for a moment or two, unsure and waiting for the other’s next move. Why is it suddenly so awkward? 

“Um, goodnight, I guess,” you say, internally cringing. 

He gives a tight lipped smile, which isn’t really a smile at all. “Yes. Goodnight.”

And off you go, walking into your apartment building and not daring to glance back, afraid of what you’ll see if you do. 

.

.

.

“Oh, there you two are.”

You look to the side. Mrs. Collins is speed-walking in the way older ladies too, all hip swaying and slow. She flags down Nanami who’s ahead and brushing the floor up. 

“Before the end of your shift, before closing, please come by my office — it’s time for me to make my decision,” she says. 

A glance is shared between you and him. 

A whole week had passed since he walked you home. It also marks the end of the three weeks the Library Director had given you both to decide between you who goes and who doesn’t, and now it is time for her to decide for herself. 

The two of you didn’t mess around this week. Something about the looming end had him limp and you bone-dry. That or another reason you can’t really think much about. 

You’d texted Nanami once or twice. He never replied. You’d also tried to strike up a conversation with him, either during lunch breaks or on the way out, but he was always busy and had to go first. He didn’t come up to the sixth floor once to read. At least, he didn’t when you were there.

His sudden distance was odd. And frankly, annoying. And also not something you could casually mention to him. It felt very much like being right back at the start. 

Mrs. Collins smiles warmly, squeezing both of your arms. She adds, “Take it easy today. Don’t worry about slacking off or being behind. I want you two to enjoy your last couples here as two of my finest assistant librarians. Take a gander over at the restricted section if you haven’t already. I’ll see you both later.”

Without your replies, she strolls off, chasing down someone who’s holding a drink by the shelves with her stern face. 

“This is it, huh?” 

You jolt. You didn’t expect him to talk to you. “...It would seem so.”

“We should do something symbolic to commemorate our last shift together, don’t you think? We wouldn’t be Classical Lit students if we weren’t clichés, after all,” he suggests.

You beam. “We still haven’t read Satyricon. Should we go back up to the restricted section and read it?”

Adjusting his glasses, he nods. “Great idea. You go ahead, I’ll follow soon; I’m going to the bathroom first.

With a smile, you say, “Okiedokie. Don’t take too long.”

Weirdly enough, now that the day has arrived, you don’t feel very stressed. You were before you walked in through the doors. Now, you’re feeling pretty good. Maybe because he was actually talking to you, and you can stop feeling like you’d done something wrong.

The air shifts the moment you pass through the narrow iron gate of the restricted section — cooler, heavier, touched with the dry, almost sweet scent of aging paper and leather that has long since outlived its makers. 

This is what you love about libraries: the smell of lives lived, of stories told thousands of times. 

None of your friends understood why you would sniff every new book you bought, but to you it’s like crack. Better even. Not that you’ve had a taste of crack. Can you taste crack or is it strictly for sniffing?

A sense of nostalgia hits you.

You’re going to miss this place if you’re not chosen. 

A lifetime before, it seems, you would have been devastated by the concept of losing, especially to Nanami. Now, however, you don’t seem to have a strong preference for winning. All you can think about is that it’s a shame that the library’s experiencing budget cuts and that means you both can’t be here together from now on.

Acutely aware of everything, you see this part of the library in a new light.

An appreciative one.

An amazed gratitude.

You don’t rush.

There’s something deliberate in the way your fingers trail along the spines as you pass, grazing titles you’ve only ever whispered about in lectures, in half-joking, half-reverent tones. The Satyricon waits somewhere ahead, scandalous and sullied by you. You don’t greedily run to read it to make up for what you had failed to do the first time. Because this, more than anything, feels like the last moment before something closes. Before you are chosen, or not. Before you become singular instead of we.

A desk sits tucked beneath one of the windows.

The rest of the room is curated, meticulous, every volume catalogued and caged behind careful order; Mrs. Collins and the other keepers care for every book here like they’re their children. 

But the desk looks…interrupted. A chair drawn out just slightly. A book laid open, its spine pressed flat. The sight of it pulls you forward before you quite realise you’ve moved.

By the time you reach it, something uneasy has already begun to settle low in your stomach.

The book is older than most here — vellum pages, the ink faintly uneven with age, margins annotated in a careful, archaic hand. And…

A tear.

Not a gentle loosening of the binding, not the quiet decay of time. A page has been ripped clean out. Jagged edges remain, fibres splayed like a wound, the absence stark and unmistakable. For a moment, all you can do is stare at it, your mind refusing to reconcile the violence of it with the sanctity of the room.

“No,” you murmur, barely audible, as though the book might hear you. “What the hell? Who would do this?”

Your fingers hover, hesitant, before lowering to the edge of the tear. You don’t touch it, not really. Just enough to confirm it’s real, that this isn’t some trick of the light or your imagination. 

The damage feels…fresh. 

“Oh, my dear! I know I suggested you come up here, but I didn’t realise you would do it so soon. I am pleased to see you seizing the opportunity.”

The voice slices cleanly through the stillness.

Your head snaps up. Mrs. Collins stands a few steps in front of you, one gloved hand pressed lightly to her chest, the other still curled as though she’s just pushed the gate open in haste. She’s smiling at you. 

“Isn’t it just so wonderful up here?”

Her gaze drops.

So does her smile.

The shift is immediate. The next words she was about to utter to you are cut off mid-thought, replaced by a silence that seems to expand, pressing outward until it fills every corner of the room.

You follow her eyes, though you already know what she sees.

The open book. The torn page. Your hand, still hovering far too close.

“Oh,” she says softly. It isn’t loud. It isn’t accusatory, not in any overt way. But something in it lands heavier than if she had raised her voice.

“No.” The word comes quickly, instinctively, as you straighten, pulling your hand back as though burned. “That’s not— I found it like this. I just came in, and it was already—”

“My dear,” she interrupts, stepping forward now, her attention wholly claimed by the book. The warmth she’d worn earlier has thinned into something panicked, something intended to be subdued but failing. “Do you have any idea what this is?”

Her gloved fingers hover over the pages with a care you hadn’t quite managed, reverent even in their urgency. 

“I wouldn’t….Mrs. Collins, I didn’t do this,” you say, hating the way your voice sounds: too fast, too eager to prove you know, that you understand the gravity of it.

A small hum escapes her, noncommittal. Thoughtful.

She doesn’t look at you.

Instead, she leans closer to the book, inspecting the torn edge with a focus so intense it feels like you’ve already been dismissed from the equation. As though the only thing that matters — the only thing — is the damage itself, not how it came to be. “This is irreplaceable,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Absolutely irreplaceable…”

“I know,” you insist, softer now, stepping closer despite the instinct telling you to retreat. “That’s why I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t touch it like that. I came in and it was open already, I thought someone must have done this. Because I wouldn’t. You must know that.”

“Must I?” she wonders. “Because I seem to recall you reporting a previous incident to do with a ripped book.”

The pause that follows is small.

But it stretches.

Goddamn it, it stretches until you feel it’s about to snap against your skin and leave a permanent mark. And of course it stretches; you have no defence for yourself. That previous incident is damning. As is the fact that less than ten people have access to the restricted section, and you are one of those ten, and the only one found at the scene of the crime with a record that could be tied to vandalism.

At last, she straightens. Her gaze lifts, settling on you fully this time, and there it is. 

The change. 

There’s no clear accusation to fight, no direct disbelief to dismantle. Only that subtle shift in the way she holds herself, the careful neutrality that feels, somehow, like distance. Like a decision made and buried in the grass, six feet under.

Footsteps approach behind you.

Measured. Familiar.

Nanami.

Relief sparks. Brief, bright, almost desperate. You turn before he’s even fully in the room, already reaching for the steadiness of him, the unspoken understanding that has carried you through long shifts and longer nights, through whispered conversations between stacks and the quiet, heated moments stolen where no one could see.

He takes in the scene quickly. The desk. The book. You.

And he doesn’t look surprised.

Mrs. Collins turns to him at once, as though grateful for a second witness, a second anchor. “Mr. Nanami,” she says, her tone composed once more, though the tension beneath it remains. “Were you in here earlier? Did you happen to leave the gate unsecured? Because your colleague here is suggesting someone left the gate unlocked, allowing a vandal to desecrate a priceless manuscript, and all other members of our library are accounted for, but you.”

You flinch with her wording; she’s suggesting you’ve thrown him under the bus. But Nanami would see through that. He’d know you wouldn’t.

It would be so easy.

You don’t even realise you’ve stepped closer to him until your shoulder nearly brushes his arm. There’s an expectation there. Built on everything that has passed between you. On the way he looks at you when no one else is watching. All he has to do is look at you. Just once. To see you.

“I’ve only just arrived,” he replies, adjusting his glasses.

And that’s it.

No hesitation. No glance in your direction. No acknowledgment of the space you occupy, the accusation you’re standing in. The words fall cleanly into the room and settle there, offering nothing for you to hold onto.

Something in your chest tightens, sharp and immediate.

Of course he’s telling the truth. Of course he is. That’s who he is — precise, measured, unwilling to bend facts for comfort. You’ve admired that about him. Relied on it. But this isn’t about facts, and you both know it.

Mrs. Collins nods slowly, absorbing his answer, her attention already drifting back to the book, to the problem that can be quantified and contained. “I see.”

It’s absurd, really. Nothing has been said outright. No verdict delivered. And yet the conclusion settles heavy in your bones all the same.

If Mrs. Collins had wanted to keep you, she doesn’t now. All of you know it. Yet no one offers you an opportunity to defend yourself, to put your case forward. They’ve both stepped ahead together, leaving you behind. 

You look at him again, waiting stupidly, for something more. A correction. A clarification. Even just a quiet, “She wouldn’t do that.”

He doesn’t offer it.

When you look into his eyes, pleading, searching, all you can see is the flicker of doubt. You know without asking that he’s thinking back to when you had casually ripped a page from some random book some time ago too. He’s not staring at you accusingly, but the very fact that he’s not sure you didn’t do this is enough.

The distance between you yawns open, sudden and immense.

And when Mrs. Collins shakes her head and off-handedly says to Nanami, “You were right — she’s just not cut out for this job. Too emotional. Too unstable. Just doesn’t have what it takes,” that distance becomes a gaping chasm.

You stumble back, like you’d been struck. 

Neither of them are on your side. 

They never were.

“I understand,” you say at last, though no one has asked you to. “Perhaps it’s best that I see myself out early today.”

Your voice sounds steady. You’re grateful for that, at least. For the small mercy of not fracturing in front of them both. Because you will not cry in front of Nanami fucking Kento.

Mrs. Collins offers a polite, distracted nod, already reaching for solutions that don’t involve you.

Nanami says nothing.

And in the quiet that follows, you turn away and never look back.

“keep talking like that and i’ll go soft,” suguru says, but judging from the way his hand speeds up, you think it might be the opposite. 

satoru grins wide, all teeth and arrogance, as he pulls you up. he sits facing his phone and drags you onto his lap, your back against his chest, legs spread over one of his muscled thighs. “don’t act like a virgin. i know you want a closer look. and she wants you to look, don’t you?” 

you squirm as you feel the rough denim of satoru’s jeans press against your bare, sensitive pussy and try to hide your face in his neck. but your awful boyfriend only chuckles low, forcing your hips to grind forward. “aw, baby, don’t be like that. suguru’s just jealous over there, pumping his cock like it’s his only friend left. right?” 

suguru’s breath stutters and he reaches over to adjust the phone for a better angle on himself, his fist wrapped tight around his thick shaft, sliding up and down with deliberate pumps. “you talk too fucking much. just get on with it.” 

satoru laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back as he rocks your pussy harder against his thigh, the friction building slick heat between your legs. your clit drags over the seam of his jeans, sending jolts of pleasure that makes you whimper softly, mortified that suguru can hear every wet slide. 

“see that, suguru?” your boyfriend purrs. “she’s soaking my pants already. ride it harder, baby—grind that pretty pussy on me. tell him how good it feels. or are you too embarrassed? come on, moan for the camera.” 

you bite your lip, heat creeping up your neck, but satoru’s fingers dig in, forcing a rhythm back and forth and back and forth, your folds parting around the hard muscle. 

you shudder out his name. “this feels…”

“that’s it, sweets,” he drags out sweetly, nipping the lobe while his other hand slides up to pinch your nipple through your shirt.  “fuck my thigh like you mean it. look at suguru, baby—his dick’s leaking just from watching you. bet he wishes he could feel this juicy cunt instead of his own hand. right, suguru? admit it, you’re hard as fuck for my girl.” 

suguru grunts, his strokes audible now, fist slick with his own pre-cum. “you’re such a dick, satoru. bet you cum from your own dirty talk.” 

knowing just how desperate your boyfriend can get, you whine as the pleasure coils tight. your pussy clenches around nothing as you rut faster, clit throbbing against satoru’s jeans. 

“w-wait,” you manage through your gasps, humiliated how loud your slick sounds are, how suguru’s watching every desperate grind. “oh, fuck—it’s too much!”

satoru smirks at the phone, his thigh flexing up to rub harder against your swollen lips. “hear that? that’s how she sounds when she’s close. but you’re not getting there, baby, not yet. slow down—tease yourself for him. show suguru how you edge that pussy on my leg.”

he stills your hips just enough to make you whine in protest, hands closing around his biceps in an attempt to steady yourself. 

“fuck you, satoru,” suguru groans, but his hand doesn’t stop, twisting around his cockhead with a wet schlick. “let her cum. you’re dragging this out.” 

“jealous much?” satoru shoots back, then turns his attention back to you, murmuring in your ear. “want more? you’re gonna have to work for it. come here, face me and get on all fours.” 

he doesn’t wait for you to move, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and tugging them open just enough to free his thick cock. it springs out, hard and veined, the tip already glistening with pre-cum as he gives it a lazy stroke. 

you do not need to be told twice. 

“come on, crawl over and wrap your pretty lips around me. show suguru how you do it.” 

you turn and crawl up his legs, ass lifted for the camera, thighs parting slightly to expose your dripping folds, the cool air hitting your heated skin. 

satoru leans back on his hands as you take over stroking him, kissing the length of it. “open your mouth, let me see your tongue.”

you part your lips, tongue flicking out to lap at the salty bead on his tip before taking him in, hollowing your cheeks as you suck. 

he groans, thrusting shallowly to hit the back of your throat, the stretch making your eyes water. one of your hands reaches back between your thighs, fingers sliding through the mess of slick and drool, circling your clit before dipping into your entrance with a soft squelch. 

distantly, you hear suguru curse. 

your fingers work your pussy in rhythm, plunging in and out, thumb rubbing your swollen clit as juices coat your hand and trickle down your thigh. 

“shit, look at her.” suguru’s breath hitches audibly, his strokes turning rougher, cock twitching in his grip. “ass up like that, fingering herself while she’s slurping on your dick. you’re a bastard for this, satoru, but fuck if it isn’t working.”

satoru chuckles before breaking into a soft moan. “yeah? bet you’re leaking just watching. hear that—ngh—sound? that's her creaming on her own fingers because my cock’s got her that desperate. go on, baby—moan around my cock. tell suguru how much you love sucking me off, how you’re throbbing for it.” 

he pulls your hair tighter, holding you steady as he grinds deeper and deeper, the head of his dick pulsing against his tongue. 

your mouth works satoru’s dick with desperate suction, tongue swirling around the thick shaft as you bob deeper, gagging on the length that fills your throat. saliva drips down your chin while your fingers plunge relentlessly into your soaked pussy, chasing your own high. your ass stays high, thighs spread wide for the phone, letting suguru watch every clench of your walls and every glide of your thumb over your throbbing clit. 

pleasure builds in your core, your body trembling on the edge, but satoru’s breaths turn ragged, his hips stuttering as he grips your hair tighter. 

“fuck, baby—slow down,” satoru grunts, voice rough and strained, his cock swelling against your tongue. before you can double down, he yanks you off with a wet pop, your lips leaving him shiny and slick, strings of spit connecting you to his pulsing head. 

you gasp for air, spluttering. “why?”

satoru strokes himself once, twice, eyes flicking to the phone, where suguru’s face is flushed, his own fist flying over his cock. 

suguru seems to catch onto what you don’t because he suddenly says, “wait, don’t stop—let me see her cum, satoru, you asshole—”

“night, suguru. enjoy the blue balls.” satoru grins, leaning forward and around you to end the call with a wet finger. 

he tosses the phone aside, not giving it another glance, and hauls you up by your arms like you weigh nothing. he drops back into the bed and pulls you up onto his lap, your pussy clenching empty now that your fingers are gone. “did you like that, sweets?” he coos, though he knows the answer, if your state is any indication. 

“that was mean.” you pout, squirming. “he was going to cum.”

“i’m not letting anyone see you cum.” his hands slide down to your hips, lifting you over his cock. “up you go, ride me proper.”

he lines you up, the broad head nudging your dripping entrance and making you whine in anticipation. 

you sink yourself down with a sharp cry, his thickness stretching you wide, filling every inch until your ass meets his lap, buried to the hilt. the burn of the stretch mixes with relief, your walls fluttering as he wastes no time—thrusting hard, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. 

satoru grabs your wrists, guiding your hands to the headboard above. “hold on tight, baby, i’m not going to be able to slow down.”

you obey, fingers curling just in time as he starts fucking up into you in earnest. 

his hips snap upward with brutal force, cock dragging against your inner walls, hitting deep with each drive. your tits bounce with every thrust, nipples hard and aching in the cool air, while your pussy gushes around him, coating his shaft and balls with your arousal. 

“ah—fuck! satoru, you’re so deep,” you moan, body jolting, the headboard creaking under your grip. 

he angles his hips just right, grinding against that spot inside that makes stars burst behind your eyes, his free hand sliding up to pinch your nipple, twisting it until you arch your back. sweat slicks your skin, the room smelling of sex and sweat, but he doesn’t let up—pounding relentlessly, his voice dropping low and filthy as words spill out. 

“god, look at you, taking my cock like a greedy little slut—your pussy’s sucking me in so tight. you’re so fucking wet. bet you loved putting on that show for suguru, didn’t you? fingering that wet hole while he jerked off to you. but now it’s all mine, baby—gonna fill you up, pump you full of cum.” 

you feel him throb harder inside you, his thrusts growing more erratic as his own voice turns him on more. you submit yourself completely, falling into his chest and letting him bear hug you, burying his face in your neck and inhaling ferally. 

“fuck yeah—imagine suguru hearing you scream my name right now, knowing he can’t have this tight pussy wrapped around him.” satoru’s breath hitches, his grip around you tightening. 

“gonna cum?” you stutter, meeting his thrusts. 

he nods frantically, a whiny tilt entering his tone. “so fucking much, baby, oh god. gonna cum so hard for you.” 

with a guttural groan, he slams up one last time, burying deep as he cums hard. hot spurts flood your pussy, coating your insides, his body shuddering beneath you while he rides out the waves, still muttering praises between clenched teeth. 

“that’s it, take it all,” he rasps, hips jerking shallowly to push it in deeper, your walls clenching around him in response, drawing out his release until he’s spent panting into your hair. “god, you kill me every time.” 

you let out a breath, slumping into him fully. “think suguru is still mad?” 

your boyfriend chuckles weakly. “i gave him some real life material. he should be grateful if anything.”

his phone pings on time and satoru groans, fumbling around the sheets until his fingers close around it. he holds it up and you tilt your head over your shoulder to see. 

there’s a single notification. 

suguru: involve me

That was only a few things you could do, the list could go on. 

So when you'd asked him if he could pick up your order from a restaurant from the other side of the city that he lived closer to, and he said he couldn't, waiting for you to add a “please.” You just said, “okay” and sent another guy to get it for you since you were too lazy to drive there yourself. 

When he finds out, he's flabbergasted and comes over that very night with all your favorite snacks and sweets to make up for it. You answered the door and shrugged when he apologized, expression disinterested, not upset at all as you said, “It’s not like we're dating. Don't worry about it.”

That was a physical blow to his ego. How could you just use the line he used on other women all the time when they wanted more, on him? Now he was determined to make you want him. 

And you did. But only for his dick. Something your toys could not replicate unfortunately. But he's sure when the line of shiny, new replace-all-men androids are released and customizable, you'll dump him for a less bothersome, unfeeling robot to match your personality. 

He never felt as…used as he did with you. You'd only call him over when you wanted release, using him like a fucking stress ball except instead of squeezing it in your fist, you were milking his cock with your snug cunt. On top of that, you'd lay him out completely. 

The sex is incredible, really. He puts you through the mattress and you love every second of it. You do the same to him, riding him until the wheels fall off. But what makes his eye twitch is how easily you get up after, barely a limp in your step as you gather your scattered clothes and go clean up, telling him to see himself out. 

Since the universe wants to make an example out of him, perhaps give him some karma for all the times he's wronged people, he realises he's in love with you when you snap for the first time at him. Gloriously too, over him having you worried sick because he got into a motorcycle accident even after you fucking told him your arrangement is over if he keeps that death trap that could turn him into a human crayon. 

Naturally, he sold all of his beloved bikes and asked to be your boyfriend instead. 

Things were going great but he had to make himself useful out of fear that you'd just get rid of him like an old shoe you once loved then threw away when it got worn down. He became your handyman, mechanic, electrician, plumber, chauffeur, chef—the works. It's a good thing he's a quick learner. 

Still, that nagging feeling that you'd never really have any need for him in your life always loomed over him like a dark, pregnant cloud. And you weren't perfect as much as he liked to think you were. You had bad moods, you didn't like people in your space all the time, you were snappy on some days. That was fine, he had his shitty moments too. 

What made him call it quits was when you broke things off because you were stressed from work, your family was on your back about their expectations despite barely helping you build yourself up to where you were now and you were having a bit of an existential crisis, overthinking your entire life. 

One of the decisions you made during that time was ending your relationship with him. It fucking hurt, stabbed him right in the chest as a thousand sharp needles but he grit his teeth and beared it. If it was meant to be, you'd have another chance. 

Though it sucked ass that you had many mutual friends who now had to plan hangouts with either you or him like you were coparents who just divorced and were sharing custody of their children. If you met, all hell would break loose, especially that early in the split. 

For everyone's sake, you and Sukuna shared a wordless agreement that neither of you could be friends with an ex after a break up. Couldn't stand existing in the same space as someone you gave so much to just to act like there was no intimacy, no history between you. It made your stomach turn to think about. 

Thankfully, once you ended things, all the shops and places in the city you'd both frequent never saw either of you. You never see flashes of pink amidst the busy crowds and he never hears your contagious laughter amongst the patrons at a restaurant. 

So imagine your horror and surprise when six months after that faithful day, you run into him on the street while you're on your way to your third date with a decent guy who'd never be him but that was okay. You weren't looking for another gut-wrenching heartbreak. 

Much to your dismay, he looks better than ever. But so do you. Time does heal all wounds, you suppose. He's glad the dark circles and apathetic expression he wore for the first three months are nowhere to be found as he smirks down at you and you're relieved that you're not running on two hours of sleep, caffeine and sheer spite anymore. 

Sukuna whistles at the sight of you in your coat, hair all lustrous and silky in the streetlight, face aglow, eyes bright and lips tinted a sultry red that matches the clinging dress you're wearing inside, heels bringing you up to his nose. You always did clean up so nice on a date night, blowing him away even now when this wasn't for him. That didn't mean he couldn't appreciate it from an outsider's perspective even if that reminder did sting a bit.

You begrudgingly think that he looks good too. He's got a fresh cut, the sides of his head tapered, strands akin to bristles that'd tickle your fingers and neck whenever he'd nuzzle his face there, the longer hair at the top pushed back, making his carmine eyes look sharper with a gleam of mirth in them, the tattoos decorating his face hiking up with the quirk of humor on his lips. He's on his way for drinks with Choso and Yuji, their weekly family meet up.

Despite the bored, unimpressed expression on your face, the man has known you for long enough to see the slight flare of surprise in your gaze and the traitorous flutter of your lashes when you take in the button up and jeans he's got on, a chain you gifted him sitting pretty on his neck. 

“Sorry,” he apologises in the least remorseful tone possible, smirk widening when your eyes narrow. There's that emotion he always fought to see when he was courting you. “Is this the part where I turn and run away?” 

Rolling your eyes in that arc that's imprinted in his mind—along with the way you'd drag the first syllable of his given name when you were annoyed but still very much in love with him and the kisses you'd press to his cheek randomly which would give him whiplash—you sigh. 

“We're adults, Sukuna,” you say and ouch, that hurts. He was wishing for a “Ryo” but that's a privilege he lost so he'll endure it. “We'll just go our separate ways and that's the end of it.” 

Lips thinning to hold back his instinctive protest like clenching his fist and pulling on a needy dog's leash so it doesn't break off and run free to tackle you, he nods. “Okay. Have a goodnight.” 

That should've been the end of it but to your annoyance and his delight, you set off in the same direction.

“Are you serious?” You hiss, assuming he's following you. 

Hands stuffed in his pockets so as not to reach out and brush away that unruly strand of hair that always curls on your forehead, kissing your eyebrow like they're long lost lovers, he shrugs with a helpless smile, puffing out a chuckle. 

“I'm not being a creep. My destination is on this route, baby,” he assures you, tucking his lips into his mouth at his blunder when you cut him a glare for the endearment. 

“Whatever, just shut up and walk faster so I don't have to see your face every time I look to my left,” you tell him with a dismissive wave. 

He scoffs in absolute refusal, coral tresses dancing with the breeze as streetlights cast his face in warm light, softening his ink and sharp features. Eyelids lowering, he casts you a flat look from the corner of his eye that's knowing and lazy.

“And leave you to walk all the way by yourself, looking like that? You know there's sleazy bastards around here,” he drawls matter-of-factly, glancing down at your shoes and exhaling through his nose as he shakes his head.

It's the same sadistic pair that would leave you limping with blisters by the end of the night. He'd massage your heels when you got home, your legs thrown on his lap as he scolded you about wearing them again while you just said, “Beauty hurts, Ryo.” 

“Tell me you brought a spare pair,” he almost pleads as he looks to the heavens for guidance because his ex-girlfriend is still a masochist. 

“No, I don't need them.” 

“Sure.” 

“You're free to leave if they're bothering you.” 

Somehow he convinces you to come to his car parked nearby as he remembered that he never took your backup heels out of it and you didn't even realize they were missing because you had so many pairs. And yet you still choose these evil ones. 

Once you put them on, your relief was instant as you groaned and Sukuna's ears went pink from how mildly sexual it sounded. 

Then, because your date was running late and the restaurant happened to be just across the street from the bar your ex was going to, he invited you to sit with him for a bit. 

Yuji and Choso are over the moon to see you, having missed you. Their friendship with you was more of a sibling dynamic than anything and they kept in touch even after you broke up with their older brother. 

“Got a date tonight, huh? You're gonna knock his socks off!” Yuji exclaims, ever your cheerleader, the sides of his eyes crinkling with excitement as he clinks his glass against yours, rosy cheeked already. 

Sukuna snorts which you ignore but Choso's gaze flicks to him for a second then comes back to you. They're having a private conversation with their eyes for sure which Yuji is oblivious to. 

“I don't know. It's not my first date with him so he's seen me all dolled up before,” you chuckle lightly, taking a sip of your mocktail since you didn't want to drink in front of a certain someone and spew your thoughts. 

“Well,” Choso starts and there's something scheming in his eyes. “You know what they say about the third date.” 

Oh. That was not something you'd ever expect him to say. He's always a bit reserved, never this blunt. You let out a surprised laugh, smiling behind the rim of your glass.

Yes, maybe you will let your date have you tonight. It's been too long and you were a bit starved, even catching yourself considering the coworker who was old enough to be your dad. 

“We'll see,” you reply playfully, causing Yuji to flush and Choso to shake his head in amusement. 

Sukuna however does not find you amusing in the slightest. Which is funny because he'd always laugh, even reluctantly when you made a dumb joke that pulled a grin from him. 

He finds it so lame that he stands and excuses himself, saying he's going outside for some fresh air. And as soon as he's gone, his brothers’ heads turning in unison like meerkats until the door shut behind him, they huddled together, eyes on you. 

“I knew it!” Yuji whisper-yells in glee, startling you as you never took him for the conspiring type. “He's still in love with you despite how he insists he isn't.” 

