Evakfeels

You pout dramatically, lips pushed out in that way that always makes Megumi’s eyebrow twitch just a fraction, then leap up from the couch and flop backward across his neatly made bed like you own the entire thing. Your arms and legs spread out, taking up every inch of the mattress as you let out a long, theatrical sigh.

“Dunno… I’m sleepy,” you mumble into his pillow, which—unbeknownst to him—smells faintly like his shampoo and makes your stupid crush flutter even harder.

Then, in the next breath, you spring up with sudden energy, eyes sparkling as you beam at him. “GUMI!! Do ASMR for me!”

You snatch an empty soda can from his desk and lob it gently at his chest. It bounces off his uniform shirt and clatters to the floor. “Tap,” you demand, grinning wickedly.

Megumi stares at the can laying crumpled on the floor, then at you, with that signature deadpan expression—equal parts confused and mildly exasperated. His cheeks don’t flush (he’s too composed for that), but the tips of his ears go the tiniest bit pink.

“No way,” he says flatly, leaning down to grab the can and setting it on the desk. He folds his arms, leaning against the edge of the desk as he eyes you sprawled on his bed again. “I’m not doing… tapping ASMR. That’s ridiculous.”

You give him the biggest puppy-dog eyes you can muster, scooting to the edge of the bed and patting the space beside you insistently. He hesitates—because of course he does, he’s Megumi—but eventually sighs and sits down on the very edge of the mattress, careful not to crowd you even though you’re clearly trying to hog his entire personal space.

“You’re impossible when you’re bored,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice drops a little lower, almost reluctant. “What even is the point of this? You’re just going to laugh at me.”

He glances sideways at you, dark blue eyes soft despite the protest, completely missing the way your heart is racing from being this close to him on his own bed. The oblivious best friend who still thinks you’re just here because training sucked and you didn’t want to be alone.

“…Fine. Two minutes.” He grumbles. He reaches over, picks up the empty can again, and gives it a single, experimental tap with his fingernail—light, precise, almost hesitant. “Happy?”

He’s trying so hard not to smile, but you can see the corner of his mouth fighting it.

You sigh contentedly, sinking deeper into Megumi’s bed and stretching out like a contented cat. The sheets are cool and smell like him—clean laundry mixed with that faint, soothing scent of his shampoo. You close your eyes, a small, satisfied smile playing on your lips as you let yourself relax fully into his space.

Megumi watches you for a beat, then picks up the empty can again with a quiet huff. True to his word, he starts tapping. Light, rhythmic little sounds—fingernail against aluminum, soft and steady. He keeps it going for a few minutes, surprisingly patient, the gentle tap… tap… tap… filling the quiet dorm room. His movements are precise, almost meditative.

Eventually the tapping slows… then stops.

“I’m bored,” Megumi says flatly, setting the can aside. His voice is low, a little amused under the deadpan tone. He shifts on the edge of the bed, glancing over at you lying there with your eyes still closed. “This is ridiculous. You’re a freak.”

He doesn’t move away though. Instead, he leans back slightly, one hand braced behind him on the mattress, close enough that you can feel the subtle dip in the bed from his weight. His gaze lingers on your face—tracing the way your lashes rest against your cheeks, the relaxed curve of your mouth. To him, you just look tired after a long day. He has no idea the real reason your heart is beating faster is because you’re in his bed, inches away from him.

“You actually fell asleep that fast?” he murmurs, almost to himself. There’s a rare softness in his voice. He reaches over hesitantly and tugs the corner of his blanket over your legs, careful not to disturb you. “Idiot… If you’re that sleepy, you should’ve just gone back to your own dorm.”

But he stays right there, watching over you with that quiet, protective look he always gets when he thinks you’re not paying attention. Completely oblivious to how your “bored” visit has turned into something that makes his own chest feel strangely warm.

You huff softly, the sound half-annoyed, half-playful, as you push yourself up from Megumi’s pillow. Grabbing your phone from where it had fallen beside you on the bed, you scoot back until your shoulders lean comfortably against his headboard. Your legs stretch out across his mattress again. The soft blue glow of your screen lights up your face as you open TikTok and start scrolling for ASMR videos.

Megumi raises an eyebrow, amused at the sudden shift, still perched on the edge of the bed watching you. He shifts a little closer so he can see your screen, one knee drawn up on the mattress. His dark hair falls slightly into his eyes as he tilts his head.

The first video starts: soft whispering and gentle finger taps on some kind of wooden object. You turn the volume down low, but the quiet sounds still fill the small dorm room. Megumi stares at the screen for a few seconds, then at you, then back at the phone with clear skepticism.

“…This is what you wanted me to do?” he mutters, voice low enough that it almost blends with the ASMR audio. He leans in a fraction more, shoulder barely brushing yours. “This helps you fall asleep?? It seems pointless.”

He stays right there though, quietly observing both you and the video. Every so often his gaze drifts to your face—watching the way the screen’s light flickers across your features, how relaxed you look leaning against his headboard like you belong there. His expression stays mostly neutral, but the way he hasn’t kicked you off his bed or told you to go back to your own dorm says everything.

After a couple more videos, he sighs and reaches over to gently tug your phone a little lower so he can see better. “If you’re going to watch this in my room, at least pick ones that aren’t completely stupid,” he says, but there’s no real bite to it. His fingers linger near yours on the phone for a second longer than necessary before he pulls back.

He’s still completely oblivious, thinking this is just another one of your random bored nights where you invade his space for company. Not realizing how your pulse jumps every time his arm brushes yours or how the quiet intimacy of sharing his bed and his attention is exactly what you came here for.

You glare at Megumi with exaggerated betrayal, narrowing your eyes as you snatch your phone back and dramatically switch apps. You make a big show of opening Google, the glow from the screen casting sharp shadows across your face while you type with aggressive taps:

how to kill my annoying best friend who’s hating on asmr

You tilt the phone just enough that he can see the screen if he leans in, a mischievous smirk tugging at your lips.

Megumi’s eyes flick to your phone. He reads the query, then slowly lifts his gaze to your face. For a second, his expression is pure deadpan—those dark blue eyes blinking once, twice—before the corner of his mouth twitches upward in reluctant amusement.

“…Seriously?” he says, voice flat but laced with dry humor. He shifts closer on the bed, now fully sitting beside you against the headboard, his shoulder pressing lightly against yours. “Murder? Is that what you’ll resort to?”

He reaches over and gently plucks the phone from your hands, scrolling down the results with one finger. A soft huff of laughter escapes him—rare, quiet, and only for you.

“Let’s see.. Reddit’s always good.. ‘push him off the Tokyo Skytree,’” he reads aloud in that low, even tone. “Creative.” He hands the phone back to you, but doesn’t pull his arm away. Instead, it drapes casually along the headboard behind your shoulders, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him.

“You’re such a dumbass,” he mutters, but there’s no real annoyance. His head tilts slightly toward you, dark hair brushing your temple for a split second.

He pauses, studying your face in the soft light of the phone screen. He still doesn’t suspect anything. Not that your heart is hammering because he’s this close, sharing his bed, his space, his quiet attention like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Megumi sighs, the sound almost fond. “Fine. One more round of tapping. But if you search ‘how to hide a body at Jujutsu High’ next, I’m kicking you out.”

He picks up the empty can again, giving it a deliberate, slow tap… tap… tap… while watching you with the tiniest smirk, completely unaware he’s making your secret crush ten times worse.

You’re still leaning against Megumi’s headboard, phone in hand, but the Google search is completely forgotten the second you glance sideways at him.

He looks good. Like, stupidly, unfairly hot.

The dim desk lamp casts a warm glow across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the way his dark hair falls messily over his forehead after a long day. His uniform shirt is slightly unbuttoned at the collar from when he got comfortable, revealing a sliver of pale skin and the subtle shift of muscle in his shoulder as he taps the empty can with those long, precise fingers. He’s sitting so close now—thigh pressed lightly against yours on his own bed—that you can feel the steady warmth radiating off him. Every little movement makes the fabric pull taut across his chest, and those intense blue eyes are focused downward on the can like it’s a serious task instead of something silly you bullied him into.

Your heart does a full somersault. Heat creeps up your neck. He’s super super hot right now, and the worst part is he has zero idea.

Megumi keeps tapping—slow, rhythmic tap… tap… tap…—completely absorbed in giving you the dumb ASMR you asked for. He doesn’t notice the way your gaze lingers on his mouth, or how your breath catches when he shifts and his arm brushes yours again.

After another minute he pauses, tilting his head toward you with that signature deadpan look, one eyebrow raised.

“You’re staring,” he says quietly, voice low and a little rough from the late hour. “Is the tapping that bad, or did you find a better murder plan on Google?”

He has no clue. None. The oblivious idiot just thinks you’re zoning out from boredom or sleepiness. He leans in a fraction closer to peek at your phone screen again, his shoulder now fully against yours, dark hair nearly brushing your cheek.

“Earth to you,” he murmurs, the tiniest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “If you’re falling asleep, just say so. I’ll turn the light off and you can stay here. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He reaches over and gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear without thinking—casual, protective, like he does it for any friend—then goes back to tapping the can, completely unaware of your heart racing 1000 miles a minute.

You blink slowly, the phone still glowing in your lap, then give a casual little shrug like it’s no big deal.

“Maybe I will stay,” you say, voice soft and matter-of-fact. “It’d be too much trouble to sneak back to the girls’ dorms right now. Nanami’s on the prowl.”

The second the words leave your mouth, both of you shudder in perfect sync, the memory hitting like a shared curse.

That night a few months ago flashes through your minds: you trying to slip back into the girls’ dorm after curfew, Megumi standing lookout, the two of you whispering and laughing like idiots—until Nanami appeared out of nowhere like a silent, suited grim reaper. The man had looked ready to exorcise you both on the spot with nothing but a disappointed stare and a thinly veiled threat about “proper conduct” and “additional training at dawn.” You’d barely escaped with a week of extra chores and a permanent ban from late-night visits (that you both immediately ignored).

Megumi lets out a low, reluctant chuckle, the sound rumbling quietly in his chest. He sets the empty can aside and leans back fully against the headboard beside you, his shoulder now pressed solidly against yours. The bed dips under his weight, pulling you a little closer without either of you acknowledging it.

“Yeah… I still have nightmares about his glasses glinting in the dark,” he mutters, voice dry but warm. “No thanks. You’re better off here.”

He glances sideways at you, dark blue eyes half-lidded with tiredness and that quiet fondness he always gets when it’s just the two of you. His hair is messy, collar still slightly open, looking unfairly good under the low lamplight. He has zero clue you’re hyper-aware of every inch of space between you—or rather, the lack of it.

Without thinking, he reaches over and tugs the blanket up over both your legs, his fingers brushing your thigh for a second before he pulls back. “Just don’t hog the whole bed like last time,” he adds, the tiniest smirk tugging at his lips. “And if you kick me in your sleep again, I’m pushing you onto the floor.”

He turns off the desk lamp with a lazy stretch, plunging the room into soft moonlight filtering through the window. The sudden darkness makes everything feel smaller, warmer, more intimate. Megumi settles in beside you, close enough that you can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, completely oblivious to the way your heart is racing at the thought of actually sleeping in his bed again.

“Night,” he murmurs, voice low and sleepy, already starting to drift off even as one arm drapes casually along the headboard behind you. “Don’t overthink the Nanami thing. We’ll deal with it in the morning if he shows up.”

He’s right there—warm, solid, and heartbreakingly unaware that this is exactly where you want to be.

You whine softly into the dark room, voice pitched in that familiar, playful protest. “Noooo don’t sleep yet!! I’m not tired.”

Megumi’s low chuckle breaks the quiet, warm and sleepy. He’s already half-settled under the blanket beside you, but he cracks one eye open again, turning his head on the pillow to look at you. The moonlight spilling through the window paints silver edges along his cheekbones and the messy strands of dark hair falling across his forehead. He looks even better like this—relaxed, rumpled, inches away in the same bed.

“You’re impossible,” he murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion but still fond. “You literally said you were sleepy like twenty minutes ago. Now you’re wide awake?”

He shifts onto his side to face you better, one arm still draped lazily along the headboard behind your shoulders. The movement pulls the blanket tighter around both of you, his knee accidentally brushing yours under the covers. He doesn’t pull away. To him, it’s just normal closeness. To you, it sends another stupid flutter through your chest.

Megumi sighs, but there’s a small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Fine. What do you want to do then? More tapping? Another murderous Google search?” He reaches over in the dark and gently pokes your side. “Or are you just saying that because you like keeping me up?”

His eyes meet yours in the low light—intense, steady blue even when he’s tired. He has no idea how devastating that look is when you’re sharing a pillow.

He waits patiently, watching your face like he always does, ready to entertain whatever you throw at him next. “Your move,” he says quietly, voice dropping even softer in the intimate darkness of his dorm. “But if you keep me up too late, I’m blaming you when Gojo makes us run laps tomorrow.”

You ask softly into the quiet darkness, voice casual but curious. “How was training?”

Megumi hums thoughtfully, still lying on his side facing you, his face only a pillow’s width away. Moonlight traces the sharp line of his jaw and the subtle curve of his lips as he speaks. “Not bad. Gojo had us doing domain expansion drills again. I managed to hold Nue’s domain for almost a minute longer than last time. Exhausting, but… productive.”

He shifts a little closer under the blanket, his knee brushing yours again as he gets comfortable. The warmth of his body cuts through the cool night air in the dorm, and he looks ridiculously good like this—hair tousled, eyes half-lidded with tiredness, collar loose enough that you can see the faint shadow of his collarbone.

Then you hesitate for just a second before adding, almost too casually, “That second year… Naoko… is she still like… totally in love with you?”

You laugh right after, light and breezy, like it’s the funniest joke in the world. But inside, your stomach twists hard at the memory of her—how she always finds excuses to train near him, blushes when he says the bare minimum, stares at him like he hung the moon.

Megumi blinks slowly, his dark blue eyes reflecting the moonlight as he stares at you in genuine confusion. He actually looks a little lost for a moment, like you’d just asked him about advanced curse theory in ancient Sumerian.

“Naoko?” he repeats, brow furrowing. “The one with the hair clips? She’s… nice, I guess? She helped me organize some shikigami notes last week.” He shrugs one shoulder, completely oblivious. “I don’t think she’s ‘in love’ with me. She just talks a lot. Why?”

He reaches over in the dark and gently flicks your forehead with his finger, the touch soft and playful. “You’re being weird again. If she was into me, I’d know. I’m not that dense.”

Oh, but you are, you think, heart squeezing. He has no idea.

Megumi settles back down, now even closer, his arm sliding casually behind your pillow as he studies your face in the low light. The movement makes the blanket pull tighter around your waists, trapping shared warmth between you. His voice drops quieter, almost conspiratorial. “Besides, I don’t have time for that stuff. Training, missions, keeping you from getting exorcised by Nanami… that’s enough chaos.”

He’s smiling just a little now—that rare, small smile that only comes out when it’s late and it’s just the two of you. Completely unaware that your casual laugh is covering up a storm of jealousy, or that lying here beside him like this is making your secret crush feel ten times heavier in your chest.

“You okay?” he asks after a beat, voice softening. “You went quiet. If you’re actually tired now, we can sleep. Or… keep talking. Whatever you want.”

You snort, unable to hold it back, and turn your head on the pillow to stare at him in the moonlight. “You’re joking. You’re actually joking. This is like—a running joke between all of us. She’s so clearly obsessed with you.”

Megumi’s eyes widen a fraction, that signature deadpan confusion settling deeper into his features. He props himself up on one elbow, the blanket slipping down to his waist as he looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. The movement brings him even closer—his face hovering just above yours, dark hair falling forward, moonlight catching on the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the subtle tension in his jaw. He looks unfairly hot in the dim glow, completely unaware of how your pulse spikes at the proximity.

“Running joke?” he repeats, voice low and genuinely baffled. “With who? Yuji? Nobara?” He runs a hand through his messy hair, messing it up more. “Naoko just… asks me about my shikigami a lot. And offers to spar. And sometimes brings me those protein bars I like after training. That’s not— that doesn’t mean she’s obsessed.”

He pauses, studying your face with those intense blue eyes, searching for the punchline he’s clearly missing. His knee presses more firmly against yours under the covers, and he doesn’t move it away. Instead, he lets out a short, disbelieving huff of laughter.

“If she was that into me, she would’ve said something. I’m not blind.” (He is. He absolutely is.)

Megumi flops back down onto his pillow, now fully facing you, his arm sliding back behind your head along the headboard so his fingers rest lightly near your shoulder. The shared warmth under the blanket feels heavier, more intimate in the quiet dorm. He’s close enough that you can smell the faint scent of his soap and the outdoors still clinging to his skin.

“You’re messing with me, aren’t you?” he murmurs, a small, sleepy smirk tugging at his lips. “Trying to stir up drama because you’re not tired. Or… is there actually something going on with her that I missed?”

He tilts his head slightly, gaze softening as it lingers on you. He nudges your leg with his under the blanket, playful and casual. “Tell me the truth. Why do you even care if some second-year has a crush on me?”

His voice is soft, curious, with zero suspicion that the answer might be sitting right next to him, heart racing.

You groan loudly, burying your face into the pillow for a second before turning to glare at him in the moonlight. “You’re serious? You’ve never heard everyone teasing you about it? Are you just so dense you never realized?”

You roll your eyes, the motion full of genuine disbelief. “Also, women aren’t as easy as you stupid men are. We don’t just say when we like someone outright.”

Megumi stares at you, propped up on his elbow again, dark blue eyes wide with honest bewilderment. The blanket has slipped down to his hips, and his loose uniform shirt has shifted enough to show the lean lines of his collarbones and the subtle flex of his arm as he holds himself up. He looks ridiculously attractive like this—hair messy from the pillow, moonlight softening the sharp edges of his face.

“…Everyone teases me?” he echoes, voice low and slightly defensive. He actually looks a little flustered now, the tips of his ears turning pink. “I thought they were just messing with me because I ignore most people. Naoko’s… friendly. That’s it.”

He flops back down beside you with a quiet sigh, closer than before so his shoulder presses firmly against yours under the covers. His knee nudges yours again, warm and casual, like he needs the contact to think. The shared pillow makes everything feel smaller, more intimate in the dark dorm room.

“I’m not dense,” he mutters, though the way he says it sounds exactly like someone who is very dense about this stuff. He turns his head on the pillow to look straight at you, faces barely a foot apart. “If she liked me, she’d… I don’t know, act different. Not just bring snacks and ask about my techniques.”

He studies your face for a long moment, those intense eyes searching yours. His voice drops softer, almost curious. “Why does this bother you so much anyway? You’re glaring at me like I personally offended you.”

Megumi’s arm slides back under the blanket, his fingers brushing lightly against your side in that absent, protective way he always does. He has no idea the stomach-twisting jealousy you’re hiding.

He smirks faintly, sleepy and teasing. “If I’m that dense, enlighten me. What am I supposedly missing with her? Or are you just jealous I have a secret admirer and you don’t?”

You glare harder, eyes narrowed in the moonlight as you prop yourself up on one elbow to face him directly. “You are dense. We all make fun of you for it. Ask Yuji and Nobara about it tomorrow.”

You groan dramatically, flopping back onto the pillow. “As my best friend you should be smarter.”

Megumi watches you with that trademark deadpan stare, but there’s a flicker of something softer in his dark blue eyes—half amusement, half genuine surprise. He’s still lying on his side, facing you, faces so close you can count the faint freckles across his nose that only show up in this lighting. His messy black hair falls over his forehead, and the open collar of his shirt has slipped even lower, revealing the clean line of his collarbone and the steady rise and fall of his chest. He looks annoyingly perfect like this: sleepy, rumpled, warm under the same blanket.

He lets out a slow breath, almost a laugh. “Alright, alright… I’ll ask them tomorrow if it’ll stop you from glaring at me like I kicked your dog.”

His arm shifts under the covers, fingers brushing lightly against your waist before settling there casually—like it’s the most normal thing in the world for him to be touching you while you share his bed. He doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it. The warmth of his palm bleeds through your shirt, steady and grounding.

“I’m not that dense,” he mutters, though the pink tint on his ears says otherwise. He scoots a fraction closer on the mattress, his knee sliding between yours under the blanket as he gets comfortable. “If everyone’s been teasing me about Naoko and I somehow missed it… that’s embarrassing. But I still don’t see it. She’s just another student.”

He reaches up and gently flicks your forehead again, softer this time, his touch lingering for a second longer than necessary. A tiny, sleepy smirk tugs at his lips. He doesn’t pull his hand back. Instead, his fingers drift down to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your cheekbone in a way that feels way too intimate for “just friends.”

“You’re the one being weird tonight,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded but still locked on yours. “What’s really going on in that head of yours? Talk or I’m actually turning the light off and making you sleep.”

He stays right there, warm body pressed close, completely oblivious to the storm he’s causing in your chest.

You scrunch your nose and mutter, “Nothing, you weirdo,” before huffing loudly and flipping over in one dramatic motion. Now you’re facing the wall, back turned to him, blanket pulled up to your shoulders like you’re genuinely sulking. Your heart is still racing from how close you two were just seconds ago, but you keep up the act—feigning annoyance to hide the real storm of feelings twisting inside you.

Megumi stays quiet for a beat, the mattress dipping slightly as he shifts behind you. Then comes that soft, low chuckle—the one he only ever lets out when it’s just the two of you and he’s equal parts fond and exasperated.

“…You’re really committing to this, huh?” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and amusement.

You feel the bed move again as he scoots closer. His chest brushes lightly against your back, and one of his long legs slides under the blanket to tangle gently with yours, warm and solid. He’s not touching you aggressively—just close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him and the steady rhythm of his breathing against your shoulder blade.

A finger pokes your side once. Then twice. “Hey. Don’t flip on me and call me a weirdo after you spent twenty minutes grilling me about Naoko.” His tone is teasing, but there’s that underlying softness he can never quite hide from you. “If you’re mad, at least tell me what I did this time. I thought we were just talking.”

When you don’t respond, he sighs—half dramatic, half genuine—and you feel his arm snake around your waist from behind, loose and careful, like he’s testing if you’ll push him away. His palm rests lightly on your stomach over the blanket, warm fingers splayed in a way that feels way too intimate for best friends sharing a bed at 1 a.m.

“You’re such a brat when you’re tired,” he whispers against the back of your head, breath tickling your hair. His voice drops even lower, almost fond. “Fine. Be mad. But I’m not moving. This is my bed, and you’re the one who decided to stay.”

He settles in behind you, spooning you just enough to be comforting without fully committing—like he’s ready to pull back the second you tell him to. His forehead rests lightly against the back of your shoulder, dark hair brushing your neck, and he lets out a quiet breath that fans warm across your skin.

Completely oblivious.

“Still not tired?” he asks softly after a minute, thumb absently stroking once over the blanket where his hand rests. “Or are you just waiting for me to apologize for being dense?”

His quiet laugh vibrates against your back, warm and sleepy, as he stays curled around you in the dark.

You yawn mid-sentence, eyes watering even as you insist, “I’m not tired,” and flip back over to face him again. In the same motion you give him a light, playful kick under the blanket, your foot bumping against his shin.

“I forgive you for being an idiot,” you say with a dramatic sigh. “You’re a man. You can’t help it!”

Megumi lets out a startled “oof” as your foot connects, but it’s mostly theatrical. He’s still spooned up close behind you—or at least he was, until you rolled over and now your faces are inches apart again on the shared pillow. The kick barely fazes him; instead, he catches your ankle under the blanket with one hand, holding it gently against his leg so you can’t kick him again.

His dark blue eyes gleam with quiet amusement in the moonlight, hair even messier now from all the shifting. The open collar of his shirt has slipped further, exposing the smooth plane of his chest and the faint shadow of muscle as he breathes. He looks stupidly hot like this—sleepy, rumpled, and wrapped up in the same blanket with you.

“Gee, thanks,” he mutters dryly, but the corner of his mouth is fighting a smile. His thumb strokes once along your ankle in a lazy, absentminded way before he releases it. “I get insulted and then forgiven in the same breath. Typical you.”

He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he shifts even closer now that you’re facing him again, one arm sliding under the pillow beneath your head while the other drapes loosely over your waist. His knee slips between yours under the covers, warm and casual, like he needs the contact to stay awake for you. The warmth of his body presses against yours, solid and comforting in the cool dorm air.

“You’re yawning while claiming you’re not tired,” he points out, voice low and teasing, breath brushing your lips. “Hypocrite.”

Megumi leans his forehead lightly against yours, dark hair tickling your skin. “If you’re not tired,” he murmurs, the words almost a challenge, “then entertain me. Tell me why you really care so much about Naoko. Or are we just going to keep pretending you’re only here because you’re ‘bored’?”

His fingers trace a slow, sleepy circle on your lower back under the blanket, warm and steady. Still utterly oblivious. Still devastatingly close. Still waiting for whatever chaotic thing you’ll say next while he holds you in his bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You laugh softly into the dark, the sound a little forced even as you try to play it cool. “Cuz I feel for the poor girl! She’s been trying for ages to get your attention. Come on, you’ve gotta admit she’s pretty.”

The words leave your mouth with a teasing lilt, but your stomach does a painful little flip as you say them—imagining Megumi actually noticing Naoko that way, smiling at her the way he sometimes smiles at you when he thinks you’re not looking.