You blink. “He isn't and even if he was, I'm over him.” 

Choso arches a thin brow, eyes tracing over your face for even a crack in your resolve. It's unnervingly slow and his eyes are more compelling because of the purple hue around them. 

“Really?” 

“Really.” 

Eyeing you for a beat more, he relents and leans back in his seat with a shrug. “Okay, good. I can finally get on his ass to move on now ‘cause he keeps turning down my offers to set him up with someone new.” 

Straightening at that, both men latch on to the action and you want to shrink away but refuse. “What does that have to do with me?” 

“Just that seeing you moving on tonight was the push he needed to finally let go.” 

Here you thought you had healed. Your heart didn't flip when you saw him earlier. Butterflies didn't swarm your tummy. You could look at him without regret but hearing that he was only about to let go of you didn't sit right with you. 

Maybe you were selfish but you wanted him to hold on. You were holding on too. Stupidly. As if you didn't break things off on a whim. It hurt how easily he accepted it. If he put up more of a fight, you may have had the chance to scare him off entirely but he just upped and left simply because you asked him to. 

Admittedly, it stung that he didn't fight for you but you know deep down that it would have driven you away if he pressed on a matter that you were adamant about while you were in a fragile state. He showed you he loved you by letting you go. 

But he was about to do it again, no fight like the brawls he'd get into before you met, no anger like the one that would simmer in his eyes when his loved ones were hurt, no yelling when he took off with disrespectful pricks. He had that fire in him but he never used it to burn you, just warm you—engulfed you in an embrace of coral pink and glimmering crimson. 

“Good for him,” is all you can say since there's nothing else you want to admit. 

Both men study you then go back to filling you in on their own relationships as they can see that you need the distraction. Yuko and Yuki are their girlfriends and you're familiar with both women, adoring how well they suit the brothers. 

A buzz from your phone alerts you that your date has arrived at the restaurant so you bid the boys goodbye and head outside. 

Sukuna’s just about to walk in when you step out. His jaw clenches when he watches you exit with the chime of the overhead bell. 

“Enjoy your date,” he tells you, though there's an underlying bitterness in his tone that makes it come off more than he's cursing the man and his firstborn child. 

You don't let it provoke you as you nod curtly, feeling a tad bit uncertain about your choices now. A man who was clearly smitten with you was waiting for you and yet you were here, lingering just a second in case the one you left asks for you back. 

Shoving down those ridiculous thoughts, you go to walk away, heels clicking on the gravel when he calls out to you, brows lowered like they did when he notices something is off with you. 

“You okay?” 

“Never better.” 

There's a flash of frustration that creases his forehead briefly before he steps forward, the scent of his cologne, aftershave and soap dizzying you as his shadow falls over you. 

“Don't give me that. Here, let me fix your coat. It's all skewed. Can't have you making a bad impression,” he fusses like he used to fix the collars of your shirt before you both left for work in the mornings, steady hands smoothing out your shoulder pads and adjusting the lapels. 

“Wouldn't want people thinking I have bad taste when they see my ex all disheveled,” he mutters slyly after, making it about him to get a reaction out of you.

Breath hitching, it feels like his rough, calloused palms are skimming over your bare body, breasts tightening from the mere graze, full and heavy as your nipples pinch, pebbling. 

Arching a rosy brows in suspicion, the familiar, discerning spark in his scarlet irises threaten to shatter you into pieces as he hums, a low, guttural sound that thrums all the way from your chest down to your clit, heat pooling in your lower belly and seeping between your thighs. 

“Sure you're good?” He reiterates his earlier question, fully aware that you aren't if the white hot flash that blows your pupils wide and your hooded eyes are anything to go by. 

“I'm the best I've ever been,” you breathe. 

Gaze raking over you, it's agonizing as it drags up and down the length of your body like he's got x-ray vision. And maybe he does because his eyes catch alight and he moves before you can stop him. 

Deft fingers slide down the sensitive side of your glittery—thanks to your body butter—neck and sweep across your collarbone, goosebumps pricking your smooth skin. Two hook onto the dip of your neckline and tug it forward, his gaze dropping down to the valley of your breasts, warmth licking at the corners of his vision at the lace hugging the swells of your chest. 

Accusatory eyes find yours, squinting as that fury you were secretly longing for sets his irises alight, the hunger in them overshadowed by it. 

“The red set you wore for my birthday?” He grits out between clenched teeth, seething like the bubbling hot lava in your stomach, heart climbing up your throat. 

“I just wanted to see if my girls are good,” he says in a way that'd make people think you had kids together. They'd be horrified if they knew that's how he referred to your tits, occasionally pulling at your shirts to look down at them and sigh dreamily like a perv while you laughed and pushed him away. “And you're dressed up in my gift for some fucker who'll probably slip it in the wrong hole?” 

Face on fire as passerbys avert their gazes, your own ire rises at that as you pull away. “It was your gift but that's long over now.” 

He juts his jaw at the restaurant. “Yeah? Then why are you here and not running along to your dinner reservations? Wouldn't wanna be late, would you?” 

Bristling, you glower, chin raised and nose cocked in defiance that he'd always kiss off. “Don't get cocky, Sukuna. Your brothers told me you're only just now moving on so I simply pitied you enough to see how you're doing before I leave.” 

The air grows cold after you say that, but he graces you with a scorching heat from the darkest, angriest expression you've ever seen marring his harsh features. Though marring would be the wrong word as he's still so fucking handsome. 

“Just because they think I haven't been with anyone else, doesn't mean it's true. You of all people should know that I don't go yapping about my personal life like that.” 

Your breathing ceases. “So you've been with other people?” 

It's his turn to be insolent, staring at you down the line of his nose. “What if I have? It's none of your business, right?”

Jaw flexing, you nod. “Right.”

Turning on your heel, you walk in the wrong direction. “Hey! The restaurant is that way.” 

“I know, you fucking prick!” The vitriol in your voice halts him in his steps, the livid click-clacks of your heels nearly deafening. “I'm going to your car to get my heels in case you use that to try and see me again. Or worse, give it to one of your flings thinking it's theirs.”

“Great going, genius. You don't even have my keys,” he growls, marching after you. You think he's jogging now as his footfalls get faster and you hate that satisfaction loosens the knot in your chest at the fact that he's giving chase. 

Gunshots and grenades could not hold a candle to the shouts and concerningly colourful expletives that left you both, ringing out into the night air as you stomped to the car. It was the anxiety-inducing kind that promised nothing good was about to come from it and the bystanders who were unlucky enough to witness the verbal sparring steered clear of you both as if you could draw your weapons and fight at any moment without any regard for the innocents nearby. Some even had the cops ready on speed dial. 

Fortunately for them, Sukuna argued with you into his passenger seat since he apparently “ruined your mood” so you canceled the date, the back and forth continuing all the way to his penthouse, ending in a fistful of kisses in the elevator as the numbers ascended, lips smacking and saliva swapping with aggressive hair pulls, harsh breaths and moans that sounded like you hated yourselves for doing this. 

That didn't stop either of you from fumbling with his key card, cussing when the jarring, incorrect beep would cut through your pawing hands trying to get each other's coats off. When it eventually opened, you almost fell through the doorway with a squeaky yelp but he banded a burly arm around your waist, pulling you flushed to him and chuckling. 

“Still a clumsy thing, huh?” 

“Fuck you.” 

“That's the idea.” 

A hasty trail of clothes lay strewn on his polished floors, his pants and your dress hanging like drying laundry on the railing of his stairs that lead up to the bedrooms.

Of course, Sukuna doesn't make it easy for you. Not after you hurt him by kicking him out of your life at the time he'd be needed the most. 

The lace of your panties are soaked with your slick as he ruts his cock against your slippery folds over the fabric. You're spread out under him on the bed, clutching his sheets so you don't claw at his inked body with your manicured nails for being a fucking tease. 

“Now, now, don't pout, baby,” he coos mockingly, enjoying torturing you too much with his blushing cock lined with veins and topped off with a dark pink tip, bubbling with pearls of precum at the slit.

Your thighs are hooked over his parted thighs that are digging into the mattress as he rocks back and forth between your legs, grinning at how the sopping cloth clings to your slit with your wet, pussy eating up the lace to feel more of him. 

“Sukuna, if you don't put it in, I swear—”

“You're gonna leave me again?” His voice loses its lightness, the edges sharpening like his gaze strikes you in the chest. The hurt swirling in his irises has a lump gathering in your throat. 

“Maybe I will,” you find yourself stubbornly saying. “But if you want to chafe your cock by rubbing it over my panties all night then by all means, carry on. Just don't complain when it burns when you shower.” 

A huff leaves him at your pathetic excuse and he grips your hips, dragging you closer as he grinds between your swollen lips. “I'll be fine.” 

The underside of his cock runs down your folds with slick, slightly muted rustles and a gasp kicks out of your chest when his tip nudges your clit. He angles his hips to let it happen over and over again until you're breathless and whining from the tingling friction tickling your lower belly. 

The lips of your cunt nestle his cock, wavering with each back and forth buck of his hips. You lift your own for more, elbows aching from where they're pressed into the bed to hold you up. 

“Ryo, please,” you concede, using his name and your forgotten manners to hit him where it hurts. 

It does the job as he tears off your flimsy underwear with a biting rip at your hip, your plump flesh recoiling when the cloth snaps and sags then sails in the air to land on the floor like a fallen soldier. 

“I thought you liked those!” You lament, mourning the loss of one of your favorite sets. 

Clicking his tongue, he scowls at you. “Lost its appeal when you were about to wear it for someone else.” 

You purse your lips to suppress a smile at that. Contrary to his belief, you haven't slept with anyone since the breakup so that's the reason you're so worked up about him doing so. 

That reminder has you frowning and he cups your chin, lifting your gaze to his. 

“I haven't been with anyone either,” he clears your doubts which makes you wonder if you said all that out loud. But Sukuna's always been good at reading your thoughts. 

“What makes you think I've been celibate?” You huff at the confidence in his voice. 

“For one, you're freshly waxed which I'm honestly offended about. My girl likes a trim and a low taper fade,” he answers so seriously and you have to stifle your laugh as your eyes narrow. 

Being the little shit he is, he pats your pubic mound solemnly, palm petting your smooth, bare skin like he's comforting it after it was violated by your wax lady. 

“And two,” he adds, going to demonstrate. 

A sexy deadpan paints his face as he slides a hand between your bodies, coating it in your pooling slick and pushes it into your puddling hole which for all its arousal puts up telling resistance of someone who hasn't fucked anyone in a while. 

Say, six months. 

The stretch burns slightly which embarrasses you as it is only one finger. Drawing it out, he lifts it to the light, webbing the slick between his fingers like an artist admiring his work. Then he sucked them clean. 

“Looks like I have to fuck you nice and slow first, huh?” 

“So you don't come quick?” 

“You fucking infuriating woman,” he cusses and you laugh. 

Though you wish you could say you took him as easily as the last time, you couldn't. But you were a trooper even when he dipped his tip in and you felt so full, asking if he put it all the way, earning an apologetic smile and kiss to the cheek from him. 

Even when the backs of your eyes burned, when you were overwhelmed about feeling well and truly stuffed, when the pain caught in your stomach and had you scratching at his abdomen—you took it like a champ. 

He did well too, all his muscles pulled taut so he didn't bully the rest of himself into you, face pressed into your neck to ground himself in your yummy scent while his own surrounded you along with his weight, warmth and soothing voice.

“That's it, baby. Let me in, slow and steady,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing at your clit so your cunt flutters and sucks him in deeper, stretching to accommodate an old friend. 

The stinging pain eased into a delicious fullness that had you bucking up to get more of him inside you and he gladly obliged. 

A tremble rolled through you as he sinks all the way in, shuddering groans falling from both your mouths, lips brushing. Head spinning, a wave of pleasant dizziness washes over you as his cock throbs inside you, hugged by your gooey, molten walls. 

Puffing a laugh against your lips, he presses a sweet kiss to them. “Look at them getting reacquainted, hmm? Oh, I missed her.”

You loll your head to the side, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes and cocking a brow when you see he's fixated on how he's splitting you open on his cock, base kissing the outline of your slit. He gives you a sheepish smile when he sees you caught him. 

“I'd say I missed you too but you didn't miss me.” 

You glare at him for that as you both know you won't admit it now. 

At least not yet, Sukuna thinks. 

“Such a good girl. Always taking me well,” he praises in a low, mind-melting whisper, thrusting short, quick thrusts to get you used to it. “So fucking good. So good for me, baby.” 

The pressure of his shaft within you is hot and sweet, saliva pooling in your mouth as you watch him pull out and push back in with a breathy groan as you whimper from the loss then moan as he fills you to the brim once more. 

It's slow and deep then fast and hard, alternating in the most delirious, rhythmic pace that makes the room sway, your mind sweeping away into a whirlpool of warmth, steam permeating within your body. Bracing your hands on his forearms, you hold onto the only solid thing so you stay afloat and don't get pulled under. 

A fluffy haze blankets the room, heavy, thick and flaring with each obscene squelch, slap of sweat-slicked skin, airy sigh, wanton moan, guttural groan and low grunt that spills into the toasty air. 

Sukuna is all over you, mouth latching onto your nipples, sucking hickeys into your flesh, biting at every inch of skin he can sink his teeth into, kissing you wet, bruising and messy, licking the whimpers that drip from your lips and humming in approval when you suck on his tongue, cunt fluttering around his cock and drawing his orgasm closer. 

You were an untamed wildfire and he was both gasoline to worsen you and cool water to douse you. Each thrust in fanned your flames while every drag out snuffed it out only to breathe life into it again with the following snap of his hips. 

“Still mine after all this time, hmm?” 

“No,” you denied through a wavering voice.

It was from his pelvis grinding against your clit and the brush of his chest against your breasts that had branches of dazzling electricity spreading through your body and making you shudder from the friction, not his words. 

“No?” His brows crease as he fucks into you deeper, pushing the moans out of your chest, low and raspy. “Who's pussy is this?” he asks in a grouchy tone, overly possessive and you let out a throaty giggle at that. 

You'd always told him how cringy you found that dirty talk line and he'd jokingly say it to pull laughter from you during sex like right now. He can't even stay in character, thrusts slowly as he laughs too, the sound vibrating through you. 

“Hmm, it's mine but I'm willing to share,” you purr, ducking your head and biting at his peck, feeling it yield beneath your teeth as he moans, fingers tracing the dark, intricate markings lining his tan skin. 

“I can live with that,” he breathes, both of you breaking into panting laughter after, the atmosphere lighthearted and intimate before you're lost in the sea of feeling and the desperate, urgent drag of your bodies once more. 

Rays of silvery moonlight spill into the dark of his bedroom, the celestial body a peeping tom to how the big, scary tattooed man puts you in every single position he can think of—missionary, prone bone, doggy, mating press, full nelson and so on—giving and giving while you're taking and taking. 

You don't take it lying down, of course, making him take just as much as he's giving as you take him in cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, lotus, amazon, and much more. Hell, the full moon must've been blushing from all that it saw, cursing its curiosity as the erotic noises from the lovers deafened it. 

Over and over again, the building pressure in your lower belly bursts into sparkling, tingling flames as you come, a shiver wracking through your body, melting into a boneless heap of languid heat on the bedding. Sukuna does too, many times, that tingling in his groin rising up his cock and spilling hot, sticky come inside you, white spots flashing behind his eyelids.

Sukuna can feel it coming before you even move, before you even think about doing it as you're laying on his chest, cheek squished to his pec, the steady rise and fall of his breaths to lull you as if the gods carved him out just for you to have somewhere to rest when the world becomes too much or when you just want to feel cared for. 

You're always like this after sex, at least when you two became an official couple two years ago. It was like the established relationship let you, slowly, open up and show that you were no stranger to the human desire for love too. 

And he was so ready to give it to you, wholly. So when you're all soft, pliable and floating on the cloud of your bliss, he simply stares at the ceiling, hoping the contentment in his chest lasts even if you decide to leave him. 

To call this a mistake. To say it was just a way to go out with a bang. To break his heart that finally started beating properly just a few days ago all over again. 

Maybe he was never made for softness, for gentle love but fuck, you made him so tender and fond, spinning his insides until they were sweet and fuzzy like cotton candy. There is strength in being soft and he learnt that with you, having to be the safety net that catches you when you plummet from those unreachable heights you stand at so nothing can hurt you. 

Sniffling tears him out of his thoughts and he freezes, the fingers combing through your tousled hair to detangle the knots from your rendezvous pausing. He doesn't speak, doesn't pry, doesn't even breathe as he feels his skin dampen from liquid that isn't drool or sweat. 

It's your tears. 

You're crying. 

Arms wrapping around his trimmed waist, you cling to him with a hug that shocks him from how vulnerable and tight it is, like he may flee if you don't hold on, like he's the mountain you're standing at the edge of.

“I'm so sorry, Ryo,” you apologise wetly and he knows it isn't because you called him an idiot earlier or for saying you'll leave him again, both of you aware that you weren't serious. 

It's for breaking up with him and it twists his heartstrings into a ball of aching pain that makes it hard to breathe, one he can't untangle as easily as your messy strands. 

“It's okay,” he whispers but his eyes burn as he knows it fucking isn't. The way your bottom lip juts out, fat tears welling in your eyes when you look up at him, chin propped on your flat palms on his chest, tells him you're well aware. 

“Shut up,” you hush him, looking up to try and stem the waterworks so you can carry on. “I got caught up in my head. Wanted to get rid of everything so I could focus on the main problems at hand.”

“I was having doubts about whether I deserved you or not, on whether you deserved me,” you admit, brows scrunching. “My parents pressuring me about finding someone they chose and constantly putting me down about not choosing the career they wanted me to have became too much.”

“I had to let you go so I wouldn't grow to resent you like I was starting to resent them. I couldn't do that to you. Now that I've let go of trying to meet their expectations and pleasing them, I wanted to let you know,” you tell him. 

You weren't expecting him to take you back or whatever sappy romance movie plot would end with. You made your bed so you'd lay in it. You just wanted him to know as he was one of the many people in your life, from the found family you built, that told you to stop letting your parents rule you. 

It took pushing him away to do that and you weren't cruel enough to ask him to come back after all that damage. 

With a heavy exhale, he lets go of the tension that had locked up his body, absorbing your words. Then his hand came up, thumb swiping away your tears as he took in your red-rimmed, puffy eyes, glassy gaze, the raw, unfiltered version of the tough woman he fell for. 

The one who built herself up out of spite, became successful out of pettiness, was self-sufficient so she'd never have to ask her parents who treated raising a child as a transactional affair as if a baby could sign a contract to agree to it. 

“Are you doing better now?” is the first thing he asks and you want to cry more because he's still looking out for you despite it all. 

A wobbling smile pulls at your lips as you nod with a shaky breath. “Yeah, I am. Finally got rid of all the clutter in my life,” 

While you couldn't cut off your parents completely, you set strict boundaries that you wouldn't be shy to show them the consequences for if they crossed them. They had behaved so far. 

A proud thing tugs at the corners of his mouth at that. So you actually did it. “More room for the things you want now?” 

He wants to ask if there's room for him but stops himself. Fucking you had already turned into something slow and tender that felt awfully close to making love and now you're cuddling, having a heart-to-heart. 

He's already behaved in enough ways tonight to show you how pathetically in love with you he still is. How it's probably never going to go away and linger like a scent that's always around like that time Yuji spilled fabric softener in the laundry room and the lavender, baby powder fragrance is still there. 

You're his greatest love and that'll remain true no matter how this ends. 

With a shaky breath, you nod. “Yeah.” 

So he pulls you closer, further up his body with his hands on your hips then slides them up to your face, cupping it and pressing kisses from your jaw that tightens when you're upset with him, to your cheeks that warm when you're flustered by his teasing, forehead that creases when you frown to hide your amusement, nose that wrinkles when you disagree and finally, a soft, sleepy one to your lips that fix to scold him when he does something stupid. 

“My”—kiss—”sweet”—kiss—”girl.” 

He rests his forehead against yours, eyes sliding shut. “I'm so happy for you.” 

“Thank you,” you murmur, softening further as your lips quiver to ask a question that sits heavy on your tongue. “Are you doing better now?” 

A beat of silence envelops the room, only the distant sounds of car honks, far away music from nightclubs and laughter from neighbors returning home, drunk and happy breaking the quiet. 

“You did hurt me. But I knew it was gonna come eventually. From the moment we met, you seemed to have everything figured out. I never thought I'd fit into your frame, you know? I was the only thing that could be replaced as easily as you toss out junk and garbage.”

The urge to shake your head and refuse is hard to resist but you do, letting him say his piece. 

“So when you wanted to break up, I let it happen because I thought that nothing I would say could change your mind. It sucked. A lot. But the time we spent apart helped me heal and start seeing a therapist so I could get over that feeling.” 

He smiles at you then. “I'm doing much better now. The insecurity was easy to work through once I realized that it stemmed from me and also how I took the way you lived your life too personally.” 

“Don't blame yourself when we both know I had a lot to do with it too. I never asked you to do stuff because I didn't want you to have something to throw back in my face like my parents do. I should have loved you the way you wanted to be loved like you loved me in the way you knew I would appreciate.”

Your accountability, as always, has the last of his slight resentment towards you seeping out of his body with his content sigh. 

“Guess we both needed therapy, huh?” you chuckle and he nods. 

It's quiet again and then you rip off a bandaid. 

“If you're not going to see anyone soon, do you think that maybe we could hook up again?” 

Rearing back, he nearly hits his head against the headboard but your hand shoots out and stops him as he blinks at you incredulously, lip curling in disgust. 

“Are you fucking serious?” 

That's just the reality check you need. What were you thinking? Sitting up, you shake your head. 

“No, forget it. That was inconsiderate of me to ask.” 

You move to climb off him, wanting to spare your crumbling dignity and flee before he can reject you again but he catches your wrist and pulls you back. 

Saying your name in a stern, indecipherable tone, he holds your gaze, expression unreadable but angry. 

“Asking me to be your fuck buddy after all we've been through? Are you fucking kidding me?” 

Drawing you closer, his gaze bores into yours. “If we're doing this again, I'm going to be your boyfriend again. Don't insult me further by trying to make me a damn toy.” 

Gaping, your mouth opens and closes as your brain glitches. Shit, you were just about to unintentionally make him feel used again when he just fucking told you he'd felt that way for a long time! 

“I—No, I thought that'd be easier. I didn't want to try and date again after all I put you through—”

“Baby,” he calls out, reeling you in. “We have too much history to go back to being friends with benefits. I want to be your boyfriend again and in a few years, if you want, your husband.”

There's no going back now. You've shown him that you do need him, do want him in your life. He's not going to hold that over your head like a pawn. He's going to wear it like the badge of honor it is. His Nobel Prize. 

Watery eyed again, you choke on a sob, nodding vigorously as you hug him. “Okay. Thank you for giving me another chance, Ryo.” 

“Don't mess this up,” he jokes. 

“I'll try not to.” 

“I won't leave either way,” he rumbles. “Happy anniversary by the way,” he wishes you as it is the day you abruptly broke his heart that is now finally mended.

Chuckling, you hold him tighter, kissing his neck and shutting your eyes, the last piece of your desired life finally slotting into place. 

“Happy anniversary, Ryo.” 

note: i am still on a little break but like always, i wrote this on a whim at 3am

“What’s wrong? Did I smudge my liner?”

You pull out your phone to check your makeup using the reflection but between the flashing lights and someone’s elbow jutting from your peripheral, you’re only eighty percent sure you don’t look a mess.

Considering you dragged your roommate out to this party last minute, Shoko sips her drink with commendable patience. “Even if you did, that would be the least of your worries. Look, you really don’t have to overthink this. We didn’t just spend all night planning this for you to end up weirding him out with that look in your eye.”

“Shit, that was the rehearsed deer look I was talking about!"

“Rehearsed how?"

You decisively ignore her. “I just want to do this right."

Her eyes soften slightly. She’s always been weak to your woes. “You will. He’ll love you. If you don’t believe in yourself, believe in me. I promise you, I’ve known this guy for years and you’re exactly the type of person he just eats up.”

You think of all your attempts to enter Geto’s world. There's just something mystifying about him, some kind of aura he emits that has you tripping over your tongue and freezing at the worst moments. Your words become stilted, your humour and wit abandoned at every crucial moment, causing you to simultaneously dread talking to him as much as you wished for it.

Shoko turns you to face her, eyes steady in a way yours isn’t. “Are you ready?"

You let out a slow breath and attempt to mimic her determination with a single nod.

“Then go find him.”

When you hesitate to even take a single step forward, Shoko gives you a push and then you’re off, legs moving without another thought. The crowd swallows you, bodies brushing past and jolting your shoulders, knocking you here and there. But none of that matters. Not when your heart is already set. Not when determination is the one thing keeping you upright, guiding you closer and closer to the boy who somehow makes a packed, sweaty houseparty fade into background noise

For too long, you’ve let this intoxicating feeling linger, letting it settle deep in your chest, almost convincing yourself that watching from the sidelines was enough. As if anything short of his eyes on you, perhaps even his lips on yours, could quiet the restless longing twisting in your heart. Limerence is what Shoko diagnoses you with, but the word feels too small for the intensity that surges through you every time his name crosses your mind.

Geto appears like a beacon before you, the crowds having finally parted enough for you to catch a good look. The party music transitions to an angelic choir but admitting that is basically affirming Shoko’s concerns that your infatuation is unhealthy, so you quickly refocus. Your heart clenches, pounds against your ribcage, and you only hope the dim lighting will hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks. He’s right there, right within reach. All you have to do is say his name.

All you have to do is make him see you.

You take a step forward, mumble an apology to the girl you bumped shoulders with, take another step towards where he’s laughing with a friend—then veer sharply to the right and slip into the kitchen.

If talking to Geto were really as easy as saying hi, you would have done it months ago.

The kitchen is quieter, the bass reduced to a distant, muffled thump and you can finally breathe as the crowd thins. There’s still chatter though significantly more bearable and your eyes fall onto the small cluster of boys within, standing in the near dark.

Your feet instinctively slow but Shoko’s voice in your head tells you that you’ve done too much to stop now and with a deep breath, you step beyond the threshold. One by one, the group takes notice of you, their rambunctious laughter quietening into soft chuckles as heads pop up to look. It’s not strange for someone to enter the kitchen at a party so the most you get is a head nod in greeting before they return to their conversation. You reach for a red cup and then for a jug of some mysterious jungle juice. Unfortunately, the jug sits behind one of the boys. Even worse, it sits behind who you’re really here at the party looking for. Leaning lazily against the counter and nursing a red solo cup of something strong no doubt, stands Gojo, Geto’s best friend. If Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then Gojo Satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak. You can feel the burn of Gojo’s stare as you get close enough to lift the jug and pour, hands trembling slightly. Before you can help yourself, you steal glances from the side of your eye, landing squarely on his shirt specifically at the crude letting that reads ‘Two Seater’, arrows pointing abashedly toward both his crotch and his face. You look back up immediately. You don’t want to know. The punch sloshes into your cup, some of it missing due to your shaky hands and you don’t notice until a sticky trickle runs over your fingers. You hastily stop pouring and lick at the mess. Before you can figure out how to announce your presence, there’s a rush of footsteps and another frat boy appears. Hikari, you think his name was, stands by the kitchen entrance, hair slightly disheveled from his usual style, loud and demanding as he’s always been. “Hey!” he calls, scanning the room. “You guys need to come see this." A chorus of half-drunk “what?” and “see what?” answers him like a herd of seagulls. “In the living room,” he says. “There's two people on the floor and—” He stops, glancing over his shoulder like the situation might escape him if he looks away for too long. “Just hurry up!" His vague words cause curiousity to spread faster than wildfire. The group of boys begin funnelling out of the kitchen, cups still in hand, voices rising with excitement. “What is it?" “Is it a fight?" “Please tell me it’s a fight.” “Did someone break something?” Hikari doesn’t elaborate, instead turning and leaving the kitchen, confident the herd will follow. One friend, Choso if you remember correctly, looks back at Gojo who remains calmly drinking from his cup, still leaning against the counter beside you. “Aren’t you coming, Satoru?” Gojo shrugs, tipping back the last of his drink. “Nah. You go on ahead.” Choso hesitates like he wants to ask why, then seems to think better of it. “Suit yourself,” he mutters, already backing toward the door as someone behind him shoves past with a whoop. Within seconds, the kitchen drains of bodies. You’re deathly aware of the warm presence beside you. You inhale deeply and turn, ready to get this over and done with only to find him shamelessly looking at you. For a moment, the two of you just stare at each other, his expression unreadable as he looks you over before his face splits into a lazy grin. “Hey.” “Hi,” you squeak, immediately reprimanding yourself at the awkward sound. His smile only grows. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you looking for someone? Or maybe you missed the exit? It’s down the hall to your right.” “That’s rude.” You cross your arms in an attempt to place distance between the two of you and to maintain a confidence you don’t feel. “I attend parties.” Gojo huffs and you feel slightly offended. He straightens and steps closer, close enough that his cologne hits you—sharp, expensive, and entirely too much. “I don’t know about that. I’ve never seen you at one of these before.” His head tilts, regarding you. “How do you even know Sukuna?"