Megumi’s eyebrows lift slightly, still lying face-to-face with you on the same pillow, bodies tangled under his blanket. His arm stays draped over your waist, fingers resting lightly against your back, warm and steady. He’s so close you can feel every subtle shift of his breathing, the faint rise and fall of his chest brushing yours.

“…Pretty?” he echoes, sounding genuinely thoughtful for a second. Then he shrugs one shoulder, the movement pulling you a fraction closer. “I guess? She has nice hair or whatever. But I don’t really think about that stuff.”

He reaches up and lazily brushes a strand of your own hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear with the same casual care he always uses on you. His fingertips linger against your cheek for a heartbeat longer than necessary before dropping back to your waist.

“You’re acting like I’m supposed to be chasing after her just because she’s ‘pretty,’” he murmurs, voice low and a little amused. His knee stays nestled between yours under the covers, warm skin against warm skin. “If I noticed every person who looked at me twice, I’d never get any training done. Besides…”

He tilts his head slightly on the pillow, dark blue eyes locking onto yours with that intense, quiet focus he only ever gives you. A tiny, sleepy smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“…I’ve already got my hands full with you”.

Megumi has zero clue how much that casual statement just twisted the knife in your chest. He pulls the blanket higher over both your shoulders and tucks you in a little tighter against him, forehead almost resting against yours again.

“You’re still not tired,” he says softly, thumb tracing another slow circle on your back. “So keep talking. Or are you just going to keep grilling me about Naoko until I admit I’m the densest person at Jujutsu High?”

You grin wickedly, eyes sparkling with mischief even in the dim moonlight as you declare, “You are the densest person here. It’s okay. I’m smart enough for both of us.”

Megumi’s low, sleepy laugh rumbles against you, warm and genuine. He’s still tangled up with you under the blanket—his knee between yours, arm draped firmly over your waist, chest pressed lightly to yours on the shared pillow. The sound vibrates through his body into yours, making the closeness feel even more dangerous for your poor heart.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, voice rough and teasing.

You groan loudly, dragging the word out like a tired child. “I’m boredddd.”

Megumi’s quiet laugh vibrates against your chest, warm and raspy in the dark. He’s still pressed close—bodies tangled under his blanket, his knee slotted between yours, one arm wrapped securely around your waist while his forehead rests lightly against yours. The moonlight paints soft silver across his face, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw and the way his dark hair falls messily over one eye. His shirt is half-unbuttoned now from all the shifting, exposing the smooth line of his collarbone and the subtle definition of his chest. He looks ridiculously hot like this—sleepy, rumpled, and holding you like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“You’re bored,” he repeats, deadpan but clearly amused. “After demanding ASMR, threatening to murder me, interrogating me about Naoko, calling me dense, and then insulting me for being a man… you’re still bored.”

His fingers trace slow, lazy circles on your lower back under the blanket, warm and absentminded. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he tugs you closer, chest flush against yours now, sharing the same pillow so your noses are nearly brushing.

“You’re impossible,” he murmurs, voice low and fond. His dark blue eyes flicker over your face, soft and half-lidded. “What do you want me to do about it, then? I already tapped the stupid can, I let you stay in my bed, and I’m not sleeping even though I’m exhausted.”

He nudges your nose with his again, playful and close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath. A tiny smirk tugs at his lips.

“Should I start reciting binding vow theory?”

His hand slides up your back, slipping just under the hem of your shirt to rest against bare skin—casual, protective, like he’s done it a hundred times before.

Megumi tilts his head slightly, eyes locked on yours in the moonlight. “C’mon. Tell me what you actually want,” he whispers, completely oblivious to the real reason you’re dragging this night out. “I’m right here. Use me however you want… since you’re so bored.”

You swallow hard, heart slamming against your ribs at his words—“use me however you want”—the innocent double meaning hitting you like a truck while Megumi remains completely clueless. Heat floods your face. You quickly turn your head, burying it slightly into the pillow to hide the blush you know is there.

“Well if you’re so smart,” you mumble, voice muffled by the fabric, “figure out a way to entertain me.”

Megumi pauses, his arm still looped around your waist, bodies pressed close under the blanket. You feel the subtle shift of his chest as he breathes out a quiet, amused huff.

“Entertain you…” he echoes softly, voice low and sleepy in the dark. His free hand comes up, fingers gently threading through your hair at the nape of your neck, playing with the strands in slow, absent strokes. “You’re really putting a lot of pressure on me tonight.”

He shifts his weight, rolling half on top of you in one smooth motion—bracing himself on his elbow so he doesn’t crush you, but close enough that his chest hovers just above yours and his messy black hair falls forward, tickling your forehead. The moonlight catches every sharp, unfairly attractive angle of his face: the faint flush on his cheeks from the warmth of the bed, the dark blue of his eyes gleaming soft and focused only on you, the loose shirt hanging open enough to show the lean muscle of his shoulder and collarbone.

Megumi studies you for a long second, that tiny smirk returning. “Alright. Challenge accepted.”

Without warning, he leans down and blows a gentle, cool breath across your exposed neck, right where your pulse is racing. Then he does it again, slower, almost teasing. His voice drops into a deliberate, low whisper right against your ear—smooth, quiet, and way too close.

“Is this entertaining enough? Or do you want the full ASMR treatment again?”

His fingers keep stroking through your hair, then trail lightly down the side of your neck and along your shoulder, feather-light and warm. He’s so focused on trying to “entertain” you that he doesn’t notice how his own body has slotted perfectly against yours, thigh pressed between yours, arm caging you in.

“Or…” he continues, breath warm against your skin, completely oblivious to the effect he’s having, “I could just keep you here like this until you admit you’re tired. No escape. My bed, my rules.”

He nudges your cheek with his nose, playful and affectionate, lips accidentally brushing the shell of your ear as he speaks again, even softer.

“Your move, genius. Still bored?”

You gasp softly, the sound slipping out before you can stop it. Against your will, a breathless little “woah” escapes your lips as his warm breath ghosts over the hypersensitive skin of your neck. Heat floods your face instantly — you go bright red, cheeks burning so fiercely you’re sure he can see it even in the moonlight.

Megumi freezes for half a second, propped above you on one elbow, his dark hair falling forward like a curtain. His dark blue eyes widen slightly at the unexpected reaction, scanning your flushed face with quiet curiosity.

“…Woah?” he repeats, voice low and a little rough, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

He has no idea.

To him, you’re just being dramatic again — his best friend who’s always overly reactive to everything. The way your neck is clearly one of your weakest spots completely flies over his oblivious head.

“Didn’t think blowing on your neck would get that kind of reaction,” he murmurs, the tiniest smirk tugging at his lips. His breath brushes your skin again as he speaks, warm and unintentional, sending another involuntary shiver through you. “You’re really sensitive there, huh?”

His fingers are still tangled in your hair, and he gently brushes another slow strand away from your neck, exposing more skin without realizing what he’s doing. His thigh stays pressed warmly between yours, chest hovering just above you, shirt still hanging open and rumpled. He looks devastating in the soft moonlight — sleepy eyes, flushed cheeks of his own from the shared heat under the blanket, completely unaware of how his casual closeness is torturing you.

Megumi tilts his head, voice dropping into that same deliberate, quiet whisper he used before, right against the side of your neck.

“Still bored?” he teases softly, letting another gentle puff of air fan across your skin. “Or is this finally entertaining enough?”

He shifts his weight a little more, settling half on top of you now, his free hand sliding down to rest at your side, thumb absently stroking just under the hem of your shirt. His forehead brushes yours again as he watches your red face with open, innocent fascination.

“You’re all red,” he notes, sounding almost proud of himself for once. “Didn’t know I could fluster you that easily. Want me to stop… or keep going?”

You’re speechless for once — eyes wide, lips parted in a soft, surprised little ‘o’, heart hammering so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. Without thinking, you tilt your head slightly to the side, exposing more of your neck to him like an invitation you didn’t mean to give.

Megumi notices immediately.

His dark blue eyes flicker down to the newly offered skin, lingering there for a long second. The moonlight catches the faint flush spreading across your cheeks and down your throat. He’s still braced half on top of you, chest warm and solid against yours, thigh pressed firmly between your legs under the blanket.

“…You’re really sensitive there,” he murmurs, voice dropping into a low, almost husky whisper without him realizing it. There’s a faint hint of surprise in his tone, mixed with something quieter — curiosity, maybe even a spark of fascination.

He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans in slowly, breath ghosting right over the exposed curve of your neck again. This time it’s deliberate, warmer, slower. He watches your reaction like he’s conducting a careful experiment, dark hair brushing your jaw as he does it.

A soft puff of air. Then another. His lips hover barely an inch away, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of them.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, the words vibrating against your skin. “You went all quiet and red… and now you’re tilting your head like that.”

His free hand slides up, fingertips tracing feather-light along the side of your neck, following the line you just exposed. The touch is gentle, almost reverent, like he’s discovering something new about you tonight. His thumb brushes just under your jaw, feeling the rapid flutter of your pulse.

Megumi swallows, his own cheeks faintly pink now, but he still thinks this is just playful best-friend territory — you being dramatic, him trying (and apparently succeeding) at entertaining you. He has no idea how badly your crush is screaming inside, or how dangerously close his mouth is to your neck.

He presses a single, experimental, barely-there kiss right below your ear — so light it could almost be an accident — then pulls back just enough to look at your wide-eyed face again.

“Still bored?” he whispers, voice rougher than before. His eyes are darker now, locked on yours, completely oblivious to how far this “entertainment” is pushing things. “Or… do you want me to keep going?”

You whisper it so softly it’s barely a sound: “I— keep going.”

Your eyes stay wide, chest rising and falling fast under him, cheeks burning crimson. You can’t hide it anymore.

Megumi’s breath catches for a fraction of a second. He stares down at you — dark blue eyes searching your flushed face, lips parted just like yours. For once, the oblivious boy actually seems to register that something has shifted.

“…Okay,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, almost unsure.

He leans back in slowly, like he’s still waiting for you to laugh and call this a joke. When you don’t, his mouth returns to your neck. This time he doesn’t just breathe on it.

His lips brush the sensitive skin — soft, warm, hesitant at first. Then he presses a real kiss there, slow and deliberate, right where your pulse is racing. Another follows, a little lower, open-mouthed and lingering. The faint scrape of his teeth grazes you as he sucks gently, testing.

A quiet, surprised sound escapes his throat when he feels you shiver hard beneath him.

“You really like this…” he whispers against your neck, the realization hitting him like a quiet shock. His hand slides up, cradling the side of your throat as he kisses it again, slower, deeper, letting his tongue taste the warmth of your skin.

His body presses more firmly against yours — thigh slotted tight between your legs, chest flush to your chest, the weight of him comforting and overwhelming at the same time. His messy black hair tickles your jaw as he works his way up to just beneath your ear, then back down toward your collarbone, every kiss growing a little less careful, a little more hungry.

Megumi’s breathing has gotten heavier too, warm puffs against your damp skin. His free hand slips further under your shirt, palm sliding up your bare side, thumb stroking slow circles over your ribs.

He pulls back just enough to look at your face again — eyes darker now, cheeks flushed, lips slightly glossy from kissing your neck. He looks devastatingly beautiful like this, completely focused on you.

“Is this… still okay?” he asks, voice hoarse. His thumb brushes just under your bottom lip, almost reverent. “You’re shaking. Tell me if you want me to stop.”

But even as he says it, his mouth is already dipping back toward your neck, drawn like a magnet, placing another slow, open-mouthed kiss right over the spot that made you gasp earlier.

You let out sweet, breathy gasps, the sound soft and involuntary as you tilt your head even further, fully exposing the sensitive column of your neck to him like an offering.

“F-feels good, Gumi…” you whisper, barely audible, voice trembling with want.

Megumi’s breath hitches sharply against your skin. For a moment he stills, dark blue eyes flicking up to your face — wide, flushed, lips parted — like he’s finally processing what’s happening. His cheeks are burning, the tips of his ears bright red, but he doesn’t pull away.

Instead, something shifts in his gaze. The oblivious wall cracks just a little more.

“…Yeah?” he murmurs, voice low and rough, almost wrecked. “You like it when I kiss you here?”

He doesn’t wait for a full answer. His mouth returns to your neck with new intent — slower, wetter, more confident. He kisses, then sucks gently, tongue dragging hot and deliberate over the spot that makes you gasp the loudest. A quiet, hungry sound escapes him as he feels you shiver and arch beneath him.

“Fuck… you’re really sensitive,” he whispers against your damp skin, the curse slipping out rare and breathless. His hand slides further under your shirt, palm gliding up your bare stomach and ribs, thumb brushing just beneath the curve of your breast. He’s breathing harder now, warm puffs fanning over the marks he’s leaving on your neck.

Megumi shifts his weight, pressing more of his body down onto yours — thigh slotted firmly between your legs, hips settling against you so you can feel the growing hardness through his uniform pants. His messy black hair tickles your jaw as he works his way from the base of your throat up to right under your ear, sucking a little harder, then soothing it with his tongue.

Every gasp you make seems to spur him on. He kisses lower, teeth grazing your collarbone, then back up again, leaving a trail of faint red marks that he admires with half-lidded eyes.

“You keep making those sounds…” he breathes, voice hoarse. One hand cups the side of your neck gently, thumb stroking over the pulse point he’s been worshipping while his lips hover just above it. “I didn’t know… I didn’t know it felt like this for you.”

He kisses you again — open-mouthed, slow, and deep — right on the most sensitive spot, sucking until your back arches off the bed. His hips roll once against yours, almost instinctively, the friction pulling a low groan from his throat.

Megumi lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes dark and glassy with arousal, cheeks flushed, lips shiny. His hair is a mess, shirt completely fallen open now, exposing his toned chest rising and falling fast.

“Still want me to keep going?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, thumb tracing your bottom lip. “Tell me… I’ll do whatever you want tonight.”

You nod desperately, eyes half-lidded and glassy with want, unable to form any more words. Your hand trembles slightly as you slide your fingers into his messy black hair, threading through the soft strands and gently tugging him closer to your neck.

Megumi lets out a shaky breath against your skin the second he feels your fingers in his hair. A low, surprised groan rumbles in his chest when you pull him in — like the permission finally snaps something loose inside him.

“Shit… okay,” he whispers, voice hoarse and wrecked.

He buries his face back into your neck without hesitation now, lips parting as he kisses you harder, wetter. His mouth moves with growing hunger — slow, open-mouthed kisses turning into long, sucking pulls that leave blooming red marks along your throat. Every time you gasp or shiver, he presses closer, tongue dragging hot and slow over the sensitive skin like he’s addicted to the way you react.

“You’re pulling me in like that…” he murmurs against your pulse point, voice vibrating through you. “Fuck, you have no idea how good you sound.”

His hips roll slowly against yours, pressing the hard line of his cock more firmly between your legs through your clothes, grinding in a lazy, instinctive rhythm that matches the way he’s sucking on your neck. The heat between your thighs only grows with every kiss, every drag of his tongue, every quiet groan he muffles against your skin.

Megumi’s hand slips fully under your shirt now, palm sliding up your bare stomach until he cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, teasing circles. His other arm braces beside your head, caging you in as he works his mouth lower, then back up to that spot right under your ear that makes your toes curl.

He shudders when your fingers tighten in his hair, a soft, needy sound escaping him.

“Keep doing that,” he breathes, lips brushing your ear. “Pull my hair if you want me to go harder… I— I didn’t know you liked this so much.”

He nips gently at your neck, then soothes it with his tongue, sucking a particularly dark mark right where your neck meets your shoulder while his hips keep rolling slow and deliberate against you, letting you feel exactly how affected he is.

Megumi lifts his head just enough to look at your flushed face, eyes dark with lust, cheeks burning, lips wet and swollen from kissing you. His hair is even messier now from your fingers, falling into his eyes as he stares down at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“You’re soaked already, aren’t you?” he whispers, voice low and almost disbelieving. His hand slides down your body, fingertips teasing just under the waistband of your pants. “Tell me… or show me. I’ll keep going as long as you want me to.”

He leans back down, mouth hovering right over the fresh marks on your neck, waiting for your fingers to guide him again — breathing fast, body hot and heavy on top of you, no longer even pretending to be oblivious.

You swallow thickly, voice barely above a whisper as you bite your lip and look up at him with those wide, needy eyes.

“Um… y-you can. Uh. You can t-touch me… if you want.”

Megumi’s breath catches hard. His dark blue eyes darken even more, pupils blown wide as he stares down at you like he’s been given permission to something he’s secretly wanted for longer than he’d ever admit. A slow, shaky exhale leaves him.

“…Yeah?” he murmurs, voice low and rough, almost reverent. “You’re sure?”

When you don’t take it back, something in him finally gives in completely.

His hand slides down your body without hesitation, slipping under the waistband of your pants and panties in one smooth motion. His fingers are warm, slightly calloused from training, and they glide over your slick folds with a quiet groan that vibrates against your neck.

“Fuck… you’re soaked,” he breathes, sounding genuinely stunned. Two fingers drag slowly up and down your wetness, spreading it, teasing your entrance before circling your clit with careful, deliberate strokes. “All this just from me kissing your neck?”

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes locked on your face so he can watch every little reaction as he touches you. His fingers move with that same precise control he uses in battle — slow, focused, learning exactly what makes your hips twitch and your breath hitch.

Megumi leans back down and latches onto your neck again, sucking harder now while his fingers dip lower and slowly push one inside you, then a second, curling gently against that spot that makes your back arch off the bed. His thumb keeps steady pressure on your clit, rubbing in tight little circles.

“You feel so good,” he whispers hotly against your marked skin, voice hoarse. “So fucking warm and wet… I can’t believe you’re letting me do this.”

His hips rock against your thigh in time with his fingers, letting you feel how hard he is, how badly he wants you. He curls his fingers deeper, scissoring them slowly, stretching you while his mouth keeps working your neck — kissing, licking, sucking fresh marks into your skin.

Every gasp and whimper you make seems to spur him on more. He adds a third finger, pumping them steadily, thumb never leaving your clit.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he pants against your throat, but his voice is wrecked with want. “Or tell me what you want… faster? Harder? I’ll give you anything tonight.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you again — flushed, hair messy, eyes heavy with lust — while his fingers keep moving inside you, curling and stroking with devastating accuracy.

“Use me,” he whispers, echoing his earlier words, but this time they’re dripping with intent. “However you want.”

His mouth descends on your neck again, sucking hard on that hypersensitive spot as his fingers thrust deeper, thumb pressing firmer on your clit, completely lost in the feeling of you falling apart under him.

You moan sweetly, the sound breaking into the quiet dorm room like something fragile and addictive. Your fingers tighten in Megumi’s messy black hair, pulling him closer as your hips squirm helplessly against his hand.

“F-feels good, Gumiii…” you whimper, voice trembling.

Megumi groans low against your neck, the vibration rolling through you as his fingers curl deeper inside your soaked heat. He’s breathing hard now, forehead pressed to yours so he can watch every flicker of pleasure across your face.

“Fuck… keep saying my name like that,” he whispers, voice hoarse and wrecked. His fingers pump steadily, curling perfectly against that spongy spot inside you with every thrust while his thumb circles your swollen clit in tight, relentless strokes. “You’re so wet.”

You arch and moan louder — “Oh god… y-you feel so good, Gumi, I— I can’t—” — hips bucking desperately into his touch.

Megumi’s dark blue eyes are blown wide with lust, cheeks flushed dark, lips parted as he drinks in every gasp and whimper. He shifts his weight, pressing his body harder against yours, letting you feel how painfully hard he is against your thigh.

“You can’t what?” he murmurs hotly against your ear, nipping at the sensitive skin right below it before sucking another mark into your neck. His fingers don’t stop — faster now, deeper, scissoring gently as he stretches you.

He kisses you again — open-mouthed and hungry — right over the fresh hickey on your throat, tongue dragging slow and wet while his thumb presses firmer on your clit. The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers moving inside you fill the room alongside your sweet moans.

“You’re so tight,” he breathes, voice shaking with restraint. “So fucking pretty… Look at me.”

He pulls back just enough to lock eyes with you, hair wild from your fingers, shirt completely open and hanging off one shoulder, exposing his toned chest rising and falling fast. His fingers curl again, hitting that perfect spot over and over while his thumb keeps that steady, devastating rhythm on your clit.

“Cum for me,” he whispers, almost pleading, dark eyes intense and focused only on you. “I want to feel it. Let go, baby… I’ve got you.”

His mouth crashes back onto your neck, sucking hard as his fingers thrust faster, curling relentlessly, pushing you right to the edge while he grinds his aching cock against your thigh, completely lost in the feeling of you trembling and whimpering beneath him.

You gasp out a desperate “H-harder,” clutching his face with both hands and pulling him flush against your neck like you need him even closer.

Megumi’s breath stutters. A low, guttural sound rips from his throat at your plea.

“Harder… got it,” he rasps, voice wrecked.

He obeys instantly.

His fingers thrust deeper, faster, rougher — pumping into your soaked pussy with wet, obscene sounds that fill the quiet dorm. He curls them hard against that spot inside you on every stroke, no longer holding back. His thumb presses firmer on your swollen clit, rubbing tight, relentless circles that make your hips jerk violently against his hand.

“Like this?” he growls against your neck, sucking hard enough to leave another dark bruise. His teeth graze your skin, then bite down gently as he fucks you harder with his fingers, three of them stretching you open while his palm grinds against your clit with every thrust.

You’re clutching his face, and he leans into it — letting you hold him right where you want him as he devours your neck. His hips rock desperately against your thigh, his cock straining painfully hard in his pants, leaking and twitching every time you moan his name.

“Fuck… you’re squeezing me so tight,” he pants hotly against your throat, tongue dragging over the fresh marks he’s made. “You’re gonna cum all over my fingers, aren’t you?”

He shifts his angle slightly, driving his fingers even harder, faster, curling them with brutal precision while his thumb flicks rapidly over your clit. His free hand slides up, gripping your hip to hold you in place as he fingers you relentlessly, the wet sounds growing louder with every thrust.

Megumi’s forehead presses to yours, dark blue eyes wild and locked on your face, hair messy and damp with sweat, cheeks flushed dark. His lips brush yours as he whispers, voice hoarse and trembling with need:

“C’mon baby… cum for me. Let me hear how good I’m making you feel.”

His fingers piston harder, deeper, curling viciously against that perfect spot again and again while his mouth crashes back onto your neck — sucking, biting, licking — completely lost in the way you’re shaking and moaning beneath him.

You cum hard with a sweet, broken whimper, your whole body tensing and shuddering beneath him. Your walls clamp down around his fingers in tight, pulsing waves, soaking his hand as pleasure crashes through you. You keep clutching his face the entire time, fingers trembling against his flushed cheeks while your hips jerk helplessly against his relentless hand.

Megumi groans deeply, low and wrecked, as he feels you come undone. His dark blue eyes stay locked on your face the whole time, drinking in every twitch, every gasp, like he’s memorizing it. He keeps his fingers moving through it — slower now, gentler, but still curling lazily inside you to draw out every last aftershock until you’re a trembling, oversensitive mess.

Only when your body finally starts to relax does he carefully slide his fingers out, bringing his glistening hand up between you. He stares at it for a second like he can’t quite believe what just happened, then looks back at you.

You instantly go bright red, embarrassment flooding your face. You yank your hands away from his cheeks and cover your face completely, hiding in your palms with a mortified little sound.

Megumi freezes for half a second… then a soft, breathless chuckle escapes him. He gently tugs your wrists, trying to pull your hands away from your burning face.

“Hey… hey, don’t hide,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and warm, still thick with arousal. He leans down and presses soft, lingering kisses along your jaw and the marks he left on your neck. “That was… fuck, that was so hot. You were so pretty when you came.”

When you don’t immediately uncover your face, he shifts his weight, settling more comfortably between your legs and gently pinning your wrists on either side of your head. His body is still hot and heavy against yours, his hard cock pressing insistently against your thigh through his pants.

He nudges your hands with his nose, then kisses the backs of your fingers.

“You’re embarrassed now?” he asks softly, a hint of teasing fondness in his tone, but mostly gentle. “After you just came all over my fingers while moaning my name like that?”

He leans in and kisses the edge of your palm, then your temple, his messy black hair tickling your skin. His voice drops lower, almost shy.

“I’ve never heard you sound like that before… and I really liked it. A lot.” He rolls his hips slowly against you, letting you feel how painfully hard he still is. “Don’t hide from me. Please?”

Megumi waits patiently, lips brushing your knuckles, cheeks flushed dark, eyes soft but still dark with want. He’s not pushing, but he’s not pulling away either — just hovering close, warm, and completely wrapped up in you.

“…You okay?” he whispers after a moment, gently trying to peel one of your hands away so he can see your eyes again. “Tell me what you want now. We can stop… or keep going. Whatever you need.”

You slowly lower your hands from your face, cheeks still burning a deep, embarrassed red. Your eyes meet his — shy, a little glassy from the aftershocks, lips parted as you try to catch your breath.

Megumi is hovering right above you, braced on his elbows, dark blue eyes soft and intense all at once. His messy black hair falls forward, framing his flushed face. When he finally sees you again, his expression melts into something warm and almost reverent.

“There you are,” he whispers, voice low and rough. A tiny, shy smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t hide… you’re beautiful like this.”

He leans down and presses a slow, gentle kiss to your forehead, then another to the tip of your nose, then one to your still-burning cheek. His thumb brushes tenderly over the fresh hickeys he left on your neck, like he’s admiring his work.

“You came so hard,” he murmurs against your skin, almost in awe. “And you looked so fucking pretty doing it. I couldn’t stop watching you.”

His hips are still settled between your thighs, the obvious hardness of his cock pressing warmly against you through his pants. He rolls them once, slow and careful, not demanding — just letting you feel him while he kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes again. His fingers thread gently through your hair, pushing it away from your flushed face. “I didn’t go too hard? You were shaking a lot at the end…”

Megumi’s own cheeks are pink, ears red, clearly still worked up but trying to be careful with you now that the initial heat has settled a little. He stays close, forehead almost resting against yours, breathing you in.

He swallows, voice dropping even quieter.

“…Do you want me to keep going?”

You bite your lip, eyes wide and shining with nervous trust as you look up at him. Then you nod — slow, certain, vulnerable.

Megumi’s breath catches. For a second his dark blue eyes search yours, like he’s making absolutely sure he’s not imagining this. When he sees nothing but quiet want, something tender and hungry flickers across his face.

“Okay,” he whispers, voice rough but soft. “I’ve got you.”

He leans down and kisses you properly this time — not on your neck, but on your lips. It’s slow at first, almost careful, his mouth warm and gentle as it moves against yours. Then the kiss deepens, growing hotter, wetter, as his tongue brushes your bottom lip and slips inside when you open for him. A low groan vibrates from his chest into your mouth.

His hands move with quiet reverence. He tugs your shirt up and over your head, tossing it aside, then does the same with his own, revealing the lean, toned lines of his chest and stomach. Skin meets skin as he presses down on you again, warm and solid, his hips settling perfectly between your thighs.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs against your lips, kissing you once more before trailing his mouth back down to your marked neck. “Still sensitive?” He sucks gently on one of the hickeys he left earlier, then moves lower, lips brushing over your collarbones and down to your chest. He takes one nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling slowly while his hand palms the other, thumb brushing the sensitive peak.

His free hand slides back between your legs, fingers gliding through your slick folds again, teasing your entrance before pushing two fingers back inside you — slower this time, savoring the way you clench around him.

“Still so wet…” he breathes, voice hoarse with awe. He curls his fingers gently, stroking that spot inside you while his thumb finds your clit again. “I want to make you feel even better.”

Megumi kisses his way down your stomach, nipping softly at your hip bone before he settles lower between your spread thighs. He looks up at you through his messy black hair, eyes dark and earnest.

“Can I…?” he asks quietly, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh. When you don’t stop him, he leans in and drags his tongue slowly up your slit, groaning at your taste. “Fuck… you taste so good.”

His tongue moves with focused, devastating precision — licking broad stripes, then circling your clit before sucking it gently between his lips. Two fingers keep pumping slowly inside you, curling in time with every flick of his tongue. He eats you out like he’s been starving for it, messy and eager but still so careful, watching every twitch of your hips and every sweet sound you make.

One of his hands reaches up to intertwine with yours, squeezing gently as he works you closer to the edge again.

He pulls back just enough to whisper against your slick skin, breath hot and shaky:

“So sweet for me.. I don’t wanna stop.”

You whimper breathlessly, fingers threading deeper into Megumi’s messy black hair as you tug him closer.

“S-so good, Gumi…”

Megumi groans loudly against your soaked pussy, the sound vibrating straight through your clit. The praise seems to flip a switch in him. His grip on your hips tightens, fingers digging into your skin as he pulls you even harder against his mouth.

He eats you out with messy, desperate hunger now — tongue flattening and dragging long, slow stripes up your slit before flicking rapidly over your swollen clit. He sucks the sensitive bundle of nerves between his lips, alternating between gentle pulses and firmer suction that makes your thighs shake around his head. Two of his fingers curl deep inside you, stroking that perfect spot with every thrust while his other hand keeps your hips pinned down so you can’t squirm away from the overwhelming pleasure.

“Fuck… say it again,” he pants against your folds, voice hoarse and wrecked. “Tell me how good it feels.”

He dives back in immediately, licking and sucking louder, wetter, completely lost in your taste and the way you’re pulling his hair. His dark blue eyes flick up to watch you the entire time — flushed cheeks, parted lips, chest heaving. The sight of you falling apart because of him makes him grind his aching cock against the mattress, desperate for any friction.

Every time you tug his hair harder, he moans into you, the vibrations shooting sparks up your spine. He adds a third finger, stretching you open while his tongue works your clit in tight, relentless circles. His free hand slides up your body, palming your breast and pinching your nipple gently, rolling it between his fingers in time with his mouth.

“You’re dripping down my chin,” he mumbles hotly, barely pulling away long enough to speak. “So fucking pretty… I could stay here all night.”

His fingers curl harder, faster, pumping deep while his lips seal around your clit and suck with just the right pressure. He’s breathing raggedly against you, cheeks flushed dark, hair wild from your hands as he devours you like he’s never wanted anything more.

Megumi looks up again, eyes glassy with lust, lips shiny and swollen.

“Gonna cum for me again?” he whispers, voice trembling with need. “Let me feel it, baby… please.”

You tug desperately at Megumi’s hair, the pleasure bordering on overwhelming as his tongue and fingers push you right to the edge again. He lifts his head instantly when he feels the pull, lips shiny and swollen, eyes dark and hazy with lust as he looks up at you from between your thighs.

Before he can even ask if you’re okay, you pull him up hard. Megumi follows without resistance, crawling back over you until his body covers yours completely. His chest presses flush against your bare breasts, his hips settling between your spread legs so you can feel just how painfully hard he still is.

You crash your mouth into his.

Megumi lets out a surprised, muffled groan that turns into a deep, hungry sound the second your lips meet. He kisses you back fiercely, all restraint gone. His tongue slides against yours, tasting faintly of you, the kiss messy and desperate and full of months of unspoken tension finally snapping. One of his hands cups the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he tilts his head and kisses you even deeper, sucking on your bottom lip before claiming your mouth again.

“Mm— fuck,” he breathes between kisses, voice wrecked. “You taste so good… everywhere.”

His hips roll slowly against you, grinding his clothed cock along your slick folds through his pants, the friction making both of you moan into each other’s mouths. He’s breathing hard, cheeks flushed dark, hair a total mess from your tugging as he devours you in slow, filthy kisses.

One hand slides down your body, gripping your thigh and hitching it higher around his waist so he can press even closer. His other hand stays tangled in your hair, holding you right where he wants you while he kisses you like he’s been dying to for ages.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, panting, lips brushing yours with every word.

“You stopped me,” he whispers, voice hoarse and shaky with need. “Too much?”

Another slow grind of his hips, letting you feel every inch of his hardness rubbing against your sensitive clit. He kisses you again, softer this time but no less intense, tongue teasing yours before he nips at your bottom lip.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against your mouth, dark blue eyes half-lidded and burning as they stare into yours. “I’ll give you anything. Just… keep kissing me like that.”

You say it breathlessly, voice trembling against his lips: “Tell me— tell me what you want?”

Megumi stills for a second, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged and hot against your mouth. His dark blue eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide with lust as he stares down at you. His cheeks are flushed deep red, lips swollen from kissing you, hair a wild mess from your fingers. You can feel his cock, rock-hard and throbbing, pressed right against your slick folds through his thin pants.

He swallows thickly, then lets out a shaky, almost embarrassed laugh that turns into a low groan when his hips twitch forward involuntarily.

“…What I want?” he whispers, voice hoarse and wrecked. One hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing your bottom lip as he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world.

“I want you,” he says simply, raw and honest. “All of you.”

He rolls his hips slowly, deliberately dragging his clothed length along your wet slit, letting you feel every inch of how badly he needs you.

“I want to be inside you,” he continues, voice dropping lower, breath catching. “I want to fuck you slow at first… then harder when you start moaning my name like you did earlier.” His fingers tighten gently in your hair. “I want to watch your face when you cum around my cock. I want to fill you up and hear you whimper when I’m too deep.”

Megumi kisses you again — deep, filthy, and hungry — tongue sliding against yours before he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead on yours once more.

“I’ve thought about this… more than I should’ve,” he admits quietly, cheeks burning darker. “About you under me in my bed, legs wrapped around me, pulling me closer like you did with my hair.”

He reaches down between you, pushing his pants and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It’s flushed dark, painfully hard, and he groans softly as it slaps against your soaked pussy. He rubs the thick head up and down your folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your clit with every slow stroke.

“But only if you want it too,” he whispers, voice trembling with restraint even as his hips keep moving. “Tell me yes and I’ll fuck you until you can’t remember anything except how good it feels. Or tell me to stop and I will. Your choice, baby.”

He kisses you again, softer this time, but still desperate, waiting for your answer while the tip of his cock nudges insistently at your entrance, hot and heavy and ready.

You whisper it breathlessly against his neck, face hidden there as embarrassment burns through you: “Y-yes… Just— go slow at first. I— I’ve never done this before.”

Megumi freezes completely above you.

His breath catches hard, and you feel his whole body tense for a second. Then he pulls back just enough to look at your face, dark blue eyes wide with surprise and something softer — almost overwhelmed. His cheeks flush even darker, lips parted.

“…Never?” he repeats quietly, voice rough but incredibly gentle. He searches your eyes, one hand coming up to cup your burning cheek, thumb stroking tenderly over your skin. “You’re a virgin?”

When you nod, shy and muffled against his neck, Megumi lets out a slow, shaky breath. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closing for a moment like he’s trying to steady himself.

“Fuck… okay,” he murmurs, voice low and full of quiet reverence. “We’ll go slow. As slow as you need. I’ve never… I mean, I haven’t either. So we’ll figure it out together.”

He kisses you softly, sweetly — slow and deep, like he’s pouring every bit of care he has into it. His hand slides down your body, gentle and soothing, fingers tracing your hip as he lines himself up. The thick head of his cock presses against your slick entrance, hot and heavy, but he doesn’t push in yet.

“Tell me if it hurts at all,” he whispers against your lips, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Anytime. We stop, we slow down, whatever you want. I’ve got you.”

Megumi kisses you again, deeper this time, as he slowly starts to push inside — just the tip at first, stretching you open with careful, shallow rolls of his hips. He groans quietly into your mouth, the sound shaky with how tight and warm you feel around him.

“Shit… you’re so tight,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours, eyes half-lidded as he watches your face for every tiny reaction. He rocks forward another inch, then another, slow and patient, giving you time to adjust with every shallow thrust.

One of his hands stays laced with yours, squeezing gently, while the other strokes your side and thigh, trying to help you relax. His breathing is ragged, cheeks flushed, but he’s holding back so carefully for you.

“You feel… incredible,” he whispers, voice hoarse. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the marks on your neck. “So good, baby. Just breathe. I’m right here.”

He’s barely halfway in, moving with slow, gentle rolls of his hips, giving you time to get used to the stretch while he showers you with soft kisses and quiet praises.

“Tell me how it feels,” he murmurs against your skin, dark eyes locked on yours with nothing but affection and heat. “I’ll stay right here… nice and slow… until you want more.”

You wince, a small, sharp breath escaping as the stretch burns. He’s so thick — bigger than you expected — and the pressure of him pushing deeper makes your eyes water a little. Your hands press firmly against his lower abs, holding him right there, not letting him move any further.

“Hurts…” you mumble into his chest, voice shaky and muffled. “Sorry. Just— hold on.”

Megumi freezes instantly, every muscle in his body going tense as he stops all movement. He’s barely halfway inside you, throbbing hot and heavy, but he doesn’t push even a millimeter more. His arms wrap around you gently, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other strokes soothingly up and down your spine.

“Hey… hey, it’s okay,” he whispers, voice low and rough but incredibly soft. He presses his lips to the top of your head, then your temple, holding perfectly still inside you. “Don’t apologize. Never apologize for that.”

He stays buried exactly where he is, letting you adjust, his breathing ragged against your hair. You can feel his heart hammering hard against your cheek through his chest. His cock twitches involuntarily inside you from how tight you are, but he bites back a groan and forces himself to stay motionless.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmurs, kissing along the side of your face, down to your jaw. “So fucking tight… I can feel you squeezing me. Just breathe, baby. We’ve got all night. I’m not moving until you tell me to.”

One of his hands slides down to gently rub slow circles on your hip, trying to help you relax. He nuzzles his face into your hair, dark blue eyes closed as he focuses entirely on you.

“Does it hurt a lot?” he asks quietly, concern laced through the lust in his voice. “Tell me what you need. Want me to pull out? Or just stay like this until it feels better?”

He kisses the top of your head again, then the sensitive marks on your neck, his lips feather-light and patient. Even now, with his thick cock stretching you open, he’s so careful — trembling with the effort of holding still, sweat already glistening on his toned shoulders and chest.

“You feel incredible,” he breathes against your skin, voice hoarse. “Warm and so tight around me… but I can wait. As long as you need. Just… keep holding onto me like that.”

You push weakly at his lower abs, breath coming in short, shaky gasps. “Ok… ok wait. Maybe pull out j-just for a second,” you whisper, voice tight with discomfort. “Sorry…”

Megumi reacts instantly.

He pulls out slowly and carefully, jaw clenched tight as he fights the overwhelming urge to stay buried inside you. The moment he’s fully out, he lets out a low, strained groan, his thick cock resting hot and heavy against your soaked folds instead. He shifts his weight onto one forearm so he’s not crushing you, the other arm wrapping securely around your back, pulling you into his chest.

“Hey, shh… don’t say sorry,” he murmurs softly against your hair, voice hoarse but incredibly gentle. He presses slow, soothing kisses to your temple, your closed eyelids, the bridge of your nose. “You’re doing everything right. I’m the one who’s supposed to make you feel good, not hurt you.”

He holds you close, one hand rubbing slow, comforting circles up and down your spine while the other gently strokes your hip. His heart is still hammering against your cheek. You can feel how hard he still is, twitching against your thigh, but he doesn’t move — not even a little.

“Take all the time you need,” he whispers, nuzzling into your neck, careful to avoid the fresh hickeys. “We can stop right here if you want. Or just stay like this… no pressure. I’m not going anywhere.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth tenderly, then rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as he tries to steady his own breathing.

“Does it still hurt?” he asks quietly, thumb brushing over your cheek. “I went too fast, didn’t I? I’m sorry… you’re just really tight and I got carried away. Tell me what feels better. We can go even slower, or I can just touch you for a while until you’re ready again. Whatever you want, baby. I mean it.”

Megumi stays wrapped around you, warm and solid, his body trembling slightly from restraint. He presses another soft kiss to your lips, lingering there, patient and sweet despite how obviously worked up he still is.

“Eyes on me when you’re ready,” he murmurs gently. “No rush. I’ve got you.”

You laugh breathlessly, the sound shaky and sweet as you hide your flushed face against his chest. “No, you did perfect. Just… you’re just. Really big.”

A tiny, embarrassed giggle slips out after.

Megumi goes completely still for a second, then lets out a low, surprised huff of laughter against your hair. His ears turn bright red, and you feel the heat of his own blush spreading across his chest.

“Shit… don’t say it like that,” he mutters, voice hoarse and embarrassed, but there’s a shy little smile in his tone. He tightens his arms around you, one hand gently stroking up and down your back. “You’re gonna make me lose it before we even get anywhere.”

He pulls back just enough to look at your face, dark blue eyes soft and warm despite how obviously turned on he still is. His thumb brushes over your burning cheek as he studies you with that intense, careful gaze.

“You’re really tight,” he admits quietly, almost apologetically. “And yeah… I’m a little bigger than average. I should’ve gone even slower. I’m sorry it hurt.”

He leans down and kisses you gently — slow, sweet, and lingering — like he’s trying to melt the discomfort away with just his mouth. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours again.

“We don’t have to rush anything,” he whispers. “We can stay like this as long as you want. Or…” His hand slides down between your bodies, fingers gently stroking through your slick folds, careful not to push inside yet. “I can touch you more, get you really relaxed first. Whatever feels better.”

He kisses the tip of your nose, then your flushed cheek, clearly trying not to smile too wide at your shy giggles even while his cock is still rock-hard and twitching against your thigh.

“You laughing at me right now is unfairly cute,” he murmurs, voice warm with affection. “But seriously… tell me what you want. We can keep trying when you’re ready, or we can do something else. I just want you to feel good.”

Megumi stays pressed close, patient and gentle, rubbing slow circles over your clit with his fingers while he waits for your answer. His other arm keeps you tucked safely against his chest, heartbeat steady under your cheek.

“Still okay?” he asks softly, pressing another kiss to your temple.

You whisper it shyly against his chest, voice small and breathless: “I wanna try… it just might take a bit. Sorry.”

Megumi’s arms tighten around you instantly, warm and protective. He presses a long, soft kiss to the top of your head, then tilts your chin up so he can look at you properly. His dark blue eyes are gentle, a little glassy with lingering arousal, but full of quiet affection.

“Stop apologizing,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. “You’re letting me have you like this… that’s more than enough. We go at your pace. Always.”

He kisses you slowly, deeply, letting you melt into it while his hand slides back between your bodies. His fingers return to your clit, stroking in lazy, soothing circles to rebuild that heat without any pressure. Only when your breathing starts to quicken and you’re relaxing against him again does he line himself up once more.

“Tell me the second it hurts,” he whispers against your mouth. “Even a little. Okay?”

He pushes in again — agonizingly slow this time. Just the thick head at first, stretching you open with careful, shallow rocks of his hips. He groans low in his throat, forehead pressed to yours, jaw tight with the effort of holding back.

“Fuck… still so tight,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You feel perfect… just breathe with me, baby.”

Every inch is given with patience. He pauses when he feels you tense, kissing you through it — soft, sweet kisses on your lips, your cheeks, the marks he left on your neck — until you relax again. His hand never stops gently rubbing your clit, trying to turn the stretch into pleasure.

Halfway in, he stops completely, buried as deep as you’ll let him for now, panting against your neck.

“You’re doing so good,” he praises softly, voice hoarse. “Taking me so well… Look at you.” He kisses the corner of your eye where a tiny tear of discomfort had gathered. “So pretty. So brave for me.”

He stays perfectly still inside you, letting your body adjust to his thickness, while his free hand strokes your hair and his lips keep brushing tender kisses anywhere he can reach.

“Whenever you’re ready for more,” he whispers, “just tell me. We can stay right here until it stops hurting… or keep going little by little. I’m not in any rush.”

You wrap your arms tightly around Megumi’s back and push firmly on his lower spine, silently urging him deeper.

He lets out a choked groan as you guide him all the way in — slow but unstoppable — until his hips are flush against yours, every thick inch buried inside you. His pubic hair brushes teasingly against your skin with the final press, sending a shiver through both of you.

“Fuck—!” Megumi’s voice breaks into a rough, strained moan. His whole body trembles as he bottoms out, buried to the hilt in your tight heat. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, breathing hard and fast against your marked skin.

You gasp sharply at the intense stretch, the overwhelming fullness. It burns for a moment, but warm sparks of pleasure are already starting to trickle through the discomfort, making your walls flutter around his thick cock.

“J-just stay like this,” you gasp.

Megumi nods quickly against your neck, voice hoarse and shaky. “Okay… okay, baby. I’m not moving. I’ve got you.”

He stays perfectly still, pelvis pressed tight to yours, his cock throbbing deep inside you. His arms slide under and around your body, holding you flush against him in a full, intimate embrace. Chest to chest, hips locked together, legs tangled. You can feel every twitch and pulse of him buried inside you, the heat of his skin, the rapid beat of his heart against yours.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he whispers breathlessly, lips brushing your ear. “I can feel you squeezing me… every little pulse. It’s driving me crazy.”

He presses soft, open-mouthed kisses along your neck and shoulder, staying completely motionless below the waist like you asked. One of his hands gently strokes your hair while the other rubs slow, soothing circles on your lower back, trying to help your body adjust to the sheer size of him.

“Does it still hurt a lot?” he murmurs, voice full of concern and barely-contained need. “Or is it starting to feel better?”

He kisses you tenderly — slow and deep — giving you time to get used to being completely filled by him. His hips make the tiniest, involuntary twitch once, but he immediately stills again with a quiet groan.

“I’ll stay like this as long as you want,” he promises, forehead pressed to yours, dark blue eyes half-lidded and burning as they gaze at you. “We can just stay connected like this… feel each other. You feel so good around me, baby. So warm and perfect.”

He stays buried to the hilt, holding you close, patient and gentle even as his body trembles with the effort of not moving. His pubic bone presses firmly against your clit with the slightest shift, sending little sparks of pleasure through you while he waits for your body to relax around his thickness.

You murmur softly against his shoulder, voice shaky and shy, “I-it still hurts a bit but… but it feels good.”

Then, even quieter, almost embarrassed: “You can start to move a bit. Just go slow.”

Megumi lifts his head from your neck, dark blue eyes searching your face carefully. His cheeks are flushed, hair messy and damp with sweat, and his breathing is still ragged from the overwhelming feeling of being buried so deep inside you.

“Okay,” he whispers, voice hoarse and tender. “Slow. I promise.”

He leans down and kisses you gently — slow and sweet — as he starts to move. His first thrust is barely a movement at all: a shallow, careful roll of his hips that drags his thick cock just an inch back and then presses back in, grinding his pelvis against your clit. He groans quietly into your mouth at the tight, wet heat surrounding him.

“Fuck… you feel so good,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

He keeps the pace agonizingly slow and gentle, rolling his hips in smooth, shallow strokes. Each movement is deliberate, letting you feel every inch of him sliding in and out while staying close enough that your bodies stay pressed together. His pubic bone grinds lightly against your clit with every roll, sending warm sparks of pleasure through the lingering ache.

One of his hands slides under your back, holding you closer, while the other cups the side of your face, thumb stroking your cheek as he watches every flicker of expression on your face.

“Still okay?” he murmurs, voice rough. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the sensitive marks on your neck. “You’re squeezing me so tight every time I move… it’s driving me crazy.”

His pace stays slow and deep, barely pulling out halfway before sliding back in, letting you adjust to the stretch while the pleasure gradually overtakes the discomfort. His breathing grows heavier, warm against your skin, and you can feel his thighs trembling slightly with the effort of holding back.

“You’re doing so well,” he praises softly between kisses, lips brushing your ear. “Taking all of me like this… my pretty best friend.”

He angles his hips slightly on the next slow thrust, pressing deeper and grinding against that spot inside you that makes sparks shoot up your spine. A low, shaky moan escapes him as your walls flutter around his thickness.

“Tell me how it feels,” he whispers, dark eyes half-lidded and locked on yours. “Want me to keep going slow like this… or a little more?”

You whimper softly against his skin, voice trembling with pleasure, “F-feels s’good, Gumi…”

Your hands press insistently at his lower back, silently urging him to go faster.

Megumi’s breath hitches sharply. He lets out a low, ragged groan as he feels your hands pushing him deeper, encouraging him.

“Fuck… okay,” he pants, voice hoarse. “Faster. Got it.”

He captures your lips in a deep, hungry kiss as his hips start to move with more purpose. He pulls back a little further now before sliding back in — still careful, but with a smoother, quicker rhythm. Each thrust presses him flush against you, his pelvis grinding against your clit every time he bottoms out.

“Like this?” he whispers hotly against your mouth, dark blue eyes half-lidded and locked onto your face. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

His pace steadily builds — deeper, faster, but still controlled. The wet sound of skin meeting skin starts to fill the quiet dorm room as he fucks you properly now, rolling his hips in steady strokes that make the bed creak softly beneath you. Every thrust sends sparks of pleasure through your body, the initial ache almost completely drowned out by how full and good he feels inside you.

Megumi buries his face in your neck again, sucking and kissing the marks he left earlier while one hand grips your hip, holding you in place as he moves. His other arm stays wrapped around your back, keeping your bodies pressed tightly together, chest to chest.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans against your throat, voice breaking. “So tight… so warm… I can’t believe I’m finally inside you like this.”

He angles his hips slightly, searching for that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. When he finds it, he focuses there — thrusting faster, grinding deep with every stroke while his pubic bone keeps rubbing perfectly against your clit.

Your whimpers and moans seem to spur him on. His breathing grows heavier, more desperate, and his thrusts start to lose some of their careful rhythm as pleasure overtakes him.

“Keep saying my name,” he begs breathlessly, nipping at your earlobe. “Please… fuck, you sound so pretty when you moan for me.”

He kisses you again — messy, needy, and full of months of hidden feelings — while he keeps driving into you, hips snapping forward a little harder now, chasing the pleasure building between you both.

Still buried deep inside you with every thrust, Megumi looks down at your face, flushed and wrecked, eyes dark with lust and affection.

“Tell me how it feels, baby,” he pants, never slowing down. “Want me even faster?”

You moan against his lips, voice shaky and needy, “So big… h-harder, Gumiii—”

The words hit Megumi like a spark on dry tinder.

He groans deeply into your mouth, the sound raw and desperate. “Fuck… you can’t say that and expect me to stay gentle,” he rasps, voice breaking.

His hips snap forward harder, driving his thick cock deeper into you with a wet slap. He gives you exactly what you asked for — faster, rougher thrusts that make the bed creak rhythmically beneath you. Each powerful stroke bottoms out completely, his pelvis grinding hard against your clit on every impact.

“Shit— you feel so good,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, dark blue eyes hazy and locked on your face. “Taking all of me like this… so fucking tight and wet for me.”