For a moment you blank, wondering why he was asking about Sukuna. It hits you then that this party must be his. “Ah. I came with Shoko.” He hums. “That makes sense. Shoko always did have a habit of collecting strays." “Excuse me?” “Not a stray,” he amends lightly at  your glare. “More like her lost puppy.” "Just because you’ve only ever seen me when I’m with Shoko doesn’t mean I’m always with Shoko.”

“I was talking more about how you were holding onto her shirt in the crowds earlier. She didn’t bring a leash for you?"

“Don’t project your weird kinks onto me."

“Do you often spend time thinking about what weird kinks I might be into?” Thankfully, Gojo lets the topic go before you really do decide to throw it all away and walk out. “But alright, let’s say I believe you and you’re just here for the party. Why are you here in the kitchen, then?”

“What else do people come to parties for? I’m here to drink. And stuff.” You trail off, clearing your throat.

“Really?” He eyes your untouched cup. “Because that’s just juice. The good stuff’s over here."

He steps into your personal space to reach over you to grab a bottle from the top of the fridge and you’re face to face with the gross words on his top. He retracts his arm, bottle in hand, but doesn’t step back. “Want me to pour you one?”

You think back to the last time you let yourself drink under the unwise judgement of Shoko, and how you can only recall glimpses of light and the vague memory of a toilet bowl “It’s fine, I’ve already had a lot to drink."

“Right,” he says, in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t believe you for a second.

You watch as Gojo pours himself another drink, sipping leisurely, pointedly ignoring the way you’re staring.

Gojo isn’t exactly a stranger, but it’s an overestimation to call him your friend. In truth, he’s Shoko's friend—which means she occasionally drags him back to your shared dorm before disappearing to do whatever it is best friends do. You catch glimpses of him in passing, fleeting and inconsequential, never quite crossing into ‘introduce-yourself’ territory. Why would he? He’s the kind of guy who turns heads without trying, long-limbed, effortlessly confident, wearing the grin of someone who’s never been told no in his life.

Where Geto is soft-spoken and warm, guiding you through conversation with patient smiles and gentle ease, Gojo is loud and vibrant and reckless. There's a challenge in his eyes, a knowing smirk on his lips, like the world is perpetually entertaining and he’s always in on the joke.

You, on the other hand, are about as normal as it gets.

When the silence draws into something a little less casual and far more awkward, you clear your throat. “I’m Y/N by the way."

“I know who you are.”

“You do?”

“Shoko’s roommate, right? We’ve seen each other before. She’s mentioned you too.” He offers a hand, eyes holding yours like he knows you’ll pull away with anything less. “I’m Gojo. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

You go to echo his words, that of course you knew he was the Gojo Satoru but hesitate, settling instead for shaking his hand. His grip is warm and solid, carrying none of the jitteriness you feel. Hell, maybe you should have accepted a drink after all. What is this, a job interview? Why are you shaking his hand?

When you let go, you become painfully aware of how damp your palms are and curse yourself silently.

Gojo picks up on the silence and moves to lean against the counter, mimicking your earlier pose such that his arms are crossed over his chest, only emphasising his biceps in his sleeveless top. “So, Y/N. If you didn’t come in here for a drink, why are you here?”

His words cause you to still. This was it. Every moment in your dorm, huddled around the whiteboard usually reserved for studying, now littered with far less academic plans, Shoko chiming in her own thinkpieces occasionally. It all accumulated to this moment.

“I was looking for you actually. I wanted to talk to you.” Your voice is barely a whisper and humiliation slowly sinks in when he doesn’t answer immediately. Perhaps he didn’t hear you considering you’re speaking to your shoes. When you finally look up, there’s an unreadable expression on his face. Gojo slowly tracks his eyes up and down your figure. Finally, he straightens, head tilted slightly. “Talk to me? Alone?" You nod, and his face breaks into a broad grin. “I wasn’t expecting that. Not that I hate it,” he purrs, voice dropping into something smoother as he steps closer and curls a loose lock of your hair around his finger. “What did you want to talk about, princess?" Your mind vaguely registers the gesture, feeling the dampness of your palms once again. “I don’t really want to say here." His fingers still, your hair wrapped around it. “Oh?" You wonder what that look in his eyes meant. “Could we go upstairs?” Gojo cocks his head, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His brows knit slightly, but his eyes gleam with amusement as he releases your hair, the strand falling back into place in a soft wave. “You do know I’m Shoko’s friend, right? And you’re her best friend?” “Why does that matter?” “Seriously? You don’t think it’ll be awkward?” Awkward? You blink, trying to make sense of his words. Perhaps Gojo and Shoko had argued recently. Maybe he didn’t want her catching sight of the two of you together else it put you in an awkward position. He’s more considerate than you expected. “It doesn’t have anything to do with her,” you say carefully. “Whether you or I are friends with Shoko—it doesn’t matter to me. I just want to talk to you.” You smile in satisfaction, relaxing a little at his kindness. Gojo suddenly laughs, brushing a hand through his hair as he throws his head back like you’ve said the funniest thing. When he looks back down at you, his eyes are shining. “That’s what I’m saying! But every time I joke about it to Shoko, she goes all crazy on me. Looks like we have a lot in common, huh? I guess that makes us compatible.” You continue to smile, the corners of your lips wavering a little in uncertainty. You’re not entirely sure what he means by that but considering you’re about to ask him for a favour, you appreciate his good mood. “Well, alright,” he says at last, taking your hand. “I’d love to hear you out. Lead the way.” Ignoring the little flip of nerves your stomach does as you hold his hand (perhaps he felt too drunk to climb the stairs alone?), you turn and lead him back into the living room and up the stairs to the quieter rooms of the house. The hand holding serves another purpose, you realise, as you weave through the crowds of people and he would surely have lost you had you not held on tighter, practically dragging him onward. You feel a tug before your feet can even touch the second floor, like he’s suddenly become immovable. Before you can turn and check on him, you feel the warmth of  his chest against your back, his hand slipping from yours to settle at your waist. You’re pulled to a stop, his breath now brushing against your ear, his hair tickling the side of your face. You’re certain he’s leaning over you despite being a step lower, and the faint scent of alcohol and sandalwood fills your senses. “I didn’t think you’d be so proactive,” he murmurs. You think he might have inhaled, slow and deliberate, but it’s hard to tell over the base vibrating through the floorboards and the frantic pounding of your heart. “What else are you hiding from me, hm?” He reaches for your hand and turns you slightly so you can watch as he licks your fingers, tasting the sticky residue of your spilt juice. His blue eyes seem to sparkle, mesmerising in a way that makes you freeze. “You taste sweet.” Your breath hitches and he must have heard because the hand on your waist tightens and pulls you against him, head leaning down to gently nip at your neck. Your stomach does that little flip again, this time accompanied with a hot flush that short-circuits your brain. 

“Wait!”  He chuckles softly, lips ghosting over a soft spot that makes your knees tremble a little. “Don’t be nervous. You have me right where you want me.”

You freeze, heart hammering, fingers twitching. When his hand slips just barely beneath the hem of your top, the words tumble out of you in a rush.

“I like Geto!”

For a heartbeat, everything goes still, his hand, his lips, his breath. Gojo pauses, lips pulling back from your sweaty neck. In fact, his entire body jerks back, both feet returning to the step beneath you, hand leaving your waist to turn you to face him. His fingers find your chin to tilt your face down, eyes dark as they hold yours.

“What did you just say?”

You swallow, looking him in the eye. “I like Geto.”

He stares at you wordlessly for a few more moments before he frowns, letting go of you completely and stepping down one more step just for good measure. “What the fuck are you doing here with me then?"

You gesture frantically between yourselves, finding the answer quite simple. “To talk? That’s what I said earlier, didn’t I? I wasn’t—I wasn’t insinuating… I wasn’t trying to—you know?”

“You said you wanted to come with me upstairs.”

“Yeah?”

“Alone.”

“Right.”

His frown only deepens at your easy response. “You know how that sounds, right? To get a guy alone upstairs at a party?”

“It sounds like I wanted to talk to you privately?” You try again at his disbelieving expression. “The music was super loud. I didn’t think you’d be able to hear me downstairs and I had to ask you something important so I didn’t want to risk it.”

He lets out a huff, something short and breathy, lips quirked upwards like he finds something amusing, even as his eyes stay locked on you, unmoving. “You’re kidding me, right?”

You hold out your hands as if to say, ‘What can you do?’.

Gojo groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Figures this was too good to be true.” His hand drops from his eyes to cover his mouth as he continues to stare at you. “Nothing about that situation implied you just wanted to talk. And about Suguru, of all things? Seriously, he’s being a cockblock and he isn’t even here.”

“What was that?”

“Forget it.” He drops his hand. “I’m leaving.”

You quickly hold onto his arm before he can completely turn. “Wait!”

Maybe it’s the desperation in your voice, maybe it’s your iron-clad grip on his bicep but he doesn’t attempt to pull away. Instead, he looks back and wrinkles his nose at you, a strangely childish gesture.

“I’m not in the mood to just talk. Not anymore.”

“Come on, please? There’s no one else I can ask!”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

“If you could just please, out of the kindness of your heart, hear me out I would seriously appreciate it!”

He doesn’t budge.

“I won’t tell anyone I rejected you!”

He frowns. “First of all, you didn’t reject me because it was a misunderstanding. Second of all, are you really in a position to blackmail me right now?”

“I won’t tell Shoko you were the reason her favourite candle knocked over and singed a bit of her rug.”

His frown only deepens. Blackmail, you think, is surprisingly effective. “Hold on, how do you even know that?”

“What do you mean? I was literally right there.”

Gojo lets out a deep, long groan. He wriggles out of your hold, sending you a glare. “You know, you really suck at asking for help.”

“You don’t have to agree to helping me just yet. Just at least give me a chance to explain. We’re already here, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, well, I had other plans when we got up here that didn't involve just talking.”

You remind yourself to be patient. Again, you were the one asking for a favour, he’s the only one that can help you with your dilemma, you need him. Don’t call him a disgusting freak and walk away.

Clapping your hands together, you muster your best pleading look and send it his way. “Please, Gojo.”

You’re not really sure what broke through his defenses. For your own ego, you decide it must be because of your puppy dog eyes because he lets out a sigh and gives a reluctant nod.

“Go to the room to the right of the stairs.”

You bite back the instinct to cheer. Halfway through turning around, you look over your shoulder. “You’re coming too, right?” “Just get up there before I change my mind.” Wondering if souring his mood like this would backfire on you, you quickly hop up the remaining steps and head to the mentioned room just in case he really does change his mind. It would be beneficial to appease him before you ask for a crazy favour, after all. Therefore, you don’t even try to eavesdrop as Gojo continues to mumble to himself as he follows behind, worrying that somehow he might hear and turn around. When you both reach the room, he closes the door and leans against it, arms crossed over his chest and expression flat in a way that feels very un-Gojo. You’re suddenly struck by the unfairness of it, of how someone with such a careless, teasing exterior can also appear so unreadable when he wants to. “Five minutes.” You clear the irrelevant thoughts from your head. “Excuse me?” “You have five minutes before I’m going back down.” You take a deep breath. This is it, no backing out now. “Okay. I need your help.” He huffs, unamused. “So you’ve said. But with what exactly? Calculus? Because spoiler, I’ve been drinking.” “With Geto.” You watch in real time as the connection in his brain is made. He straightens off the door slightly. “Wait. Suguru? You want help with Suguru? What kind of help? Love help? You want love help with Suguru?” Every word from his mouth is like a bullet to your dignity. Through gritted teeth, you hiss, “Yes. Can you be any louder?” “I can try,” He says with a hint of humour. The smirk returns to his face and a feeling of foreboding looms over you. “This is what you wanted to get me alone to say?” “Look, I needed someone who’s close with him and you’re–” “Close? Please, I’m his best friend. I’m practically his wife.” “Oh. So that makes us competition?” He wrinkles his nose and looks you up and down. “You want me to help you get him.” You nod. “You want to confess to him.” “Obviously.” “Date him?” “That’s the goal." “Sleep with him?” You give him a look so incredulous that he laughs, short and amused. “If you want advice just hit up reddit. If you want him to like you back then an etsy witch has you covered for five dollars. I don’t see why you have to bother me.” “Because,” you say slowly. “He’s surrounded by people. He doesn’t even know me. I need all of that, the advice, the reciprocation, and I need someone who can get me close enough to him where he can notice me. And I feel like getting an Etsy witch to manipulate his dreams to include me would cost more than five dollars. And I’m broke. And I’m kind of bad with guys.” “So, what? You want me to introduce you to him?” “Sure. And maybe tell me what he likes?" Gojo looks you up and down again. He leans back against the door but this time, there’s something smug and arrogant about his posture, eyes lazy as he takes up as much space as he can. “You’re not even his type.” “That’s fine, I’m flexible.” “That’s something you say at a job interview, not when you’re trying to get a boyfriend.” “Just shows that I have an adaptable personality.” “He just came out of a 2 year relationship,” he shoots back. “I accept and embrace his past.” “He has a habit of leaving his jackets on the arm rest of couches.” “I have hands, I can put them away.” “Where’s your self-respect?” “With him. I’ll get it back after I get with him.” Gojo huffs. “He doesn’t even know you.” “That’s why I’m asking you for help.” “You know, I think I liked you better when you were just a shy little thing stumbling over your words.”

Again, you can only shrug.

When he only frowns, you decide to use your hidden ace. Before he can open his mouth and surely reject you, you beat him to it, voice overlapping his.

“I’ll tutor you!”

His eyes narrow and when he doesn’t say anything else, you push on.

“I know you’re aiming for that sports scholarship to study abroad next year.”

“How do you even know about that?” He catches on quick with a groan. “Shoko.”

You nod. “And I know that you’re looking for someone to tutor you because you need to get good grades to get accepted. If you help me with this, I promise I can definitely bring your grades up. We both benefit!” Gojo stares at you like you’ve just grown a second head and you think you’ve lost him when his lips twitch. Then, almost traitorously, one corner lifts higher. “You,” he says slowly, pointing at you like he’s identifying a rare species, “Are trying to bribe me. You’re trying to bribe me because you can’t get game by yourself.” “It's not a bribe,” you say stiffly. “I'm just saying there’s something in it for the both of us.” “It’s a bribe,” he repeats, delighted now. “Holy shit, Shoko's roommate is bribing me. How desperate can you get?” “I’m offering to give you academic support!” “With strings attached.” “Yes,” you sigh. "That's usually how deals work.” He grins, wide and boyish and every bit infuriating as you’ve ever known him. “You think I can't get a tutor without helping you bag my best friend?” “Well, you haven’t yet.” “That's because I don't need one.” “Right. So I should just forget all the times Shoko has ranted to me about how you keep asking her for help?” “You know, this conversation has really enlightened me on who my real friends are.” His gaze slides back to you, assessing. “And you’re confident you can help me?” You straighten your shoulders and give a solemn nod. “I’ve fixed worse than you.” He studies you, eyes tracking your features down to your shoes and you fight the urge to squirm self consciously. He seems to be recalibrating you, seeing you not as Shoko’s tagalong but as an actual person making a very earnest, albeit very ridiculous, request. Finally, he sighs, long and dramatic. “Well, at least you have one thing going for you. Suguru eats this kind of stuff up, hardworking, stubborn, a little pathetic—” “Hey.” “—in a cute pet way,” he amends smoothly. “Relax.” You glare at him anyway but the rational part of your brain reminds you that you need this. He grins back, entirely unrepentant. “Fine,” he continues, raising a finger, “If I do this, we’re doing it my way. That means we need rules.” You fight the urge to jump up and down in joy. “I was going to suggest that anyway! How about this, we—” “Rule one,” he says, face settling into something serious. “You can’t fall in love with me.” Unable to help yourself, you burst out laughing. “Trust me, that’s not going to be an issue. You're definitely not my type.” At your laugh he smiles though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Rule two, no complaining. Keep that mouth in check, sweets.” You giggle. “What's wrong, fragile ego?” He raises an eyebrow and you mumble irritated curses under your breath. “Sorry.” “Rule three, if Suguru ends up falling head over heels for you, you owe me big.” “How big?” His eyes flick down to your mouth again, then back up, smirk slow and dangerous. “I’ll decide later.” You catch the movement and swallow, feeling none of the humour from earlier. “Okay, deal. Then, rule four, you take your studying seriously. I don't tutor people who don’t care.” “I think between the two of us, I want to succeed the most so that’s a given. Any more rules, sweets?” When you shake your head, he nods. “We’ll start tomorrow.” “Not today? I mean he’s literally right here,” You quickly clarify. “Not a complaint, just a question!” “I came here to get drunk and have a good time. I’m going to need at least three drinks to get me back there so be a good girl and wait. I’ll text you tomorrow if you really can’t be patient. Unless, you want to back out already?” You straighten your shoulders, trying to match his confidence. “I’m not backing out! I just want to make sure you’re not going to ditch me. This isn’t really a normal request.” “Oh, so you know?” You roll your eyes at him but have the decency to at least look bashful. “Tomorrow,” he repeats then jerks his chin toward the door. “Go on, sweets. Before I sober up and regain some self-respect.” “Don’t call me that.”

“A complaint?” You bite your lip. “A suggestion.” “Here’s a real suggestion,” he starts, turning around to open the door. Standing in the doorframe, he gives you one last look. “Next time you ask a guy to go upstairs with you at a party, maybe start with the part about not wanting to make out.” Your face gets hot instantly, mouth opening to splutter, “I didn’t mean anything by it!” But he doesn’t stay to hear the end of it, rejoining the masses downstairs without another word. He lifts his hand once as a goodbye and then he’s gone, leaving you alone in the room, half mortified, half exhilarated. Unwilling to give him any sense of victory with his last words, you head back downstairs and find Shoko to tell her the results of the first step of your plan. It’s a struggle pushing through the thick waves of people but you finally find your roommate off to the side, musing herself in a conversation with someone you don’t recognise. Instinctively, your eyes search for Geto if only to recall what you’re doing this for. Standing beside him, arm swung over his shoulder is Gojo, already sipping from a cup and laughing into the conversation with a natural ease that reminds you of the gap between who you were and who he is. As if sensing your gaze, he looks over and you flinch as if burnt. Something stirs in your gut and you wonder if your little plan to get with Geto has taken a slightly unpredictable turn. “You okay?” Shoko asks, noticing your fluster. You nod, looking away quickly. “Of course. All going to plan, you know?” “Then I guess you’re up to step two.” “Right,” Your eyes drift back to Gojo and find him looking at you over the rim of his cup. The feeling in your stomach lurches. “Step two.” 

Step two begins with Gojo texting you at the ass crack of dawn. You blink the sleep from your eyes, squinting at the bright light of your screen in mild disbelief and annoyance as he tells you to pull up to his 9am lecture. Despite the lingering feeling that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, you understand that this is necessary.

You know for a fact that you have no classes today and therefore no reason to make the trek to university. a whole day,just gone and tasked with the impossible task of putting up with that infuriating player.

No, you reprimand yourself as you text back your agreement. No complaining. Do it for him, do it for Geto. With those words repeating in your head like a mantra, you pull yourself together and out of bed to get to campus.

It would be helpful, after all, to see where his studies were at if you were going to take this tutoring business seriously.

You get a coffee at the station to combat your sleepiness and the chill of a winter morning before hesitating and getting another. With two coffees, one in each hand, you wait outside his lecture room until the doors swing open.

Spotting him wouldn’t be too hard, you muse, considering Gojo is impossible to miss.

And then, you see him.

His unmistakable frame, hair a messy white halo catching the late morning sun, strides into view. He's mid conversation as he steps out, animated, half-grinning, and you find yourself understanding why so many girls lose their minds over him.

“Gojo!” You call out, voice slightly drowned out by the chatter all around.

You’re about to give him a piece of your mind, him having been the reason why you kept to your phone all of last night like a wife anticipating the return of her war husband, when you freeze. Because when Gojo turns, your mind barely registering the amused look he gives you, the person he was talking to comes into view.

Because of course, where there’s Gojo there is Geto, the yin to his yang.

You weren’t ready for both of them.

Noticing your sudden stiffness, Gojo looks beside him and scoffs. Unimpressed, he starts walking over. You panic, attempting to smooth out your clothes and fix up your appearance though your hands are full of coffee so you end up doing an awkward wiggle.

“Look at you,” Gojo starts when he’s close enough. “Loitering outside my class like a fan. Maybe this is more urgent than I thought, not because you like Suguru but because you really need your self-respect back.”

You open your mouth to respond, to clarify, to deny, to just say something, but Geto catches up beside him and suddenly every possible word tangles up in your throat.

“Oh. Hey,” Geto says, recognition flickering across his face. “You’re Y/N, right?”

You blink, knees feeling weak and mind in shambles that he even knew your name let alone match it to your face. “Uh, yeah! That’s me!”

He smiles, soft and easy, all the charm you’ve seen him use on others now directed to you. “I thought so. You’re in one of Shoko’s tutorials, no? I think I remember her mentioning you.”

“I’m her roommate, actually.” You try for a smile and pray it doesn’t give off the extent of your adoration towards him.

“Right, that would be it. I’m Geto.”

You nod mutely, wishing your brain would reboot to say something, anything that doesn’t make you sound like you’ve never spoken to a human before. Geto, he says, like you didn’t already know his name, like he wasn’t one of the most known people on campus. Still, the fact that he so humbly introduced himself only proves his humility and your heart gives a quiver.

This moment was everything you’ve ever fantasied. His eyes on you, giving you that pretty smile you’ve only seen directed at others. You could have stood there and basked in his attention until the end of time if Gojo didn’t suddenly clap Geto’s shoulder and butt in.

“Great, so glad you’re both acquainted,” he says, ignoring your glare and throwing an arm around your shoulder to pull you into his side. “But as much as I’d love to keep standing here and soak in this riveting small talk, I think my very dedicated super fan here needs me for something.”

You shoot him a look. “I am not your super fan.”

“No? And is that not my coffee?” You look down at your hands as if only remembering now what you were holding. Biting back a remark, you thrust out a coffee. “It is.” He grins, taking it and letting his fingers brush against yours. “Thought so.” Geto looks between the two of you. “Oh, I see how it is." Your eyes fling back to him at the same time Gojo exclaims, “What?” “Woah, did I touch a nerve there or something?” Geto’s smile quickly turns smug. He returns Gojo’s earlier gesture and thumps him hard on the back twice. “I get it. I’ll get out of your hair then. Be gentle with him, Y/N. He’s actually a pretty sensitive guy.” It takes you a while to process his words so Gojo reacts first. “Dude, I’m telling you it’s not like that.” “Sure,” Geto says in a tone that very much suggests he isn’t convinced at all. “Guess I’ll see you around, yeah? Later, Satoru.” You only realise seconds after he leaves that you hadn’t said goodbye. In fact, after Gojo’s interruption, you hadn’t managed to say anything more to Geto. “Huh,” Gojo muses, breaking the silence. “You get like that around him?” You groan and find the lump in your throat gone. “I stood there like an idiot!” “You did.” “He probably thinks I’m a freak!” “Probably.” “And you!” You look up to glare at him. “You didn’t have to make it sound so weird!” “So now it’s suddenly my fault?” “You caught me off guard by calling me your super fan!” “Right, like that was the weirdest part of the conversation,” he shoots back, lips curled in dry amusement. “That, and not the super sour face you were making at him. Like a grimace.” He mimics your expression and you properly grimace this time, hoping against all odds that that was not the face you had been making at the person you were actually a super fan for. Deciding you will only lose if you continue to defend yourself, you choose to change the subject. “You should have told me he’d be here.” “You never asked. Besides, is it my fault if you didn’t prepare for that to happen?” You sulkingly mumble a yes and he wags his finger at you, tutting disapprovingly. “No complaining, remember? Come on, let’s go. We have things to talk about.” You sigh though relent to fall into step beside him, fingers curling around your own coffee as the crowd thins around you. Now that Geto is gone, the world feels marginally more comfortable, less bright, less sharp, but also less mortifying. You remember your stuttering self a few minutes ago. Still a little mortifying but now bearable. Gojo takes a long sip of his coffee, then glances sideways at you over the rim. “For future reference, I don't like coffee.” You dig your elbow into his side and he winces but doesn’t remove his arm around your shoulder. “Where are we going? I was thinking we could go to the library and look over your courses. That way I can pinpoint your weakness and where to target first. We only have a few months into graduation so we’re in a bit of a time crunch but I'm positive I can raise your grades from whatever they may be to… what?” You trail off when you find Gojo looking down at you in disbelief. He shrugs when your eyes meet and shrugs, though the gesture is a little awkward with his arm over your shoulders. “I just didn’t think you were serious about the whole tutoring thing.” “I keep to my promises, Gojo,” you pause. “And I hope you will too.” He reaches over with his free hand to ruffle your hair, ignoring your squeak. “Desperation isn’t a good look on you, sweets. Relax, relax, I'll get you two together. Trust me.”

You grumble but don’t voice your suspicions, instead letting him drag you in a certain direction. You perk up when you don’t immediately recognise your surroundings.

“Where are we going?”

“I get it, you want to check me out. I'm just taking us somewhere where that can happen.”

“Your studies, not you,” you clarify.

“Yeah, and my studies are mine so you’re checking me out.”

You grimace and he chuckles, turning you around a corner. “The library is too quiet so we’re going back to my place.”

You stop abruptly.

“Your place?” “Yeah.” “Your place?” Gojo cocks his head as if listening to something in the distance. “Did you just hear that echo too?” “Forgetting the fact that we should clearly just go to the library or somewhere on campus at least, I thought you lived in Sig Kap?” “Right you are. Wow, I'm really starting to see why you’re the perfect choice as a tutor.” “But you just said we’re going to your place.” “Nothing gets past you.” “Your place as in the Sig Kap house.” “Look at you go.” You stare at his side profile, waiting for a punchline that won’t come. “Gojo.” “Yeah?” “I am not going to your frat house.” “What happened to not complaining? That was the first rule and you’re already breaking it, sweets. I'm starting to dread this whole arrangement,” he continues to tease, looking ever so peaceful. “I'm sorry, I don't know what you think I'm about but I wouldn't willingly walk into a den full of men named things like Chad. Do you even have furniture?” “I only had a cot for the majority of first year but now I've upgraded to a mattress on the floor.” “Great. Let's end this here.” Gojo hooks his finger in your belt hoop before you can walk away. “First of all, we don’t have a Chad. We do have a Kyle though.” “You're not doing yourself any favours.” “Second,” he continues on, pulling you back towards him with his finger. “It’s ten in the morning. Half of them are in class and the other half are probably legally dead.” You stand your ground. “Library.” “Sig Kap.” “Library.” “Sig Kap.” “Gojo.” He leans in suddenly, close enough that you can see the faint crease at the corner of his eyes from squinting in the sun. “You want Suguru, right?” Your breath catches and despite yourself, you hear him out. “So? How is that relevant?” “Because,” he says mildly like he’s talking to a little kid. “Sig Kap is where Suguru hangs out. He's my best friend, you know he’s my best friend that’s why you came to me. Why wouldn’t he be over at mine all the time? If you can’t handle coming over now how are you ever going to fuck him?” “I am not—” you choke, voice pitching before forcefully lowering your voice when you notice people looking at you. “That is not— I haven't even—” Gojo hums, watching you with a victorious grin. “So you don’t want to sleep with him?” You make a startled noise and start walking in a random direction, eager to leave him behind. Life, however, is full of disappointments considering he follows, his arm draping over your shoulder once more. “So where are we going?” You give in. “Sig Kap.” “Wrong way, sweets.” You groan but follow as he steers you in the opposite direction. Gojo chatters in your ear the entire walk to where the frat houses are situated on campus, about how his least favourite professor is out to get him, about someone in his frat who set off the fire alarm this morning, about the latest philosophical debate holding the frat hostage: whether cereal is a soup or not. It's a steady stream of nonsense, ridiculous but unbroken because at least he wasn’t talking to you so much as at you. At some point, you stop responding entirely. Somehow, his mere presence is enough to change your opinion and you actually feel relief when you finally see the house before you. Sig Kap stands broad and sunlit, paint only mildly chipped, windows open to let in the winter air. There's a couple bikes leaning against the porch railing and there’s an abandoned hoodie on the outdoor chairs. “Oh thank god,” you mumble under your breath when he finally stops talking. He lets you go to jog up the steps, opening the door to what you’re positive is about to be an overstimulating nightmare. Warm air hits you first, carrying the scene of coffee and something oily. Sunlight stretches across worn hardboard floors until Gojo closes the door behind you and the hallway dims. A TV murmurs somewhere deeper into the house and there’s a loud conversation happening upstairs.