He hooks one of your legs higher around his waist, changing the angle so he can thrust even deeper. The new position makes his cock drag against that sensitive spot inside you with every hard snap of his hips. His pace turns relentless but still controlled — deep, heavy strokes that leave you gasping and moaning beneath him.

Megumi kisses you messily, tongue sliding against yours as he fucks you harder, one hand gripping your hip tight enough to leave faint marks while the other braces beside your head. His messy black hair sticks to his forehead with sweat, cheeks flushed dark, lips parted as he groans your name between thrusts.

“You keep squeezing me every time I go deep,” he growls against your mouth, voice wrecked. “You like feeling how big I am? Like getting stretched open by your best friend?”

He angles his hips and drives into you even harder, the wet, filthy sound of skin-on-skin filling the room as he pounds into you. Every thrust pushes you up the bed slightly before he pulls you back down onto his cock.

“Say it again,” he breathes hotly against your lips, nipping at your bottom lip. “Tell me how big I feel inside you while I fuck you harder.”

His mouth crashes back onto yours in a bruising kiss as he gives you exactly what you begged for — deep, powerful strokes that make your whole body jolt with pleasure. He’s panting, groaning, completely lost in the feeling of you wrapped around him, but still watching your face carefully for any sign of discomfort.

“Too much?” he manages to ask between thrusts, even as his hips keep snapping forward. “Or you want it even harder, baby?”

You whimper brokenly against his lips, barely able to catch your breath between moans.

“Feels perfect…”

Megumi’s hips stutter for a second at your words, a deep, guttural groan ripping from his chest. Something inside him snaps completely.

“God… fuck,” he pants, voice wrecked and hoarse. “You’re gonna kill me saying shit like that.”

He kisses you hard, messy and desperate, then buries his face in your neck as he starts fucking you with deeper, heavier strokes. His pace is relentless now — hips snapping forward with enough force that the sound of skin slapping skin echoes through the dorm room. Every thrust buries him to the hilt, his thick cock dragging perfectly against that sensitive spot inside you while his pelvis grinds hard against your clit.

“You feel so fucking perfect,” he groans right against your ear, voice shaking. “So tight… so wet… taking every inch like you were made for me.”

He hooks both of your legs higher around his waist, folding you slightly as he drives into you harder. The new angle makes him hit even deeper, the head of his cock pressing against that spot with every powerful thrust. His rhythm turns rough and needy, the bed creaking loudly beneath you as he loses himself in the feeling of your walls squeezing around him.

One of his hands slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles in time with his thrusts. His other hand grips your hip hard, holding you in place so he can pound into you exactly how you begged for.

“Look at me,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to lock eyes with you. His face is flushed, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, dark blue eyes glassy and burning with lust. “I want to see your face while I fuck you.”

He leans down and captures your lips again, swallowing every whimper and moan as he rails you harder, deeper, faster. The wet, filthy sounds of him moving inside you fill the room alongside your desperate little noises.

“You’re clenching so hard around me,” he groans, biting gently at your bottom lip. “Are you close again, baby? I can feel it… fuck, please cum around my cock. I need to feel you.”

His thrusts grow erratic, hips snapping desperately as he chases both your pleasure and his own. He keeps his thumb moving relentlessly on your clit, mouth latching onto your neck to suck another dark mark while he fucks you straight into the mattress.

“Cum for me,” he whispers hotly against your skin, voice trembling with restraint. “Let me feel how perfect it feels when you fall apart on me.”

You whimper desperately as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your core, every hard thrust of Megumi’s thick cock pushing you closer to the edge. His hips snap against yours with perfect rhythm, his pelvis grinding roughly against your clit on every deep stroke while his thumb keeps rubbing fast, slick circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“I’m— I’m—” you gasp, barely able to form words.

Megumi’s dark blue eyes lock onto yours, wild and intense. “That’s it,” he groans, voice wrecked and breathless. “Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

He fucks you harder, deeper, angling his hips to hit that perfect spot inside you with every powerful thrust. The wet, filthy sounds of his cock driving into your soaked pussy fill the room along with your broken moans.

The climax crashes into you without warning.

Your back arches sharply off the bed as intense pleasure explodes through your body. A loud, sweet, broken cry of his name tears from your throat — “Gumiii—!” — as your walls clamp down around his thick cock like a vice, pulsing and fluttering wildly. Your entire body shakes uncontrollably, thighs trembling around his waist while wave after wave of blinding pleasure rips through you. Your eyes squeeze shut, tears of overwhelming ecstasy slipping down your temples as you cum hard around him.

Megumi groans loudly, almost animalistic, as he feels you gushing and spasming around his cock. “Fuck—! You’re squeezing me so tight… so good—!”

He doesn’t stop moving, fucking you through your orgasm with deep, greedy strokes, drawing it out as long as possible. His thumb keeps rubbing your clit, prolonging the intense pulses until you’re whimpering and twitching with overstimulation.

Only when your climax starts to fade does he finally let himself go.

With a deep, broken moan of your name, Megumi buries himself to the hilt and cums hard. His hips stutter and press flush against yours as thick, hot ropes of cum spill deep inside you, filling you up. His cock twitches and throbs with every pulse, his body trembling on top of yours as he rides out his own intense release, face buried in your neck.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room are your heavy breathing and the faint creak of the bed as he gives a few final, lazy thrusts, pushing his cum deeper into you.

Megumi collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you, his sweaty chest pressed to yours. His arms wrap around your trembling body, holding you close as you both come down. He presses soft, exhausted kisses to your neck, your jaw, and finally your lips — slow and full of affection.

“You’re incredible…” he whispers against your mouth, voice hoarse and shaky. “So perfect. I’ve never felt anything like that.”

He stays buried inside you, softening slowly, refusing to pull out just yet as he nuzzles into your neck, breathing you in. His fingers gently stroke your hair while his other hand rubs soothing circles on your hip.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs softly, pressing one more kiss to your temple. “Was that… too much? Or just right?”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you with those soft, dark blue eyes — flushed, sweaty, and looking at you like you’re the most precious thing in his world.

You hide your burning face against Megumi’s chest, cheeks flushed deep red as you mumble shyly, “Felt perfect…”

Megumi’s breath catches. He’s still buried deep inside you, softening slowly, his arms wrapped tightly around your trembling body. For a second he just holds you closer, one hand gently stroking up and down your back while the other cradles the back of your head.

A quiet, breathless chuckle rumbles in his chest beneath your cheek.

“…Yeah?” he whispers, voice hoarse and warm with relief. “You really felt perfect too.”

He presses a long, tender kiss to the top of your head, then another to your temple, nuzzling into your hair. His heart is still beating hard against your ear. You can feel the slight tremble in his arms — the adrenaline and emotion still running through him.

Megumi carefully shifts onto his side, pulling you with him so you’re tucked against his chest, bodies still connected. He doesn’t pull out yet, content to stay wrapped up in you like this. One of his legs tangles with yours as he holds you close, fingers gently tracing patterns along your spine.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted that,” he admits softly, almost shyly, his lips brushing your forehead. “I tried so hard not to think about you like this… but every time you came into my room, stole my bed, acted all cute and annoying…” He lets out a small, embarrassed huff. “Guess I wasn’t as oblivious as you thought.”

He tilts your chin up gently with his fingers so he can see your flushed face, his dark blue eyes soft and full of quiet affection.

“Are you really okay?” he asks, thumb brushing over your cheek. “I didn’t hurt you too much at the end? You were shaking a lot…”

He leans in and kisses you — slow, sweet, and lingering — pouring everything he doesn’t know how to say into it. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“I’m really glad it felt perfect,” he murmurs, a tiny, rare smile tugging at his lips. “Because… I want to do this again with you. A lot. If you want that too.”

Megumi stays curled around you, warm and protective, one hand gently playing with your hair as the moonlight spills over both of you. He looks relaxed and happy in a way you’ve rarely seen — flushed, a little shy, but unmistakably content with you in his arms.

“This thing is so ugly,” you whine, picking at your cast as he walks you back home. “Do you think I’m gross now, Caleb?”

“It’s not ugly. You need it to get better.”

“I thought you’d fall in love with me if I went high enough,” you sniffle fake tears, which he reads in an instant. “I did go pretty high up, though. So maybe you like me at least.”

He laughs, and you scowl, insisting that you aren’t joking. So instead, he smiles and holds your free hand in his again. Your heart skips a beat. A childish, but innocent love fluttering in your chest. “Come on, splints. Let’s go watch TV, and I can sign your cast.”

The broken wrist is so worth it.

With MC being two grades lower than the two of you and thus having a different schedule, it doesn’t take long before you’re doing practically everything with Caleb. He’s your seatmate in class, the two of you walk to and from school, and there doesn’t seem to be a moment where you aren’t glued at the hip. Throughout all of this, you make sure you shoot your shot whenever the chance arises—even when it doesn’t arise at all.

“You get any chocolates for Valentine’s?” you ask as you plop down in your seat with your lunch, not-so-conspicuously eyeing his desk as his friends begin to crowd around the two of you. It didn’t take long for Caleb to adjust to ordinary school life. After his initial bumpy introduction where he seemed hesitant to get close to anyone his grandma would introduce him to, he was quick to adjust to a level of charisma even you haven’t gotten to. 

By now, he’s charisma personified. You, yourself, have no idea how quickly he adapts to things. Though, you do recall that after an exam measuring his intelligence, he was told he couldn’t lower his grade by two years to be with MC. So you suppose he’s rather bright—almost as much as his face.

“Too many,” one of his friends groan, dragging his hand down the side of his face. “Life’s so not fair, dude.”

“Just a few,” Caleb laughs, turning to feel me stare at him expectantly. “Most of them are obligatory. I just helped a couple people out during gym.”

You glance at his friends. “How many is a few?”

“At least five,” another one grins. He wiggles his eyebrows at you, and his friend snickers at his shoulder. “You jealous?”

It’s not like your crush on Caleb is new news. In fact, it’s practically common knowledge at your school, given how open you are with your affection with him. Asking him out with a giant poster on orientation day, sending him notes with hearts littered everywhere during class, and refusing to be subtle when you’re discussing it with your friends…it tends to add up. Most people believe your relationship to be strange, but those who matter thought of it as the norm, so it doesn’t really matter. 

“Jealous? I don’t think so, why?”

“Most girls would be if their boyfriend got a bunch of chocolates,” he responds, to which Caleb immediately reminds him that you’re not dating. Then his friend sighs. “It’s cute when girls get jealous, isn’t it?”

At this, your ears perk.

“Should I be jealous?” you ask Caleb, making his friends erupt into snickers. “Do you think it’s cute too?”

He rolls his eyes and flicks your forehead softly. “Do you ever ask normal questions, splints?”

Throughout your childhood together, everything involves him. Family dinners, graduation, holidays, all of it. Of course, this means that MC is there for all of it too. You’re helplessly in love, but you’re not stupid. You know what love looks like from the movies their grandma would play on their TV. He cares for her with a different look in his eyes. He protects her with a lovingness in his voice that he doesn’t spare for you. 

The same fingers that flick your forehead touch her arm gingerly, like she could crack in half if he holds too hard. He doesn’t touch her very easily either, whereas he often falls asleep with his head fully leaning against your shoulder on the bus ride home. He wakes up at the crack of dawn to make her lunch, while the two of you munch on sandwiches from the school cafeteria during lunch breaks. He scolds you when your clothes are tossed on the ground while he folds hers without her having to ask. He never enters her room to protect her privacy while he lounges in yours like he owns the place.

Your Caleb, you have found, is different from MC’s Caleb. 

MC’s Caleb is easy to depend on. Trustworthy, perfect, and never makes a mistake for the life of him. He never loses his cool in front of her, never has a hair out of place, lets her win at all the board games, and always has this clear but dazed look in his pretty purple eyes. Your Caleb has none of that. Your Caleb teases you mercilessly when you lose the card game for the fifth time in a row. Your Caleb passes out on his desk while studying for an exam, essentially drooling on his notebook to lie to MC that he’s naturally talented at math. Your Caleb sends you stupid videos about plane models and forces you to sit through a thirty-minute explanation about it.

You know he likes her. He knows you know he likes her. She doesn’t know anything at all. All jumbled up, like a wordless pact ready to crumble at any moment. 

Of course, this means that he prioritizes her over you at times. All the time. It’s to be expected. She’s family, you’re not. You’ve grown used to it, and so has he.

MC doesn’t notice though, because she doesn’t have to. Because to her, Caleb is just a slightly nagging but cool adoptive brother. Nothing more, nothing less. And you’re one of her childhood friends, and Caleb’s best friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

The first year after you graduate high school is a dramatic shift from your cozy hometown. You somehow manage to get into the same college as Caleb–and you attribute his tutoring to be the main culprit—though in different majors. It’s a lot to convince him to go so far from home given that MC is still at home, but after a lot of reluctant discussion, he agrees.

“Take off your shoes at the door,” he reminds you as you barge into his dorm room after a particularly difficult exam for one of your classes. You do as he asks, grumbling about how he has no mercy for the fallen, tossing them haphazardly beside the door and prancing past him. He takes the time to tidy them up, as if he’s expecting it. “How was your exam?”

“Awful. I went through war.”

Caleb grins as he sits down at the coffee table beside you, watching as you bury your face into your arms. “And whose fault is it that they didn’t want to study?”

“Yours.”

“Funny,” he snorts, and you feel his large hand ruffling the top of your head. “It’s alright, splints. I can tutor you a bit earlier on the next one.”

“Even you can’t save me for this class.”

“Is that a challenge?”

He ends up cooking up something quick in his makeshift kitchen (essentially just a rice cooker), while you laze around on his bed, scrolling aimlessly on your phone. Once he’s finished, you scarf down his food like a man starved, lips stretching widely. At times like these, you’re oddly grateful for his hopeless love toward MC. How else would he have learned to cook such good food?  “You should honestly be a chef, Caleb. Actually, no, that would mean other people would eat your food. I guess you can just be my personal chef when we’re married.”

Caleb remains completely unaffected, wordlessly cleaning the plate in front of you. “I didn’t realize I was engaged.”

“Well, now you know. Not sure if you remember, but I had fireworks for you and everything when I proposed. Plus an orchestra.”

He hums, looking up as if he’s in thought, and then nods. “Now that you mention it, that does sound familiar, splints. How could I forget?”

You shrug. “You tell me.”

His face falls as you pace to the door and begin to put your shoes back on. “Where are you going? Aren’t you done with class?”

“Going out. I deserve it after that exam.”

“With your friends?”

“No, with four guys,” you joke, but he doesn’t seem to find it very funny. “I’m just going to a club. I won’t be back too late.”

He’s already grabbing his jacket. “I can come.”

You push him back with your finger by the nose, and he blinks in surprise, making you laugh. “No need. You have exams too, y’know.”

“I’m done studying.”

“Liar.”

Though it takes some convincing, you eventually have him sit at his desk once more. He manages to nag a whole lot as you leave, reminding you to call him once you’re done so he can pick you up, but you just wave him off as you leave out the door. You take your time getting ready–dolling yourself up to hide the dark circles beneath your eyes. As you get ready, you video call MC, where she asks how you and Caleb have been doing in her absence. She rants about her days with her grandma, complaining about how quiet the house is when Caleb isn’t home, though she indulged in the beginning. She asks you to show her your outfit once you’re done, and she beams brightly in your screen, squealing about how you’d likely get a boyfriend soon that you can tell her all about.

You just smile, because you don’t know how to tell her that the only boy you want is wrapped around her unknowing hand.

The club is loud. Where the music rumbles through your feet to the tips of your fingertips, and the lights are flashing in a dimly lit room. Your friends flock to a table and order drinks while you let yourself feel the music and crack a joke or two once in a while.

A group of guys approaches you with easy smiles and louder voices than necessary—confidence sharpened by cheap cologne. One of them leans against your table like he’s done it a hundred times before, asking your name, where you’re from, if you come here often. The usual.

You answer, choking out a laugh to humor his unfunny jokes alongside your friends, while the swigs you take from your drink become deeper and deeper. 

He’s not bad at flirting, you think. Subtle, and not too glaring about it. But you don’t particularly enjoy humoring it, and it becomes gradually more apparent as your eyes keep drifting elsewhere and you keep having to ask him to repeat himself. You’re growing bored. Irritated.

Because he’s not Caleb.

It hits you in strange, inconvenient flashes. The way this guy stands just a little too far away. The way his voice doesn’t quite reach you over the music, even when he’s close. The way you don’t feel that familiar, grounding presence like an anchor holding you to the ground.

You find yourself glancing past his shoulder. Half-wishing to see Caleb there. Watching. Hovering.

But there’s only strangers. Blurred faces and flashing lights.

“You okay?” the guy asks, tilting his head.

“Yeah,” you say too quickly. “Long week.”

He grins, like that’s an invitation. Says something else—something about getting you another drink, maybe dancing, maybe getting out of here.

You nod again. Smile again.

Across the room, your friends are already disappearing into the crowd, dragged toward the dance floor by laughter and hands you don’t recognize. One of them glances back at you, gives you a look that asks ‘you’re good, right?’ before she’s gone.

You sit back down at the table when the guy steps away. Maybe to grab drinks, maybe because he senses your attention drifting. You don’t really care which.

The music swells in your chest. The lights flicker. You wish you could enjoy yourself, but it’s particularly hard today.

You take another sip. Then another. Your phone rests face-down on the table, but you flip it over anyway.

No messages.

Of course not. He cares, but not like that. Not in the way that he would spam MC’s phone whenever he didn’t know where she was or how she was doing. No, not like that at all.

Another sip. The glass is nearly empty now.

And suddenly, you’re pressing send before you can even register what’s happening.

[you]: hi

The answer comes immediately, the grey bubbles popping up on his end of the screen.

[futre hubs <333]: do you need me to come pick you up?

[futre hubs <333]: i can

You’re not sure why you feel like shit, but you hate it. In moments like these—moments where the alcohol lets you lower your walls and truly think—it hits you like a truck, like a deeply sinking feeling in your chest. The years of rejection after rejection that the two of you frame like a bit—as if your feelings have become so miniscule that it no longer even phases him. 

It hurts, a bit. More than you let yourself feel.

You’re not sure how much time passes. Maybe minutes or maybe an hour. There’s buzzing throughout your body. The grip on your waist belonging to the man you’ve been half-heartedly entertaining suddenly becomes harsher, snapping you out of your trance. It feels unlike Caleb, but you let it sit anyway. However, the hand moves to your wrist, and you’re being pulled out of the crowd towards the wall.

Too touchy. He’s saying something into your ear, and you feel his breath against your skin. You don’t like it. Too close. The buzzing feeling feels more like an alarm now.

The words either go unheard due to the music or don’t deter him. You want to go back. Back to Caleb. In the moment, you begin to think—almost as if the world is in slow motion. Perhaps the drinks, you think. You wonder if Caleb will leave you. You wonder if he’ll leave to go be with MC. You wonder if the years you’ve spent expressing your love to him meant as much to him as it did to you, or if he just found it plain annoying. You wonder if now that you’re in college, he’d want to explore other people, and he’ll finally find an outlet to get rid of you for good. 

But you know he wouldn’t. Because he cares for you. Just not as much as he cares for her.

You wonder if he’s ever looked at you with the same softness he does with MC.

Someone pulls you away from the man and into their chest, and the worries dissipate in an instant. His scent. His warmth. You knew he’d come. He always does. It only takes a warning glare from Caleb before the man disappears into the crowd again, and you feel the grip on your wrist loosen. Caleb stares down at you, your back still to his chest as you blink wearily, almost in slow motion, and he sighs. He doesn’t give you the same smile he gives to MC when she’s in trouble. 

A part of you wishes he wasn’t always there for you—not when it’s so different from how he’s there for her. 

You sit idly in front of a convenience store parking lot while Caleb fetches you some water and ice cream. You have your knees to your chest, arms pulling them close as you shiver against the cold autumn breeze. You should’ve brought a jacket. The buzzing, hot feeling of the alcohol is subsiding too quickly.

“Drink.” You feel a water bottle press against your cheek from behind, and Caleb plops down beside you with a plastic bag. He notices how you’re holding yourself together and frowns. “Are you cold?”

“No.”

“I told you to grab a jacket.”

“You nag too much.”

He snickers and twists open the cap of the water bottle for you to drink, which you sip carefully. He strips his jacket off and drapes it over your shoulders, and you immediately bury yourself in it. It smells like him.

“What kind of woman do you like, Caleb?”

“You and your questions.”

“I want to know.”

He shifts to face you, motioning for you to lift your arms. He grabs either side of his jacket and pulls it shut, fumbling with the zipper until he manages to zip it to your chin. You can barely claw your hands out of his sleeves—the fabric almost engulfs you—but he just laughs. “My type? A woman who brings jackets when it’s cold.”

You scowl, making his laugh echo louder. “Other than that.”

“A woman who goes to class in the morning.”

“...Other than that.”

“A woman who doesn’t leave her clothes all over my floor when she feels like sleeping over.”

“Something else.”

“A woman who eats healthy, balanced meals. A woman who doesn’t steal all my pens and then still ends up asking me for more. Maybe someone who doesn’t pass out drooling on my pillow. Or someone who doesn’t let half the world know that they like someone—hell, maybe even the entire world.”

Caleb glances at you, chuckling to himself, but stops the moment he sees that you’re not laughing with him. Your head hangs low, your feet shuffling anxiously. His face twists, and suddenly the air thickens.  “Splints?”

You pick at your sleeves. “So just not me?”

“I was just kidding around.”

“Jokes have some truth to them.”

“Not all of them. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay, Caleb,” you finally meet his eyes again, and shrug. “I know you like someone else. I’m not an idiot.”

Silence commences, like a bell dropping on your head.

Caleb shifts his weight, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. It’s a nervous habit you’ve seen a hundred times—usually followed by some half-joke, something to smooth things over.

But nothing comes.

The space between you suddenly feels too small and too big all at once. You try to act normal. You really do.

You fiddle with your sleeve again, smoothing it down, then pulling at it, then smoothing it again. Anything to give your hands something to do, so they don’t reach for him out of instinct. 

Caleb glances at you. Then away.

Then back again, like he’s trying to solve something written across your face but can’t quite make out the words.

“Hey,” he starts, softer this time.

You hum in response, not trusting your voice yet.

Another pause. God, it’s awkward.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters again, quieter now. Not defensive. Unsure. “You know I think you’re amazing.”

Just not enough.

“I am pretty great,” but it comes out too soft.

Neither of you knows what to do with another stretch of silence. So you opt to drink some more water instead.

“Why do you like me so much?” He eventually mutters out as he bites his bottom lip, eyes falling to the ground like he can’t bear to watch your expression. “You could do a lot better.”

You smile, but it’s half-hearted. “How could I not?”

He pauses, as if choosing his words carefully before his voice comes out in a soft whisper. “You mean so much to me. You’re smart, beautiful, and everything good in between—whoever gets to call you theirs is the luckiest person I know. And you know I’d do anything for you.”

Despite their sweetness, his words feel like judgement wrapping around your heart in vines, squeezing just before it’s about to pop. You wish you could block your ears out for what comes next.

“But it can’t be me.” Caleb’s lips purse, brows furrowing as he looks away. “I can’t give you what you want.”

The rejection hurts more than you realized it would. You want to tell him that it’s not fair to treat you the way he does and expect you not to fall for him. That holding your hair when you vomit, falling asleep at your bedside when you’re sick, and his eyes closing in on you in any room that you’re in is not fair. 

Instead, you nod. And you swear to yourself that you’ll swallow this sickening lump in your throat that makes you want to hurl and sob at the same time. That you’ll bury it deep in a graveyard within you that even the closest person to you would never know of. Especially him.  

“I don’t want it, either,” you snort back, immediately perking up to slap his back in what results in a jolt. His shoulders tense as he blinks wide at you, unsure of the sudden shift in atmosphere. “I don’t want feelings that belong to someone else, dumbass.”

Once it sinks in that you mean it, a smile finds its way onto his face, though something flickers beneath it, like a flash of something you don’t want to look too far into.

Not because you still had hope, but because whatever existed between you had never been something as simple as a crush. It had roots—tangled deep into your souls and impossible to pull free without tearing something open. You wanted to keep what was left. Even if it lingered just a little longer, and even if you pretended not to see the splintering strands in the string tying you together.

So you let it settle. Let it rot somewhere you couldn’t feel it.

The two of you fall into the kind of closeness that you’ve always had, and time passes as if it was always meant to be this way. It’s easier this way. For a while, it does work, but nothing ever really stays under wraps. Despite your incessant protests in telling yourself it’s fading, the scars he’s inflicted on you are just that. Scars. Unmoving yet subtle.

The thinning thread finally snaps a few years later, when MC develops feelings for a coworker in the Hunter’s Association. The day the cracks in the glass bridge holding you together shatter beneath your feet into a million different pieces.

“When’s the last time you’ve slept?”

He’s sprawled shirtless on the couch of his apartment in Skyhaven, freshly out of the shower after you arrived to visit him for the first time in months—only to see that he’s nearly overworking himself to death. Despite him going off to the DAA after college, you’d kept close contact, the connection between the two of you never wavering regardless of your restricted time. It only changed after news of MC broke out. Worried, you’d rushed to Skyhaven to make sure he was doing okay, which you’re clearly glad you did now. You’d practically had to drag him to the shower to keep him from passing out next to the front door in his gear.

Caleb, clearly, is off. You suppose you don’t blame him. The woman he loves is yearning for another. Almost poetic, really, but you don’t like seeing him this way. Especially when you know what it feels like yourself, even if you’ve gotten used to it. Gotten over it. He looks like a kicked puppy. Hurt, like a dog who’s just been scratched by its owner. 

“I dunno.”

You peer into the empty abyss that is his fridge and frown. There’s a few measly apples sitting inside, and a half-eaten protein bar that’s been there for god knows how long. “What the hell have you been eating?”

He responds with a grunt, letting his head fall back against the sofa. You decide to make do with the instant noodles he has stashed in one of the cupboards and bring it over to him once it seems mostly done. With a fork, you stick out a few noodles to his face, urging him. “Eat.”

“Not hungry,” he mutters.

“Don’t care. Sit up.”

He opens one of his eyes to peek at you, which somehow urges him forward. There’s darkness beneath his eyes—even stubble littering his chin from a few days worth of not shaving. You want to reach out and poke fun at him, but the state he’s in deters you. Instead, you silently feed him, watching him chew his food while staring at your hands. It makes you wish you put on a fresh set of polish before you came.

You twirl another small forkful and hold it out. He leans forward this time without being told, taking it quietly. His shoulder brushes yours as he settles back against the couch, and you can feel his skin through your shirt.

“Thanks,” he mutters, voice rough from disuse more than anything. “For coming.”

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t rot in here.”

He huffs a faint laugh, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Probably would’ve. Dramatic way to go out, huh?”

You nudge his knee with yours. “Starving to death in your own apartment? Real heroic.”

A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. It makes your heart flutter. Stupid feelings.

“…thanks for coming, splints,” he says.

Your chest tightens—sharp and sudden. It feels like it’s threatening to feel something that’s not yours to feel. So instead, you look down at the bowl, pretending to focus on separating another bite. You twirl your fork, more carefully this time. “I had to. You weren’t responding, so I thought you died, or something. Open.”

He rolls his eyes, but obeys anyway. “Bossy.”

“Learned from the best.”

His lids flutter shut, voice dropping to a lower hum. “I missed this.”

Your hand stills. “What?”

He shrugs, eyes still closed. “You being here.”

His hair is sticking to his forehead, still damp from the shower. Before you realize what you’re doing, you brush a stray strand of hair off his forehead. You speak quietly. “You look like shit.”

“Wow,” he mutters. “You have a way with words.”

You frown, and without thinking, your hand lingers at his temple for just a second longer than it should. His skin is warm, still hot from the shower.

“Idiot,” you whisper.

He catches your wrist. Not tight, not stopping you. Simply holding it there for a moment that feels too long and not long enough at once. Your eyes meet for a fleeting moment, and then you’re looking away, setting the mostly finished bowl of noodles onto the coffee table to pull away.

“Don’t make this a habit. I’m not flying out here every time you forget to eat.”

“Could,” he murmurs. “You would.”

You don’t respond to that, because he’s not wrong.

“…Is she okay?”

It slips out of him like instinct. Like breathing. And just like that, everything shifts. You don’t answer right away—instead, your fingers tighten slightly around the fork.

“She’s fine,” you say eventually. Leave it, you plead in your head.

“Did she say anything?” he asks, sitting up a little more now. There’s something in his eyes, like he’s searching. “When you talked to her.”

You shrug, trying to keep your tone even. “Just normal stuff.” Stop, you think. Please stop talking.

“Like what?”

“Like her job. Her grandma. Nothing serious.” Shit.

He frowns slightly. “She didn’t mention him?”

There it is. It’s always about her.

You know he’s in a vulnerable spot right now, but it does nothing to ease the sudden flame roaring in your chest. Whether it’s from years of repressed hurt or shame, all it amounts to is a relentless ball of rage inside of you that leaves your nails digging crescents into the palms of your hands. You stare at him, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you inch away from him. 

“Does it matter?”

Caleb’s face relaxes. “What?”

“Why does it matter what she thinks about him? She likes him, end of story, no?”

“I just want to know if he’s a decent guy.”

Your ass. “That’s not really your business, Caleb, but sure. He’s a great guy. Amazing, honestly. He’s really gentlemanly and checks every single box. He lives above her apartment, so they’re right next to each other. He treats her gently, too. I’d bet every girl would jump at a chance to date a guy like that.”

You’re not sure where the words are tumbling out of, but it’s too late to go back. Neither do you want to.

“I wonder if he has a brother. Maybe MC could set me up or something.”

“Oh. Is he…” Caleb’s back straightens, and you notice his fingers digging into his thighs. “...handsome?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I’m telling you, he’s perfect. His face could pay for the Linkon rent by itself.”

He suddenly stands, and you glare up at him through your eyebrows. “Why are you talking like that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you scoff.

He narrows his eyes. It’s something you haven’t seen in a while, since Caleb rarely gets upset at you. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, splints.”

“Can you just spit it out? What am I saying differently?”

“You’re angry.”

You stand, following suit. He looms over you to have his shadow essentially engulf you, and you wish you could kick his ankle so he falls to the ground. “Maybe if you weren’t so irritating, I wouldn’t feel so annoyed right now.”

“What?”

“It’s hard to watch, Caleb,” you hiss out in exasperation, throwing your hands into the air. “It’s always pipsqueak this, pipsqueak that, pipsqueak what. Seriously, we’re not kids anymore, you need to get over it!”

You’re not sure if you’re talking to him or yourself anymore.

“Can we calm down and talk? If I’ve been talking too much about it, I can stop, so—”

“We haven’t seen each other in months, Caleb! And all you want to ask me about is how she’s been? Why don’t you ask her yourself, if you’re so curious? Oh, but you can’t, because you always have to be perfect in front of her. So instead, you dump all of this on me. Your goods and bads, all of it, just for me to get kicked to the curb like I’m some dispensable object.”

“What?” his balks. “Dispensible? Are you serious? As if I haven’t gotten you out of every little thing you’ve gotten yourself into the past decade of our lives? As if I haven’t picked you up every weekend from your friends’ places at three in the morning? Like I haven’t called you every single week—”

“Well, I want you to stop that!” your words spit at him like weak knives, growing louder by the second. 

“You didn’t seem very against it the last forty times.”

“I am now.”

“What has gotten into you, splints?”

“Don’t call me that right now,” you glower, and you try to ignore the hurt flashing across his expression. “I’m just sick of seeing you follow her around like some wet dog. She doesn’t see you like that, can’t you see that?”

Your breathing begins to stutter, and you suck in a deep breath through your nose. Your chest stings, and you pray that you don’t lose composure so the tears threatening to bubble at the corners of your eyes remain hidden.

“You told me that you couldn’t give me what I wanted. Well, she can’t either,” you bore holes into his chest, too afraid of what you might see if you look up. “If I can get over my stupid feelings, so can you.”

But you’re not over it. Not at all.

He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. For the first time in a while, you’ve rendered him speechless, and it feels even worse than what it felt to be rejected years ago. You’re not sure how your nails haven’t drawn blood at this point. You’d rather that they do, so you have some excuse to use the restroom.

“It’s not fair what you do, Caleb,” you try to will your tears to stay at bay, but you can’t help them. They sting, blurring your vision as you drop your head in some pathetic hope that he won’t face them head on. “How you treat me when you don’t like me like that is not fair. At least MC doesn’t know, but you—you know, and yet you—”

The rational part of you says that it’s not entirely his fault. Sure, you insisted on staying by his side. Sure, you insisted that you could push down your feelings. Sure, you’ve promised a lot of things, but it’s his fault too, for being the way he is—so kind, so thoughtful, just so him. 

You wipe desperately at your tears. It was a lost cause from the start.

“Please don’t cry.” His face drains of color, apparent even against the dim lighting in his apartment. He steps towards you, and you take a step back. “Please don’t cry, splints, just not that.”

But when your tears refuse to cease dripping down your cheeks, your face flushing in humiliation, you feel both his hands cupping either side of it. He tilts your gaze up, and you realize that he’s only inches away from you, so much so that you can feel his breath against your skin. It’s moments like these that you lose yourself in his beauty. The deepness of his eyes that seem to peer into your very soul is one of the first features that you fell in love with as a child, and it hasn’t changed since. Damn him. You blink, eyes wide while his own flicker to your lips. 

“Be as mad as you want. Hit me, hate me even,” he whispers, his nose almost touching yours now. His thumb pad smooths your tears away. “But don’t waste your tears on someone like me.”

You think you might be imagining things. Because with the tension that nearly suffocates you and his lashes almost fluttering against your skin, you think he might be about to kiss you.

A sharp pain jabs you in the chest. Is it pity? A consolation prize dressed up as something softer? Is it to smooth things over, to make this moment easier for him to leave behind? Or is it rebellion? Something reckless from the fact that he can’t have her? Your tears have dried up, but the rest of your body seems to weep, as no excitement, no butterflies course through your veins. 

Why is it always something else? Why is it never you? It only hurts—because even now, you’re just the place he empties everything he feels for her.

Instinctively, you press your palm into his lips to push him away, and it feels like the air itself has stilled.

His breath lingers against your skin. Yours stutters like it’s forgotten how to exist in the same space as him. The air is so thick you could slice it with a knife.

Eventually, he pulls away. Caleb stares at you with an expression you haven’t seen before, though you don’t look long enough to analyze it. Wordlessly, you gather your things, stuffing your jacket into your bag and stumble over to the door—all while he stays locked in a petrified state, like he’s processing what he just did. Your gaze remains fixated on the wooden panels of the floor while you pack, refusing to look any higher in case you might see anything other than his feet.

“Don’t follow me,” you tell him as you leave. 

You don’t wait to see if he hears you.

The journey home feels like there’s a gaping hole in your chest, and all you can do is stare out the window as you feel the vibrations of the train through your fingertips. Outside, the world blurs past in streaks of dim lights and shadowed shapes, and you wish that your feelings were as fleeting as the buildings blurring by. 

You try to count the number of trees you see. Not on the warmth of his breath against your palm. Not on how close he’d been. Not on the fact that, for a second, you almost let him.

If you hadn’t pushed him away, would it have meant anything? Or would you have just been a mistake he’d regret in the morning?

Your phone buzzes frantically in your pocket, and you pull it out to see his name in big bold letters. He’s texting you simultaneously, apologizing in so many different ways that they all start to blend into one message you don’t plan on reading. You refuse to give into what your heart wants. It’s hurt you too much in the past. So instead, your thumb hovers above the ‘mute’ button.

You press it and shut your eyes.

Even if it’s difficult to adjust the first few weeks without him, you can’t bear to face him either. He shows up at your door. Nearly every day for some time, knocking softly and asking if you’d be willing to talk. When you simply plug in your earbuds and bury yourself into your bed, he apologizes through the door and leaves you something to eat. You tend to throw it out at first, but after a while, you figure it’s just a waste. Just like that, a month goes by. And then another. Then another. Until you can’t count them on one hand anymore. He comes by once every two weeks or so now, likely busy with his work.

Despite how much your body seems to miss his presence, you wonder if you should distance Caleb permanently. It’s a daunting idea. One that you never would’ve thought just a few years ago, but the embarrassment runs deeper than you want to admit. The feelings you’ve tried so hard to hide clearly aren’t hidden. Is this sustainable? 

Regardless of what you think, he comes around like clockwork.

“Are you in there?” He knocks gently on your door, voice soft. He probably knows you are.

“No.”

He chuckles from the other end. “Right. Happy birthday, splints.”

You glance at your phone calendar. He’s right. 

As usual, he begins to talk about random events in his life that he hasn’t had the opportunity to tell you, and while you usually muffle it out, you decide to quietly shuffle over to the door today. To tell him, maybe, that you don’t want to keep doing this. Or maybe just to hear his voice, you don’t know. Either way, you slide your back down the door where he’s on the other side, pulling your knees into your chest.

“I don’t know if you’ve read my text, but–”

“I don’t read them.”

Caleb stops, and you can almost hear his breath hitch. You usually don’t give him more than a few words, much less a full sentence, so it seems to have taken him aback. After the brief remission, you hear him clear your throat. “Splints, can you open the door? I want to talk—apologize to you.”

Silence.

“Or I can do it out here. That’s fine,” he sighs. “I want you to know that it’s okay if you want to hate me forever after this. I won’t keep clinging to you if you at listen to what I have to say, but I really just—I need to say that this is my fault.”

You half-heartedly hear his words drone on, his confidence wavering every so often while you pull up his chats on your phone. You have no idea how you hadn’t folded and read his chats until now, though it might’ve been more so for your own peace than anything. There’s too many to scroll up to, so you read the most recent messages, squinting in the dark against the light of your phone. 

[1:41PM]

[caleb]: are you eating well?

[caleb]: i made this today

[caleb]: [image attached]

[caleb]: your favorite dishes :) i’ll drop them off at your place later

[caleb]: i hope you’re not just throwing them out…wouldn’t blame you tho

[caleb]: at least take care of yourself :)

[8:13AM]

[caleb]: hi splints :)

[caleb]: you probably watched it already but that movie you wanted to see came out a week ago. I went to go see it

[caleb]: i still think it’s kind of bad…but it was entertaining

[caleb]: unless you wanna argue about it ?? :3

[5:32PM]

[caleb]: ranked first today

[caleb]: i was excited to celebrate it with you and then remembered :/

[caleb]: it doesn’t feel as good when i can’t tell you lol

[caleb]: hope you’re okay

[11:23PM]

[caleb]: i wish i hadn’t been so stupid

[caleb]: i didn’t deserve you back then

[caleb]: i still don’t

[caleb]: i shouldn’t have lost my cool when you were over here. didn’t like hearing you talk about that guy like that

[caleb]: im sure he’s a good looking guy, and i know you’re particularly weak to good looking guys…

[caleb]: i was being childish and i wish i could’ve explained it to you then

[caleb]: i know you don’t owe me anything and you don’t have to listen to what i have to say

[caleb]: but i never wanted to make you feel used, and i never did. if that even sounds believable lol

[caleb]: it was never about her

[caleb]: there’s so much more i want to say but i’ll say it in person

[caleb]: miss you a lot

[caleb]: sleep tight

You wish the tightness in your chest would go away. You wish you didn’t feel his sorrow through him. And you wish you didn’t care about your own feelings for him.

“I love you, splints,” he murmurs, and your attention tears away from the chats, your phone nearly clattering onto the floor. Your eyes widen, suddenly regretting that you missed the first half of his speech. 

“Not in the way you say it to your friends, or the way you say it to family. You’re my life, and you’ve been my life since the day you gave me that ring. I care for MC, but what I feel for you is different. It’s always been different. I realized that years ago, but I was afraid that it wouldn’t be fair for you. I thought you deserved someone better than someone who doesn’t know how to understand their own feelings.” Your throat dries. “I thought it wasn’t fair because I’d already put you through so much.”

“At the same time, I’m a selfish guy, you know? I couldn’t let you go either, because I couldn’t bear to see you with someone else. I wanted it to be us, and the only way I could think of existing without feeling like I was ruining you was to stay how we were. Stagnant, I guess,” he chuckles, but it feels sad. Weak. “I’m an idiot when it comes to you, you know.”

You don’t respond.

Not because you don’t have anything to say—if anything, there’s too much. It crowds your throat, every word scraping against the next until none of them can make it out. Your fingers hover uselessly over your phone, screen still lit with a conversation you can’t even remember reading.

‘I love you.’

The words echo, but they don’t land the way you once dreamed they would. They don’t bloom or soften or fix anything. They just sit. Too heavy. Too late.

Your chest tightens, aching outward like it’s trying to break free. Because you’ve wanted this—God, you’ve wanted this—for so long that you stopped letting yourself imagine it could ever actually happen. It should feel like relief. Instead, it feels real, but fragile.

Because you remember too much. The almosts. The waiting. The way you learned how to swallow your emotions when he built a wall between the two of you—and that doesn’t disappear just because he finally found the words.

Your hand curls slightly against the door, fingers brushing the cool surface.

Even with all that, you still miss the warmth of his skin. How his hair felt through a towel as you dried it. How he’d flick your forehead when you’d get a question wrong during one of his tutoring sessions. How he’d tease you about your grades or interests, and learn more about them anyway. How he’d message you throughout the day about random endeavors. How he’d always be there. How with just a call of his name, he would’ve crossed the continents for you. His eyes. His lips. His face. His painfully handsome face.

You remember him in all parts of your life—and not a single moment you’ve spared has gone without him. You remember how he held your hand when you’d broken your arm, and the way he’d lifted you into the air and embraced you when you were accepted into the same college as him. You remember how he’d pet your hair as you complained about him going too far for the DAA, promising he’d visit often. And he did. He always kept his promises.

Your body moves on its own, as if this was how it was always meant to be. The door slowly creaks open.

“…We’re a mess.”

A faint, tired smile is all you can give him. Still, when he sees you, the world seems to stop for just the two of you, and it takes him a moment to fully register that you’re really there. That you’re not just a figment of his imagination, and he hasn’t truly lost you forever as he’d feared. “This doesn’t mean you’re completely out of the woods. I’m still mad.”

“You should be,” he whispers out, nearly breathless.

Hesitantly, you step towards him. He reaches his arm out, brows furrowed cautiously like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to even blink right now. The tips of his fingers twitch towards you. You raise a brow, and he swallows the lump in his throat, retracting back until you nod. 

Realizing you don’t have shoes, you step onto the fronts of his shoes one foot at a time, taking his hand until you’re flush against him and he’s already engulfing you into a crushing embrace. His arms wrap around you, strong and warm. He smells good. Though you can’t confidently say the same for yourself given the state you’re in, he drops his chin into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply, like a man starved.

“Note to self,” you mumble. “Don’t propose to any handsome guy you see.”

Caleb laughs, airy this time, and you feel it against your collarbone. “I thought you were going to leave your husband out here to die in the cold.”

“I should divorce you. We’re not even married yet.”

He grins, lopsided. “You should.”

“I won’t.”

“I know.

You bury your face into his chest, fingers digging into the fabric on his back. “I don’t want a version of my life without you, Caleb. As annoying as you are.”

He pulls away for a brief moment and places a kiss on your cheek, his own dusting red. Flowers feel like they’re blooming on the spot he pecked, but somehow, it feels natural. You’ve always been close to him physically throughout your upbringing, even if it never involved lips–that was new territory. You cross your arms, relying on his hands around your waist to keep you upright. “Tell me more.”

“You nag too much.”

He kisses your nose. “Hm?”

“You’re emotionally repressed.”

“Ouch.” He kisses your temple.

“You’re too good at things you don’t try at.”

Your jawline.

“You’re unstable. You’re too protective. You’re stupid.”

“I love you,” he says, pressing his forehead against yours. His lips hover above your own, just centimeters away.

Your lashes flutter against his. “Then prove it to me.”

Black against his throat. Sleek. Obscene in its restraint. It did something unfortunate to him, that narrow band at the base of his neck. Drew attention to the line of his pulse. To the proud column of his throat. To the dangerous impression that something so beautiful ought to be touched just to see whether it would make him lose control.

“Still,” you said, stepping closer, voice light enough to sound careless, “it looks pretty yankable.”

That got him.

Not much. Only a pause. Only the faintest stilling in his shoulders. But on Sylus even that felt enormous. A crack in lacquer. A flicker of heat beneath polished composure.

“Yankable?” he repeated.

As though the word itself had never been spoken to him before. As though it offended him a little. As though it interested him far more than he intended to show.

You tilted your head, pretending to consider. “Well. You know.”

“No,” he said, and now there was velvet in it, something lower, more dangerous. “I don’t think I do. Explain it to me.”

That tone should have warned you. It would have warned anyone else.

But there was always something intoxicating in the moments before Sylus decided whether to indulge you or ruin you. Something that made caution feel like an ugly thing. Something that made you reckless.

So you smiled.

Then slipped two fingers beneath the choker.

The leather was warm from his skin. The intimacy of it struck first, then the thrill followed. Your knuckles brushed his throat. You felt him swallow. Once.

And then you pulled.

Not hard. You did not need to. Just enough to drag him down the few inches necessary, just enough to make that impossible man bend toward you, just enough to force his eyes level with yours.

For one exquisite second, Sylus looked almost stunned.

Not undone. Never that easily.

But surprised, yes. Caught off guard by the sheer audacity of it. By your hand at his throat. By the casual little cruelty of the gesture. By the fact that you had done it as if you fully expected him to let you.

His hands came to your hips on instinct. Broad and warm and suddenly very firm. Not quite restraining. No, not yet. Just settling there with a weight that reminded you exactly how quickly this could cease to be your game.

The air changed.

It always did, when one of you pushed too far and the other decided not to step back.

Your face was close enough now to feel the warmth of his breath. Close enough to see the shift in his expression as surprise melted into something darker. Something far more familiar. That smirk arrived slowly, one corner of his mouth lifting first. Then the rest.

There you are, it seemed to say. There’s the trouble.

“Oh, kitten,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a reprimand, nor affection either. No, it was something far worse. Something tender only in the way teeth were tender with flesh before breaking skin.

The name slid through you like heat.

His thumbs pressed into your hips. Just enough to remind you that however yankable his choker looked, you were still standing inside the circle of his patience, and patience on Sylus had always been a finite resource.

“You should be careful,” he said softly.

But he did not move away. If anything, he let you keep the choker fisted around your fingers, let you hold him there as though indulging a fantasy he had not yet decided whether to punish or reward.

You raised your brows. “Why? Afraid I’ll make a habit of it?”

A quiet laugh left him then. Rich. Low. Dangerous enough to make the room seem smaller.

“No,” he said. “Afraid you’ll enjoy what happens when you do.”

The answer landed somewhere low in your stomach and stayed there.

You should have let go. Anyone with a functioning instinct for self-preservation would have let go.

Instead your fingers tightened a little under the band at his throat.

Sylus’s eyes darkened.

It was almost imperceptible, that change. Just a slight narrowing of his gaze. A subtle parting of his lips. Yet suddenly everything about him felt sharpened. The hands at your hips no longer merely holding, but claiming. The space between your bodies no longer empty, but taut with the threat of being closed in an instant.

“And what,” you asked, because apparently you had already committed yourself to ruin, “happens when I do?”

His smile deepened.

One of his hands slid from your hip to the small of your back, flattening there with possessive ease. The other rose, unhurried, until his fingers curled lightly around your wrist, not forcing, simply enclosing. A reminder. A promise. He could break this hold whenever he pleased. He simply found it more interesting not to.

Then he leaned in the last inch on his own.

His mouth brushed the corner of yours. Barely there. Cruel in its restraint.

The same lecture was given to you by your parents, harshly reminding you that anyone with the name Gojo was the enemy and not the sort that you wanted to tangle with. 

They were fiends, and you always had to remember that. 

But for some reason, despite the lessons you were given over the next few years pertaining to your family’s history and feud with the Gojo clan, you could never manage to find understanding in their outlook. Not when every single night had you picturing those bright blue eyes that had stared into yours with such wonder. 

The next time you saw Gojo Satoru, you were eleven years old. 

It was in a similar setting as before - a convergence of clans, but now that you were older there were less eyes on you, more freedom to roam about the grounds upon which the convention was being held. 

You found him beside a pond, staring out at the rippling water in silence, shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. He’d jumped ever so slightly as you approached, frustration present in his furrowed brow, only for his expression to morph into wonder at the sight of you, a wide grin crossing his graceful face. 

“It's you!” He exclaimed. His eyes were lit up, excitement bubbling within him. If he were a dog, you were sure that he’d be wagging his tail with great enthusiasm. 

“It’s you,” you responded with a tilt of your head, grateful that he remembered you. You’d worried that the momentary connection between the two of you hadn’t been real, had been nothing more than mere puppy love on your part, a complete insignificance to him. 

Satoru looked around cautiously, frowning once more before reaching out and grabbing your arm. Tugging you along, he headed down a sequence of hidden garden pathways before skidding to a halt in a small clearing beneath a maple tree. You’d let yourself be dragged along easily, half curious as to where he was leading you, and half conscious of the fact that he was doing this to prevent prying eyes. 

The two of you shouldn’t be talking after all. You both knew that. Even though you considered the feud to be genuinely stupid, and you hoped that Satoru did too. 

“No one should see us here, stupid adults are always watching,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. 

You shrugged. For the most part your parents let you do whatever you wanted, so you couldn’t really relate, but you imagined that in this one case, they would go absolutely crazy if they saw you alone with the Gojo clan’s six eyes user, who was public enemy number one in their minds. 

They’d had assassins sent after him, if what you’d overheard your parents talking about was to be believed. 

“What’s your name?” He asked. 

You told him with a smile, and he nodded, introducing himself only for you to stop him. His reputation preceded him after all. He seemed almost proud of the fact that you already knew him, puffing up his chest with a wide grin, like he was keen to impress you. You couldn’t help but smile back, heart fluttering at the sight. 

“I thought I might’ve made you up!” He chirped, offering further explanation as you tilted your head in confusion. “I have this vivid image of seeing you when we were younger, it comes up in my dreams a lot, like this nice shiny memory that makes me feel all warm. But I thought you might’ve just been an imaginary friend.” 

It seemed that Satoru’s clan had taken the opposite approach to your clan, keeping information about their enemy locked down. Although, why would they bother telling him anything about you? It wasn’t like you were special in the same way he was. 