“You said everyone would be either in class or dead!” you hiss. “It was an exaggeration,” he says lightly. "Don't worry, everyone’s harmless. But if you’re worried, you can just stick close to me.” You ignore his cocky grin and shove him to get him walking. Unfortunately, getting to the stairs meant walking past the living room and you know things won’t be as harmless as he says when a voice calls out. “Yo!” Gojo pauses and steps back to poke his head into the living room. “Morning.” You awkwardly step back to let him, pushing you into view too. Two heads snap toward you at once. One of them is sprawled across the couch, blanket half-tangled around his legs and a bowl of popcorn balances on his stomach. The other is slouched in an armchair, controller in hand, eyes bloodshot and face pale as if he was still hungover. Considering the state of the party last night, you don’t doubt that he might be. Speaking of the party, you recognise the one on the left as Hikari. “You’re bringing a girl back in broad daylight?” The controller guy says, no tact whatsoever. Hikari snaps his fingers in recognition. “Hey, you’re the girl at the party.” “Damn, back for more?” Hikari shoves controller guy’s head down at the crude comment. “She's here to save my GPA,” Gojo explains. “So keep it down, yeah?” “That's what we should be saying to you,” controller guy smirks. Unfortunately, Gojo smirks back. “You know they can’t help it. I'm just too good.” He guides you back towards the stairs as the boys in the living room chuckle, and when you finally think of something to say you’re already standing in the middle of his room. By then, there’s another something to take up your mind and computing power. Despite the relatively large floor plan, Gojo has decided to use none of it. True to his words, there’s a mattress lying on the floor against one wall, blanket a mess and a single pillow sitting flat at the top. A stack of old textbooks make up a bedside table where there’s a cute small lamp. On the other side sits a couch and a giant flat screen in front of it at a distance that would make optometrists frown. Maybe that’s why Gojo is sometimes seen wearing sunglasses indoors. Maybe they’re prescription. “This is what you bring girls back to?” Gojo drops his bag on the floor and flops down onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him. “Come sit.” You eye the seat in disdain. “What's with the look?” “Is that even sanitary?” He snorts. “Worried you’ll get cooties or something? Relax, I rarely bring anyone back. Usually I go to the girls’ place for that kind of stuff. Fucking on a mattress is pretty harsh on the back, you know. You’re the first girl I've brought back in a while. Lucky you, right?” You grimace but sit down gingerly. “Can you tell me what courses you’re doing?” “What's the rush? Let's get to know each other better,” he says but he still reaches over to grab his laptop from his bag, opening it on his lap. You can picture it so clearly, Gojo coming back from a long day of (skipping) classes to do his assignments and homework like this, slumped over his laptop on this surprisingly comfortable couch. The bare mattress on the floor might be a big contributing factor to his back pain, but you have no doubts that this routine wasn’t doing him any favours. “Here,” he places his laptop on your knees and leans back, pulling out his phone from his pocket. “You look.”

Considering his complete disregard of safety is not your issue, you don’t protest and quickly type in the college website. As if sensing this is not the right time, a prompt pops up to log in again.

“Password?” you ask, tilting the screen to him.

He barely looks up from his phone, one arm behind his head, the other typing away. “Sixeyes69 question mark exclamation mark.”

You pause and type it in. It goes through.

“What's the number?” He asks, disinterested.

You look on the screen. “67.”

He chuckles. “Nice.” “Are you seriously okay with telling me your password like that?” He shrugs, screenshotting the multi authenticator screen before hitting enter. The website in front of you loads and opens to his details. “Tt’s not like there’s anything you can do with that. Are you planning to sneak in and do my assignments for me?” Finding no fault in his words, you accept it and click through the tabs. Your brows quickly knit together as you read the contents. “Gojo.” “Mhm?” “You’re missing three assignments in this class, you have a midterm for another in two weeks and you’re barely passing first year statistics.” Gojo looks up at the ceiling in deep concentration before looking down with a smile. “Yeah, that sounds about right, why?” “This is insane! I'm not a miracle worker!” “Better find a lamp that grants wishes soon because your love life is on the line,” he points out. “That was the deal, you find a way to get me into that scholarship and I get you and my best friend together. It's not my fault you were weirdly confident and didn’t check to see where I was at before proposing that.” Flabberghasted, you can only open and close your mouth like a fish. “Look, the midterm in two weeks, I can probably help with. The three assignments? You failing statistics?” “Pretty sure I passed that last quiz. Maybe check again?” “51 is just barely passing which is basically a fail.” “Oh no, it seems like you can’t do this after all. Looks like the deal is over. Hey, by the way, since you’re already here, why don't we—” Gojo sits up and leans in, one hand on your thigh above his laptop. “I demand another favour.” He freezes. “You can’t just do that.” “I can,” you square your shoulders and meet his eyes. “I did this statistics class during my first year so I still have my notes. I can easily alter them and give them to you and if you have any questions, we can meet up and I'll go through the questions with you. There's no way you can submit two of the three missed assessments as late but I can help you write the one that was due last week. There will be a mark reduction but I'll make sure it’s as good as can be. And, like I said, studying for the midterm is possible in two weeks.” Gojo stares at you as if seeing you for the first time. When he finally moves, it’s only to remove his hand from your knee and slump back into his leather couch. “You’re insane.” You wonder if he’s sulking. “But,” you continue on. “If I help you with this then I can add to my condition. Besides, I made it too vague earlier and you’ve helped me see that. So thank you.” He rolls his eyes. “Just tell me.” You bite your lip. “Go on a practice date with me.” He blinks at you, giving you that same incredulous look before bursting into a fit of laughter that does wonders for your ego. “Hey.” He keeps laughing, one hand resting on his chest. “Hey!” You hit his arm and he finally cracks an eye open to look at you. “You’re kidding,” he chuckles, struggling to catch his breath. “Gojo Satoru doesn’t do dates.” “Don't refer to yourself in third person.” You smack his bicep one more time for good measure and because he’s weirdly solid under your touch. “It won’t actually be a date. I just need to know how dates work. I can't just go from zero to not-zero without practice!” His laughter trails off though the smile remains on his face. He tilts his head to the side. “You’re at zero?” You freeze, feeling like you’ve walked into a trap. “Define zero.” “Have you kissed anyone?” You look away. “Define kissed.” He laughs again, though mercifully shorter. “That's crazy. Next thing you know, you’re going to ask me to teach you how to—” “Please!” you say quickly. “It won't be anything serious. I just need to know the mechanics, you know, how dates actually work. What you’re supposed to say, how you sit, when you pay, whether eye contact should be continuous or intermittent—” “Jesus,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re actually a lost cause.”

“Well I've never done one before!” You clamp your mouth shut after, mortified at how loud you just got. Gojo watches you for a long moment, the amusement still there though dimmed now by something closer to curiousity. Maybe even concern if you squint. Silence stretches between you, warm sunlight pooling across the floor, distant house noise muffled beyond the door. He looks down at his laptop on your lap then back up to your face. “...okay.” Your heart stumbles and you inhale sharply. “Okay?” “I’ll do it.” “Really?” Relief overwhelms your system and your shoulders relax. “Gojo Satoru doesn’t go back on his promises.” He straightens and places a hand over his heart, a mock solemn expression on his face. Before you can poke fun of his use of third person again, he continues. “Besides, I need to figure out where you stand. Let's go on a date tomorrow.” “Eager much?” He shrugs. “Rip the bandaid off. Besides, I have no other time this week, I have practice all of this week for the upcoming game.” Though you were ready to disagree, you find yourself nodding. “Okay, tomorrow.” “It's a date,” he says sweetly before clapping his hands together once loudly. “So, does that mean I'm off the hook for today? Steam is having this massive sale and I have money to spend.” You snort. “What makes you think you’re free to go?” “You got what you wanted,” he points out reasonably. “Practice date secured so mission accomplished, right? Seems like a natural stopping point and the Steam store is calling me.” He reaches lazily toward the laptop. You smack his hand away without hesitation. “Well hang up because you’re failing statistics and the submission box for that technical report is waiting for you. I'm afraid you’re going to have to reschedule.” “You're kidding. I dragged you here and gave you nothing to prepare with, there’s no way you'll have anything to tutor me with.” You stretch out your arms, fingers interlaced, and listen to the satisfying pop of your joints. “Watch me.” Night has long since settled by the time you return to your dorm. Despite his perennial sulking throughout the entire tutoring session, lips jutted out when he isn’t whining, eyes drifting from the screen when you’re not giving him your full attention, he still offers to walk you back to the opposite side of the campus where the dorm houses are. Guiding him through the writing assignment was somewhat akin to extracting teeth from a little kid, but he’s surprisingly quiet when you’re talking and only chooses to complain when you’ve stopped. And by the end of it, you’re proud to announce that he has 500 words on a once empty doc that was almost ready for submission. Hey, you did mention before that you can’t create miracles. Still, there’s something bright in his eyes when he reads through his own work, mumbling the words under his breath. So then, when you had reached down to pick up your tote bag and call it a day, he’s on his feet almost instantly, laptop snapping shut as he follows.“I’ll walk you,” he says, like it’s not even a suggestion.

The campus at night feels different, all those late nights in the library had taught you that. It’s quieter, softened at the edges and maybe it's placebo, maybe it isn’t, but the air feels fresher and time seems to slow. Streetlamps cast warm pools of light along the pathways, the winter air crisp enough to bite at your cheeks. Your breath fogs slightly as you walk, footsteps echoing in companionable rhythm.

For once, Gojo isn’t talking.

He makes the occasional comment, something about how dead campus feels after dark, how he hates early morning practices, how someone keeps taking his chocolate milk from the fridge, but for some reason you don’t find it so tolerable. Maybe it’s the way he’s saying it, slower and calm, nothing like before.

You steal a glance at him.

His hands are shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed, expression softer than you’re used to seeing. Without the performative grin and constant chatter he looks less like the campus celebrity Everyone knows and more like he’s just some guy. Albeit, very attractive but you digress. 

“You didn’t have to walk me,” you say into the silence that he hadn’t immediately rushed to fill after his last anecdote. “I know.” “Then why are you?” He shrugs. “Just felt weird not to. Besides, it’s late out and your dorm is half a century away. I need you alive to fix my grades, remember?” You give him a faint chuckle and look forward again. A few more steps pass in silence, broken only by the shuffle of feet. “Hey,” he says suddenly. You look up, watching the light scatter over his side profile. “Thanks.” “For what?” “For today.” He kicks at a pebble on the path, watching as it skitters ahead. “For not giving up on me after the first five minutes.” You huff softly. “I said I'd help. And Y/N never goes back on her promises.” He looks over at you and you both share a smile before his expression turns thoughtful. “Yeah, but people say stuff all the time.” You study him. “Do they?” He hums and doesn’t elaborate. The dorm building comes into view ahead, lights glowing warmly through the windows. There's still a couple students drifting in and out, bundled in hoodies and coats and wearing slides, soft laughter spilling into the night. You slow, suddenly aware that the walk is almost over. You turn to him so you can look at each other. “You know, you’re not as hopeless as you think,” you say quietly. “I think you’ve just never pushed yourself to seriously try.” He snorts. “Thanks, real inspirational.” “I’m serious,” you protest but the corners of your lips quirk up. He looks at you then, properly looks, eyes searching your face with a small frown. When he can’t find whatever he’s looking for, his brows relax. “You really think I can pass?” “Yes.” Something in his shoulders loosens, tension easing away. “Okay,” he breathes out. “Then, my grades are in your hands, teacher.” You make a face. “I think I prefer sweets.” He laughs and you turn to walk up to the entrance. The automatic doors remain stubbornly closed until you step into the sensor’s range, humming softly as they slide open. Warm air spills out, smelling faintly of old carpet and air freshener. For some reason your feet slow. “Hey, Y/N.” You turn, looking at him as he stands just outside the warm lobby light, hands in his pocket, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. “Yeah?” He hesitates. “See you tomorrow." You bite your lip and nod, repeating his words softly. Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn and walk into the building. The doors close with a soft thud, sealing you inside. Through the glass, you watch him turn and head down the path, white hair catching the glow of the streetlights. And of course, he doesn’t look back. Your reflection stares back at you instead, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes a little too bright, heart still beating faster than it should. Tomorrow, apparently, you’re going on a date, practice or not. For some reason, Geto pops up in your mind and you tighten your hold on your tote bag, making your way up the stairs. The soft curve of his smile earlier this morning, the way he had said your name like it belonged in his mouth, or maybe that was just wistful thinking. But the warmth in his eyes that had nearly short-circuited your brain was most definitely real and you cling to the image. Right, this is for him. Your phone buzzes a little after you settle into bed that night, making you jolt. you roll onto your side and reach for your phone, pulling it free from your charger as you read through your notifications. gojo: i made it back safe in case you were wondering ><

You get comfortable, tucking your doona under your chin as you type back, your phone the only light source in your dark room.

you: trust i wasn’t worried but thanks ig gojo: who said anything about being worried? also don’t flake on me tomorrow i’m taking this mentorship very seriously so u better asw you: i won’t flake ik i’m already asking sm of u

gojo: oh u know do u?

so ure going to pay for our date tmrw?

you: it’s not a date

gojo: sure it isn’t

you: it’s just practice

gojo: i didn’t say it wasn’t but if you admitted it was a real date i’d pay yk you: please like i’d actually want you to pay for my coffee not a date, not real, don’t need u to pay for my drinks gojo: ure a hard girl to please you: if its from someone like you, its gonna be harder than just hard try impossible gojo: harder than hard? you: ? gojo: something feels wrong about that sentence for some reason anyway is the campus close for you or should we meet up in the city you: the campus works for me gojo: ure not just saying that to avoid the date allegations are you you: no way gojo: sure sweets i believe u don’t wear anything boring first impressions matter yk you: oh my god stop pushing the date allegations its just practice !!!! gojo: okay and you can practice dressing up for me for suguru like for practice you: ? i know what u meant but sure as long as u do too theres no way im embarrassing myself by showing up overdressed if u show up in sweats and a hoodie gojo: wouldn’t dream of it see u saturday sweets You stare at the nickname longer than you should. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before moving. you: goodnight gojo The reply bubble appears then disappears before appearing again. Nothing comes of it as it disappears one more time and stays gone. You swipe off the app and place your phone back on your bedside table, ignoring the pleasant buzz running through you. 

You show up early like a super fan.

You’ve been sitting at the little corner table situated at the back of your favourite campus cafe for the past ten minutes now, stirring your drink just to look busy. The cafe hums around you with soft chatter, clinking spoons against teacups and ceramic against ceramic, a mellow playlist faintly playing in the background, but your nerves drown most of it out.

You’ve already gone through three mental checklists as you sit there, waiting. Your fingers curl around your empty cup, feeling the beads of water drip down your fingers and you really hope you won’t need to make an awkward break for the bathroom anytime soon considering he should be here about now.

You tell yourself you’re not nervous but you catch yourself glancing at the door every other second, heart jumping each time it swings open.

The bell chimes again and you look up with a start, eyes immediately locking onto Gojo as he saunters in, lifting his sunglasses so they rest on his head. He’s dressed casually, a white and blue jersey over a pair of blue baggy jeans, but his good looks mold the outfit into something appropriate for a date.

Gojo spots you at his first look around and grins, sliding into the seat across.

“Morning,” he greets, a wide smile on his face. His eyes flicker down once at your empty cup. “Did you wait long?”

“No, not at all!” You remember who you’re talking to and relax a little. “Actually, I got here fifteen minutes early. I guess I got a little anxious.”

“Well, you don’t need to be. You look nice,” he says, tone light. His eyes look you over once to make his words comprehensible and then one more time purely for the love of the game. “Trying to impress me?”

You scoff, trying to recover. “You told me to dress nice.”

“C’mon, sweets. Play along. We’re on a date, you know. Your next lines should be something like,” he suddenly tucks his elbow in, body curving to the side slightly, hand half closed and held delicately over his lips and chin. His eyelashes flutter over his cheek as he looks down and to the side, a faux shyness that makes you want to laugh. “‘Thank you, you look good too’.”

You let yourself laugh, shoulders relaxing. “What the fuck?”

“You give it a try. It always works in anime.”

“No way in hell,” you continue, laughing fading into occasional giggles as his gesture replays in your mind. “Besides, this is a practice date. I'll save that technique for the real deal, thank you very much.”

“And for practice, we’re going to pretend this is a real date.” He leans back into his seat, legs stretching out and bracketing yours under the table. His feet bump against yours lightly.  “Let's give it another try. Did I make you wait long?”

You stir the straw inside your drink, pretending to be nonchalant, though your fingers twitch slightly against the glass. “Not long… I guess.” You try a mysterious act, hearing that guys like a woman with secrets. At least, that’s what Shoko told you though a small part of you wonders if you should be taking “how to seduce a guy 101” from a lesbian. “‘I guess’?” he echoes, tilting his head. “That’s the best you can do? You’re supposed to be charming me, remember? At least try to make it look like I'm not coercing you here.” “I don’t care if I charm you or not,” you say quickly, cheeks warming. “I’m here to learn and you’re here to teach me.” He laughs, a low, easy sound that makes your chest tighten. “You know, I'm not exactly made of time. Do you know how many girls and guys would kill to be in your position right now?” You resist the urge to roll your eyes though don’t stop yourself from making your voice dry. “Oh sure, let’s spend this entire date talking about all the competition I have.” “We would need at least four more dates to cover it all.” “I didn’t know getting into a relationship with you would be such an investment.” You snort. “If all five of our dates are just going to be you listing my competition, I'd rather stand you up now and save myself the time. And the money.” “I did offer to pay for your drinks.” He grins at the back and forth, the sides of his shoes bumping into your ankles lightly. “That’s it, you’re getting into it.” “For practice.” “Sure, sweets. Practice. Speaking of,” he says, leaning forward just enough that the sunlight catches his hair. “You should call me Satoru. We’re on a date, remember? I can’t tell if you’re on a date with me or my dad if you call me Gojo.” You grimace. “Calling you by your first name makes it too real.” “It is real. That’s what you should tell yourself to get into this.” He juts out his lower lip, drawing his eyebrows inward. “Come on, sweets, let me hear you say my name.” “When you say it like that, it makes me want to throw a drink in your face.” “Just once, Y/N.” You huff and roll your eyes. “Satoru.” “Oh my god, a girl called me by my first name!” he squeals. You almost stand to get out of here if it means preventing people from associating you with him. He grabs your hand and drags you back down into your seat before you can properly escape, much to your dismay. “Relax, I’m just playing.” “Are you here to mess around or help me?” “Well, you need to tell me so I can help you. What do you even know about him?” “About Geto?” “Yeah, unless there’s someone else you want to know more about?” He grins, easy and confident. You ignore his comment. “Well, I know he… likes books. music. He's kind… thoughtful. Plays the guitar. Ah, specifically electric." “Are you listing off what’s on his dating profile right now?” “Shut up,” you snap, but it comes out weaker than intended. “He isn’t actively on any dating app right now, just for your information.” “And how would you know this? What are you doing on there?” “I’m not on hinge, unfortunate for the female population, I know. We just tell each other everything,” he says, leaning back, one elbow resting on the armrest of his chair as he studies you from across the table. “I’m helping you, you know? First rule, don’t just parrot his interests. Though maybe I don't have to worry about that since you’re clearly struggling to even remember them.” “I wasn’t going to parrot him.” “I know you were,” he interrupts, wagging a finger. “Last time I checked, liking exactly what he likes does not make you compatible. It makes you predictable. And desperate.” “Okay, harsh.” “It's all tough love, sweets.” You fold your arms, slumping back in your seat, letting gravity do half the work of your sulk. “Fine then, oh wise love guru. What should i say instead? Like, let’s say he asks me what I'm into and my mind goes blank like last time. What then?”

“You're asking like it’s that difficult. Just be honest, tell him what you like regardless if it matches his interests. Do you want to be a groupie or be something more than a friend?” “I want to be someone he likes.” “So you're going to play the role of Suguru’s perfect girlfriend? And what after that, genius? Are you just going to pretend forever?” Gojo looks over to the front counter and smiles at some waitresses standing there already looking in his direction. He turns back as they start giggling and playfully arguing over who should come over to take his order. “Don’t force yourself to perform for him or curate yourself to be digestible. If the two of you are meant to be then he should want you.” You look away, picking at nothing on your glass. “That's easy for you to say.” “It's actually incredibly tiring being this emotionally intelligent all the time,” he says, face neutral. You snort despite yourself and he looks satisfied. “And what if I tell him and he doesn’t like it?” Gojo shrugs, slow and deliberate. “Then he’s not for you.” You frown. “Wow, you’re terrible at pep talks.” One of the waitresses finally makes it to your table, an eager smile on her face and a determined look in her eyes. Behind her, you catch the rest of the staff shooting encouraging looks. She clutches her notepad a little too tightly, taking in a deep breath before talking. “Hello, are you, um, both ready to order?”

“Yeah,” Gojo says easily, flashing her a smile. “I’ll just grab a hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”

The woman quickly scribbles his order down. “Of course! One hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”

“And whatever she wants,” he adds, nodding toward you.

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I already ordered earlier. I'm fine for now, thanks.”

The waitress spares you a glance, eyes flickering briefly over you before returning to Gojo like a magnet snapping back into place. “Not a problem. Is there anything else I can get you started with today?”

“We're good, thank you.”

Her face falls. She nods, but lingers a moment too long, clearly hoping for something, another question, a joke, anything to keep the interaction going.

Gojo’s grin grows just a little bit wider as he obliges.

“Busy today?” He asks casually, tone warm and interested.

Her face lights up and she quickly steps forward again. “A little! It's usually busy in the mornings what with the morning rush and all. Honestly, it’s like nonstop until at least 1pm.”

“That’s brutal,” he sympathises, leaning back in his chair, posture loose and open. “At least you’ve got good coffee to survive on.”

She laughs, a bright and breathy sound that makes it clear she’s not just laughing at the coffee comment alone. “Perks of the job, I suppose. Do you come here often?”

Gojo tilts his head as if the question deserved genuine thought and wasn’t just a throwaway pick up line.

“Not as often as I should,” he decides easily. “But I might start if the service is this friendly.”

Her smile widens, pink creeping into her cheeks. “We try our best.”

“I was talking about you, sweetheart.”

You’ve been listening and watching with apt attention, taking mental notes on the right time to smile, when to tilt your head just so, when to tuck your hair behind your ears and when to employ the double tuck, when his last words make you frown.

You clear your throat, eyes fluttering away when both Gojo and waitress look over at you.

“Well,” the waitress starts suddenly, glancing down at her notepad like she needs to remind herself she’s on the clock, "I'll bring your drink out as soon as it’s ready.”

“Looking forward to it,” Gojo replies, though he hasn’t looked away from you yet.

She lingers half a beat longer, then turns and walks away, shoulders a little straighter than before.

“Done staring?” He teases.

“I was not staring. Don't you have the tact to not flirt with someone else when you’re on a date?”

“Oh, so now it’s a date? Only when it’s convenient for you, huh?”

You reach over for a napkin and crumble it up to throw it at him. It barely makes it halfway across the table before it starts fluttering down.

“It’s only manners,” you insist, cheeks warm. “I didn't know what to do when the two of you were talking.”

He snorts. “You could’ve joined the conversation.”

“And said what? "Hello, I'm also present and this jerk’s date for the day?”

“Hey, I like the sound of that,” he muses. Your next crumpled up napkin doesn’t get any further than its predecessor. You glare at him, something about that conversation rubbing you the wrong way, echoing unpleasantly in your head in a way that makes you want to peel your skin off. You clear your throat again. “You're here to teach me like I taught you statistics, right? Even though one is clearly harder than the other.” “Right. Getting you to date ready is much more difficult.” You ignore him to save the life of one napkin. “So, how do I do that? Flirt so effortlessly and not make it cringe?” “You want to use what I just said with the waitress on Suguru?” He actually laughs out loud. “Do not, he’s going to see right through you. You should have met his last ex. The two of them were absolutely disgusting and— oh wait, should I not talk about that?” “Yeah, let’s not.” He hums and changes the subject. “Anyway, just let it happen. Be natural. You talk to me just fine.” “Yeah, but you’re you. frivolous, class clown, never takes anything seriously, probably never commits to anything,” you start listing, counting them on your fingers. “I feel like the first thing and the last thing mean the same thing. Put one finger down.” You refuse, still holding up four fingers. “Sleeps on a mattress on the ground.” “So does half of Sig Kap. But relax, I get it. So you suck at flirting. Shouldn’t you be happy I gave you a live demonstration of how it’s done?” That gets you frowning again. “Do you always call everyone something?” “What does that even mean?” “You called her sweetheart.” “I don't know her name. I wasn't about to call her ‘woman’, that sounds very sexist and I'm a feminist at heart. Thoughts on banning periods?” “She has a name tag.” “I don’t look at that area on a woman on the first date,” he pledges. You continue without thinking.“How is anyone supposed to know when you actually mean it when you give everyone similar nicknames?” He goes quiet, eyes narrowing slightly. “What?” Before you can elaborate, or maybe divert and make him look away so you can dig yourself out of the hole you just created, the waitress returns with his drink. She leans over him, placing it down carefully. “Here you go!” “Thanks,” he says, polite but no longer quite as engaged. In fact, he hasn’t looked away from you, still giving you that same disbelieving look. You fiddle with your own drink. Maybe you should have ordered something else if it meant spicing up the number of objects you have in your possession to pass awkward silence with. The waitress lingers a moment before hesitantly leaving when it’s clear there’s no encore performance. “I just meant it’s confusing for anyone, hypothetically,” you say in a rush, beating him. “Anyway! Flirting techniques, let’s talk about them!” He watches you for a moment longer before dropping his head and ruffling his hair. You grimace, eyeing how close his head is to his open drink. When he looks back up, whatever conflict on his face has disappeared. “Fine, okay. Let's talk. First of all, it’s important where the date takes place. There's unspoken etiquette for every typical date location.” “Like how you go on a coffee date, you shouldn’t flirt with the waitress.” Gojo cracks a grin. “You’re getting it. Look, Suguru is kind of an artsy guy. He'd probably take you to an art museum or like a jazz bar for your first date.” You narrow your eyes. “How do you know that?” “I told you, he tells me everything. Focus.” He dismisses your look. “He’s kind of an enjoy-the-moment kind of guy. Probably won’t talk too much while you’re both admiring something together and saves all the talking until after when he leads you to some underground totally underrated dinner spot.” You wince. “Shit. I kind of like making little jokes in the moment.” He snaps his fingers, face brightening. “Right? Like when you’re watching a movie in the cinemas!” “Okay, that is a bit tricky. It depends.”