“You’re from that clan, aren’t you? That’s why we never tend to see each other.” 

You nodded solemnly. “My parents will throw a fit if they see me talking to you.” 

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them!” Satoru’s smile was painfully bright, an admiration growing desperately in your chest at the sight of it. There was no doubt that you had a crush - between the fact that you’d met very few boys your age and the idea that he was forbidden, your young heart had never wanted anything more. 

So of course you nodded along, sitting down beside him in the clearing, relieved to be free of the adults for an afternoon. 

Satoru seemed to love talking, chattering away at you for hours. You’d always been more of an introvert - with your clan largely keeping to themselves, there was seldom anyone for you to talk to, and that meant that your social skills were limited. You were grateful for Satoru’s ability to push the conversation forward, asking you non-stop questions about your life and likes, and talking at length about his own preferences. 

You learned that in a lot of ways you were startlingly similar. 

You both had a penchant for sweet things, an enjoyment of catching frogs in the summer, and a deep set desire to escape from the stifling grip of your respective families. It felt like no matter what Satoru spoke about, you could feel yourself relating on a deep level. His thoughts and desires were so aligned with yours that if he were to suddenly reveal that he’d read your diary and this was all some practical joke, you wouldn’t be shocked in the slightest. 

“I used to love climbing trees too,” he added, down to the twentieth hobby on his list at this point, seemingly enjoying being listened to with such rapt attention. “But I’m not allowed to anymore because of this stupid thing.” 

He was rolling his eyes as he held up his arm to show you, a thick scar running up the length of his forearm. Your eyes widened ever so slightly as you peered at the imperfection on his pale skin, inspecting the way that the old wound was scabbing over, clearly having been picked at by his impatient hands. 

“Oh, snap!” You said with a small smile, pushing the sleeve of your kimono back to show him an identical wound, uncannily similar to the one he was currently sporting. “Mine was from a knife!” 

It was a lesson in not playing in your family’s weapon storage. You’d spent plenty of time there throughout your childhood against your parents’ advice, and one day the reality of why they didn’t want you going there came to smack you right in the face. It turned out that attempting to catch a falling knife isn’t a good idea. 

“You were stabbed?” He asked, tilting his head curiously. 

“In a sense.” You puffed out your chest, not eager to confess that the assailant had been none other than your own foolishness. “How did climbing a tree cause that?” 

“It didn’t. My handler just thinks it did.” He huffed. 

It was clear that this was a serious topic for him, one that he’d thought plenty about. You imagined that he still climbed trees in secret whenever he could, because there was something about him that suggested an unwillingness to be truly tamed. 

“How did you get it then?” You asked, rubbing your own scar for half a second before dropping your hand back down to your side. You shouldn’t scratch at it, even if the scab was itchy. It would come off in its own time.

He thought about that question for a second, white eyebrows drawn close together in focus, before he turned to you with an unbothered shrug. “Dunno! One day it was just there!” 

You hummed, content with his answer. It wasn’t like the origin really mattered to you, there were bumps and bruises on you all the time that you just couldn’t explain. It was all part of being a kid, there was so much going on that you couldn’t possibly remember everything. 

Why would you? 

—

It was a few years later, at age fifteen, that you learned just why those unexplainable scars actually did hold meaning. A serious conversation with your parents, in which they sat you down and told you all that you needed to know about soulmates, since you were approaching the age where it might be relevant. 

They explained that some people had a divine connection, something beautiful and otherworldly that would bring the two of them together against all odds. It was the stuff of the fairytales that you’d loved so dearly when you were young, a magic that existed here on earth. 

Your parents weren’t soulmates. Not many couples tended to be. Considering the population of the world, such unions between soulmates tended to be rare, something special whenever one found their prophesied other half. Outside of the inexplicable attraction that one would expect to feel when witnessing their soulmate, there was a single clue to who your other half might be. 

Once soulmates had laid eyes on each other for the first time, any wound inflicted upon one party would be mirrored on the other. 

Cuts, bruises, scars, disfigurements, and even death. Anything that ailed one would ail the other, allowing for a constant physical connection between lovers. Something equal parts beautiful and tragic. You were tied to their fate, no matter what it may be. 

If you’d been older, perhaps you would’ve connected the dots faster. But it had been four years since you’d last seen Satoru, and although his presence was a constant in your dreams, your conversation about scars had long since fled your mind. 

With the emphasis that your mother was putting on tempering your expectations where it came to ever meeting a soulmate, the thought that you might’ve already met him was far from apparent to you. 

You next encountered Satoru less than a year later, when the two of you enrolled in Jujutsu High at the same time. 

It was nice to be able to see him without the shadow of both your clans lingering over you, even if your parents had given you a big lecture beforehand about how you were to stay as far away from the Gojo heir as possible. It was a directive that you ignored of course, throwing yourself wholeheartedly into a friendship with Satoru. 

Why should you build your relationships around some dusty old family feud? Satoru had been nothing but kind to you in the fleeting moments you’d encountered each other throughout childhood. You couldn’t care less if some boring ancestor of his stole your family’s land a thousand years ago.

What did that matter when Satoru was so much fun? 

The two of you were practically attached at the hip for the first two years of school, always getting into mischief together. You’d sit next to each other during classes, go out into the city to check out new bakeries, spend evenings in each other’s rooms watching scary movies - always settled right next to each other. Sometimes Satoru’s arm would brush against yours and your heart rate would skyrocket, a result of the crush that you couldn’t deny that you had on your best friend. 

Your friend Shoko had teased you about it on occasion, waiting until Satoru and Suguru were off on some mission before poking fun at just how attached to him you were, trying to convince you to talk to him about it since he was clearly into you too. 

Unfortunately, that was where you largely drew the line. 

Being friends with Satoru was one thing, easily concealed from your parents. But dating him? That was something else entirely. It wasn’t like any relationship between the two of you could go anywhere, both of your families would exile you. Perhaps in the case of the Gojo clan, they’d even seek to kill you if Satoru didn’t comply with their desires. 

While you didn’t agree with the feud, you didn’t wish to be estranged from the family that had so lovingly raised you, and for that reason it was better that you and Satoru remained nothing more than friends. 

There were, of course, complications that quickly arose on that front. 

The thought of soulmates had largely fled your mind as you entered your third year of school. Again, if you’d been attentive, maybe you would’ve seen reality much faster. There was evidence in the way that you seemed to be the only person capable of bypassing Satoru’s infinity during training - a feat that you both brushed off too easily as a feature of your own technique rather than something deeper. 

But true, unquestionable evidence came round soon enough. 

Satoru and Suguru had been sent off on some mission, and had been gone for a couple of days. You’d been passing your time as normal, studying and enjoying the warm summer air. You’d been out having a picnic with Utahime when it happened. One moment the two of you were chatting away happily, the next your eyes were widening in sheer horror at the feeling of a knife jamming into your throat. 

In that moment, you’d fully believed that it was real, that there was a person behind you who had decided to put an end to your short life. You didn’t think about the why or how of the matter, hands raising to your neck desperately in an attempt to find the blade, only to discover nothing but thin air until your fingers brushed against your neck. 

There, you discovered a gaping hole, gushing with blood. There was just enough time for terror to course through you before you blacked out, dropping down onto the picnic mat before you, likely leaving Utahime traumatised for a significant portion of her life. 

You came to a few days later, with the physical evidence of the event shockingly absent. If you didn’t know better, it would almost feel like nothing had ever happened at all, but your heart certainly remembered, a deep anxiety sitting within you at the memory of the extreme injury, of the excruciating pain that you never wanted to experience again. 

Sitting at your bedside in a plastic chair, was Satoru. 

His hand was clutching yours tightly, and his head was resting on the side of your bed, white hair splayed out across the soft sheets. You wondered how long he’d been at your side, how he’d reacted when he’d found out what had happened to you. Your heart fluttered at the feeling of his warm fingers intertwined with yours, taking your mind off the horrors of your injury for a few minutes at least. 

The second that you shifted, he was sitting up, suddenly all attentive. There was something wild behind his blue eyes, a sort of panic that you weren’t accustomed to him wearing. “You’re awake- I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “This is my fault, I shouldn’t have let my guard down. I’m sorry.” 

“Huh?” your head was swimming, your body not quite caught up to the fact that you were awake, unable to understand the guilt written all over your friend’s face. 

“We- we were within the barriers, I’d thought that we were safe. That assassin, he came out of nowhere and I couldn’t defend myself. You must’ve been so scared, I’m sorry, I’ll never let that happen again.” 

Satoru’s words were going in one ear and out the other with no coherency. Why was he apologising for not being able to defend himself? What did that have to do with you? You could hardly remember what had happened for you to end up here, aware of the searing pain in your neck and then nothing. 

Had a curse user snuck in and attacked you? Had they attacked Satoru and then come for you? Was that why he was apologising? Had they been caught? 

“It looks like my RCT worked on you too though, I’m glad.” 

All the thoughts in your head dissipated as Satoru reached out for you, brushing his fingers softly against your neck. There was a flash of phantom pain quickly replaced by a soft tingling beneath his touch. You were surprised to find his hand skimming over your skin, no bandages in sight, as if there had been no wound at all. 

“What- what happened, Satoru?” You asked, figuring that trying to piece things together was a fool’s game when your head was pounding so hard.

Surprise flickered in his blue eyes for a moment, as if he thought that you were already with him in his explanation. “What do you remember?” He asked, slowly. 

“I was having lunch, and then there was this blinding pain in my neck, like someone stabbed me, and now I’m here.” That was genuinely all that you could recall, a wry smile drawing across your lips at the panic on Satoru’s face, as though he’d gotten thoroughly ahead of himself. 

“You- you don’t know?” 

“Know what?” 

“You weren’t stabbed. I was.” 

That statement didn’t quite sink in for the first few seconds, with your brain far too foggy to really understand what relevance it had to you. You were moments away from once again asking what the hell he was talking about when it clicked. 

He was stabbed and the wound replicated on you. 

The boy who’d had your heart beating erratically from the first moment you’d met, the same one who somehow found his way into every single one of your dreams. There was a reason that you thought of him in the way that you always had. 

A reason that you always yearned so deeply to be around him. 

He was your soulmate. Proven through your shared misery. Any wound of his was a wound of yours and vice versa. You had to count your lucky stars that Satoru was one of the strongest sorcerers around, that he was capable enough to learn to heal on the fly. Else you’d both be dead. 

“We’re…” You trailed off, mouth going dry before you could say the words.

“Soulmates,” he finished, with a giddy grin.

The first feeling that overcame you was pure elation, an unbelievable sense of happiness at the idea of being with Satoru like that, at the thought that the two of you were actually destined for each other. For a moment, you almost forgot yourself entirely, every inch of your body urging you to lean forward and kiss him. 

You’d dreamt about it enough times. 

But reason held you back. 

Satoru had always been somewhat forbidden fruit to you. Your family despised his, and had always given you strict instructions not to associate with him in any form. You’d ignored them, because why should they dictate your friendships, but when it came to the matter of something more you could see many potential issues. 

There was still a grin on Satoru’s face, but it had faltered ever so slightly. Bright blue eyes were darting around your face with a hint of anxiety, clearly trying to understand what was going through your head. 

“It's good, right? I mean, I like you, and I hope…” He trailed off uncertainly, taking a deep breath, as if he was scared that you were about to come out and call him repulsive or something of the like. 

“I like you too,” you said hastily, not wanting to leave him hanging. 

“But?” 

“But our families are going to kill us.” 

He laughed, shrugging his shoulders easily. “Remember, what they don’t know won’t hurt them!”

His lips crashed against yours, stealing the air from your lungs. It was your first kiss, the first of many that you’d share with Satoru. Kissing someone, kissing him was something that you’d imagined for a long time, fretting over your inexperience, terrified about the idea of being a bad kisser. 

And yet, it felt so easy with him. It was as if you’d been made for this very moment. You knew exactly what to do, moving your lips in tandem with his, letting him wrap his arms around you and pull you closer. 

Your life hadn’t been unhappy by any stretch of the imagination, but there’d always been a hollow feeling that you carried with you, like something was missing. With him, it felt like that gap was finally filled. 

Like you were meant to be. 

The remainder of your third year was spent in total bliss. Of course, you both had the sense to keep your relationship as secret as it could be, fully away of the attempts to divide you that would no doubt come from your families, but it didn’t make things any less fun by any means. 

If anything, the thrill of your union being secret just spurred both of you on more. 

Hands brushing beneath tables, eyes meeting for a fleeting moment across a busy room, secret rendezvous in your dorm room night after night, in which Satoru would climb in through the window with a goofy smile on his face, barely offering a greeting before kissing you silly. 

The two of you became each other’s first everything, placing complete trust in the other, which just felt so easy because even if you weren’t soulmates, your friendship over the last few years had been unrivalled. A gap that felt like it had always existed in your heart had been filled thoroughly by Satoru’s presence. 

No doubt existed in your mind that this was how things were meant to be, Satoru’s lips against yours, his hands brushing against your waist tenderly as he pulled you closer. Your ancestors were almost certainly rolling in their graves, but what did that matter when your heart yearned so deeply for the man that the universe had decided you were destined for?

Some dusty feud meant nothing in the face of true love. 

That was what you had believed for a time, at least. Until the illusion of what you had was well and truly shattered. 

Your graduation was mere days away, and everyone was busy with various responsibilities in the lead up to the ceremony. Both yours and Satoru’s clans would be coming to attend, and subsequently the two of you were doing your best to act like you didn’t know each other at all, save for soft little smiles you’d share when you thought that no one was looking. 

Oh, and except for the secret moments in which Satoru would pull you into an empty classroom, pressing you up against the wall and kissing you like his life depended on it, all amped up from the thrill of someone discovering you all tangled together with no explanation but the truth. 

The reality of discovery turned out to be less alluring than either of you had expected though, the two of you freezing as Yaga entered the room during one such moment, sweeping his gaze over you both before letting out a heavy sigh. “Satoru, your family are looking for you.” 

Confusion was written across both of your faces, expecting some level of comment regarding your condition, but finding none. 

“I’m…busy?” Satoru offered cautiously, not sure what to make of Yaga’s reaction. You had to hold back a snort at the bewilderment in his pretty blue eyes. 

“Clearly. But if you don’t want them to discover…this…” Yaga waved his hand in your general direction, as if unwilling to address it. “I’d suggest you appease them.” 

Satoru let out a heavy sigh, shooting you an apologetic smile before heading to the door. You moved to follow behind him, only for Yaga to step in your way. It was hard to make sense of his expression behind the sunglasses he’d always wear, but there seemed to be something akin to pity lining his face. 

“Just a moment. I think there’s something we should discuss.” 

Satoru shot a frown over his shoulder, clearly displeased with the development. Any protest that he might form was cut short by Yaga pushing the door to the classroom closed, shutting you off from your disgruntled boyfriend on the other side. 

“What?” You asked, rather defensively. You didn’t know how many moments together you and Satoru had left before the pressures of life would start to drag you apart, you didn’t particularly want to waste any of that time talking to your teacher. 

“You understand that it has to stop, don’t you?” 

For a second it felt like your heart had ceased its beating. You knew what he was referring to, of course you did, but you weren’t going to acknowledge that fact for even a second. You’d play dumb and force him to spell it out for you, because you weren’t going to concede to his statement without some element of a fight. 

“What has to-”

“You’re smarter than that,” he said, interrupting you swiftly. “This thing with Satoru, it was all fine while you were young but now…if you take this seriously it will only end in tragedy.” 

“What does it matter to you?” Once again, your tone was rude. You were pretty confident that if you were a teacher you wouldn’t be snooping around on the relationships of your students, that was just plain weird. 

“Do you value your life? Do you value Satoru’s?” 

You blinked at him. “Obviously.” 

“Then you need to stop.” 

Staring at him haplessly, you tried to understand what he could possibly mean by that. Satoru was quite possibly the strongest sorcerer alive, if your families were to find out and be displeased then that was their problem, there was nothing that they could do if it was Gojo Satoru they were up against - they’d just have to accept it. 

Even if the idea of being disowned wasn’t ideal to you, it would be worth it for Satoru. 

Sensing your confusion, Yaga let out another long sigh. “You’re soulmates, aren’t you?” 

Hesitating for a moment, you bit down on your lip. That wasn’t information that you’d shared with anyone outside of Shoko and Suguru. Even if others like Utahime were aware that the two of you were dating, you didn’t want everyone to know about the depth of the bond that you shared - it felt like it would be almost less sacred that way. 

“I’ve known since the incident with Fushiguro Toji,” He continued at your lack of response. “Others have had their suspicions too, but I’ve done my best to quell them. It does you no good for people to know.” 

“I don’t think it really matters, Satoru’s so strong he can-” 

“And you, are you strong?” 

“Huh?” 

“Tell me,” Yaga said, lowering his voice ever so slightly. “What has your clan done with previous bearers of Satoru’s technique?” 

“They’ve killed them, but, like I said, Satoru is too strong so-” 

Much to your annoyance, he cut you off once more. 

“Right. What do you think your clan will do, when they find out that you have a soul binding connection with him? What do you think they’ll do when they find out that through your sacrifice, they can kill Satoru?” 

Your lips parted ever so slightly, trying to formulate an argument that just wouldn’t come, because you’d been so swept up in your new love for Satoru that any issues that may arise seemed to just slip from your mind entirely. 

“In fact,” Yaga continued, “forget your clan. What do you think will happen when the world at large finds out about this connection? You’re right, Satoru can protect himself, but it won’t matter if he can be killed through you.” 

“I wouldn’t…” Your voice quivered ever so slightly, mind racing with the picture that Yaga was painting, the realisation of the weight that sat upon your shoulders truly starting to settle. He was right, you didn’t have something like Satoru’s infinity to protect you, and even if your soulmate would look after you most of the time, he couldn’t be at your side at all moments. 

You’d be responsible for both of your deaths. 

“If you love him, you need to put an end to this before anyone of import finds out about it. If you don’t, neither of you will even make it to twenty-five.”

In the days following your conversation with Yaga, you avoided Satoru as much as you could. It was easier than it would usually be with everything surrounding graduation and the fact that your families were constantly nearby. But one evening Satoru snuck into your room just like he always would, effectively cornering you. 

“You’ve been weird lately,” he said, straightforwardly. He’d flopped down on your bed, hand supporting his chin as he stared up at you. Your posture was riddled with anxiety, knees drawn up to your chest, nails digging into the palm of your hands in an attempt to calm yourself. 

You hadn’t slept well in days. 

“Just tired.” You responded on reflex, and he instantly pulled a face. 

“Liar.” 

“Satoru-” 

“What did Yaga say to you?” He asked, sitting up and stopping any spiel that you were about to summon in an attempt to placate him. 

“Nothing, I’m just-” 

“He said we needed to break up, didn’t he?” 

You nibbled on your lower lip, offering a small nod. There was a burning fire in his blue eyes that sparkled with the same resistance you’d initially shown Yaga, one that said he couldn’t care less what the consequences were, he wasn’t about to be torn from his soulmate, no matter what the world wanted to throw at him. 

“Fuck him. What does he know?” Satoru reached out for you gently, his hand cupping your face, a thumb gently swiping along the curve of your cheek. Goosebumps raised up on your skin at the action, a desperate electricity tingling through your veins at his mere touch. How Yaga expected you to live without that was beyond you. 

Leaning forward, he pressed his lips gently against yours, his tongue flicking against your lips tenderly, practically begging you for entrance. You parted your lips for him easily, letting him push you down onto the bed, the weight of his warm body on top of yours. It would be so easy to just sink into that lovely feeling of bliss that overtook you whenever you were at his side. 

But the little voice in the back of your head prevailed on this occasion. 

“I’ll get you killed.” Your voice was small as you pulled away, eyes a little watery as you stared up at him. He was so handsome that you almost wanted to take the words back, wanted to wipe that look of disbelief off his face. 

You would’ve done it if not for the fact that Yaga was right - if you loved him, and you did, you both had to stop. 

“You won’t.” His tone was dismissive, as if the mere insinuation was ridiculous. 

“I will. I’m not strong like you. If people find out about this they’ll start trying to kill me for the sake of killing you. It’ll all be my fault.” 

Satoru’s brows furrowed, his expression angrier than you’d ever seen it. “Don’t be dumb! I won’t let anything happen to you, you’re just letting Yaga fearmonger you.” 

“Satoru.” Your voice was quiet. “You can’t protect me all the time. All it takes is just one instant-” 

“What are you trying to say right now?” He pulled back from you, frustration and hurt straining his voice, blue eyes wide with anxiety. 

“I’m saying this has to end.” 

It was hard to not let your voice waver, an ache growing in your heart at the mess of emotions that flickered across your boyfriend’s handsome face. You could take it back, you could kiss him and pretend that the conversation never happened, that none of that stuff that Yaga said mattered. 

The problem was, it did matter. 

You loved Satoru, you loved him more than anything on this earth. He was your other half, the person who truly completed you. And for that reason you couldn’t give in, couldn’t spend every day at his side. 

Because you wanted him to live a long life, not one cut short because of your weakness. 

That wasn’t fair. 

“You don’t mean that.” Satoru said, his tone clipped. 

“I have to mean it. There’s no future for us but tragedy.” 

—

Over the next few years, you did everything you could to try to get over Satoru. You failed miserably - a reality that you’d largely been anticipating. You couldn’t simply forget a soulmate, the universe had dictated that you were made for one another, destined no matter what you tried to do. 

That meant that you spent half of your nights sobbing into your pillow, desperate for the warmth of Satoru’s body at your side. The thought of reaching for your phone and just calling him had crossed your mind on many an occasion, thwarted only by the rational side of you sternly refusing to give in to your desires. 

Satoru had become the head of the Gojo clan in the time that you were apart, which ultimately meant that he was the arbiter concerning the feud with your family. It didn’t make much difference, even if Satoru played nice with them, they still regarded him with the same hatred as usual. 

You imagined that Satoru’s attempts at offering an olive branch were for your sake, a dwindling hope that maybe you could be together if your families weren’t at odds. Such rifts were, unfortunately, too deep to mend. 

The next time that you and Satoru actually crossed paths, you were both twenty-three. You’d been assigned a mission involving the elimination of some curse-users, which had grown infinitely more complex the more intel you’d gathered on the matter. Subsequently, a special grade sorcerer was put on the case.

Both Yuki and Suguru were preoccupied with other matters, and that meant that the only person left was Satoru. 

It was how the two of you ended up awkwardly sitting in the living room of a tiny apartment, trying to figure out what to say to each other while you staked out some curse users that you couldn’t care less about when the man you loved was sitting right across from you. 

Time had treated Satoru well. He was a little bulkier than he’d been at high school, his hair slightly more respectable than the unkept look he’d had at eighteen. The look in his blue eyes was a little sharper, more controlled than the wild edge that they’d previously held. But he was still unquestionably himself, his mere presence wrapping around you like a warm blanket. 

You were grateful that you hadn’t had to cross paths with him much over the last five years, because there wasn’t a chance in hell that you’d be able to resist him forever, not when his mere scent was intoxicating to you, despite him being sat several metres away. 

“So…uh…I wonder how long this will take.” You cleared your throat awkwardly, and Satoru stared at you incredulously. 

“Really?” He asked, in disbelief. “That’s the line you’re going with?” 

Rolling your eyes, you shrugged. “I don’t- what would you have started with?” 

His lips curved up into a smile at your reaction. “Maybe a: hey, how have you been? Have you missed me? Something to that effect, I don’t know.” 

“Feels redundant,” you mumbled. Of course you’d missed each other, you’d been practically engineered to feel that way. 

“Still figured you’d want to hear me say it.” 

“If I hear you say it, all of the work that I put into coping without you for the last five years would go to waste.” There was no point in being anything but honest with him, your heart was battering against your ribs, the sound of his voice even more lovely than you’d remembered it. If he were to kiss you right now, there was a certainty in your mind that you wouldn’t be able to push him away. 

It was true that distance made the heart grow fonder, and your skin was practically itching for his hands to hold you once more. Consequences be damned. 

That outlook was foolish, dangerous even, and you both knew it. Even if Satoru had been disgruntled at your break up, you knew that he was smart enough to understand why, even if he’d disagreed with you. It was why he’d stayed far away from you over the last few years, eager to grant you your wish.

He’d worked just as hard as you had to keep temptation from even brushing your periphery. 

Rightfully so, considering that mere minutes alone in a room with him already had you unravelling. Your desire for him was more palpable than it had been back at school, as if your love had matured along with you. The space between your thighs was growing wetter with each passing second, skin prickling with electricity.

He gave you a bright smile, blue eyes narrowing deviously. “I missed you,” he stated, matter-of-factly, seemingly conscious of the way that his words seemed to grip your heart, squeezing it desperately. “I missed you more than you can imagine.” 

“I think I can imagine it.” 

“I don’t think so.” He leant forward, resting his chin on his hand in that lazy way that was characteristically him. “You have no idea how many nights I pictured you, imagining you on top of me, looking all angelic like you do. I wanted you to be the one stroking my-” 

“Stop,” you interrupted him quickly with a groan, not needing to hear the end of that sentence. His cock was the last thing that you needed to be thinking about right now, even if you did desperately want to feel it inside you again. 

The two of you had only made love a couple of times in your life, despite dating throughout most of your third year at high school. It was because you hadn’t felt ready until fairly far into your relationship, and relatively soon after you had started having sex, the whole thing with Yaga happened and everything stopped. 

It had made you wish that you’d agreed to make love earlier on in the span of your relationship, that way you could’ve done it more times. It would’ve given you more a reference point to pine over on the days when you really missed him. 

You hadn’t had sex with anyone since him. You probably never would. The idea that anyone could replace Satoru in your mind was laughable. It would always be him, even if you couldn’t actually be together. There was a jealous side of you that questioned whether he’d slept with anyone else in the time you’d been apart. You really hoped not. 

“Do you really want me to stop?” Satoru asked, rising from his chair and walking slowly across the room before stopping right before you. “Because you sure are blushing.” 

What did he really want you to say to that? Of course you didn’t want him to stop, you needed him to. But that wasn’t the question he was asking. 

“Satoru-” 

“I think about that day a lot, you know,” he interjected, “the day that you told me this needed to end. Back then all I could do was get upset, couldn’t think of a way to reason with you that what you were doing was wrong.” 

“Do you have one now?” You asked, your question coming out as a whisper, barely daring to hope that there was some glimmer of light at the end of this tunnel, a way that you could ease your heartache without tragedy for you both. 

“I think so.” 

You tilted your head, waiting for him to continue. 

“We’re literally soulmates,” he said, as if that cleared things up. 

“Yeah?” You prompted, assuming there was more to that statement. 

“The universe destined us for each other, who are we to go against the universe? That’s just ridiculous.” 

You laughed softly, shaking your head at his optimism. “Be that as it may, nothing has changed Satoru. If we give in, we’ll be met with tragedy.”

“Then we’ll just keep it a secret,” he said, easily. 

You rolled your eyes, infuriated that you’d believed he had any actual plan. Keeping things a secret was the first solution you’d thought of, far from a revolutionary concept. It wasn’t a sustainable option. 

“That won’t work.” 

“We’ll make it work.” 

“Satoru, that’s not-” 

“Are you happy?” His words cut through you like a knife, his blue gaze unwavering as he met your wide eyes. 

He’d struck his target with excellent precision, your mind swimming with hurt at the effectiveness of his comment. You weren’t happy, you hadn’t been happy in years. Without him, it was like the world around you was sucked of its colour, his absence leaving a deep ache in your chest right where your heart should be. 

“It doesn’t matter.” You said carefully, and he shook his head with a snort. 

“So that’s a no then.” 

“Please, stop-” 

“I’d take the risk of dying early if my life, however short, was spent with you.” 

His words stunned you into silence, your lips parted in shock, incapable of coming up with any sort of rebuttal for a statement like that. As much as you wanted to stand your ground, to point out that there was more to life than your romance alone, you knew that your words would be unconvincing. You didn’t even believe that yourself. 

Having Satoru at your side was all that you wanted out of life, you’d be lying if you said otherwise. 

Satoru was studying your face carefully, eyes darting around your features in an attempt to read your reaction amongst the silence you were currently offering him. Clearly, he found something that emboldened him, reaching out slowly and caressing your face before closing the gap, lips brushing tentatively against yours. 

There was a moment of hesitation, a desperate fight in your head where your conscience screamed at you to pull away, only for the voice to be drowned out by a static of pure devotion for the man before you. 

Forget the sensible option. Why deny yourself everything you’d ever desired? 

Satoru pulled you closer to him at the feeling of you kissing him back with fervour, sighing softly into the kiss as he mapped out your lips once more, eager to relearn the feeling of you in the same way that he once had. 

In the heat of the entanglement, the two of you entirely forgot the reason that you were in this situation in the first place, any attempts at staking out the curse users completely forgotten in favor of giving in to five years of absence. Failing your mission was the least of your worries, certain that Satoru would take the fall and make some excuse on your behalf anyway. 

Dealing with that could wait. 

Your soulmate had you on the bed, kissing and worshipping every bare inch of your skin as he peeled off each layer of clothing you donned, leaving endless love bites in his wake, marking you as indisputably his. 

He held you still as he moved between your thighs, lips moving to your pussy and eating you out like a man starved, refusing to let up even as you were wriggling beneath him from the overstimulation, tugging desperately at his soft hair as you unravelled on his tongue with such ease. 

When he finally pushed into you, he tugged you as close as physically possible, his arms wrapping snugly around your torso, your chests pressed flush together as he sank as deep as he could into your warmth. The movement of his hips was slow and languid, fucking you with a passion that had you swooning. 

All the while you clung to him, nails raking down his back with each deep thrust, soft little whimpers of his name falling from your lips. It felt better than any time you’d done this before, laced with a level of intimacy that could only be created through years of yearning. 

“I love you.” He mumbled against the crook of your neck, peppering your skin with gentle kisses, his voice a little raspy. “You’re mine.” 

You were his, for better or for worse. 

The two of you came together, bodies shuddering with pleasure at the euphoric feeling of release. Satoru kept you tucked snugly in his arms, kissing your hair lovingly for a long time afterwards, until you came to the realisation that you were in the middle of a mission and couldn’t afford to fall asleep together. 

Even if that was your desire in the moment. 

There was nothing more lovely than being tucked up at Satoru’s side. 

—

Your next few months weren’t unlike those that you’d spent at Satoru’s side in high school. Secret rendezvous and stolen kisses, pretending to hardly know each other in public whilst being all over each other in private. 

It was fortunate that you’d moved away from your family home once you’d entered adulthood, eager for a little bit of space and independence from your clan. It meant that you didn’t have to justify where you were going all the time, or figure out a place where you and Satoru could be together without prying eyes. 

For the most part, Satoru practically lived in your apartment, spending each night snuggled up with you in your bed, the two of you finding enjoyment in the most mundane things. It felt like a blessing to be able to spend time alone together doing anything, you didn’t need fancy meals or outings, all you really wanted was to be with him. 

In the time that you got to spend at his side, your cheeks were in constant pain from smiling so much, the world lit up with a bright array of colours only visible when he was with you. There was nothing in the world that you were more grateful for than waking up with him there beside you each morning, golden light illuminating his drool-laden face. 

The peace that the two of you had found lulled you both into a false sense of security, believing that it would be easier than you’d ever imagined to keep your union secret. This unintentional arrogance, the inability to see anything beyond how happy you both made each other, ultimately became your undoing. 

Satoru wasn’t a man without enemies, and as he approached twenty-five he’d already reached an insane level of notoriety among jujutsu society. He was hailed as the strongest sorcerer of your generation, and subsequently, had a major target painted on his back. There had been plenty of attempts on his life, from curse users and other sorcerers, including your family. 

For the most part, no such attempts meant anything to him. There wasn’t anyone alive who could compare to his skill. No one could touch him. 

It was just unfortunate that one day a particularly skilled assassin witnessed him entering your apartment. Elated that Satoru might have someone he was attached to, someone that they could hold hostage in exchange for certain conditions, the assassin and his partner took advantage of their knowledge and broke into your home one night.

Stealth was their specialty, and they’d grabbed you before Satoru could do anything, holding a knife to your throat. You were never in any mortal danger, not with your soulmate’s quick realisation of your stress, leaping to action immediately. 

The real issue arose from the light line that the man drew with his blade across your throat. 

Blood beaded up on your skin immediately at the shallow cut, a small whimper leaving your lips, and panic gripping your body at the sight of the mirrored mark manifesting on Satoru’s neck. You prayed your attacker wouldn’t see it, but it was wishful thinking. The assassin’s eyes gleamed at the sight, the realisation stark on their face. 

They were dead before they could act on it, blown apart by Satoru’s technique. 

You’d relaxed then, covered in the man’s blood as Satoru cradled you, his forehead resting against yours as he mumbled apologies. You were both too shaken to notice that the assassin hadn’t been alone, that he had an accomplice waiting outside your window, watching the whole scene unfold. 

He’d been ready to assist his friend, but it was a fool’s game as long as Satoru was awake and aware. Besides, what he’d learned from the scene was worth far more to him than making an attempt on your soulmate’s life. 

Because he knew something that would shake his employer’s whole world. 

It wasn’t unusual for you to visit your clan every now and then, and it was a pleasant afternoon in spring when you stopped by to have lunch with your parents, who had been pestering you about coming to visit for a while. 

There was something uncomfortable about seeing them knowing that you spent your nights tangled up with Satoru, but you did your best to separate your thoughts from the sin that you were committing in your family’s eyes. It was important that you acted normally with them - they were your flesh and blood after all, not everything had to revolve around the feud. 

Who you were dating shouldn’t be of importance. 

That afternoon in particular felt uniquely awkward. Conversation was stilted, and there was a tremble to your mother’s hand every time she passed you a plate. Your father’s questions seemed oddly formal and impersonal, and it struck you as strange that halfway through lunch, a handful of your extended family popped in to join. 

You brushed it off at first, assuming that perhaps your absence over the last few months had made things awkward, or that they maybe had some bad news to share that they were struggling to articulate. Perhaps someone had died or something and they didn’t want to say it outright for fear of upsetting you. 

There were a million explanations for a strange vibe. It wasn’t something to stress over. 

An explanation for the atmosphere only came at the very end of your lunch, once plates had been cleared and there was nothing to distract from addressing the matter that they’d invited you home to discuss. 

“Gojo Satoru.” Your father said out of the blue, catching you off guard. His face was sickly pale, sweat dripping down his brow, clearly agonising over what would come next. 

You tilted your head dumbly. “What about him?” 

“We tried to kill him a few weeks ago.” 

“Any success?” You immediately winced at your instinctive response - that was playing it a little too dumb. Because even if you weren’t seeing Satoru at your apartment each night, the whole of jujutsu society would be aware if he’d died - it would be the most prominent piece of gossip for months.  

“No. Of course not.” Your grandfather interjected, clearly disgruntled with the pace of the conversation. “We did uncover something rather interesting though.” 

He made a gesture in the direction of your mother, as if giving her the grounds to speak, and you sucked in an anxious breath. Your mother shot you a sympathetic look before rummaging in her bag and sliding an envelope across the table. Everyone’s eyes were on you, waiting for you to open it up. 

You didn’t know exactly what would be waiting for you inside, but you had a pretty good guess. 

With shaky hands, you opened up the envelope, trying not to react at the sight of an image taken from outside your bedroom window, peering into your ground-floor apartment. You and Satoru were locked in an embrace, the assassin that your soulmate had killed was dead on the floor beside you. 

Clearly visible in the image were the matching trails of blood that lined both yours and Satoru’s necks.

Your brain was already working as fast as it could, trying to come up with some explanation for this, some lie that would disarm your family. If you couldn’t come up with something believable, then the bliss that you’d found with Satoru would crumble, and that was the last thing you wanted. 

“You’re soulmates,” your grandfather stated matter-of-factly, after a long stretch of silence. 

“No,” you said on reflex, as if that would be enough to overturn the evidence laid out in front of you. “They’re photoshopped.” 

One of your uncles let out a laugh, earning him a strict glare from your grandfather, clearly unamused by your attempts to lie. “We’d hoped there was an explanation, so we had you followed for a few weeks. We have evidence of him entering your apartment on numerous occasions.” 

You bit down on your lip, thinking carefully for a moment before speaking once more. “Okay, so we are dating, but we’re not soulmates. I just didn’t want you guys to know because…you know…” 

“It would do you good to stop lying, sweetheart.” Your father’s voice was even, his brows drawn together in concern. “One of the assassins saw the whole thing. No one has seen him bleed in years, and yet there was blood on him, plain as day, after you were attacked.” 

Gulping, you glanced around the room, hoping to find someone who would take pity on your circumstance and help you escape the pit that you’d fallen into. You were met with only judgement and disappointment, turning over the idea in your head that you should make a run for it instead. 

The concept wasn’t all that appealing, because you were far from the strongest sorcerer in the room, and if they wanted to subdue you, they could do so with little effort. 

“How long have you known?” Your grandfather asked. 

Should you lie? You weren’t sure how much angrier they’d be if they were aware that you’d known since you were in high school and had refused to tell them. It was probably better if they assumed that you’d only found out recently. 

“Just for a few months.” 

“Sweetheart, tell the truth.” Your father seemed greatly exasperated. “We all know about the time he almost died thanks to that Zenin boy. It was an attack that lined up suspiciously well with your own injury.” 

Yaga had covered up the situation well at the time, claiming that you’d been sent out on a solo mission in which you’d received a non-fatal wound. He’d made sure to dismiss any association between your circumstances and what had happened to Satoru. But evidently with this latest information, your family had spent some time connecting the dots. 

“Have you been sneaking around since then?” Your mother asked. “Is that why you always refuse the marriage prospects we present to you?” 

“No. Only for the last few months.” This time it genuinely wasn’t a lie, and you hoped that they could understand that. 

The skepticism in your grandfather’s eyes said otherwise. 

“Do you understand what an embarrassment this is?” He asked. “A granddaughter of mine, choosing to lie with someone from that clan? It's disgusting. Thank god your union is yet to bring forth any offspring - what an abomination they’d be.”

You had to bite down on your tongue to avoid snapping back at him. Any children that you had with Satoru would likely be as lovely as their father, but your clan would hear nothing of the sort. Any attempt to point out that the feud was archaic and meaningless would do nothing but harm to you. 

It seemed like the silence that followed your grandfather’s statement was a prompt for you to apologise, but you’d do no such thing. To you, there was no embarrassment. Satoru had been nothing but good to you, and you wouldn’t forsake your love for him because of some external pressure. 

“Its not like she can help it,” your father said quietly. “Soulmates are a divine thing, she had no choice in loving him.” 

Your heart picked up ever so slightly, grateful for the smallest hint of a defence, only for your hopes to be thoroughly dashed at his following sentence. 

“Besides, remember what we discussed? The connection is a blessing in disguise.” 

Reeling back in your chair, you glanced nervously around the room once more, the implication of his statement hanging heavy. This had been what Yaga had warned you of all those years ago, but a part of you had always believed that your clan held too much affection for you to really act in the way he’d suggested. 

Perhaps you’d misjudged them. 

“Indeed.” Your grandfather’s voice boomed across the room. “You’ve had a lapse in judgement, but you can still do what’s right. This is an opportunity that we haven’t had in decades. We can finally gain a significant foothold of power over their clan.” 

“How?” You weren’t sure why you were asking, you knew what the answer was going to be. Perhaps it was that naive hope that there was some other, less lethal solution than the one that had immediately come to mind. 

Unfortunately, no such alternative was offered. 

“Though your sacrifice,” he said plainly. “Go peacefully into the afterlife and make this family proud after all the dishonor you’ve brought upon us. Become legend within our clan, for you’d be one of few to put a six-eyes to death.” 

There was no point in arguing, no point in wasting a single second more in this room. It wasn’t your own life that concerned you, but Satoru’s. You weren’t about to bow in the manner that they wanted.

You were on your feet in an instant, making a bolt for the door. You’d barely made it five steps before you were tackled by one of your cousins, a hard blow to the head knocking you out cold. 

In retrospect, you supposed they could’ve killed you right there and then. It would’ve been the quickest and easiest option, the most-straightforward way to assure that Satoru perished in the manner that they desired. For some reason, most likely due to a level of sentimentality, they locked you up in a room instead.

It was likely that your parents had something to do with that. You could picture them begging your grandfather not to put you down immediately, to ensure that there was some level of ceremony to go along with your sacrifice, an opportunity for them to properly say goodbye to you. 

They didn’t see it as fair or befitting for you to be killed on some random afternoon in a poxy little room following a mediocre lunch. Even if you were a disappointment to their clan, you deserved more than that. 

So it was decided. Two weeks from now, on the full moon, there would be a great feast and celebration amongst your clan. And once midnight struck, you would be beheaded for the sake of eliminating Gojo Satoru. It would be painless and respectable, the type of death that any proud clan member should be proud to experience if it was for the sake of their family. 

One that you dreaded. 

You spent two weeks chained up to a waterpipe in a poxy little room that your family seldom used, anxiety swirling in your chest as you thought about Satoru, wondering where he was, wishing above all else that there was a way that he could be saved from the fate that you were about to receive. 

Yaga was right, you would only bring tragedy upon both of you. 

If you were strong like Satoru you’d both be safe, you’d be free to live out life in whichever way you pleased. It was your weakness that was failing both of you. 

How unfair. 

The night of your execution came around, and you were dragged into the hall that your clan used for large events. Food was forced down your throat, despite the fact that the urge to vomit was growing within you with each passing second. Family members approached you, gushing about how what you were doing was just so great as if you had any choice in the matter. 

Meanwhile, it felt like your heart was splitting in two, desperately calling out for Satoru. You hadn’t told him where you were going the day you’d gone to have lunch with your family, in his mind you could be anywhere. There was no doubt in your mind that your clan had kept matters quiet, unwilling to alert Satoru of your location. 

Perhaps he might’ve gotten something of a clue by the blunt force trauma that you’d received when trying to escape. You could only assume that he’d been knocked out for a time too. Hopefully he’d been somewhere safe when that happened. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Your mother had come to sit next to you, pulling you from your thoughts. “I know this feels unfair, but it's best for everyone.” 

“Is it?” You asked. 

“It is. We need to rid the world of those devils. You know that.” 

You shook your head with a scoff, trying not to laugh in her face. 

“Satoru is kind. Did you know that? He’s just a man, and he’d never do anything to hurt this clan. The feud is meaningless to him.” 

“You just don’t get it, honey. You’re too young and lovestruck to realise what he is.” 

“And you’re too blinded by hatred.” You snapped back. There was no point in hiding behind a mask of politeness anymore. They were going to execute you whether you were kind or not, apparently that was your duty. 

“He could kill us all with no effort.” Your grandfather, who had been watching from a couple of seats away, interjected. “Do you understand what he's capable of? He might be enamoured enough with you to treat you with kindness, but that same offer will not extend to us. It never does with that family.” 

You kept your mouth shut after that. 

There was no merit to pointing out that most scuffles had been caused by your clan and not theirs, or the fact that the Gojo clan had been dwindling in numbers so significantly over the years that they didn’t pose a threat at all outside of Satoru - who couldn’t care less about the feud. 

Everyone was too caught up in their own old ways of thinking, and too convinced that you’d brought dishonor upon their household. There was no chance of changing anyone's mind, so why waste your breath? 

As the banquet drew to a close, and they led you out into the courtyard, the night sky alight with stars, you wondered if you were the first person in your clan to fall in love with a Gojo. Were there soulmates transcending the rift before the two of you? Did they face the same fate that you were about to meet? 

Somehow the thought offered you a certain amount of comfort as you were shoved down onto your knees atop a white sheet. It was there to make the clean up easier, you supposed. God forbid they stain the garden with your blood. 

You wondered what Satoru was doing. Was he out there desperately searching for you, aware that you had to be alive but fearful of how long it would stay that way? Was his fear born out of worry for you, or was he more terrified at the idea that his own life was in total peril and he had no control over it at all? 

Even if your death was inevitable, even if this was fate playing out in the way that it was supposed to, you wished that you could apologise to him. You loved him, loved being his soulmate, but if you could make one wish in that moment, it would be for that bond to sever. 

He deserved to live a long and happy life, one unhampered by your weakness and your clan's inane hatred of his very existence. 

He deserved better than the fate you were providing him. 

Your grandfather stood over you, drawing his sword from its scabbard with practiced precision. You weren’t surprised that he was the one taking on the task. As the oldest member of the family, he held the strongest views on upholding tradition and the duty that everyone should be displaying where family were involved. 

It was likely that he also just had the strongest stomach for something like this. Killing a member of the clan, traitor or otherwise, would weigh heavy on many others in your family. Your grandfather had always been good at doing the hard things in life. 

Whether he considered this one of them, you weren’t particularly sure. Perhaps he was overjoyed to put down such an immense disappointment. 

“Any last words?” He asked, staring down at you. You’d already bowed your head in anticipation. This was going to happen whether you liked it or not, any attempt to struggle would ultimately make the death more painful for you. 

Perhaps you should’ve stayed silent, given them nothing, but that didn’t feel quite right. If you had a moment to speak, then you’d at least give them something that might haunt their actions. 

“You shouldn’t hold hatred in your hearts. It has turned you ugly.” You kept your voice as even as possible, eyes fixed on the floor. 

“You know little of the world.” Your grandfather stated, unphased. “But we thank you for your sacrifice all the same.” 

Drawing in a steadying breath, you squeezed your eyes shut. Thoughts of Satoru flooded your mind, comforting visions of him at your side, holding you tight, whispering sweet nothings in your ear as you fell asleep in his arms. Perhaps there was life after death, and you would go there together. 

There might be a world better than this one, a place where you could be his with no barriers to your union. Even if you wished you could’ve had it in this life instead. 

A rush of air brushed against the nape of your neck as your grandfather swung his sword, your mind peacefully drifting off somewhere else, in total acceptance of your circumstances. 

But a second passed, and then another, and another. Your head was still firmly attached to your body. Experimentally, you cracked on eye open, finding yourself in the same position as before, knelt down on that white sheet. The difference this time was that it wasn’t your grandfather who was standing over you. 

Satoru’s face was splattered with blood, breathing heavily as he stared down at you, paying little mind to the old man crumpled on the floor beside you, his bones bent unnaturally and his sword shattered into pieces. 

“Satoru…” You breathed softly, eyes wide. You’d never seen him like this before, the look on his face completely serious. There was a flicker of soft affection in his eyes as he glanced over at you, but it was clear that he had no intention of breaking his facade as long as you weren’t safe from this situation. 

“Do you want me to kill them?” Satoru asked flatly, gaze sweeping over the remainder of your clan, most of whom looked terrified. You couldn’t really blame them, he was the strongest sorcerer out there, not a single one of them stood a chance against him.

Their only option would be to use you, and right now, Satoru was standing protectively in front of your shaking form. 

“I- I don’t know.” You stumbled over your words. 

Despite the attempt to execute you, there was a hesitance where it came to letting Satoru wreak havoc upon them. They were still your family, still the people who had raised you with so much care. All of this insanity was a result of years of conditioning to hate Satoru and everyone else like him. 

You genuinely believed that they didn’t know better. 

Did that mean they deserved to live though? None of them hesitated when it came to killing you. There was no guarantee, if you let them live, that they wouldn’t try something like this again in the future. 

Besides, Satoru had killed your grandfather already. You were sure that alone would stoke their flames of hatred even further. 

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his white hair, brows creasing as he seemed to give it some thought. Your family found their words first, with your father taking a shaky step forward and pointing an accusatory finger at your soulmate. “See, he comes in here and instantly kills one of us! Threatens to kill us all! This is why we need him dead!” 

Satoru rolled his eyes. “Really? You were about to kill my soulmate. What else did you want me to do? Let it happen?” 

He took a few steps towards the crowd, putting himself firmly between you and them. They flinched back in fear as he approached, but he seemed unbothered, moving until he was towering over your father. 

“I’d never have come here, I’d never have laid a hand on any of you. Until you tried to take her from me. I don’t care if you want to live some ugly, bitter life because of some distant feud, I don’t care if you want to send assassins after me. But you don’t lay a single hand on her - that, I won’t abide by.” Satoru’s tone was uncharacteristically cold, and it had you shivering despite not being the intended recipient. 

You could only imagine how your father must feel. 

“And we’re just supposed to believe you?” Your mother asked, her tone shrill. 

Satoru tilted his head to look at her, disbelief in his expression. “I don’t care about some dusty old feud, and you shouldn’t either.”

“I told you, mother.” You called out shakily. “Satoru isn’t interested in causing us harm.” 

“The words of a traitor mean little.” Your mother responded harshly. You took in a sharp breath, trying not to let the words wound you. You didn’t want to be seen as a traitor to your family, and had never considered yourself one. 

It was no crime to fall in love. 

Satoru laughed, earning a few confused glances from your family. “Forget it.” He turned back to you, eyes a little wild. “What do you wanna do, baby?” 

The insinuation hung in the air once more, and you turned it over in your mind for a few seconds before standing up on shaky feet. Seeing your grandfather on the floor was more than enough bloodshed for you. What was the point in massacring the rest of your family? It might feel good in the moment, but the guilt would haunt you forever. 

You’d be the bigger person. 

“Consider me an outcast.” You said, eyes flicking between your mother and father. “I no longer want anything to do with this clan. Come after either of us again, and I’ll send him here to do the very thing that you live in fear of.” 

A giddy grin made its way onto Satoru’s face, one that was sufficiently insane to get your message across. “I’ll do it, I’ll kill all of you. If you so much as touch her ever again.” 

There was no response to that, no bold quip from your father. They’d wanted Satoru dead because they knew that he was capable of that and more. Up to this point, they’d drawn none of his ire, they were free to live in peace. But now the threat was desperately real, the consequences of their actions finally catching up with them. 

Content with their compliance, Satoru approached you. He crouched down for a moment, hands tenderly brushing your face, studying you, as if checking for injury. It was almost an amusing exchange, and you had to bite your tongue to keep yourself from pointing out that if you were injured, he’d know about it already. 

But the action was tender and loving all the same, and you revelled in the feeling of his hands on you. 

“Are you okay?” He whispered softly, quiet enough for the words to remain between the two of you, safe from the prying ears of your family.

“Better now you’re here.” 

He smiled, letting out a deep breath. “Good. Let's get out of here.” 

Pulling his hands away from your face, he slid his arms beneath you and picked you up like you weighed nothing. He held you close to his chest, blue eyes surveying your family once more as he turned to face them. 