“Don't Genshin theorycraft me.” “You're lucky I got that reference.” Gojo shrugs. “Well, Suguru enjoys just existing with his special someone. Don't get me wrong, he definitely talks when you get him started but I think he’s kinda cool for being able to sit in silence with someone.” You chew the inside of your cheek. “I’m kind of bad with silences. I end up embarrassing myself just to fill them. Do you think it’s fixable? Should I just not talk?” “Woah, slow down. It’s fine, he has enough social awareness to fill in the gaps if you’re uncomfortable. But i’m just telling you what he likes,” he studies you. “He doesn’t like petnames, by the way.” Heat creeps up your neck. “That’s fine, it’s not a dealbreaker,” you mumble.

“I'm just saying. He's a real fan of using your first name. When you two get on that basis, of course.”

“Anything else, Geto expert?”

Gojo hums, taking a long sip of his latte, eyes tracking up. “He likes meaningful stuff like art with a story behind it, long conversations about philosophy. Like yeah he still likes doing things just for fun but there’s a difference between like and love.”

You wince. “But love is meant to be silly, meaningless stuff. Like sending pictures of dogs cuddling because it reminded you of us or whether you’d still love each other if you turned into worms. Like taking the longer way back home just to spend more time together. Or, I don't know, building blanket forts as adults.”

Gojo’s mouth twitches.

You stop, suddenly aware you sound like you’ve been storing these thoughts and they’ve suddenly all gotten loose.

“Stuff that doesn’t matter,” you finish weakly.

He rests his chin on his palm. “Like going to the arcade and getting plushies for each other at the claw machines?”

You laugh, shoulders relaxing. “I'd obviously do better. You look like you have no hand eye coordination.”

“Did you forget I literally play ice hockey?”

“Right, your role as the benchwarmer?”

“My ass has never once graced those benches.”

“I don't know, I swear I remember seeing you on the sidelines.”

“You’ve come to watch me play before?” He grins, cheek slightly smushed from his position.

“Because Shoko went.”

He juts his lower lip out. “Harsh.”

There's a few seconds of silence as the conversation replays and you feel a sudden rush of embarrassment. You look up to see if he clocked your earlier slip up but he only tilts his head more into his hand.

“What?”

“Nothing.” You clear your throat and look down at your drink. It's left behind a ring of water around its base. “How are you two best friends when you’re so different?”

“Because he slows me down,” Gojo says like it’s simple. “And I drag him out of his head. But he doesn’t need another person to do that for him so don’t even think of taking my spot.”

You both share a laugh and it lingers a little longer than the joke deserves, warm and easy, until it naturally tapers off into something softer.

“Why do you even like him?” He suddenly asks, voice soft against the murmur of the cafe.

You slowly slide your gaze out the window as if reliving the moment. You can almost feel the rain on your skin, the warmth of a hoodie not your own, and the residual laughter at the back of your throat that makes you smile.

“Last semester when it was pouring rain, he saw me waiting outside a building without an umbrella and we ended up running through the storm. It’s stupid but it was fun and meaningless and definitely what I needed after my finals.”

Your words make him frown, finger tracing a random shape on the wet surface of his glass absentmindedly. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought?” You offer.

“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s my other half.”

“Again, should I be concerned right now?”

“Are you homophobic?”

“No?”

“Then you’re fine.”

“Wait…”

Gojo glances down at his phone and sighs. “It's getting late, sweets. I'd love to stay longer but I promised the boys we’d go do this carwashing event.”

He pauses and looks up.

“Did you want to come?” he quickly adds on, “You don’t have to come alone, you could bring Shoko along or something.”

You wrinkle your nose. “No thanks.  You can imagine that she’s not keen on seeing a bunch of shirtless boys.” He grins. “Suit yourself. I'll walk you out. It's the least I can do on this date.” You roll your eyes but stand and follow him out anyway, ducking under his arm as he holds the door open for you. Stepping out, you’re almost blinded by the bright sun and you have to cover your eyes to look up, squinting even with the shade provided by your palm. He moves to stand in front of you. “Well, I'll see you around.” Next tutoring session,” you remind him, letting your arm drop to your side. "Don't forget to watch the online lectures before then. And remember to do the weekly quizzes this time. And—” He reaches over to ruffle your hair fiercely, laughing when your words turn into a startled squeak. “Yes, yes, I got it,” He lets you go and watches with a toothy grin as you start fixing your hair, glaring up at him and his audacity to smirk. His face quickly softens. “Sorry I can’t walk you back to your dorms. I'm already running kind of late.” “Don't worry about it,” you say when you feel like you look presentable enough. “Um, get there safe?” “I will,” he starts stepping back. “Text me if you need anything.” “Okay, make sure to—” “Relax, sweets, I got it,” He says with a chuckle and a wave, before he turns and starts walking off in your opposite direction. You watch him go for a little longer before heading back to your dorm.You stare up at your ceiling. your ceiling stares back down at you. You've been staring at your popcorn ceiling for so long that you’ve begun to discern shapes and different shades of what you had previously considered to be beige, plain and simple, but was now warping into the image of Gojo.

Something he had done yesterday clung to you even hours after the date. The ease in which he allowed the waitress’ fingers to brush his as he handed her the menus, the way he easily held onto your hand at the party, the lack of concern as he stood close to you on the walk back. You lift up your hands and slowly interlace your fingers. It's comfortable, familiar. until you start wondering one hand as someone else's.

Before you can doubt yourself, you pull yourself up and gather your phone and keys, heading to the door without another thought. On the way through the dorms, you send a quick text.

you: u free? im coming over

You stand outside Gojo’s door and knock. There's a muffled, incoherent reply before the door is pulled open, revealing Gojo. His hair is slightly damp with stubborn strands clinging to his forehead and he’s brushing his teeth. He's not wearing a shirt.

You stare at his chest.

“One second,” he says around the foam in his mouth. He holds the door open a little wider and ushers you in, letting the door fall to a gentle click behind you. “Sit on the couch.”

Wordlessly, you do, watching his bare back as he heads into his bathroom. The sound of water muffles your racing thoughts until he reappears, still shirtless but at least he’s not brushing his teeth anymore.

“Hey,” he says, irritatingly casual. “I saw your text. You didn’t even wait to see if I was free or not. For the record I am but imagine I wasn't. That would have been an awkward situation and between you and her, I would have picked her.”

You blink away your surprise and look up at him. “Her?”

“It’s a Friday night, Y/N. You’re lucky I don't have someone over.”

You frown a little at that and he continues, heading to his kitchenette to open his fridge, pulling out two beers. He hands you one, pushing it towards you once more when you don’t immediately take up his offer.

“So, what are you doing here?”

“Are you going to put on a shirt?”

He blinks before a wide grin splits across his face. “I was wondering what you were looking at so deep in thought. I didn't want to assume again after you made a fool of me at the party but I guess you do have working eyes after all. Do you want me to put on a shirt?”

You blush, finally looking away. “Obviously.” He chuckles and places his beer down on the coffee table before going on a hunt to find a clean shirt. “But from the way you were eyeing me it really wasn’t that obvious. Besides, you’re telling me to put on a shirt in my own home?” “It's common sense when you have a guest over.” His voice carries over from his room. “You’re not really a guest, more like a pest. A guest implies I invited you over, no?” “But yesterday you said I could come to you for anything.” “Right. What was I thinking?” Gojo comes back out and flops next to you, the couch dipping under his sudden weight. He takes the beer from your hands and cracks it open before handing it back and doing the same to his. “So, you finally going to tell me what’s up or are you just here to leech off my dwindling beer supply?” “I don’t even drink,” you mumble, watching as the water beads down your fingers. “No, but I do have some manners for my guest.” “You just said…” you trail off, recognising that you’ll only go round and round in circles if you keep up this conversation. you place the beer on the floor and turn to him. “Forget it. I'm here because I need your help.” “Figures.” He holds the beer to his lips and takes a deep swig. “What can I do for you today?” You bite your lip before turning to him. “Can I kiss you?” Gojo chokes, pulling the beer from his lips with a hack, liquid spitting out onto his no longer clean shirt and sweatpants. He finally manages to get his mouthful of beer down, but he only coughs and hits at his chest. Hesitantly, you reach over and pat his back lightly. He shrugs your touch away, looking at you in disbelief. “What did you just say?” “I was wondering if you’d let me kiss you?” “Just because you’re saying it politer now doesn’t take away how crazy you sound.” He stares at you incredulously. “Look, I know we went on a date yesterday but I thought you of all people knew it was a practice date. I'm sorry but I don't feel the same way. Gojo Satoru doesn’t do relationships.” You groan, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t suddenly develop a crush on you, Gojo.” “Satoru,” he corrects you despite his shock. “Satoru,” you emphasise. “I don’t like you.” “Could have fooled me.” “Yesterday just got me thinking. You’re so natural with touching and stuff and I realised that I have literally no experience whatsoever. I know Geto isn’t the type of person to care about whether I'm a virgin or not but I care. I care because I know I'll freeze up if we ever get to that part.” He stares at you. “When i asked you a few days ago about whether or not you wanted to sleep with him, you told me to shut up.” “That was a few days ago.” You shuffle closer to him on the couch and watch as his eyes drop to your thighs inching closer, then back up, something like fear on his face. “I know this is a big favour but I thought since you’ve kissed so many girls before and they’ve never meant anything that you might be okay with this? I mean you thought we were going to kiss that time at the party. So is this really that crazy to ask?” “Yes,” he says immediately. “It is. because you like Suguru and I'm his best friend.” “But this is practice.” “You can’t just echo what I've said in the past.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking off in the distance before coming back to you. “Suguru isn’t the type of person to rush to things like that. You'd be in good hands.” “I know but this is for me. So I know what to expect.” His face is contorted in a way you’ve never seen before. You decide to give another push. “Just think of me as one of your hookups.” He exhales softly, eyes staring into yours. “Are you sure? Have you even thought this through?”

“Yes, I have,” you lie. “I mean, there aren’t any cons. I'll lose my first kiss, get experience, and it’s all under practice anyway so it won’t mean anything. And you get a hookup for the night. It's a win win!” His face only seems to pale more at your words. “You haven’t had your first kiss yet? Fuck, that’s a lot of pressure. And I feel like you have the wrong idea about what a hookup entails.” You shrug. “Kissing? Making out?” “Sex.” You pause. “Well, we won’t go that far. Maybe.” “Maybe?” He exclaims and you quickly deflect because he’s looking more and more shocked. “We can start with kissing.” You shift closer, your thigh pressing against his. “Come on, it doesn’t have to mean anything.” Gojo looks at you, really looks at you, from the encouraging look in your eyes to the determined line of your lips. He huffs, running another hand through his hair at the absurd change to his Friday night plans. Sure, kissing someone wasn’t a big deal for him, not when he’s tasted the lips of many before, but there was something different about taking someone’s first kiss. Finally, he sighs, long and hard. “Just a kiss.” You beam, face lighting up. “Of course!” He hesitates, cursing under his breath something long but incoherent, before gently reaching out to tilt your chin up. “Tell me if you change your mind. Just shove me away, okay?” You nod enthusiastically. “What do I have to do?” “Just let me take the lead for now. And if you feel confident enough to kiss back, go for it.” Again, Gojo mumbles something under his breath, the absurdity of the situation still not lost to him. He leans forward as if to seal the deal before pausing, moving his hand up to caress your cheek tenderly. Your breath hitches, eyes wide as you curse your own touch-starved form. “You okay?” He asks, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. “Changed your mind?” You shake your head slightly. Gojo huffs and you feel the puff of air against your lips. When his lips finally press against yours, fitting against yours in a way you’ve only ever seen in movies, you feel… nothing. You squeeze your eyes tighter, trying to dig through the sensations and pick out the one that’s meant to set off fireworks and melt your stomach into goo. Instead, it just feels like there’s someone’s lips touching yours. Sensing your discomfort, Gojo pulls back, eyes fluttering open to meet your unsure ones. His nose scrunches up a little as he studies your expression. “Hey,” he starts, voice low. “You're hurting my ego.” You lick your lips, trying to return your lips to their usual sensation. “It just wasn’t what I was expecting.” “What were you expecting?” “Butterflies?” He chuckles, hand still caressing your cheek. “You're kissing me without any feeling. It’s not my fault you’re as stiff as a board. Relax. Imagine Suguru or something.” Now it’s your turn to make a face. "Wouldn't that hurt your ego more?” “Just relax,” he repeats and you make the conscious effort to focus on the way he’s stroking your face soothingly. “That’s it. Good girl.” “Don't call me that, I cringed.” He laughs, leaning in. “Abandon the part of you that cringes not the part of you that is cringe.” With that, he brushes his lips against your again, letting you feel the slow movement and determine the pace. It’s not exactly rocket science, this kissing business, and you start to mimic the motion of parting your lips against his. It takes a few tries for him to hum in approval and deepen the kiss, his free hand sliding up to cup your neck and gently pull you closer to him. You let out a soft squeak and quickly pick up from the momentary break in rhythm on your end. When his tongue slides against the seam of your lips, you blanch and pull back. “Okay,” he starts. “That really hurt my feelings.” “What was that?” You cover your mouth with your hands, the slimy sensation replaying in your mind. “That was my tongue.” “Why didn’t it feel good?”

He rolls his eyes at your complaint and slides an arm around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re half on his lap. “Because you’re thinking too hard.” “I was not thinking at all, actually,” you say, scandalised. “I didn't know I was going to be ambushed.” “Okay, my bad, I should have given you a heads up.” He pauses and announces solemnly, "I'm going to start using my tongue.” You make a face and he huffs out a laugh, forehead dropping briefly against yours. Up close like this, you can feel the vibration of it in his chest, the way his grip tightens just a little like he doesn’t want you getting any bright ideas about you escaping. “You're doing fine,” he says more softly, thumb brushing slow circles at your waist. You think briefly that this must be the allure to him that has girls fawning for his attention. You're not immune either, and you sub consciously melt under his touch, relaxing again. Once you’ve done it once, given into his temptation, it’s easy to fall back again. “Fine doesn’t seem like outstanding status,” you mumble, trying to maintain some resistance. “For your first time, it wasn’t so bad.” His nose nudges yours, playfully and coaxing and you’re in his web again. “C’mere.” Gojo doesn’t pull you this time. Instead, he just waits, one arm warm and steady around your hips, hand stroking your hair as he waits for you to come to him. It's a sign of consideration that has you feeling jittery and warm, though there’s a lazy smirk on his lips that suggests he has other ulterior motives that makes it as infuriating as it is attractive. Your gaze flicks to his mouth then back to his eyes. His lashes lower just slightly, watching you watch him, and something in your stomach flips over completely. Probably your common sense. “Just… slower,” you mumble. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Slower.” He still doesn’t move first which is deeply unfair, because now you have to be the brave one. You lean in. It's clumsy at first, more of a gentle bump of noses and a too-soft press of lips than anything smooth or cinematic like he had kissed you earlier. You almost pull back in embarrassment, ready to admit that maybe he was a better kisser than you had given him credit for if it’ll mean this pathetic peck of yours can end and he can make it good again, when his hand tightens on your hip and he takes over. His mouth settles properly over yours, angle shifting until the awkwardness disappears, until it stops being baby’s first kiss and starts becoming a warm, steady pressure that has your toes curling. Yhe faint brush of his breath against your cheek, the subtle tilt of his head that fits your mouth together and when he nips at your bottom lip, a soft startled sound escapes before you can stop it. He swallows it down without hesitation. His hand tightens reflexively and slides down, cupping your ass as he leans back and guides you onto him, fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes to keep you there, not that you had any plans of moving. One moment your body is twisted awkwardly to meet him and the next you’re seated full on his lap, his warmth solid beneath you. His breath fans across your cheek in uneven bursts, warm and damp, and the faint scrape of his teeth lingers as a tingling awareness. You realise, distantly, that you’re no longer stiff. Your hands, which had been braced awkwardly against his shoulders, loosen without permission. One slides up into his hair as you lean into him, damp strands cool at the ends, warm near the scalp, and the sensation grounds you in a way nothing else does. His mouth opens at the sensation and when his tongue sweeps along your lower lip again, you don’t pull away. It isn’t slimy or invasive like last time, in fact you welcome it, mimicking his openness and the kiss deepens.

Your breath mingles, movements syncing up and under the guidance of his lips and tongue, you start getting bolder. You shift closer, just a fraction, your head moving up and face tilting down to angle yourself deeper when a low sound slips out of him. Your eyes fly open and you pull away. “Was that—” “Nope,” he says immediately, eyes darker than when you last checked. He's panting beneath your palms, a slightly warm tint to his face as he stares at you. You swallow. “You just—” “I didn’t,” he insists, far too quickly. When he’s so adamant like that, it’s a little hard to say anything more. Besides, while it’s almost fun to poke the bear, the memory of his mouth on yours has you thinking about something else entirely. You don’t move from his lap and he doesn’t push you off. “Think you’re getting it?” he asks, watching you with something unreadable lurking in his eyes. You don’t hesitate. “No.” You stare at each other, catching a much needed breath. “Alright,” he says, voice rough. “One more. and then we have to stop.” You lean in and he lets out a soft sigh like a man doomed before meeting you halfway. Gojo doesn’t start slow this time, maybe because he knows if he does, he won’t be able to control himself. His hand slides more firmly to the back of your neck, guiding you towards him with a kind of impatience, mouth finding yours with confidence, your chest tightening at the gesture. Your fingers clutch at his shirt instinctively and he makes a low noise at the back of his throat, deepening the kiss until you slide your fingers up and into his hair. A low exhale slips through his nose, almost shaky and he tilts his head in response to your faint tugs. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your lips. Emboldened, you tilt your head and slide your tongue into his mouth to taste him. He tastes like beer and minty and something addictive that has you repeating the movement over and over. When he reciprocates, your stomach swoops instead of recoiling. You shift, suddenly desperate to get closer and settle over his bulge. Wow. You both jerk away from each other quickly, your hands leaving his hair and his arm retracting from your waist. The break feels violent in its suddenness, like surfacing too fast in deep water. Cold air rushes between you where there had only been warmth seconds ago. Your lips tingle, oversensitive, parted as you drag in a shaky breath. Gojo’s chest rises and falls sharply, eyes wide in a way you’ve never seen before, pupils blow dark. For once, there is no smirk, no teasing glint, just a raw, stunned awareness, like he’s trying to process several things at once and failing at all of them.

You become acutely aware of exactly where you’re sitting.

Heat floods your face and to the tips of your ears. you scramble backward, knees slipping against the couch cushions, putting space between your bodies even as the loss of his warmth makes your skin prickle.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, horrified. “I didn’t—I mean, I wasn't trying to—”

“Don’t,” he groans, slumping back, covering his flushed face with his arm. His other hand reaches down to adjust himself though he doesn’t seem to have any ideas of covering himself so you watch unabashedly. “Just don’t say anything for a second.”

You clamp your mouth shut obediently.

The room feels too small, too quiet, every little sound like the rustle of fabric or the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchenette, even your own uneven breathing, suddenly feels magnified.

Eventually, Gojo pulls himself up, fixing dark eyes on your figure.

“I’m sorry.” You rush to say, though you’re not sure what you’re apologising for.

“It’s fine, it’s not your fault. It wasn't because of you, I guess I've just been pent up,” he runs his hand through his hair and you watch as he pauses, something passing over his face before he abruptly pulls his hand away. “Anyway, it’s normal.”

You nod too fast. “Right, yes. Totally fine. Super normal, nothing weird happened.”

“Right,” he says. “Nothing weird.”

Your shoulders sag a little, tension leaking out now that that’s been cleared up. The adrenaline leaves behind a strange floaty sensation and you try, and fail, to push down the sudden desire to continue, to explore even further. “We’re definitely stopping the practice today,” he says, crushing your dreams. You nod again, somewhat grateful that a decision has been made for you considering the conflict thoughts warring in your head. “Okay.” He suddenly ruffles his hair all messy and stands up with an exaggerated groan that makes you jump. “Okay! That's over. You did good by the way. You’re gonna be trouble when you actually start dating someone.” You frown. “Why?” “It's a compliment, sweets, learn to recognise them, yeah?” He starts walking over to his kitchenette. “Want an actual drink?” Your brain is still somewhere back in that last kiss, struggling to catch up. “Sure. Just water, right?” He snorts. “I’m not a creep.” When you lean back against the couch and close your eyes to recenter yourself, he steals a glance and lets out a long exhale. He closes his eyes for a moment like he’s deeply exhausted. When he opens his eyes again and makes his way to you, his signature smirk is back.

If anyone saw how nervous you look about to text Gojo, they might think you had a crush on him. Which is absurd because you clearly have a crush on Geto. Your thumb hovers over the send button, chewing the inside of your cheeks as you debate whether this is a good idea or not. It’s been a week since you first asked Gojo for advice and though his methods weren’t orthodox nor was he incredible help, you still had to give him his merits. Talking to him was relaxing in a way, the constant back and forth familiar and even his judgement didn’t seem to come from a bad place. The physical stuff was a whole other story and did not influence your thoughts on how you felt about him whatsoever. In summary, Gojo has given you determination that you couldn’t have achieved on your own. Using this newfound confidence, you take a deep breath and finally hit send. you: hey are you in class today? Not even a full minute later, his reply buzzes. gojo: yeah i am stalking me, super fan? you: god this is exactly why i hate texting u gojo: :( why whats up though ur class doesn’t finish until 2 right? you: yeah how did u know that? u sure ure not my super fan? gojo: guilty! i just know dont ask what u cant handle so u gonna leave me in suspense or are u gonna tell me you: well you have class with geto right The inside of your cheeks starts getting a little tender as you continue to gnaw and bite at the flesh, anxiously waiting as Gojo’s typing bubbles appear and disappear. gojo: yeah i do you: can i come see you? gojo: what you: like ill come to your class but can you leave after so its just me and him u were talking about creating these situations on saturday right so like wouldnt this be perfect? gojo: god this conversation isn’t good for my heart you: ? gojo: our class ends later than urs you: that’s fine i can wait !! gojo: nah i dont feel like it you: ????? man what the hell you said you’d help me gojo: and i did on saturday what if i want suguru all to myself today? you: come on please??? gojo: what if i dont want to see u you: well i wont be bothering u this time i just need an excuse to see him i think whatever magic u casted over me on sat worked im feeling like scarily confident i want to talk to him before the feeling goes away like i feel like i can really do it this time you know? please satoru? gojo: god u have no idea how evil u are fine ill get us to go to the library you: THANK YOU@!!!!!! gojo: u owe me you: YES DEFINITELY gojo: another date this friday then you: OKAY!!! wait what Waiting at the library is agonising. you attempt to complete some smaller tasks for your courses that you’ve left in lieu of thinking about, well, boys. But just like every time before, your thoughts stray and settle on him. His pretty effortless smiles, his soft laughter, that sparkling glint in his eyes when he looks at you and it’s like the world quietens just to listen too. his long fingers, the mole on his earlobe, his white— When your phone buzzes again an hour later, you jump up from your seat to find the location of the photo Gojo sent. You slip into the fifth library floor as quietly as possible, scanning the endless rows of students for the familiar top of someone’s head. It doesn't take long for your eyes to settle on him. Gojo is impossible to miss, slouched low in a study booth, hood up and drooping over his hair and the bottom pulled up to cover his mouth. His arms are crossed over his chest as he stares at his laptop screen. And of course, Geto sits across from him. Taking in a deep breath, you slow your pace into something that might pass as a casual stroll as if you had randomly come upon them by chance and stop by their booth.

“Oh, hi Satoru!” He doesn’t look up. “Hey.” Then, after a manual moment, you turn to Geto. “Oh my god! Geto? Wow.” Your voice comes out pitched a little too loud. “What a coincidence!” Geto looks up with a smile. “Hey, Y/N. What are the chances we ran into each other?” Gojo snorts and you don’t miss how pointed it is. You take the chance to glare at the side of his face but he only sinks into his hoodie with a grumble. You continue to stare, even narrowing your eyes as if it’ll sharpen your gaze and he finally lets out a loud groan, flipping the hood down to ruffle his hair and sit up. “Oh no,” he announces into the silence, loud enough to draw a few irritated glances, not that he cares. He checks his phone, staring at his empty notification list. “It looks like my best friend accidentally locked himself out of his dorm.” Geto pauses. “I'm your best friend.” You purse your lips, watching as Gojo begins to slowly pack up his things. Granted, he only needed to close his laptop and shove it into his tote bag, without a case mind you. He refuses to look up despite your efforts to catch his gaze. “Sorry man, duty calls. I can’t help that i’m such a good friend.” He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. When he passes by, his arm brushing against yours despite the empty space all around, he leans down to whisper, “Good luck.” You don’t have the time to decipher if it’s sincerity or sarcasm that you detect because he leaves, his lingering cologne the only sign that he was ever there. You turn back to Geto, offering a small, awkward smile, wondering if he’s caught on. “What was that about?” You laugh. Geto chuckles softly. “Sorry about him. You know how he can be sometimes.” He looks up at you patiently. “Well, an empty spot has opened up. Are you staying to study?” You fight the urge to celebrate. You happily erase thoughts of Gojo from your mind, leaving the gruelling task of decoding his strange behaviour for another day. Gojo’s seat is still warm when you take it, pulling out your laptop just for the act. There was no way you were wasting this golden opportunity with actually studying, don’t be silly. “So,” you begin, picking at the corner of your sleeve. “Any plans this weekend?” “You didn’t hear? Satoru is having a game this weekend. It’s just a preliminary but he’s been hyped for it. I'm sure he’d love it if you rocked up.” You almost laugh out loud. “No way. He'd hate that.” Geto’s brows lift, amused. “Why would he hate it?” “Because,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “We're not really friends. More like we have a symbiotic relationship. If we didn’t have that, I doubt we’d even talk to each other.” “I don't think so,” Geto smiles at you but instead of giving you the butterflies, it leaves you feeling unsure. “But you should come. Not by yourself, of course, I'm sure Shoko would come along.” “If she was going to go, she’d just take Utahime.” You shift in your seat, throwing the idea around in your head. “Even if I wanted to, I don't think I know anyone else who’d want to come with.” “Do you want to go with me?” Your brain blanks. “What?” “I was planning on going anyway,” he says, tone casual and all your senses tunnel-vision on him. “Besides, I've been curious about the girl who’s been taking up so much of Satoru’s time.” Your answer is obvious. “I’d love to!” It comes out a little too fast, a little too bright, but you can’t quite bring yourself to care. Relief, excitement, disbelief, it all tangles together in your chest until the only discernable thing left is a giddy sort of lightness. Geto’s smile widens, clearly pleased and you beam back. He hands you his phone. “Can I have your Insta then? So I can text you the details later.”

Your hands shake as you take it, thumbs clumsy as you type in your username, backspacing more times than you’d like to admit. You’re suddenly hyperaware of everything, the way he’s close enough to see your screen, the warmth of his hand where it had just been, the ridiculous desire to go through your own profile but through his eyes settling on your mind. Later, you can already imagine stalking your own profile, scrutinising every photo, every caption, trying to imagine what it would look like to be him scrolling through for the first time. When he takes his phone back, he doesn’t immediately pocket it. Instead, he actually looks, thumb scrolling down, humming. Oh god, he’s looking right now. "Where's that quote from your bio from?” He asks, glancing up briefly. “It sounds familiar.” “Oh, um. It’s from my favourite novel.” Your eyes flutter across his face as you tell him the title, sneaking in a quick description to try to sell it. “I’ll have to check it out then,” Geto says, putting his phone away. “Do you read often?” “Not as much as I want to. You know how it is, with school and everything. Not to mention books are crazy expensive nowadays.” He nods sympathetically. “There's this small bookshop tucked away near the city. It's actually close by the rink where Satoru’s game is. I could show you after his game on Saturday.” Your breath catches. “After the game?” You repeat, trying very hard to sound normal and not out-of-breath. Geto nods, completely at ease. “If you’re not in a rush to get back after,” he adds, considerate as ever. “It says open pretty late.” You stare at him for a second, thoughts scrambling over each other. He’s inviting you out after a game. That meant walking together, talking more, being alone without the buffer of a crowd screaming over a bunch of men slamming into each other and hitting with their sticks. You realise you’re meant to give an answer and quickly hurry. “Yeah, that sounds perfect actually!” You say, a touch too fast, then wince and try again, softer. “I mean—yeah. That sounds really nice.” “Good,” he says simply, smile deepening. “It's a cozy place. You could get lost in there for hours.” “That sounds dangerous. I already have a book-buying problem." “Secondhand prices,” he reminds you. “It's much safer.” You hum. “That's debateable. Lower prices just means I have to buy more.” You can’t believe your luck. Not only had Geto basically invited you on a date to Gojo’s game, he’s also asked you to go book shopping together afterward. And somehow, you had just finished a perfectly normal conversation with him without embarrassing yourself beyond recovery. Could things possibly get any better? “You know,” he starts up again and you lean in. “Satoru’s doing suspiciously good in his classes recently. Any clue why?” You freeze, temporarily thrown off guard. “He better be. I don't tutor him for nothing.” “I knew it was you. Why are you tutoring him? If he’s blackmailing you, I can help,” he says with a straight face. “No, no! Nothing like that!” You rush to explain. He cracks a smile. “I’m just joking. He's not actually as bad as his reputation makes him out to be. It's all bad rep, you know?” While you’ve known Gojo through his reputation for as long as you can remember, you’ve never once stopped to consider that might not be everything about him. “What do you mean?” “Sig Kap had a frat sweetheart two years ago,” Geto explains, folding his hands loosely on his laptop. “She was nice, really sweet but some of the older guys treated her like shit. When Satoru called some of the boys out for messing with her they weren’t too happy.” Your brows lift. “So did they kick him out or something?” “Not that there’s much they could have done considering his family.” “What about them?” He glances at you surprised. “You don’t know?”

You shake your head. “Huh.” His expression softens into something gentler. “Yeah. A lot of people approach him because they want something, connections, favours, you know the deal. He absolutely hates it. Ironically, that influence is also what kept the older guys from pushing back too hard and they couldn’t exactly scare him off so he’s there to stay.” “And some people still don’t like him?” “Some still don’t,” Geto confirms. “So they spread all those stupid rumours instead. Probably easier that way since it’s not exactly traceable.” Your stomach tightens. “What kind of rumours?” He hesitates, then shrugs. “Stuff about him sleeping around. that he’s messed with every girl on campus, that kind of thing. You don’t have to look so devastated, it doesn’t bother him much. If anything, it gets him more game. But it’s far from the truth. I mean you’re a girl on campus and he hasn’t messed with you.” Something about the way he says it, calm and matter-of-fact, makes your chest ache. “He did earn a lot of respect back,” Geto continues, oblivious to your growing distress. “Especially from the younger guys. But some of the older ones never really got over it.” He falls silent, studying you with that gentle, searching look that makes you feel like you’re under a microscope and the spotlight is shining down on you. Whatever he sees under the lens makes him smile. “It’s nice,” he says softly. “That you’re so genuine with him. He doesn’t get that very often.” The words hit like a punch to the gut. Couldn't he have used a word other than ‘genuine’? Because you aren’t genuine, far from it, and that realisation makes your stomach drop, nausea blooming sharp and sudden and upheaving the contents. You approached Gojo with a plan just like all those who have approached him with ulterior motives in the past. And you’ve used him for his friendship and his willingness to help, to get closer to the person right in front of you. You are no better than the people Geto just described. Worse, even. Heat rushes to your face, then drains away just as quickly, leaving you cold. You push your chair back abruptly, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. “Where did Gojo go?” you ask, wincing internally. Geto blinks up at you, startled by the sudden shift. “Oh, uh.” He gestures vaguely toward the exit. “He said he had to help me—that is, his friend unlock his door. He's probably back in his room now though.” You nod too quickly, already stuffing your laptop into your bag with fumbling hands, cables tangling as if they’re conspiring against you. “Are you going after him?” Geto asks gently. You freeze for a split second. Are you?Here you are, sitting across from the person you supposedly like, the person you engineered this entire situation to get closer to, and you’re about to abandon the conversation to chase after his best friend. This is your chance, the perfect golden opportunity, and you’re throwing it away. and yet, you can’t bring yourself to completely doubt yourself. “Yeah,” you say, half a smile hovering on your lips. “I’m so sorry. There’s just something I need to say to him.” You bite your lip. “See you at the match though?" Geto’s surprise melts into an easy grin. "Don't worry about it. Good luck. And Y/N, seriously, take care of him, okay?” The words prick at your skin with a faint sense of deja vu, but you don’t stop to examine it. Instead, you give Geto one last shaky smile, sling your bag over your shoulder, and hurry toward the exit. Your heart pounds so loudly it drowns everything else. 

You knock at what you believe is his door if memory serves correct. “Go away, I'm jerking it.” You can’t decide if he’s being serious or just scaring unwanted guests away. Regardless, you clear your throat and talk. “Sorry for interrupting? Look, it’s me, it’s Y/N. Can I come in?” No sooner had you said your name, the door flies open, Gojo standing right behind, eyes wide and face flushed. “Y/N?  What are you—I mean, I thought you had that date with Suguru?” He goes to run a hand through his hair but pauses, switching to his other hand. “Yeah well, clearly I left him to come see you.” You sigh deeply and brush past him into his room. “There’s something I need to say to you and it’s really eating up at me for some reason.” “No sure, go ahead. Walk right in,” he mumbles but doesn’t try to stop you, instead closing the door gently. “What are you doing here? Because if you’re here to gloat or have a girl talk, Shoko is the one for you.” You flop onto his couch, staring up at his ceiling. He pauses before following, the couch cushions dipping under his weight as he drops down beside you. “Gojo, I’m really sorry,” you say, turning to him. He stares back unamused. “I told you to call me Satoru.” You blink, momentarily caught off guard before correcting yourself. “Satoru. I'm really sorry.” “Okay.” His frown lifts and he leans back to look at you. “About what?” You open your mouth, then close it again, suddenly unsure where to even start. “About everything?” You try weakly. He raises a brow. “That narrows it down.” You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Okay, specifically I feel like I've been using you and being annoying and dragging you into my mess. And also I abandoned you in the library which was rude and I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn't and I'm really sorry.” Gojo blinks at you and you hold your breath for the verdict. “...that’s it?” “That’s not ‘it’, that’s a lot,” you argue, pushing yourself up. “You've been helping me this whole time and I'm just barging into your life, asking for unreasonable favors and taking up your time.” He watches you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, surprise, confusion, maybe even something softer that he quickly buries under a flippant expression. “That's it?” he repeats, slower this time. You nod, twisting in your fingers together in your lap, the fight leaving your body as quick as it came. “I mean, it's not nothing. I know I've been a lot. And you didn’t have to help me at all, with any of it, but you did and I…” Your voice falters. “I don't want you to think I was just… using you.” Silence settles between you, thick but not entirely uncomfortable. The hum of his mini fridge in the corner fills the gaps. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams and laughter echoes faintly before fading. Gojo exhales through his nose and leans back, head tipping against the couch cushion as he stares up at the ceiling. “You’re terrible,” he mutters. He turns his head to look at you properly, blue eyes sharp in a way that makes your chest tighten. Up close like this, without the buffer of banter or crowds or motion, it’s impossible to ignore how intense he can be when he isn’t performing for anyone. You've had the privilege to see this side of him a few times, and the thought that he’s let you in and you’ve only gone and used him fills you with more guilt. “You didn’t abandon me in the library,” he continues. “I left on my own free will, remember?” “Yeah but—” “And you’re not using me,” he adds, voice flattening slightly. “If you were, then you aren’t using me to my full potential.” You huff a weak laugh. “Thanks?” “I mean it,” he says, not smiling. “People who use others don’t show up at their door looking like they’re going to throw up from guilt.” Heat creeps up your neck. “I did not look like that.” “You did,” he says easily. “Still kind of do.”

You shove his shoulder lightly. He barely moves, solid as ever, but the corner of his mouth lifts and the tension in your chest loosens at the sight. “So… you’re not mad?” You ask carefully. He considers that more seriously than you expected. “I was.” The worry comes back tenfold. “But not for the reason you think. So stop looking like you’ve aged ten years, sweets, it’s not a good look on you.” You wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t. You sigh, unable to keep up with the emotional whiplash and opt to instead throw it all away. “Okay, well that’s cryptic," you mutter. He shrugs. “I'm a mysterious guy. It’s all part of the irresistable, untouchable charm.” “I don’t see how you can be mysterious when you’re so loud.” “I open up to you and this is what I get?” “You did not open up.” He turns his head back toward the ceiling. “And now I'm closing back down.” You roll your eyes, but the knot in your chest has loosened enough that you can breathe again, you almost miss this back and forth and it seems he does too because he relaxes fully into his couch. Without thinking, you mimic him, shoulder brushing his. This time, neither of you moves away. The proximity feels different than before. You've been closer to him than this, and you randomly recall being on his lap for some reason unrelated to this specific moment and the charged, quiet atmosphere. After a moment, he speaks again, softer. “Did you at least get what you wanted?” You hesitate, the question knocking you out of orbit. “I think so. I mean he asked me to go to the game with him. and then a bookstore after.” Gojo goes still beside you. “My game?” He shakes his head with a scoff. “Figures. Well, good for you.” You twist the fabric of your sleeve between your fingers, suddenly unsure why that answer feels so unsatisfying. “Yeah,” you say anyway, forcing brightness into your voice. “It is good.” He hums noncommittally, eyes still fixed somewhere on the ceiling. For someone who never shuts up, his silence feels louder than anything he could say. You sneak glances at him from the corner of your eye, observing the strong curve of his nose, the harsh bob of his Adam's apple, the rise and fall of his chest and his big hands you’ve had the opportunity to feel on your ass. The quiet stretches, though it is far from quiet inside your head. Then, before you can stop yourself, you’re already opening your mouth. “Can I ask you something?” His gaze slides to you instantly, sharp and attentive as if he was waiting for you to break the silence first. “Not to be that guy but you just did.” “A real question.” You roll your eyes though his somewhat predictable rage bait helps ease some tension. Still, you hesitate, throat tight. If you say it out loud, it becomes real and no longer a suppressed fantasy. But if you don’t say anything, this feeling in your chest might never go away, tainting every future you might have with Geto. “How do you know what you’re doing?” You ask. One white brow lifts. “In what context? I'm good at a lot of things. You're gonna have to narrow it down, sweets.” You groan softly. “With girls. With… touching. And stuff. Etcetera.” Understanding dawns slowly, then all at once. You don’t catch the shift in experience because you stare stubbornly at your hands clasp in your lap, heat flooding your face. “Oh.” “I just don’t know,” you admit, voice small. “I don't know what I'm doing at all and it’s embarrassing.” He sits up a little, attention sharpening in a way that makes your skin prickle. “Y/N.” You press on before he can interrupt. “I mean, I know theoretically, obviously. That's what bio class is for right? But I know in practice I’ll just freeze. Or overthink or do nothing. And if things ever go further with Geto, I don't want to be useless. You mentioned he’s had exes before, right? But I haven't. And that kind of sucks to think about.”

Then softly. “You're probably the closest thing to experience I have.” “Useless,” he starts. “Is not the right word I'd use. Suguru would never think that. He’s not a dick.” You finally look at him. “I don’t want him to regret it. Or think I'm awkward. or that I don't want him.” He studies you for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes searching your face like he’s looking for something he hopes not to find. “And you’re telling me this because…?” You scoff. “You're not stupid. I mean sure, you almost failed baby’s first statistics but you’re not dumb.” “No, I guess I'm not, thanks,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “But I was kind of hoping maybe I'm still fantasising.” “You were fantasising before?” “Let's not go there.” “It’s a Friday,” you say slowly. "Shouldn't you have a hook up right about now?” He pouts, looking oddly down. “I wasn't feeling like it.” “So you had to use your hand.” “I wasn't jerking off, Y/N.” Neither of you believe that statement. Here you are, sitting on the couch of campus heartthrob Gojo Satoru, joking around about the lack of a female body against him while you’re upset about being a virgin. Even Gojo, who isn’t admittedly the best at math, shouldn’t struggle with putting two and two together. “Right, I believe you.” You bite your lip, opening your eyes wider as you plead. “I just hate feeling unprepared. You’ve seen just how bad I freeze. Can’t you help me?” He chews on his lips aggressively before finally groaning, running a hand down his face. “You have the worst ideas known to man. Fine. I'll help you. But we're stopping if it gets weird.” “Obviously.” “Do you even remember how to kiss?” “Find out for yourself.” You grab his collar and tug him towards you, smacking your lips against his the second he’s in range. It's not the graceful, fireworks-exploding moment from rom-coms, more like two magnets clashing awkwardly, teeth bumping before you recall the right angle. Gojo chuckles into the kiss, the vibration tickling your mouth, and you pull back just enough to glare at him. “It hurts that you don’t remember my lessons, sweets,” Gojo purrs, clearly enjoying your fluster. “Shut up and kiss me properly,” you mutter, snarky even as your cheeks burn. You dive back in, and this time it clicks, most likely due to his more active participation. Your lips move in sync, his tongue slipping past your teeth. It's surprisingly nice, all heat and shared air, making your stomach flip in a way that’s equal parts nerves and excitement. You didn’t realise how much you were craving this since the last time. Gojo’s hands stay loose on your waist, respectful but firm, until he deepens the kiss with a low hum. You feel him shift under you, his body reacting before his brain catches up. When you break apart for air, his eyes are darker, pupils blown wide. He adjusts his hips, and there’s no missing the semi-hard bulge straining against his jeans because it nudges insistently against your inner thigh. You both look down. “Uh, yeah,” he says, voice a little rough, something like accusation in his eyes as he glares down at Gojo junior.  “Guess that means you do remember lesson one after all. Mind if I lose the pants?” You snort, trying to play it cool despite the heat pooling in your gut. “Not so reluctant now, huh?” “Game is game.” He grins, all cock swagger, and pops the buttons off his jeans. They slide down his legs in a heap, leaving him in snug black boxers that do nothing to hide his growing interest. Gojo’s leaner than you’d pegged him for, abs carved from lazy gym sessions, waist dipping in before flaring to solid shoulders. But your eyes zero in lower, where his cock twitches half-hard against the fabric, outlining a decent length that’s got you curiously intrigued rather than intimidated. When he sits back down, he leans back on his palms and smirks. “You can touch me, you know. I bet it’s better than just looking.” “Anywhere?” “I'm practically offering myself up to you on a platter. Yes, Y/N. Everywhere’s fair game.” 

You eye him for a little longer. He's not as big as he carried himself around to be. As if sensing your unspoken realisation, he hurriedly explains, "I'm not completely hard yet.” You nod, sympathetically. “Right, no I get it.” “I’m serious, Y/N, stop looking at me like that.” He grabs your hand and places it on his abs, ignoring your sudden squeak. “You’re going to have to work to get me there.” He watches as you hesitate, his heartbeat quickening slightly under your touch. “This seems less like teaching and more like you just wanting someone to get you off.” “You’re learning.” Despite his teasing tone, he eases you closer to him. “Look, it’s not exactly rocket science and what I tell you probably won’t apply to everyone. But most guys are animals so if you can make them feel good then that’s all that matters. What's meta for most guys though is probably their neck and lower stomach. But you can start anywhere.” His smirk falters just a tad when you explore, tentatively at first, palms sliding over his ribs and thumbs brushing his nipples until they pebble under your touch. Gojo’s breath hitches, but he keeps it together, murmuring encouragement. “I guess you could try there too. Fuck, this is kind of embarrassing. Can’t you be normal and go at my neck or something?” “Your neck?” Your fingers slide up to touch him there but he laughs and gently brushes your hand away. “Okay, don’t strangle me. When I say touch, I don't just mean with your fingers. You can touch your lips too, can’t you?” You bite your lips and nod, wetting them quickly with your tongue. You lean in closer, your lips finding the pulse point of his neck. It's a quick peck at first, testing, and he just arches a brow, unimpressed. Fine, challenge accepted. You brace yourself on his shoulders and lick a slow stripe up the tendon, tasting salt and faint cologne which isn’t the best tasting thing in the world, so you nibble the skin. Gojo hums, head tilting to give you better access, and you dive in, sucking lightly, alternating with kisses that leave faint marks. It’s heady, this rush of control. His bare chest radiates warmth against your arm, heavy breaths ghosting your ear as he lets you lead. “Hungry, are you?” Gojo finds his footing against the absurd situation because if there’s one thing he knows, it’s receiving attention from pretty women. If he closes his eyes like so, focusing only on the cute licks against his neck, he can almost ignore the fact that it’s coming from you. “I'd be careful not to leave any marks. Girls get jealous easily, you know?” You roll your eyes at his very unsexy comment. He's underestimating you, you’re sure he is, and you’re even more determined to prove him wrong. You kiss down his neck, licking at the column of his neck, and when you find this soft patch of skin, pale under your lips and glimmering with a thin layer of sweat, you do what your instincts roar at you to do and bite him as he’s mid yapping. “I never really let girls kiss me like this, so be grateful that I—ohfuck!” Gojo’s reaction is immediate as a downright sinful moan escapes his pretty lips unchecked. His hands tighten in your hips, head dropping forward, panting as he catches his breath from the sudden sharp inhale. You let go, licking at the mark left behind. “Oh, sorry. You don’t do marks, right?” “That was…” He trails off, eyes dark as he holds you in his gaze. “Jesus, sweets, where did you even learn that kind of stuff?” You shrug, letting him hold you back and feeling a little bit like a rabid animal. “It was just something I wanted to do. Was it bad? Did it hurt?” “No, it was fine. Keep going just… use your hands a bit more too,” he hurries to add on, clearing his throat and loosening his hold on you. “It feels better if you use both your mouth and hands at the same time. Keep going, but don’t forget the rest of me.”

Finding no error in his words, you enthusiastically go back to kissing and sucking on his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat. Meanwhile, you slide your hands down his chest, marveling at how smooth he feels despite his muscle. When you graze your finger tips between the medial line of his abs, you feel him shiver and you detach your lips from his neck to watch his eyes track your every move, hungry and unblinking. “Atta girl,” he rasps, abs flexing under your palm and he shivers as you slide even further down, hand hovering his stomach. His cock visibly thickens in his boxers as you trace the ridges of his abs.“That’s it. Take your time, sweets. I'm not going anywhere.” You never considered that Gojo would be so vocal during sex, not that this even counted as sex yet. If anything, that made you even more curious, wondering if he himself knew how much he was talking and how little any of it even meant. In case he didn’t, you didn’t dare talk in case it would break the spell. Your fingers skim the waistband of his boxers and he sucks in a breath, voice dropping an octave. “Fuck, yeah. That’s the spot.” The fabric tents fully now, his cock hard and straining, the tip outlined clearly. It's thicker than you expected, pulsing with need, and the sight sends a thrill straight to your core. Gojo’s eyes flick between your hand and your face, flushed and focused. “See? told you it’d wake up. want to see all of it?” You nod, eyes trained on his bulge. He grins, taking your hands to hook your thumbs into the sides of his boxers. He helps you slightly though he lets you do most of the work. Emboldened, you tug the boxers down just enough to free his cock, watching it spring up, thicker now, veins prominent along the shaft, the head flushed and glistening with a bead of precum. Your first words are, of course, very sexy. “Oh damn.” Gojo laughs breathlessly. For my own ego, I'm going to take that as a good thing.” “It just doesn’t look how I expected it to.” That makes him frown. He ducks his head to meet your gaze. “Hey. She has feelings too, you know. Don’t imply that she’s ugly, she’ll sag.” “She?” It's so ridiculous you snort, the nervousness running away to let curiousity fuel your movements once again, fingers curling around his hot, velvety length. He's rock hard under your soft touch, precum slicking your palm as you pump him experimentally. Gojo groans low in his throat, head falling back against the couch. “Shit, just like—ngh—that,” he grits out, voice wrecked. The sound hits you like a spark, raw and primal, making your thighs clench. “My—my dick has she/her pronouns. It’s 2026 now, get woke.” Still looking at you, he takes your hand again, wrapping it around his shaft. “Hold it properly. Feel how hot it is.” He groans softly as you hold him, guiding your hand up and down in a slow stroke, pressing down where he’s sensitive just the way he likes it. “Squeeze gently and twist your wrist as you move.” He demonstrates the twist motion, his large hand enveloping yours, precum beading at his tip from both the sight and feel of you. He lets you go, leaning back on his elbows, enjoying the view of you jacking him off. “You’re a natural, keep going, just like that.” His breathing becomes heavier, his abdomen tensing. He can’t help but buck slightly into your hand. Despite his unattractive dirty talk, it doesn’t drive away the power you feel and it doesn’t take away from the sounds, the way his body trembles under your control. It's all so intoxicating, way better than any awkward fumble you’ve imagined with Geto late at night with your hands down your pants. To shut him up, you squeeze a little tighter and he hisses, pulling you away. “Slow down,” he pants, catching his breath. He closes his eyes for a moment before locking you in a fierce gaze. “Do you usually shove your finger inside when you’re dry?”

“What?” “This is why lube exists, woman. God, my poor lady,” He looks up at you, eyes trailing down from your eyes to your lips. “Please don’t refer to your dick as a lady.” “I’ve gotten no complaints so far.” Gojo reaches up, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb, dragging it down slightly. “Have you ever spat on anyone?” “Excuse me?” You look down at him as if he’s grown another head. He lets out a strangled groan, hips bucking up under you. “Yeah, keep looking at me like that and spit on my dick. Give her the good old hawk tuah.” Your grimace only grows and he bites his lip, the corners quirking up. “Please,” he whispers and you’ve lost. The word hangs between you like a dare, his blue eyes locked on yours, all wide and pleading in a way that clashes hilariously with his usual attitude if the unsure quiver to his lips didn’t wreck you. Gojo’s cock throbs in your loose grip, the head leaking more precum that drips down the shaft, making your fingers slick without even trying. You hesitate, face heating up at the sheer audacity, but the way his abs tense, the subtle roll of his hips begging for more, chips away at your resistance. “Fine,” you mutter, rolling your eyes to mask the flutter in your stomach and you must have imagined the way he groans. “But just know I’m judging you the entire time.” “Even better,” he moans. You lean over him, one hand steadying on his thick thighs, firm muscle under smooth skin, and purse your lips as you spit on him. It’s awkward as hell, the glop of spit landing off-centre on the underside of his shaft, but you smear it around with your palm. The glide turns smoother instantly, wet and filthy, your strokes picking up speed as his cock slicks up fully. Gojo’s reaction is immediate, a deep, rumbling moan spills from his chest, his head knocking back against the couch with a thud, not that he notices. “Fuuuck, yes—that’s it, just like that.” His hands fist the fabric of the couch on either side of his hips, knuckles white, like he’s fighting not to grab you and take over. But he doesn’t, he lets you work him, hips jerking up in shallow thrusts to meet your rhythm, the tip bumping your palm on every upstroke. “Keep going, tighter… shit, you’re killing me here.” The power rush hits you harder now, watching him come undone under your touch. His cock feels massive in your hand, thick and veined, pulsing hotly as you pump from base to tip, thumb swiping over the slit to collect more precum and spread it down. You can feel every ridge, every twitch, and it’s nothing like the vague fantasies you’d spun about Geto. This is real, messy, and way more intense. Your own arousal builds, thighs pressing together as you grind subtly against nothing, the heat between your legs turning insistent. “Does it… feel good?” You ask, voice breathy and you slow your strokes just to tease, squeezing the base and watching in awe as a fresh bead of precum pearl at the head. He cracks one eye open, gaze hazy and dark, lips parted in a pant. “Good? Sweets, don’t sell yourself short.” A grin tugs at his mouth but it falters into a groan when you resume, faster now, the wet schlick of your hand echoing in the room causing you to squirm. “Don’t stop,” he all but whines. “Gonna cum if you keep this up. Want me to, sweets? Want me to paint your hand or what?” The crudeness should turn you off, but it doesn’t, it only amps up the thrill, making you bold. You nod, biting your lip as you lean closer, free hand bracing on his chest to feel his heart hammering. “Yeah, do it. cum for me.” Gojo’s control snaps like a rubber band. his moans pitch higher, body arching as his cock swells in your grip, veins bulging. “Fuck—fuck, can’t help it, I’m gonna—” He bucks hard once, twice, and then he’s erupting, thick spurts of cum shooting from the tip to splatter your fingers, his stomach, even a streak across his abs. It's hot, sticky, rope after rope as you milk him through it, not knowing what else to do. You slow your strokes until he’s spent, twitching sensitively in your palm. 

He slumps back, chest rising and falling like he ran a marathon, a lazy, disbelieving laugh bubbling out. He runs a hand down his face, groaning softly. “I am…” He lets out another breathless laugh, head dropping back against the armrest of the couch. “So fucking washed. What the hell was that, sweets?” You blink, a little dazed yourself. Your hand is still loosely wrapped around him, slick and messy, and only when his eyes flick down do you jolt and snatch your hand back like you’ve been burnt. “I—I don’t know,” you mumble, gratefully accepting the tissue he hands you, awkwardly deciding to dab at his stomach and abs too, anywhere your eyes can safely land that isn’t his softening cock. “That was… hey, wait a minute. Shouldn’t i be asking you? What the hell was that spitting thing?” He shrugs, your body moving with the motion as you remain on his lap. “I told you, there’s some things some guys like and some don’t. As a note of reference, maybe don’t spit on Suguru. You’ll kill his ego.” He has the audacity to smirk at the thought considering the state of him, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, mouth pink and kiss-swollen from all the swearing and groaning. “You're disgusting,” you accuse weakly, trying not to think about how he’d looked under you a few seconds ago, jaw slack, eyes glazed, like you’d wrung the soul out of him. “Mmm.” His gaze drags over your face, down the line of your throat, lingering a beat too long at your chest before he drags it back up. “So, how are you feeling after all that?” “Embarrassed,” you say immediately. “But kinda turned on, too?” he guesses, just as fast. Your mouth drops open. “I did not say that.” “Don’t have to,” he says, maddening. “You’re still sitting on me, you know.” You freeze. You're still straddling his lap, knees planted on either side of his thighs on the couch, hips pressed to his, fingers bunched at his stomach. You'd be so focused on that scrunched up look on his face when he came that you kind of forgot to be mortified about the position. Now you remember. “I was busy,” you mutter, shifting like you’re about to climb off. His hands come up automatically, one at your waist, one braced at your hip, holding you there without quite pulling you back down. “Hey, hey. I didn't say you had to move.” “But you’re all…” you wave a hand vaguely at his lap, face burning. “Post-nut clarity or whatever. You should be resting or something.” “That’s hilarious, do you think I’m an old man?” He huffs a laugh. “If my stamina lasted one puny handjob I would never show my face anywhere. Hey, don’t glare at me like that. you know what that does to me. you glaring at me and spitting on my cock while you jerk me off—fuck.” “Don't say it like that,” you hiss, heat flooding your chest. “You literally told me to.” “And you did so good,” he croons. “Look at you, all flustered now. You were seconds away from calling me pathetic, you know.” “How are you turning this on me? You’re the one that liked it,” you shoot back, shoulder tensing. His fingers flex at your waist, like he’s remembering it. “Yeah. I really, really did.” The way he says it sends a tiny shiver through you. You feel ridiculously aware of yourself suddenly, of your damp palms on his chest, of the way your thighs are pressed around him, of the restless thrum under your skin you’ve been trying not to notice since he first groaned for you. You shift again, intending to put some space between you, and hiss as the movement drags you a little too firmly against him, sparking through the ache low in your belly. You go very still and so does he. His eyes flicker, dropping for a fraction of a second to the point where your hips meet his. You can feel the change in him, no longer wrecked and loose-limbed, but sharpened like he’s honing in on every tiny flinch. “Oh,” he says softly. “Feeling something, sweets?”

“Don’t start,” you warn, feeling every urge to catapult yourself off his lap. His hand tightens on your waist, thumbs rubbing absent circles, maddeningly casual. “Can you let me go already?” “But it’s not over yet, are you sure you want to miss the best part? If I said I wanted to make it your turn, would you say no?” The question hangs between you, heavier than his usual teasing. “This isn’t… about that.” “Sure it is,” he whispers, lips curved into a wicked grin. “You wanna learn how to make a guy feel good right? Then you also need to know what you like. If you know what works for you, it’s easier to tell him what works for him.” Has Gojo always been so reasonable? “Besides,” he continues when you’re not rushing to sign up to his touch. “I’m being selfless here. You can’t seriously think I'd let you walk out of here without repaying the favour first, right?” “Way to sound like a douche.” You swat at his chest, a weak attempt to appear levelheaded. “How else am I supposed to say it?” He laughs softly, catching your wrist but not pushing it away, thumb stroking over your pulse. “I want to touch you. properly. Can I?” Your stomach swoops. “Just to know what it feels like?” “Exactly.” His smile goes crooked at the edges. “Now you’re getting it.” You stare at him, breathing shallow. Your heart is thudding way too fast. you’re hyperaware of your own body again, of the way your panties stick uncomfortably, of the restless ache that’s only been getting worse, of how easy it would be to fall into his tempting embrace. “Hey, come back to me,” Gojo murmurs. “We don't have to do anything you don’t want. I promise I'm not a dick. So? What do you want, sweets?” You look down at where his hands rest, big and warm on your hips, fingers flexing like he’s trying very hard to stay put. You could say no, you know that. He'd let you hop off, probably make a dumb joke to break the tension, and the both of you can go back to pretending the constant physical touch is driving you up the wall. But you also know your legs are still a little unsteady, and that every time you shift you have to bite back a sound you really don’t want him to hear. You swallow, hard. “You have to listen,” you say finally. “If I say stop, you stop. and none of your stupid comments either.” His expression sobers instantly, hands jumping a little at your hips. “Promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.” “I’m telling you, when you say shit like that, everything goes back inside.” “Yeah, yeah, I get it, you want me quiet. So can I touch you or are you going to keep torturing us both?” “You deserve the torture,” you grumble, then quieter, “But, yeah. okay.” He hums. “Not good enough. Say it again?” You bite back a complaint. “I want you to…touch me.” It comes out barely more than a whisper, but it hits him like a truck. His eyes darken, lashes lowering as he sucks in a breath. One moment you’re straddling him, the next he’s sat up and turned you around so your back leans against his chest, his breath tickling your neck. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans, hands sliding down to your stomach. His fingers play with the hem, nails barely grazing your bare skin. “Can I?” You shiver, looking down to watch his hands with anticipation. Swallowing, you brace yourself and nod. “Good girl,” he breathes. His hand trails under your shirt, fingertips tracing nonsense shapes on your skin. He doesn’t go straight where you know you’re aching for him to go. Instead, he takes his time, mapping out the sensitive spots he finds, where your muscles jump when he squeezes, lowering his hand to where your breath stutters when he drags his knuckles along the inside of your thigh. “You're wound so tight,” he murmurs, half to himself. “Relax for me, Y/N.” “Shut up and stop teasing,” you hiss, and then gasp when his hand finally slips higher, brushing over the edge of your waistband. “Is that a no?” He asks instantly, stilling. 

]You want to throttle him. “I’m just… nervous.” “Of course you are,” he says, voice going stupidly soft in your ear, hands playing with the fabric. “The first time’s always weird. But it doesn’t have to be bad-weird.” He slowly slips his hand under the band, feeling you go still. “Hey.” He presses his lips to your hair, mumbling soft words of praise. “You're okay, you’re doing good. Just breathe for me.” You do, albeit shakily, his fingertips brushing the damp centre of your panties. “You’re already… Jesus," he says quickly. “I really did a number on you, huh? And without even touching you, too.” “If you don’t shut up, I'm leaving,” you threaten weakly. He chuckles, guiding your attention away. Gojo slides your shorts down so you can see exactly where his fingers press against, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks at the sight of his thick fingers prodding against the backdrop of the panties you chose out this morning. If you knew something like this would happen, you would have worn something else. Gojo thankfully doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he slowly explores, no sudden movements, no overwhelming pressure, just the occasional slide against your clit. “Okay?” he asks, and you realise you’ve gone silent, holding your breath again. “Yeah,” you gasp. “Just feel different than—nevermind.” “Different good?” He prompts, thumb pressing down on your clit and you jolt, an audible inhale escaping you. You feel his arms tighten around you. “Oh, there we go,” he mutters, sounding ridiculously pleased with himself. “That got you.” You don’t dignify that with an answer, not that you have the capacity to because the next moment, he’s moving his fingers with practiced purpose. His thumb circles your swollen clit through the damp fabric, the barrier muffling any sharp pleasure though it helps you wrap your head around the sensation. When you start lifting your hips to meet his touch, he knows he has you where he wants you. With his other fingers, he slowly slides your panties to the sides and touches you directly. The effect is immediate, your eyes snap down to watch, body tensing, want like you’ve never known it before shocking you. The sight of your own arousal makes you wetter and he abandons his touch to touch you directly. “Look at that,” he coos in your ear, voice breathy with awe and smug satisfaction. “Here you were acting like you wanted to leave when you’re this wet. Thought I wouldn't know, sweets? That I couldn't see you eye my dick all hungry like that?” He emphasises his words with a harsh pinch of your clit and your head falls back to rest on his shoulders with a filthy moan ripped from your throat, raw and unprocessed. Gojo takes the chance to kiss your neck. You should hit him for his words, you really should. But instead, your hand flies up to his forearm, nails digging in when he slides a finger to circle your entrance and the world briefly whites out. He groans quietly, like your reaction is doing something to him. “That’s—fuck, you’re so cute. Do that again.” “Don’t tease,” you say again, voice barely there and brain too mushy to think of something original. And like he knows, Gojo slowly slides a finger into your pussy and the pressure temporarily pushes out all of the pleasure. But then his free hand is playing with your clit and he’s telling you how good you are and how pretty you sound, and it comes back. He thrusts that finger in and out slowly, letting you adjust to the intrusion and when you’re sighing soft moans and broken demands again, he curls it and doesn’t stop moving. He could easily overpower you, could pin you down and take, take, take, but he doesn’t. Every time you tense like you might pull away, he backs off just enough, murmuring at your ear, though by the time you’re close you haven’t panicked in a while. He’s the one breathing hard when you start to chase your peak, like he’s the one being touched. You’re writhing now, his arms having to tighten around you to keep you still as he slides another finger inside. 

“That’s it,” he whispers, panting when your thighs clamp around his hand, head tipped back on his shoulders and eyes starting to roll back. “There you go. I've got you. Let go for me, yeah? Doing so good for me, sweets.” “S-Satoru,” you choke out, the name ripped from somewhere deep. His whole body jolts behind you and you feel a twitch near your ass. “Oh, fuck,” he groans, like you’ve done something filthy. “Say my name like that again, I swear to god—” You don’t because suddenly, you’re gone. His fingers pressed against the spongy spot inside, his thumb circling your clit, and suddenly everything tightens then snaps and you’re tumbling, shaking around the steady anchor of his hand and his arm and his voice in your ear. He doesn’t speed up, letting you ride your orgasm on his hand, mumbling sweet nothings against your sweaty neck. It’s messy and overwhelming and a little scary for a second, then his palm is flat over your lower stomach, grounding you as waves of sensation roll through your body. His other hand finally gentles and you can breathe again. When you finally slump back against him boneless, the room feels dimmer. your chest heaves, skin prickling with aftershocks that he guides you through. He eases his hand away and wipes it on his pants, keeping you steady on his lap. “Hey,” he says softly, lips brushing your hairline. “You still with me?” You nod, or at least you try to. “I think so.” “Yeah?” He presses, smiling against your skin. “Yeah.” “Good.” he exhales like he’s been holding his breath with you. “You did amazing, sweets.” “You're making me sound like a dog.” “Well, you were very obedient,” he says lightly, then winces. “Okay, that sounded kinda bad.” He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest where you’re still half-leaning against him. One of his hands comes up, hovering for a second like he isn’t sure if touching you again is allowed, then settles gently at your side. You catch your breath, stealing a glance. His hair is a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes still blown wide but there’s something softer around the edges, so different from his usual cocky composure that it does something strange to your chest. “You're the worst,” you mumble, just to say something. “Oh?” his brows lift. “You seemed pretty satisfied with the lesson.” You keep your mouth shut because there is absolutely no winning that argument. Silence falls, not heavy nor awkward, but certainly unfamiliar. Without the distraction of movement or adrenaline, your mind starts spinning into the consequences of your actions. And the fact that you’re still sitting between his thighs. You stiffen and he notices immediately. “Uh. Do you… want to—” “Yes,” you say at the exact same time he says, “We should probably—” You both stop, voice overlapping as you tell each other to continue then stop again. It’s funny if not awkward and you laugh, startled and breathless. “Okay,” he says, hands lifting slightly in surrender. “You first.” “No, you go,” you insist, scrambling upright a little too fast. The room tilts for half a second and you grab his thigh to steady yourself. His hands hover again, then settle at your waist just in case. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re still a little… y’know?” You straighten and stand away from the couch, legs wobbling in a way you pretend not to notice. The cool air hits your skin and reality comes rushing back in a tidal wave of embarrassment. Your skirt rests on your thighs but they’re crumpled, and your hair is surely a mess. Gojo watches, biting his lip hard enough to leave teeth marks. He stands too, running a hand through his hair, suddenly looking almost shy as he grabs his discarded shirt and pulls it back on. For a moment, neither of you know where to look. You fixate on a crack in the wall and he studies the floor. “Do you, uh… want me to walk you back?” The normalcy of the question feels surreal. “I’m fine with walking,” you say quickly. “The weather’s nice so.” “Yeah,” he nods. “Fresh air. Definitely.”

You grab your bag with fumbling hands, nearly knocking it off the couch in the process. He catches it before it hits the floor, fingers brushing yours again as he hands it over. Neither of you pull away immediately. Then, you both do at the same time. “Right,” you say. “Right,” he echoes. He opens the door for you, peeking into the hallway first before gesturing. “You sure you don’t want me to walk you back?” You almost cry at the visual of a way out. “No, no, I'm fine. It’s not too far anyway.” Gojo studies your face like he’s trying to decide whether to argue or not. For once, he doesn’t look like he’s in on some big secret. He just looks uncertain. “If you say so,” he mutters, stepping aside. You slip past him into the hallway, letting out a big sigh of relief when you hear the door close gently behind you with a soft click. Looking over your shoulder, you see Gojo follow you out anyway. Your feet slow. “You don’t have to, I'm really okay.” “I’m not,” he says quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m just heading in the same direction. That's all. What a coincidence?” “Uh-huh.” The staircase is only a few doors down, but the short walk stretches, each step heavy with things unsaid. You can hear voices downstairs, life continuing on, oblivious. At the top of the stairwell, you stop. “Are we still going the same way?” He shakes his head. “I’ll see you around,” you settle on when the silence stretches. “See you, Y/N.” You take one step down, then another. After a third, you glance back. Gojo is still there, watching. your chest does something uncomfortable as he waits. “Goodnight, Satoru,” you say softly. He blinks, like the name catches him off guard every time. Then he smiles, small but warm. “Night, sweets.” When you reach the bottom and push out into the night air, it feels shockingly cool against your overheated skin. The campus is quiet, streetlights painting everything gold and shadowed, the distant sound of traffic humming like white noise. You walk faster than necessary because if you slow down, the thoughts will quickly flood in. And if you start thinking, you might realise that somewhere between asking him for help and leaving his room tonight, something has gone very, very wrong. 

You’re not sure why you care so much. 

You tell yourself it’s because Geto will be there, because this is a chance to make a real impression, because this is what all of it has been building toward. But as you stand in front of your mirror, turning this way and that, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, adjusting your hair for the third time, checking your reflection from angles no one in real life would ever see, you realise this isn’t normal. 

You’ve never put this much thought into a “casual” outing before. 

Not the outfit, carefully balanced between cute and effortless, like you didn’t spend forty minutes deciding between two nearly identical tops just for the jersey to cover it anyway. Not the makeup, soft enough to look natural, deliberate enough to feel like armor. Not the way your stomach flips every time you picture stepping into the arena. 

You know deep down this isn’t about Geto. That thought alone makes your chest feel tight. 

You grab your purse before you can overthink it further and leave. 

When you walk into the arena, the roar of the crowd hits you like a physical force, loud and electric, buzzing with anticipation and cheer. It bleeds through the concrete walls, through your bones, and through the floor beneath your shoes. 

The game hasn’t officially started yet, you made sure to come before then, but the energy is already at a fever pitch.

Your eyes sweep the rink automatically, searching. And you spot him immediately. 

Gojo, in his navy and white jersey, skates across the ice like it belongs to him, like the rink exists solely to accommodate his momentum. It doesn't seem to matter that his helmet obscures most of his face, you’d recognise him anywhere. the easy confidence in the way he moves, the loose, effortless posture, the casual speed that looks like he isn’t even trying—it’s unmistakable. 

His hair, damp under his helmet, peeks out in soft white tufts. His cheeks are slightly flushed from exertion, breath fogging faintly in the cold air as he glides past teammates, exchanging easy shoves and taps of sticks. He's the easiest person in the world to look at and the hardest to look away from. 

He glances up towards the stands during warm-ups, scanning lazily, and your heart stutters. You freeze, suddenly aware of yourself, of the crowd, of how ridiculous it is to hope he’ll notice you among hundreds of people wearing the same colours. 

I mean, all these people? All wearing the team jersey? And you wouldn’t call yourself beautiful, not in the kind of way that makes someone stand out across a packed arena, and certainly not in a way that draws eyes automatically, not—

Gojo turns a little more. and then his eyes meet yours. 

The jolt is instantaneous, sharp and electric, like touching a live wire. Your breath catches, lungs forgetting their purpose entirely as a stupid, bright grin spreads across his face. 

A strange warmth floods your chest, blooming outward until it feels too big to contain. You bite your lip, trying and failing, to suppress your own giddy smile as you tug lightly at the hem of your jersey, lifting it just enough to show the number at the front and point at it. 

06. 

If it's even possible, his grin widens. He spins around without hesitation, and easily mind you, skating backward for a few seconds just to show off the back of his own jersey, jabbing a glove thumb at the matching number with pride. 

Heat rushes to your face. 

It's ridiculous, childish even, but your heart is pounding and the warmth in your chest swells until it’s almost overwhelming. 

When warm-ups end, he lifts his stick in your direction in one last, unmistakable acknowledgement before skating toward the bench, where his teammates swarm him instantly. One of them hooks an arm around his neck, dragging him down while another plays bongos on his helmet, elbows digging into his ribs. 

From this distance you can’t hear what they’re saying, but you don’t need to. His expression gives everything away, the wide grin and mock protests, and the way he shoves them back half-heartedly while still laughing. 

Someone whistles, another bumps his shoulder and one even points toward the stands, toward you. Your stomach flips. 

“Y/N?” 

You start, tearing your eyes away as if caught doing something incriminating. Geto stands beside you, already holding two drinks, his expression warm and easy. 

“Hey,” he says, offering you one. “You made it. I found seats over here, it’s a pretty good view, if I don’t say so myself. We should head over before the game starts.” 

You take the cup automatically, fingers brushing his. “Thanks!”

He smiles, guiding you through the rows of people with gentle awareness, making space and steadying you when someone brushes past too close. It's thoughtful and careful and exactly the kind of thing that made you fall for him in the first place. 

Once seated, conversation comes easily to him. It’s all polite small talk and soft jokes, quiet observations about the team and season. He fills in the silence like Gojo had predicted, never letting it become uncomfortable. He does all the right things that you could almost tick them off a list. He laughs at your comments like they’re genuinely funny and asks questions that make it clear he’s paying attention. 

It should be perfect, it should be everything you’ve ever wanted. 

And yet, your eyes drift back to the rink, to the flashes of navy and white. 

To the tall figure leaning against the boards, helmet off now, shaking his hair as he listens to a coach, nodding absentmindedly while his gaze flicks upward. 

Your pulse jumps when his eyes land on you again. Except this time he doesn’t grin. It might be your imagination but he seemingly looks to Geto beside you, then back, just watching. 

You force yourself to look back at Geto, nodding at something he just said, hoping your smile looks natural and not strained. 

BUZZWORD

The game starts fast. 

Faster than you expected, faster than anything you’ve watched on TV, faster than seems physically possible for men balancing on thin blades over frozen water. The pluck drops and suddenly the rink explodes with motion, bodies colliding, sticks clashing, skates carving violent crescents into the ice. 

You lost track of the puck almost immediately.

Geto leans closer, voice raised just enough to carry over the roar of the crowd. “Watch Satoru, he plays center so he’ll usually be in there.”

Your eyes find him easily. 

He moves differently from everyone else, you see, loose, flashier, or maybe that’s just you. No, you reject that notion as he accelerates in bursts, gliding between players with impossible precision, stick tapping the ice impatiently when he doesn’t have the puck. 

Every time he skates past your side of the rink, your chest tightens and your throat hurts a little more as you try to cheer louder. 

The first goal goes to the other team. 

Your side of the arena groans as one, a wave of disappointment that rattles through the stands. You feel it too, a sinking drop in your stomach, though you don’t fully understand the play that led to it. 

Gojo slams his stick once against the ice in frustration, then shoves off hard, jaw set. 

Geto doesn’t seem worried. “They’ll bounce back. Satoru is the best they have, after all.”

Just like he predicted, they do. Midway through the second period, one of Gojo’s teammates manages to slip the puck past the goalie, and the building detonates. People surge to their feet to cheer and you find yourself in that crowd, cheering without thinking, adrenaline crackling through your veins like you personally contributed. 

On the ice, Gojo grabs the scorer by the shoulders and shakes him, helmet bumping into helmet, grin blinding even through the cage. 

It’s a tie game until it’s not. Another goal to the opposing side which Gojo’s team equalising moments after. Again and again, a tense back and forth that even has Geto inhaling sharply at moments. 

By the third period, your nails are dug into the flimsy paper cup in your hand, ice long melted into a yucky watered down version of whatever was in the drink. You barely notice when Geto takes it from you and sets it aside so you don’t crush it completely. 

The scoreboard reads 3-3 and the clock tells you there’s two minutes left. 

The noise is deafening now, frantic and desperate, every movement on the ice met with gasps or shouts. 

Gojo has long since lost the playful edge from earlier. He circles near centre ice, knees bent, weight forward, eyes tracking the puck like it’s the only thing that exists in the world. A defender tries to box him out and he shrugs him off with a brutal shoulder check that makes the crowd howl. 

The puck slides loose along the boards, ricocheting off a tangle of skates and sticks like it has a mind of its own. Someone on Gojo’s team snatches it first and fires it forward, a risky pass that slides clean across open ice, and towards him. 

Gojo receives it in stride, blade cushioning the impact with effortless control. He doesn’t even glance down. his head is already up, scanning his way forward. A defender lunges for him and he slips past with a sharp pivot, hips twisting, edges biting deep into the ice. 

You’re on your feet before you realise you’ve moved. 

“Go—!” you scream and like a domino effect, people around you start to cheer. 

Gojo fakes a left. The goalie commits. 

He snaps right, dragging the puck across his body in one powerful motion, forcing the goalie to witness the outplay. And then he flicks his wrist and a sharp crack echoes across the rink. 

The puck lifts, a black blur slicing through air, threading the narrowest gap between glove and shoulder, and slams into the back of the net. 

For half a heartbeat, there is silence. Then the buzzer screams and the crowd erupts. 

Sound crashes over you in a tidal wave, screaming, stomping, clapping, the metallic rattle of the stands shaking under hundreds of pounding feet. You’re shouting too, throat tearing with it, hands flying to your mouth before dropping again because you need them free to clap and wave, anything to release all this energy exploding out of you. 

Down on the ice, Gojo throws his head back and roars, pure exhilaration bursting out of him. His teammates collide with him seconds later, swarming him in a pile of navy and white, shoving his helmet and grabbing his shoulders, almost knocking him over in their celebration. 

He's laughing. 

Even through the cage, from the distance, you can see it, the wild brightness in his eyes and the way his chest heaves with adrenaline. 

They won. 

They actually won. 

You’re bouncing on your toes without realising, hands clasped in front of your mouth. 

Gojo breaks free from the pile just enough to turn and look up into the stands. It's easier finding you this time around when he knows where to look. 

His whole face lights up, grin splitting wide and unrestrained, so bright it feels like it could blind you, he lifts his stick and points it straight at you then thumps it once against the ice in a triumphant salute. 

Your stomach swoops violently. 

You laugh, breathless and giddy, lifting both hands to wave back like an idiot. Your body is already leaning forward, feet shifting as instinct screams for you to move. To go down there, to be closer, to meet him at the glass while he’s still glowing with victory looking as beautiful as you’ve ever seen him, so alive that it radiates off him in waves. 

You want to throw your arms around his neck. 

You want to tell him that was incredible. 

You want—

“Y/N?”

Geto’s voice cuts gently through the chaos, close to your ear.

You blink, tearing your gaze away from the ice to find him watching you with a small, amused smile. 

“That was intense,” he says, laughter in his voice. “I forgot how crazy these games get at the end. Makes you glad you came, right?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, though it comes out shaky and raw from all the cheering. “Yeah it was. Definitely.”

Your eyes flick down despite yourself and find Gojo still looking up, smile dimmed. 

Geto gestures toward the aisle. “If we leave now, we can beat the post-game crowd. The bookstore’s only a short walk away anyway. We can find Satoru after he comes out.” 

The words land heavy in your chest. How could you forget? There was a plan in action, the reason why you came, the person you’re supposed to be focusing on. 

“Right,” you say, though your voice sounds far away even to your own ears. 

On the ice, Gojo’s teammates are tugging him toward the bench, shouting in his ear and shoving him here and there. He goes easily enough, though not without one last glance at you. He tilts his chin, a silent question in your eyes, clear despite the distance. 

Are you going?

Your fingers curl into fists at your side. 

“Ready?” Geto asks softly.

You swallow. “... yeah.”

But as you turn to follow him up the aisle, the roar of the arena swelling behind you, you can’t shake that you’ve made the wrong decision. You feel it, that strange, electric thread stretching thinner and thinner behind you as the tunnel swallows Gojo whole. 

BUZZWORD

It should be fun. 

Geto is easy to talk to, he’s polite, thoughtful and gentle, and all the right things. You trail behind him between the shelves as he talks about a book he likes, or some theory he discovered that explains so much and makes so much sense. 

You try, you really do. You nod your head and attempt to store that information away.  

But everything just doesn’t feel right. It's hard to store that information away when your head is full of that look Gojo had given you, the way his white hair had stuck out from under his helmet, damp from the effort and glory of winning, eyes sparkling under the stadium lights, the way he had lifted his stick to point at you. 

Geto is kind. But your tastes don’t match. Your jokes land in different places. He's nice, and you do enjoy his conversation. But not in the same way you had enjoyed Gojo’s company that day in the cafe. 

You don’t feel nervous. You don’t feel excited. Honestly, you just feel like pretending. 

And as if the universe is screaming at you about something just beyond your grasp, when you reach for the same book, your fingers don’t brush. And you don’t want them to. 

Geto’s phone buzzes when he’s in the middle of explaining some theories from this guy called Slavoj Zizek? He winces at whatever he reads. 

“Sorry,” he starts, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I need to head out. But hey, here–” He pulls a paperback off the shelf and hands it to you. “This is the one I was talking about. I think you’ll like it.” 

you accept it automatically. “Thanks,” you say, and then he’s waving and gone the next moment, door swinging behind him. 

For a while, you wander the bookstore in an attempt to rationalise the complex emotions warring inside you. Geto is your crush. You know this. And yet, it all feels so superficial. Gojo had been right, there was nothing personal about the things you liked about him to explain the crush. 

You stand in the quiet of the aisle, holding a book you frankly don’t care about, surrounded by a silence that feels like the wrong choice made tangible long after the last customer walks out. Heavy rain falls outside, pelting against the roof of the store, a steady white noise that backgrounds your thoughts. 

When the bookstore begins to close, you’re ushered outside. You swear as you’re suddenly caught in the harsh weather and through the heavy sheets of rain, there looks to be no other store open. Hastily, you run out in the rain to find some place where you can get cover over your head. Finally, you see a small awning from a closed shop. 

You run under the awning, hugging your arms to your chest as you wait out the storm, feeling stupidly alone and stupidly unsure why you’re this upset. This is what you wanted right? But the part of your heart that has always known the truth traitorously voices the thoughts you’ve been pushing down all this time. 

Gojo. 

Through the sheets of heavy rain, someone is running towards you. Tall, white hair, still in his jersey, his hair now damp (read: soaked) with rain water rather than sweat.

He skids under the awning, breathless, terribly drenched, an unopened umbrella in one hand. 

“What the hell,” he says immediately, voice sharp with concern and frustration. “Are you trying to get pneumonia? Why didn’t you go home? Didn’t you check the weather? It clearly said it was going to rain today!”

You blink, gaping at his sudden presence. “What are you, no, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”

He snorts. “Yeah, I was. Until Suguru texted. Said he left you at the bookstore and for me to pick you up. Seriously, you didn’t even bring an umbrella?”

The situation finally catches up to you and you frantically gesture to his own umbrella. “How can you lecture me when you just ran out all the way here without opening your umbrella? it’s literally in your hands, all you had to do was open it!” 

“Like i had the time to! My legs are literally burning from the game and you made me run all this way out to save you!”

“I never asked you to!”

“Well, I had to!” He steps closer, finally freeing himself from the rain completely. His presence fills up the cramped space under the awning and you catch a whiff of cedar and sweat. “I couldn’t just let you die out here in the cold!”

Speechless, you open and close your mouth like an idiot. Finally, you manage to ask, “How did you even know I was out here?”

“Weren’t you listening? I told you Suguru told me he ditched you!” 

At Geto’s name, your face falls. Ah, right. your little moral dilemma about Geto. 

Gojo also calms down a little, his chest heaving a little slower as he uses the silence to catch his breath. his eyes scan your expression, picking up on the way you bite your lip, eyes looking away. 

“Hey,” he says, voice soft though still strained. “You okay?”

Your throat tightens. “I guess? I don't know. Look, sorry. I appreciate you coming.”

“Don't give me that. Just don’t. You’ve told me every embarrassing thing about yourself when you outed that you, you know, like Suguru. Don’t hide something from me now. Are you upset that he left?” His hand comes out to wipe water off your cheek. “Don't cry.”

You scrunch up your face in mild disgust. “I’m not? That's literally just rain water.”

“Oh. So you're okay?”

You inhale and let it out slowly. Were you okay? You shouldn’t be, not if Geto was your crush and he just ditched you. And yet, under Satoru’s shadow as he stands in front of you, blocking the rain, brows furrowed and lips pressed tight as he looks you over in concern, you find yourself feeling okay. More than okay. 

“Why do you even like him?” He asks, quietly, a question that would have easily been lost to the rain if you weren’t hanging off his every word. 

“I told you,” you start, just as quiet. “He saved me that one time.” 

“Yeah?” He opens the umbrella with one hand, and holds your hand in the other, gently guiding you out from under the awning. Rain hits heavy against the fabric and he holds you close to keep you out from the storm, your chest grazing his. “He saved you that day in the rain, did he?”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“Just like this?” 

Mutely, you nod. In his arms, you barely notice the slight chill. 

Gojo searches your eyes for something. He exhales, long and uneven, like he’s been holding this in for longer than he’s willing to admit. And yet, he doesn’t shy away, doesn’t tear his gaze away from yours, just keeps holding the umbrella over your head, tilted ever so slightly in your direction such that you’re completely covered. 

“That day,” he says, quiet but steady, “When you got caught in the rain after that stupid orientation thing? Suguru wasn’t on campus. He went back home for a month before the semester started and didn’t come back until the second week. I was the one that found you.” 

Your breath falters. “What? But he… he gave me his hoodie. His name was on the tag.” 

“Yeah,” Satoru laughs, a single disbelieving puff. “I was wearing his hoodie. He wasn’t at the dorms so I stole some of his clothes to wear. It’s whatever, he steals some of mine sometimes. The point is, I was the one that helped you.” 

For a moment, you stop breathing entirely. The rain pours around the two of you, a curtain of noise, but it’s silent under the umbrella. 

You’ve never seen Gojo so nervous. Definitely not before the big game earlier, not on any of the practice dates, never when he talks to a group of people. Between the two of you, nervousness came more naturally to you. And yet, standing before you vulnerable, wet lashes stuck together, cheeks flushed from running and is that a faint bruise forming on his jaw? He looks nervous and it’s a sight that sends warmth all over your face. 

His eyes are unbearably soft as he waits for your verdict. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice sounds too small. 

“Because you thought it was Suguru. Because you liked him. And back then, I didn't realise that I wanted you to know it was me.”

Your heart thuds, something a little more daring saying the next few words for you. “And now?” 

This moment was perfect. The two of you had been slowly closing that small gap of distance, eyes seeing nothing but each other and suddenly all those rom coms and kdramas come to mind. All those scenes of first kisses (forgetting the practices because those didn’t include real romance), all those late night conversations with Shoko about what it’s like, they all come and leave your brain. 

But instead of leaning in and sealing the deal, Gojo’s entire body suddenly stiffens. His arm around you loosens, placing more distance between the two of you. 

What the hell? 

His gaze drops a little further before coming back up with a discipline that can only come from reciting the digimon opening theme over and over in his head. “Now I'm trying really, really hard not to stare at you.”

Curious, you look down to your soaked shirt where the fabric clings painfully close, embarrassingly sheer. It only serves to emphasise the lines of your bra and though you can’t really see anything, Gojo’s face is flushed pink not just from exertion, and his jaw is tight. 

“Satoru—”

“My place,” he blurts. “We should, uh, get you warmed up. Your shirt is literally see-through and if I have to keep pretending I don't notice, I'm going to walk myself right into traffic.” 

“That is so dramatic.” The beginnings of a smile cause the corner of your lips to quiver upwards at his flustered state. 

“i’m dramatic,” he insists, voice strained, still not looking. “Now come on. I still don’t want you catching pneumonia out here and Sig Kap is literally right near the gate. We can keep talking there when you don’t look like a puppy left out in the rain.”

“Says you.” You eye his white hair plastered to his forehead and smile, reaching up to move a few clinging strands from his eyes. “But okay. I’d like that a lot.”

Unfortunately, the gesture makes him look back down at you, inevitably making him catch an eyeful of your chest. He closes his eyes. “Let's just go before I give you this umbrella and walk onto the road.” 

You laugh a little. “Geez, you really are dramatic.” 

He walks you to Sig Kap, refusing to stand fully under the umbrella. When you try to grab his arm and pull him under, he only launches into a talk about being a feminist and how chivalry isn’t dead and how much he hates periods and loves matcha. You laugh and he smiles down at you before looking away. Seriously, he needs to get over that. 

At the door outside the house, Gojo stops you. 

“Here.” he hands you the umbrella, fingers brushing yours, before reaching down to take his jersey off. You instinctively blush and look away, but considering your state of undress it would only be fair if you stole a glance. So you peek at him from the corner of your eyes. 

You only manage to look just below his abs when something warm and slightly damp flops over your head. 

“Hey!”

He takes the umbrella back from you, standing in front of you and covering your back with the umbrella.. “Put that on before we head inside. Take your wet jersey off, hurry.”

Feeling warm despite the rain, you hastily pull off your soaked top, making sure he’s looking politely away, and throw his jersey on. It’s still damp but not as drenched as your own. Looking down, it falls past your skirt and just above your knees. 

“You’re going to walk in shirtless?”

“Better than you walking in looking like that.” He doesn’t give you a moment to think about his words. “Come on, you’re going to catch a cold.”

He leads you to the now familiar front door and when it opens before Gojo can even touch the doorknob, you understand the reasoning of his actions. 

“Dude!” Hikari cheers, wrapping an arm round Gojo’s shoulders and eagerly pulling him in despite his grunt of protest. “Congrats on the win, man!”

Hikari quickly notices your presence. 

“Oh. So you’re already celebrating, huh?”

Gojo brushes past him, his hand holding tours to guide a path through the sweaty frat boys. “Shut it, Hikari. Is Sukuna in?”

“Nah. The whole floor’s gone.” Hikari answers, raising his voice as Gojo quickly places distance between him and you. 

When the door of his room closes behind you both, he turns and pulls you in, his hand falling down on your hips, pulling you close. You both look like wet dogs but you couldn’t care less.

“Sorry about them,” he mumbles against your hair. 

“It’s fine,” you pause. “Who's Sukuna?”

“The guy in the room next to mine.”

“Oh.”

He hesitates, searching your eyes in the dark of his room. The storm rages on beyond his window, rain entering through a slightly ajar window, but neither of you make the responsible move to close it. Instead, you find yourself pressing up against him, hoping for more. 

“Sweets,” he says, his voice low. “Please don’t tell me this is still practice.”

“It’s not.” 

He takes a deep breath in. “You piss me off. You’re annoying, and insistent, and you always get what you want.”

You frown a little. “Hold on, I thought this was going a different way.”

He shushes you by placing a finger against your lips. “You never listen to me and you never act how I think you will. You’re definitely not normal and your thoughts are all weird and messed up. But you’re always in my head and you have the prettiest smile and the softest voice and when you tell me to shut up I want to drop to my knees and lick your feet.”

“Okay, it’s definitely getting weird now.” 

“I think I’m seriously doomed,” he whispers despite your protests. “Because I bought that coffee you gave me months ago and I still drank it even though I hated how it tasted. And I haven’t been able to get it up without thinking about you and those pretty lips.” 

“Now I see why you don’t do relationships.”

Gojo chuckles, eyes unbearingly soft. “I think I’m in love with you, Y/N. You’re all I can think about.” 

You let out a slow exhale. 

This was not how you imagined any of this. That day when you sat down with Shoko to plan a devious scheme to get with Geto, you naturally assumed it would end with him by your side, or with a crippling inability to reassimilate with society. 

Never in a million years did you think you’d be here, in Gojo’s enormous room inside a frat house, him hanging off your every word. 

But thinking on it now, there’s nothing you want to change in your plan. 

“I think I’m in love with you too,” you say just as quietly, a smile playing on your lips. 

“Really?” If he had dog ears, they would have surely perked up. “Because I was lying, I definitely don’t just think that.”

“Woah, let’s calm down a little.”

He chuckles, breath misting your face. 

His thumbs rub circles and you shiver at the faint sensation.

“Cold?”

You bite the lip and nod. Now that you’ve confessed, the forbidden desire building up in your core no longer feels like something you need to hide. Instead, you embrace it, and you let Gojo see the change in your eyes. 

He nods back, looking down at his jersey on you. 

“You should probably take this off or you’ll get sick.” 

You grab the bottom of his shirt and pull it over your head, leaving you in just your bra. You mentally fist bump your past self for overthinking your attire earlier that morning and throwing on a matching set. 

His pupils dilate as he looks at you, eyes lingering on the delicate lace. 

“Am I moving too fast?” He whispers, breath misting your ear as he leans in. 

You rapidly shake your head, heart pounding in your chest. The air between you crackles with tension, the rain pattering against the window like a distant drumbeat. 

He sighs, a low, relieved sound that vibrates through his chest. “Good. C’mere.”

He backs you up against the door, the wood cool against your bare back. His hands slide up your sides as he traps you. The guise of getting you out of wet clothes feels like a thin excuse now, but you don’t mind, your own hands already tugging at his waistband, eager to feel more of him. 

Gojo’s lips crash into yours, hungry and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim your mouth. You kiss back just as fiercely, fingers digging into his shoulders as you push against him, guiding him backward step by step. He stumbles slightly, surprised by your assertiveness, but a smirk tugs at his lips against yours. 

He falls onto the couch with a soft thud, pulling you down on top of him. You straddle his lap, only because it’s the only position you’ve had experience with thus far, and the friction of his hardening cock against your core sends sparks through your body. Your mouths meet again in a heated makeout, tongues tangling, breaths mingling in short, desperate gasps. 

His hands roam your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away. You arch into him, pressing your bare breasts against his chest, nipples hardening from the contact. 

“Fuck, you’re so hot like this,” he growls, nipping at your lower lip. “Where were you hiding all of this, hm?”

You shiver, fingers digging into his shirt. “You like it when I tell you what to do, don’t you? Big bad frat boy, already so hard because a girl’s got you pinned.”

He groans, hands gripping your ass to grind you against him. “Keep talking like that, and I'll show you who’s really in control.”

But you don’t stop. Instead, you push him back further into the cushions and trail your lips down his jaw, his neck, biting lightly to mark him. He lets you, for now, his breath hitching. 

His eyes look down your body, hands feeling the softness of your skin before resting at the waistband of your cute, little skirt. He smirks and before you know it, you’re torn from his neck because he flips you onto your back in one swift move, pinning your wrists above your head. 

“My turn,” he purrs, voice rough. 

You try to wriggle free. “What are you doing?”

“You've always had a thing against my tongue, haven’t you?”

“That was weeks ago, I don't—wait a minute!” Your hands find his head, trying to push him back up but he refuses, settling properly between your legs and lowering. 

“Relax.” He turns his head and kisses your palm, eyes on yours. “I'll make you feel good. I always do, don't I?”

You hesitate, your arms losing their strength as the tension eases from your body. He watches you carefully, his gaze soft yet intense, making sure you’re okay before he moves. With a gentle nod from you, he lifts the edge of your skirt and flips it up onto your stomach, groaning low at the sight of the damp spot on your panties.

“So cute,” he hums, his free hand sliding between your legs to rub at the numb poking out through the fabric. “This little clit’s begging for attention.” 

You let out a startled gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily at the sudden touch. It’s all still so new, the sparks of pleasure shooting through you like electricity. 

“You want my mouth on this pretty pussy, don’t you?” He murmurs, lowering to mouth against your panties. 

His warm breath seeps through the thin material, and the flat of his tongue presses against you, exploring with teasing pressure that’s not quite enough to satisfy the ache building inside. 

You jolt again, the sensation overwhelming, back bowing slightly as if to instinctively pull away. He doesn’t let you go far, his hand on your thigh tightening to pull you back against his mouth. 

“I know, I know,” he coos against you. “It's too much, isn’t it?”

You whimper, looking down and feeling a fresh surge of heat when you meet eyes with him. 

“That’s it, just feel it,” he encourages, his thumb stroking your thigh in slow circles. 

Finally, he draws your panties to the side and doesn’t waste another second. 

Gojo’s mouth descends on your pussy, tongue flicking out to lap at your clit. 

You gasp sharply, hips bucking up as he sucks the sensitive nub between his lips, rolling it gently. His hands hold your thighs apart, fingers digging into your skin to keep you open for him. He eats you out like he’s starved, tongue delving inside you, tasting your wetness then circling back to your clit with firm, insistent strokes. 

“Oh god,” you choke out, the words tumbling from your lips in a breathless rush. “Fuck, it’s too—fuck it’s so good!” 

With your hands free, you curl your fingers in his soft white hair, guiding him exactly where the pleasure feels strongest. It's your first time feeling anything like this, and the intensity builds fast, a coiling heat that’s overwhelming but addictive. 

He hums against you, the vibrations making you whine as his tongue thrusts in and out, mimicking what’s to come, stretching you open with wet, probing motions.

“Mmm, taste so fucking sweet,” he growls between licks, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your folds. “You’re clenching so hard already—gonna finger fuck you open so you can take my cock later.”

He adds a finger, sliding it inside your slick heat slowly, curling it to brush against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “That's it baby, feel how wet you are for me? so tight around my finger, imagine how you’ll squeeze my dick when I'm buried deep.”

You nod frantically, the haze of pleasure making it hard to form words. 

He senses your building release, slipping a second finger inside to stretch you further, scissoring them gently to prepare you while his mouth latches back on your clit, sucking harder. “Come on, cum for me—wanna taste you so fucking bad, sweets. I want to feel you shake.”

The orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over your body without warning. you cry out, back arching off the surface beneath you as your pussy clenches around his fingers, pulsing with release. He doesn’t stop, lapping at you through it, drawing out every shudder until you’re boneless and gasping for air, his tongue coaxing every last tremor from your oversensitive folds. 

Gojo pulls back slowly, a string of saliva still connecting to you until he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he crawls up your body. 

“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he murmurs, leaning in for a deep kiss and letting you taste yourself on his lips. 

You kiss back weakly making him chuckle, and he pulls back with a wet chu. 

“You okay?”

You nod weakly. One moment you’re catching your breath on the couch, the next he’s lifting you over his shoulder and laying you down on his bed. 

You yelp, feeling gravity turn on its head until you’re safely on his mattress. 

Watching as he eagerly strips, you say, “You got a bedframe.”

He grins widely, shimmying down his boxers to join his sweatpants on the floor. “Yeah, I did. Do you like it?”

You huff. “Yeah. About time, Satoru.”

Gojo’s smile is oddly bright as he gets on the bed and hovers over you. He shifts, propping himself up on his elbows, his blue eyes darkening as they fixate on your chest. Without a word, he moves down, his mouth hovering just above your skin before he presses his face into the soft valley of your tits, inhaling deeply as if savouring your scent. 

“God, I love these things.” he groans, voice muffled, his lips brushing the sensitive underside. “So goddamn perfect. Feel how hard you make me just staring at them?”

You squirm, indeed feeling his cock throb against your leg. “You’re such an animal.”

“I can't help it. Been thinking about these ever since last time.” He peeks up at you though he’s still hesitant to part with them completely. “Can i fuck them?”

Your nod is all the consent he craves. He straddles your waist carefully and guides his thick length to rest in the plush channel you’ve created by pressing your breasts together. The first slide is torturously slow, the velvety skin enveloping him as he rocks forward, the tip emerging shiny with precum near your collarbone. 

“Shit, yes,” he hisses, hips snapping in a shallow rhythm. “So soft, so fucking warm around me. Look at that, sweets. Your tits are hugging my dick like they were made for it.”

His voice drops lower, rough with building pleasure, each word punctuated by the slick glide of skin on skin. 

You watch him, mesmerised by the concentration etching his features, brow furrowed, lips parted as he pants. Sweat beads on his forehead and trickles down his temples as his abs flex with every controlled push. The friction builds between your tits, his precum smearing across your skin, making the slide even smoother and more obscene. 

He glances down to watch his cock disappear and poke out from your cleavage. “Open your mouth for me, baby.”

“Sweets,” you remind him. 

He lets out a stifled groan, hips jerking forward. “Sweets, please. Let me see your pretty tongue. Want it on my tip when i come through so fucking bad.” 

The nickname sends a thrill through you, and you part your lips obediently, flattening your tongue in invitation. He groans at the sight, hips stuttering as he angles higher, the flushed head of his cock brushing your waiting mouth on the next thrust. 

“Fuck, just like that,” he rasps. “Your tongue feels so good lapping at me like that. Swirl it around, taste how much I want you. God, sweets, you’re killing me.” 

You do, tracing the sensitive underside when he pushes forward, the salty tang of him flooding your senses. His reaction is immediate, a deep, guttural moan escapes him, his rhythm faltering as he jerks deeper, chasing the wet heat of your mouth. 

“Can't get enough,” he growls, drawing back only to thrust again, his tip kissing your tongue with deliberate precision and drawing back a sticky string of his precum and your saliva. “Gonna fuck your mouth next, stuff it full of my cock until you’re choking on it. You'd take it so well, wouldn’t you? Suck me down like the greedy little thing you are.” 

Saliva pools on your tongue and drips down to mix with the mess on your chest. He watches it all with hooded eyes, rutting faster now, the slap of his hips against your breasts echoing softly in the room. 

“Fuck, sweets—gonna cum,” he warns through gritted teeth, his forehead creasing in that pretty, desperate way. “Can’t hold back with you squeezing me like this. Shit, i’m gonna paint you, mark every inch of these pretty tits.”

He lurches forward suddenly, back bowing as he towers over you, one hand bracing beside your head while the other strokes his base to control his release. The first hot spurt lands across your neck, thick and warm, followed by another that arches toward your open mouth. He aims with a focused groan, pressing down on the head to guide it, ropes of cum landing on your tongue, filling your senses with his taste. 

“Take it, that’s a good girl,” he pants, voice breaking on a final, shuddering thrust. “Look at you, covered in me. So fucking hot, dripping with my cum on your face and tits.” 

His body quakes through the aftershocks, eyes never leaving yours, drinking in your reaction as he milks every drop onto you. 

When he’s spent, he collapses forward slightly, catching himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you and leans down. 

Your lips meet his in a deep, unhurried kiss, tongues tangling slow and sweet at first, then hungrier as you melt into it. The taste of him, salty from earlier, mixed with the faint tang of your own arousal, ignites you, and you tug him down, hands roaming his shoulders, feeling the flex of muscle under sweat damp skin. A soft moan escapes you, and he swallows it, his grip tightening just a fraction. 

He pulls back and pants against your lips, half laughing. 

“Sorry, I should have warned you. Kind of not the most virgin friendly thing to do, huh?” He sits up and reaches for some tissue to clean you. “Should of saved this for inside you, sweets.”

You clench, squeezing your thighs together. “I’ve never…”

His eyes soften, wiping the last of his cum. “I know, sweets. We can wait if you need to, there’s no rush.”

But curiousity and want is a dangerous cocktail and you find yourself shaking your head. “I want to.” 

Gojo lets out a shuddering breath and nods, sliding off your chest, his cock glistening and heavy against his thigh. “Let me get you warmed up again.”

He doesn't find much difficulty with that because one hand against your slit and his eyebrows are rising, feeling your wetness despite the lack of attention. 

You blush, feeling caught. “What? Don’t look at me like that, it’s embarrassing.”

“What’s got you so wet, hm?”

You squirm, feeling the lingering pleasure flare up. “It’s not my fault you’re so vocal.”

“Dirty girl. You like hearing how good you make me feel?” His thumb smears your entrance, picking up and spreading the fresh arousal that gathers there and it’s as good as any verbal answer. “Feel that? So worked up with nowhere to go.”

His fingers part you gently, circling your entrance with feather-light strokes that make you gasp. 

“Let me warm you up again, sweets. You’re so swollen here, feels like you’ve been waiting for more. Gonna make sure you’re nice and ready for me.”

He plays with the mess between your legs, his own expression a mix of hunger and restraint, breaths coming in measured pulls as he fights the urge to rush. One finger dips inside you shallowly, then two, curling just right to brush that spot that sends sparks up your spine. 

The stretch is easier now, your body remembering the pleasure, and he coos softly at your soft whimper, thumb finding your clit to rub in slow, firm circles. 

“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans quietly, voice rough around the edges. “So warm and wet, it’s killing me not to slide in right now. But we’re taking our time, yeah? Making this perfect for you.”

Your hips rock instinctively into his hand, the coil of heat tightening low in your belly, and he grins, leaning in to pepper kisses along your jaw. 

“Look at you, getting into it. My sweet girl, so responsive.”

You whine, the pleasure having reached a plateau and when you buck up for more, he withdraws his hand. The loss makes you whine but he hushes you with a gentle kiss to your forehead, reaching over to the nightstand and searching through his messy drawers for a condom. 

The foil crinkles under his fingers as he tears it open and positions himself at your entrance. You're still slick, he’s made sure of that, but the anticipation makes you clench, nerves building up. He notices your sharp inhale and lets his tip nudge your slick folds, parting them teasingly though he pauses there to let you feel the pressure without pushing in. 

“Hey, eyes on me, sweets,” he murmurs, voice steady despite the way his chest heaves, his cock twitching against you. “You still okay? Tell me if it’s too much, I’ll stop, I promise. But fuck, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be inside you.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper breathlessly, fingers curling into the sheets below. “Just… go slow?”

He notices and slides a hand down to interlace your fingers, bringing your hand up to his lips and placing a soft kiss to your palm. “Of course. Whatever you want.” 

The stretch is immediate, a slow burn as he guides himself in, sinking bit by bit. His cock is much thicker than his fingers but the warmth of him, the way he watches every flicker of your expression with that twitch in his jaw, makes it bearable. 

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” he rasps, eyes shutting briefly. “Gripping me so good already. Easy, sweets, just relax into it.”

His voice cracks a little on the end, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds himself still once he’s halfway in. 

It aches, but the fullness is intoxicating, waves of pleasure chasing the discomfort as your body yields. You gasp, squeezing his hand and he coos softly, stroking you with his thumb. 

“Can I keep going?” 

You nod and even before your next breath, he’s already sliding in and bottoming out with a shared gasp, hips flushed against yours. His forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling in the humid air. 

"How's that feel? Too much?” He asks softly. 

“Full… so full,” you whimper, rocking experimentally and he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up just a fraction before he catches himself. 

“Fuck, want me to move, sweets?” He shifts beneath you, guiding your hips in a gentle circle to grind against you, his praises making the movement slick. 

“Please,” you gasp out as the fullness sparks pleasure deep inside and he rewards your honest words with a slow roll of his hips. 

“Good girl,” he praises, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as he starts to move, shallow thrusts that build a steady friction. Each slide in and out drags against your inner walls, drawing out filthy whimpers and sighs as he hits that sweet spot with precision born of his experience. 

Soon, your toes are curling and your back bows off his mattress, desperate to meet his thrusts. 

“Listen to those sounds you’re making,” he coos, emphasising his words with a deep thrust. “You’re taking me so well, sweets. Makes me want to stay buried in your forever.”

The pace gradually quickens, his control fraying at the edges as your moans encourage him. He shifts the angle, one leg hooking over his shoulder to deepen the penetration, and the new position has you crying out, pleasure coiling tight in your core.

Sweat beads on his skin, dropping onto your chest and he leans down to capture a nipple between his lips, sucking gently as he thrusts harder, the wet slap of skin echoing softly. 

“That’s it, let go for me,” he urges against your tits, teeth grazing the peak before soothing it with his tongue. “I can feel you squeezing, you close for me already? Come on, sweets, chase it.”

His words weave through the haze, dirty and devoted, spurring you higher as his freehand slips between you to circle your clit in time with his hips. The dual sensations overwhelm, building to a peak that has you trembling beneath him. 

When it hits, it’s blinding, your orgasm crashing over you in waves, walls clenching rhythmically around him and pulling him deeper. He groans your name like a prayer, thrusts stuttering as rides it out with you, prolonging the bliss with expert rolls of his hips. 

Only when you slump, sweaty and panting, does he let himself follow, a filthy groan escaping his lips as he buries himself deep one last time and spills into the condom, body shuddering as he struggles to hover over you. 

He doesn’t pull away immediately, instead pressing his hips closer to ensure you’ve gotten everything before collapsing half on top of you, peppering lazy kisses along your neck. 

“You’re amazing,” he whispers. “My perfect girl, did so good for us.”

You whimper against the ticklish sensation. “You're too heavy.”

He chuckles and rolls off you, slowly pulling out to pull the condom off and discard it. you watch him with sleepy eyes, eagerly nuzzling into his arms when he settles back beside you. 

“Need anything? Water? Cuddles?” 

You hum, feeling the satisfaction morph into a drowsiness that has you melting into his arms, only feeling his warmth. 

“You?”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I’m so glad I stole you away. You’re so fucking perfect for me.” 

You lean into his side, feeling a sense of indescribable completeness that fills you with certainty. 

Geto Suguru may have been everyone’s first love but Gojo Satoru is the one you choose. 

And judging by the way his arm tightens around you, the way his grin softens when he looks down at you, he knows it too. 

Geto Suguru is everyone’s first love.

Even to this day, your friends will roll their eyes and insist that can’t possibly be true. But from experience, that was exactly who he was, someone to admire from afar like a painting behind glass. Beautiful and alluring, and just out of reach. 

You see him now up, sitting on the couches at the house party driving the murmur of conversation with ease, a red cup used to gesture. Laughter ripples outward in waves, people leaning closer, drawn in.

You smile out of solidarity, resting against the wall with content misplaced at a busy place like this. 

“Did you wait long?”

You turn your head to find your boyfriend weaving through bodies with the casual confidence of someone who assumes space will make itself around him. Two drinks in hand, hair messy under his cat, grin already forming because he’s caught you staring. 

You push off the wall, reaching automatically for whichever cup is closer but he pulls back to sniff both before handing you the opposite one.

You take it gratefully and when you take a sip, you realise it’s your favourite juice. 

“Wait time longer than the lines at Universal,” you tease. 

He grins, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Next time I'll get us the priority pass. Not that it looked like you minded the wait. Don’t think I didn't see you eyeing Suguru like that. Do I have competition again?” You shove him playfully. “Please, like I'm the one who’s been draping themselves over him for the past hour.” Across the room, Geto laughs again, someone hanging off his shoulder while he tries to keep the liquid in his cup from spilling. He catches your eye briefly and lifts his cup in greeting. You return it with a smile. Next to you, Gojo sighs dramatically. “Wow,” he says flatly. “Right in front of me too. Why can’t I see any remorse in your eyes?” “Because there isn’t any there,” you snort. “You're the one who told him to come tonight.” “Where there’s Satoru, there’s Suguru.” “I learnt that the hard way.” He hums, arm sliding around your waist to pull you flush against his side. His thumb starts tracing lazy circles just above your hip, absentminded and affectionate, a touch so familiar you barely notice as you lean into him in return. “Still,” he murmurs, quieter now, his breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t have to keep looking at him like that.” “Like what?” “Like you’re thinking about what you could have had.” You tilt your head to look up at him. His expression isn’t jealous, not completely, just searching, softer than the bravado he usually wears. “I'm not,” you promise gently. “It was always superficial. You know that better than anyone. I guess now, looking at him is like looking at a relic of a different version of me.” He hums. “He would have liked that sentence.” You roll your eyes, ever so familiar with his dramatics. “You have nothing to worry about, baby. I promise.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” You reach up and adjust the brim of his cap slightly, smoothing down a piece of hair that refuses to stay put. “Besides, I think I traded up.” “Keep talking like that and I'm going to start thinking you actually like me,” he grins, voice lowering. You smack his chest but your other hand lingers in his hair, fingers slipping into the soft hair at his nape. "Don't get cocky.” Too late. He's already smiling wide, not the loud, flashy grin everyone else gets, but something softer and almost boyish reserved just for you. Gojo leans down and finds your lips. The kiss is slow and unhurried, deeper than something meant for a crowded room but not quite indecent, like he’s forgotten where you are or just doesn’t care. He pulls back just enough to talk. “Hey, I have an idea that’ll solve this three way jealousy.” “What?" “Why don’t we just have a threesome?”

or when he purposely cages you from behind with his arms outstretched on either side of your figure. broad chest bumping into your back, slightly hovering over you, as you sit at your cubicle listening to him thoroughly explain the case that has been lost in translation for you.

his minty breath intertwined with a hint of coffee hits against the shell of your ear. his voice just falls below a whisper causing a shiver to run down your spine.

you soon subconsciously tune out his monotonous words as the only thing your mind can focus on is the husky smell of his cologne intoxicating your mind and making you weak in the knees.

“….but i’m sure a smart girl like you will memorize the legal proceedings for the trial, isn’t that right?” hiromi muses. a faint smirk tugs at the corners of his lips, feeling the way your breathing rapidly picks up against him.

but his favourite way of riling you up is during the dreadful hours of overtime, where only one or two other restless attorneys occupy the boring, dull space.

a dropped ballpoint pen that rolls under your cubicle isn’t enough to draw major attention. the option to simply roll over his office chair and pick up the item doesn’t occur, instead he fits himself under your cramped desk without a care in the world.

“hiromi what are you—”

“you’ll have to excuse me—” he mutters hastily pulling up the fabric of your skirt to scrunch around your waist and widening your legs until your laced panties are exposed, “—just looking for my pen.”

he pulls your slick panties to the side and dips his tongue into your already wet hole and your pussy automatically clenches around the warm muscle. “mngh! that feels..." you tightly grip at the desk table to brace yourself while your back arches off the chair.

his palms roam freely on your thighs to selfishly grip at the flesh in an attempt to gravitate your body closer towards him. his knees begin to dully ache due to the tiled floor but he doesn’t pay much mind to it.

he groans against your heat, “needed you exactly like this.” he licks a large stride from your hole to your plusing clit then enclose his mouth around the nub, gently suckling onto it.

you loudly squeal with your body jerking forwards, nails digging farther into sturdy table. soon nail marks slowly start to appear onto the surface.

hiromi sympathetically sighs from below you, “try to keep the noises down for me, okay?”