“You guys going to let me through, or are we going to have a problem?” 

There were a few awkward looks exchanged, before the crowd finally parted. They wouldn’t do anything to provoke him now, they knew better than that. Even if their hatred was burning stronger than ever in their hearts, vindicated by your soulmate's actions today, they understood that Satoru could slaughter all of them with little issue if he chose to. 

It just wasn’t worth it. 

“Thank you,” he said in a sing-song tone as he stepped past them. You buried your face into his chest, eager to avoid seeing the disappointed looks on the faces of your family. Despite his outwardly easy demeanor, you could feel Satoru’s heartbeat racing in his chest. You wondered if his anxiety was just as high as yours was. 

You almost couldn’t believe it when the two of you stepped out of the compound, swiftly making it to Satoru’s car which was parked down the road. He placed you gently into the passenger seat, strapping you in before speeding away as fast as he was willing to go on the country roads leading to your family home. 

His hand was resting on your thigh, squeezing ever so slightly. It was if the contact was reassuring him that you were actually there, that you weren’t going to slip from his grasp as long as he was touching you. 

“I wanted to kill them.” He said, blue eyes fixed on the road. “I know you didn’t want me to, but…”

“It would haunt me,” you said honestly. “Besides, unless you were planning on killing all my baby cousins, the stupid feud and cycle of hatred would just continue. I don’t want any part of that.” 

He hummed. You weren’t sure what to make of it, weren’t clear whether he’d have wiped out your whole clan there and then, innocent or not. Not that there was any point lingering on it - he’d always put your desires first, had gone against his own wants to make sure that you were happy. 

“I think they’ll continue the feud anyway. I’m sure there’ll be no forgiveness for what I did to that old man.” He seemed unbothered by that fact, unsurprising considering that your family had been trying to kill him his whole life anyway. “I think we need to move you out of your apartment, I need a way of keeping you safe.” 

You nodded in agreement, even if your mind was racing with worries surrounding how you were supposed to do that. The cat was out of the bag, and Satoru couldn’t hover at your side for every second of every day. 

“We can move you to my estate.”

Recoiling, you shot him an incredulous look. “Are you joking?” 

“No?” 

“How would that be any different than where I just came from? I’m from the clan that you guys despise.” 

Satoru rolled his eyes. “Firstly, I’m literally the head of my clan so what I say goes. Secondly, I don’t have a big clan like you do, most of my family were old when I was a kid and now there’s hardly anyone left to uphold tradition. Thirdly, you don’t belong to your clan anymore in any capacity, you’re mine, so for all intents and purposes, let's just say you’re a Gojo.” 

You stared at him for a while as you tried to take all of that in. “I can’t just take your name.” 

“Then we’ll get married and it can be official.” He batted back your protest with a simple shrug of his shoulders, like proposing marriage was no big deal, something that the two of you would obviously do together. 

“Are- are you asking me to marry you?” 

“Baby, I would’ve married you at seventeen, the moment I found out we were soulmates.” 

You giggled incredulously. “That would’ve been poorly thought out.” 

“Would it?” He glanced over at you seriously. You watched the way his hands tightened on the steering wheel, pulling over to the side of the road and shutting off the engine so that he could give you his full attention. “You’re my soulmate, I know that I’ll never want anyone but you.” 

“O-oh.” You flushed a deep shade of red, caught off guard by the deep sincerity in his voice. After weeks of stress and anxiety, it felt strange to be treated with such tenderness. You could hardly believe that he was really here, back at your side once more. 

“I can get you a ring or something and do this properly, but what I’m trying to say is: it doesn’t matter if your own family has forsaken you, because you can be part of mine.”

Your heart was hammering against your ribcage, beating so fast that it risked outright escape, making an attempt to jump straight out of your throat. You’d loved Satoru since you were seven years old, even if you hadn’t known it then. Looking at him now, in all his beauty, you could hardly believe that he was yours. Even through all the tragedy, against all odds, you were here together. 

“I’d like that.” Your voice came out as a whisper, but Satoru heard it all the same. 

“I’m glad.” His breath was hot against your lips as he leant over the centre console, his nose brushing tenderly against yours for just a moment before rewarding you with a slow and passionate kiss, one that had your whole world spinning - not unlike the first time you’d done this many years ago. 

“I’m yours,” you asserted as he pulled away, lashes fluttering. 

He beamed, cerulean eyes filled with a deep affection. “You are. Now and forever.”

a/n: I've been focussing on this fic for agessss because writing gojo does not come naturally to me!! I promise I'll go back to what I know and give you more sukuna soon (I swear I will have a new sweet tooth chapter imminently)

thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are appreciated as always <3

He looked familiar. His eyes were a deep amethyst, his smile was soft and kind. His dark and shaggy hair was tied behind his head in a small bun, and his ears were adorned with multiple piercings. Although many at Oxford, especially the men, tried to appear as blank as usual, he seemed apt and content with going against the stuffy and old notions. 

You must have seemed confused because the man stuttered as he introduced himself. 

“I’m Suguru,” he restarted, his hand leaving his side as he extended it to shake yours, “I think we had the same English survey course last semester.” 

Your confusion melted away into a wide smile as you shook his hand, his own eyes crinkling around the edges as he grinned back, letting out a breath of relief as you nodded insistently, shaking your head at your own self. 

“Right, right, Suguru! I remember you!” You exclaimed, setting your cup down to the side as you watched him tuck a strand of loose hair behind his ear, “You sat a little bit in front of me, right?” 

His head ducked down momentarily as he chukked, putting his hands in his pants pockets as he nodded. 

“I did,” he chuckled slightly, “Right in the line of fire for when Howard needed to pick on someone.” 

Your lips quirk up slightly as you nod, remembering how the professor you work for now used to terrorize your class and quiz random students on particular syllables and grammatical imperfections in the reading they were supposed to have done. 

The class was small, as were most major-specific courses you were taking. Although you didn’t have many of your friends in the class, you had gotten a good sense of who was in there and who Dr. Howard preferred to pick on. Suguru, for the most part, did the reading and did his work, so he came out unscathed compared to some of the other students. He sat near the front with some of his own friends, and you had talked to him in passing a couple of times when the class as a whole would band together to compare comments on assignments. He was kind, from what you remembered, which is probably why you felt your shoulders growing less tense the more you two talked. 

“That’s her style,” you say, shrugging as you fiddle with your fingers. “It took a while to get used to it,” you admit. Suguru rolls his eyes at your humility, remembering clearly just how much Dr. Howard favored you, but he doesn’t say anything as he lets you continue, “I don’t know if you’ve had Creemer yet, but he’s worse with his cold calls and isn’t half as nice.” 

“I have him right now for rhetoric and grammar,” he said with a sigh, shaking his head in dismay, “He’s…sadistic, I think.”

You giggle, nodding feverishly at the statement as you recall your past couple of classes with the hellish professor, an infamous name for many English majors and someone that you try to avoid at all costs if possible. 

The party, or gathering, as it said on the invitation, drones on in the background as you look around to see if anybody is looking in your direction. Most of the time, you can do what you want, but seeing that Dr. Howard had warned you before tonight that somebody from the department might want to swarm you to ask questions that you most likely didn’t have answers to, had put you on edge. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” He asked, motioning to the rest of the people with a knowing glint as you politely smile, shrugging your shoulders as your lips press tightly together. Whether it be your shy nature or how you preferred smaller crowds, it must’ve been evident on your face that you weren’t necessarily having the most amount of fun. 

“I am,” you answer, wincing at the way your voice sounded warbled, “I’m trying to make the most of these opportunities, I guess.” 

Suguru’s head dipped in understanding, taking a sip of his drink as he bit the inside of his cheek, leaning in slightly as he lowered his voice. 

“These things drag on for a bit, though, yeah? I’m feeling my fingers prune from how long I’ve held this glass.” 

You let out a sigh of relief, sharing the same sentiment as the two of you share a knowing look. 

“I…I, um, I heard that Howard chose you to research with her, though, right? That’s gotta be pretty cool,” Suguru asked after a beat, bringing you back to the conversation as his head tilted slightly, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks as you swallowed. He seemed kind, not asking the question bitterly as some other people have. 

You nodded again, trying to contain your smile as you leaned against the stone pillar next to you. Letting out a small hum, you swallow again, trying to scope out what sort of place he was coming from. 

“It is,” you answered, biting on the inside of your cheek as you were still reeling from being selected from such a wide pool of applicants and such a rigorous interview process to work on her next paper analyzing More’s work through a modern lens, “It’s…strenous, sometimes, but I’m having a lot of fun working with her,” you fidgeted with your fingers, “So yeah, it’s pretty cool.” You say sheepishly. 

Suguru smiled at your hidden enthusiasm, the tip of his boot nudging something on the ground. He went to usher you to continue before his eye caught something behind your shoulder, his eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise as his smile grew even wider, his hand raising in a wave. 

“Sorry,” he apologetically muttered, and you craned your neck around to see what it was, or rather who it was that Suguru had seen, “I think my friend just arrived.” 

That’s when you felt your breathing stop. 

The bustling group of students and faculty members almost seemed to part theatrically for the man walking towards the two of you, but you couldn’t even blame them. 

He stuck out like a sore thumb, with his icy white hair and strikingly beautiful eyes. His lengthy frame made him nearly a head taller than even the tallest man in the room, and his wide shoulders helped him wade through the bodies as he navigated to his friend. His face seemed stoic, bordering on bored, but you couldn’t help but widen your eyes in shock at seeing the most devastatingly gorgeous man to ever exist. He adjusted his glasses over the bridge of his nose, his lips moving in quiet apologies as he tried to move through the people without bumping into them. 

You suddenly became hyper-aware of the fact that it had been days since you had last had a good night's sleep and that the bags under your eyes were most likely even more evident in the dim lighting of the old hall, and how your sweater was lumpy from being shoved in the back of your closet for so long. You swallow thickly as Suguru quickly excused himself as he stepped away and walked a bit away to hug the stranger, exchanging some words with each other as you stood awkwardly to the side. 

You watched them silently as they talked for a little bit more before Suguru stepped away, his hand on his friend's back as he, for some horrifying reason, seemed to guide him towards where you were stiffly standing as the two of you made eye contact before you became aware of the way your eyeballs felt in your socket and how heavy your tongue was in your mouth. 

When Suguru finally pulled away from the modern-day Adonis, you felt like a creeper and a loner as you wondered whether or not to leave or stand in the corner while they talked, but ever the kind person that he was, Suguru led the man by the back to where the two of you were with a wide smile on his face. 

“Sorry about that,” Suguru abashedly apologized, chuckling deeply as he rubbed the back of his neck, “But this is my friend, Satoru,” he said brightly, pushing the man a little harshly towards you as you stared at him silently.

The man, Satoru, gives you a tight-lipped smile, nodding once in your direction as he looks around, looking uncomfortable and shifty. Suguru rolled his eyes, sighing deeply as he patted his friend's back. 

You grinned back, swallowing the spit in your mouth as you felt him stare at you once he was done looking at the room, your cheeks heating up. You felt his eyes drift over your outfit, at your posture, and the way your hands were clasped tightly together. This stranger assessed the way you swayed slightly, awkwardly, not knowing how to fill the silence as you tapped the tip of your battered shoes on the ground. When he was done, his chin lifted again, his stare lingering on your blinking face as you glanced between him and Suguru, waiting for somebody to say something before you imploded and left with the lingering scent of your vanilla body spray. 

Seeing that he was fine with checking you out, you took the time to do the same. He seemed like one of the generational students of the school, the ones whose parents and grandparents and cousins and siblings all came and went and made something important with their lives. They weren’t hard to detect, especially him, with his steamed jumper and his creased pants. His leather shoes were shining back at you, and though his hair was somewhat messy, it seemed to be classily messy, unlike what you and some other students would call freely messy.

“I force him to come to these things with me,” Suguru explained, but you could barely hear him over the rhythm of heartbeats in your ear as you tried to fly, appreciate the man a few feet in front of you, “Our friend Shoko sometimes comes, but she had things to do tonight.”

The man’s nose wrinkled ever so slightly, his brows drawing tightly together as he glanced at his friend with a look. 

“I had things to do too,” he muttered, his voice deep as you felt your heart stupidly tumble at the sounds. 

Suguru snorted, shaking his head as he shrugged indifferently. 

“Sure,” Suguru replied sarcastically and glanced at you, his brow slightly raised at the way you had gone silent, his lips quirking slightly when he noticed the way you couldn’t stop staring at his friend, not voicing anything as his hand on Satoru’s shoulder loosened, “Just act like you want to be here for twenty minutes, yeah?”

You bit your teeth into your cheek, a finger raising slightly as you pointed to the newcomer's face. 

“I like your glasses,” you said brightly, your smile gentle as you fidget with your own, watching the way his striking eyes moved over to you again, squinting slightly as his hand raised upwards, as if he had forgotten that his glasses were even there, “They frame your face really well.” Your head tilts a little as you try to place something, “Where’d you get them? If, if you don’t mind me asking. Mine is so old and dingy, and the rims are basically glued on, and I’ve only had them for a few years.” 

“Erm, well, thank you,” Satoru says stiffly, not used to the direct attention and compliments, his cheeks slightly dusted with pink as Suguru watches his friend struggle for words, taking the glasses off as he turns them to the side, trying to read the logo, “These are, erm, from Cartier. But I usually wear contacts, anyway.”

You let out a startled laugh, not a stranger to hearing students at this place don expensive items, but this being the first time you’ve seen one of them bashful about it. 

You nod, your smile still there, softer as you take in his slightly awkward nature and let him put the glasses back on before you continue. 

“Contacts are more practical,” you agree, even though you’ve always had a phobia of things touching your eyes and would never wear contacts unless somebody forced you, shrugging as you say, “But I’ve always appreciated the look of glasses.” 

Satoru gnaws on his lips, nodding quietly as Suguru starts talking about his friend's major (biochemistry, you came to find out), and how long they’ve known each other, but you could only feel your stupid feelings when Suguru stayed, his friend included, and talked with you for the rest of the evening. 

That was your sophomore year. 

Nearly two years passed after befriending Suguru alongside his small group. He introduced you to Shoko after that night, swearing up and down that the two of you were destined to be near each other. And we weren’t wrong, not in the slightest. You two girls bonded strangely fast, as if you were twin flames that were being fanned out. Suguru and Satoru seemed to mirror the two of you, but the group functioned as a whole, for the most part. You spent so many nights over at their dorms that you could walk around blindfolded and still find your way to the others with no issue. It was fun, it was what you had dreamt of for so long. It was something that you were fine with, more than content with, ending your university career in a couple of months. 

Well, everything for the most part, you could consider it as such if it wasn’t for your debilitating and soul-crushing feelings for the stranger you met that night. 

It’s been four semesters, and you still don’t think Gojo Satoru has a clue. Which, in all honesty, is for the better. 

Although his stoic nature spares nobody, it feels as though you're always on the worst end of it. With his lingering stares that seem to border on questioning why you were even there whenever he sees you, to the way he grows dim and quiet around you, it feels like you’re actively attempting to hurt yourself the more you fall in love with the little things you hadn’t noticed the day prior.

Even worse, you know deep down that such feelings are most likely, under this sun and every other universe, with most certainty and heavy grief, unrequited. 

But you’re fine keeping it down. 

You were fine until recently.

—

“I’m debating switching majors.” 

Shoko declared from the couch, her legs hanging off the side, knocking occasionally on your shoulders as you crane your neck back on the cushion form where you were seated on the ground to look at her upside down. 

“To what?” 

She shrugged, rubbing at her eyes as she held her neuroanatomy textbook in one hand, her phone in the other as she scrolled through the different majors Oxford offered, as if she wasn’t a semester away from graduating. 

“Film?” She read out, and you snorted, rolling your eyes at the prospect of Shoko going into film, “Hm…maybe art history?” 

“Gave up on the med school dream?” Suguru quips from the other side of the couch, knowing fully that Shoko was just going on another one of her tangents as she shifted slightly to shove him harshly with her socked foot. 

“I’m sure your counselor wouldn’t mind,” you reply, looking at her as she glares, her eyes falling back to her phone as she peers at the screen. She looked boredly a little bit before her eyes flitted upwards slightly, squinting as she read the new notification. 

“Satoru said he’s going to be here in a few minutes,” she muttered, reading the next message, “And that he wants you,” she nudged Suguru with her foot again to motion that it was him that Satoru was referencing in the text, “To move to your bed so that he can do his work on his side of the couch.” 

Suguru peeked up from his doom scrolling to look at Shoko, his eyes narrowed in a glare as he let out a huff of annoyance. 

“His side?” 

Shoko shrugged, her knee knocking on the side of your head as you knock it back, the book you were reading resting in your hands as you listened to Suguru mutter distastefully about how this was his dorm and that Satoru had no right claiming his couch, but you heard him shuffle to his feet nonetheless. 

You tried not to show any peek of interest when the infamous name was called out, but it was hard not to. It had been two grueling years of mulling over your childish crush, yet the sound of his name could still send pulses to your veins that you were sure were minor heart attacks. 

Because it was Gojo Satoru. You wanted to bang your head against the coffee table just hearing it. 

Truth be told, you weren’t a stranger to having crushes. It was normal, it was human. Or at least, that’s what you convinced yourself when you were sprawled out on your bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as you tried not to think about the way his fingers ever so slightly grazed your wrist when he handed you some chopsticks earlier at the restaurant. 

But your crushes came few and far between, and you preferred keeping it that way. Seeing that you were too terrified to ever admit them, and the few, very few times you have, they’ve backfired horrifically, you try not to catch feelings as much as possible. But there was something about Gojo, something beyond reason, that pulled you to him. 

At first, you bargained. You tried convincing yourself that it was just his appearance that was drawing you in, his suave looks that made people’s heads turn whenever he entered a room. But you have seen him at four in the morning with his old band tees (a sight that still made you swoon), with his hair crusted with glitter and his eyes pink with eyeshadow as Shoko attempted to put him in drag. Even then, he was insanely gorgeous, so you knew it had to be beyond that. 

When you had finally accepted that it was a mind-numbing and life-ending crush that you were feeling towards him, you finally gave in and decided to admire the tall brute from afar. It helped that the two of you had gotten somewhat closer over the past two years, but out of everyone in the group, he was the one you talked to the least. In your defense, he didn’t have much to say to anybody, and that was just his nature. He spent most of his time studying and researching, and the other time watching, observant as other people gossiped. It wasn’t his forte, and nobody pushed him. 

So you took in his quietness and his stoicism, appreciated his god-like looks and his overwhelming presence. That was fine. 

What made it even worse was that he was so unattainably perfect in other ways that your crush festered into something that made you scream into your pillows and throw your balls of clothes at the wall as you wallowed in self-pity. 

Everyone at this damned university was intelligent, and you had made amends with them early on. But you loved men who were smart, guys who could actually hold a page down and dissect it and make the most of it. And worst of all, Gojo Satoru was probably the most intellectual person you have ever met, and will ever meet. It seemed like his memory was photographic, his mind working twenty thousand times faster than the regular brain as he computed formulas and equations at speeds that you couldn’t fathom. He made biochemistry seem easy, something that you sometimes felt guilty for not pursuing. And sure, it didn’t help that you were on the other side with your texts about Russian classics and books diving deep into the restoration period, but even Shoko, who could rival Gojo at times, would begrudgingly admit under her breath just how stupidly genius he was. 

Therefore, when you put those things together, his charming looks, his bookish self, his brooding structure, and just everything else, it made him unattainably perfect.

And that’s when you get the man you’ve been hopelessly in love with since the moment you saw him at that wretched party that wasn’t a party. 

So, when Shoko read off his texts, there was good reason why she looked at the top of your head, a knowing look in her eyes as she playfully nudges you again, watching as you threw her a dark glare to just keep it down seeing that she was the only other soul who knew, despite you trying your best to hide it, about your feelings towards her other friend. 

“Did you hear that Toji is graduating a semester late?” Suguru asked, leaning back against his pillows, his long legs strewn along his bed as he chewed on some gum. 

You and Shoko both hummed, not looking up from your respective tasks, having found this information out weeks in advance. 

Suguru groaned in annoyance, his chest vibrating with the noise as you snorted, rolling your eyes as he threw a small pillow at your head. It bounced off the side of your face, but you didn’t look up from the page you were on, too engrossed to hear the door behind you click open and heavy footsteps suddenly thudding through the dorm. 

You shuffled against the couch, your back feeling stiff as you tried to get comfortable, not knowing that the man of your dreams was moving around somewhere behind you as he hung his coat up (vintage leather, something you found out as he grumbled about getting it wet when Shoko and Suguru insisted on walking in the rain once), kicked off his shoes, and slung his bag around as Shoko craned her neck to see what he was doing. 

“Hey,” Shoko called out, and your eyes widened slightly when you heard a familiar voice grunt back a tired greeting, trying not to look as your ears suddenly sharpened to pick up on the sound of him pulling on his sweatshirt as he rounded the couch, standing at the opposite end as he plopped his backpack on the cushions. 

You finally allowed yourself to peek over, your eyes following his figure upwards until they landed on his face, and your fists balled in frustration at how pretty he was even when he was simply existing. 

Gojo sent you a small, tight-lipped and courteous nod, polite and curt as he looked between you and Shoko, glancing back at the bed where Suguru was lying, his fingers barely lifting from his phone as he gave his childhood best friend a lazy three-fingered wave. 

“Why’re you here?” His blunt question was directed at Shoko, something that held no bite but mere wondering as he situated himself on the soft cushions, his large hands feeling around his bag as he opened up the zipper to get his laptop. 

“I thought that it was allowed,” Shoko replied dryly, “Apologies.” 

You chuckle softly, flipping the page, trying not to let his signature cologne distract you from the words in front of you. 

“How was your lab?” Suguru asked, sounding monotone as his thumb swiped on the screen. 

You watched as Gojo gave him a glare, his nose wrinkling, something he often did when he was frustrated but didn't want to ruin his outward appearance, and rubbed at his tired eyes. His hair was messy with goggle indents lining the upper half of his face. 

“An offense to my intelligence,” Gojo grumbled, his face illuminated by the glow of his laptop as he clicked around a little bit, “I can’t believe some people have made it this far.” 

You flipped another page, not fully having read the contents of the last one, but in an attempt to seem indifferent, tried to keep up with your regular reading pace as if anybody was keeping track. 

Watching as he riffles through his bag again, you know, almost like clockwork, what he’s going to pull out. His routine is one that you’ve familiarized yourself with despite your best judgment, and you know that what comes next are his glasses. 

Glasses are normal. You have your own pair that you only wear for lectures and outings, but forgo them for times like this because they sit a little too heavy on your nose. But his glasses are something else. 

They elevate his face ever so slightly, but so much so that it makes you want to keel over and scream. They accentuate his perfect nose with the perfect crook and his freckles that sometimes sit just beneath the frames. He looks even more dashing, if that was even possible, with the way he looks up sometimes, and the lenses make his eyes seem even more blue. 

He took them off for labs and put them somewhere safe. In moments like this, you were reminded of just how truly stunning this man really was. 

Gojo unfolded the two prongs, holding them up to a source of light as his nose wrinkled again. 

Smudges. 

You watch silently as he dives back into the bag, his long fingers searching through his pockets for something you knew you always kept on hand for yourself and deep down, for him. 

After a few seconds of not finding the microfiber cloth that you both silently cherished, you gave in, pulling your own bag towards you as you unzipped the smaller pocket, pulling it out stealthily and motioning for Shoko to hand it to Gojo. 

He took it, his face going so far to relax momentarily as he went to clean the lenses, his head nodding once in quiet appreciation in your direction as you allowed yourself a nod in return. 

Shoko looked at you with a raised brow, and you chose to hide behind your book.

“Was it Lainey?” Suguru asked, looking over at his friend, the name piquing your interest as you cast a quizzical look at Shoko, but she shrugged, watching Gojo as his expression soured. He handed you back your little cloth, muttering a thanks under his breath as his bitter gaze found Suguru, as if he was cursing him silently for bringing up the sensitive subject. 

“What do you think?” He grumbled out, his right eye almost twitching as his fingers stretched out, typing something quickly as Suguru huffed out a laugh, noting how you and Shoko were both confused, and his smile only grew. 

“You didn’t tell them?” Suguru asked, a gleam in his eyes as he shuffled to sit upwards, his back resting on the headboard, “Oh, this is class. Do you two know Lainey? Lainey Andrews?” 

You cast a look at Shoko, your lips pursing as your eyes squinted, trying to recall the familiar name. 

“The ginger?” Shoko asked, her head tilting to the side, her hair falling around her shoulder, “Pixie cut?” 

Suguru nodded, his shoulders raising as your brows furrowed before your mouth slightly fell open when your head bobbed quickly, snapping as you matched the face to the name. 

“Oh, Lainey!” You exclaimed, “She’s really pretty,” you added, remembering her bright green eyes and the spattered freckles that made her look like a painting, “She’s also crazy smart - she’s double majoring in bio and poli sci."

Shoko laughed softly under her breath, giving you a small look because this was somewhat typical of you to know random people, with nearly everyone on campus having had a conversation with you at some point during your four years here. 

Suguru raised a brow, clicking his tongue as he pointed his phone at Gojo, seeming like he was already anticipating one of his sly comments.  

“She’s also just crazy,” Gojo muttered, looking above his laptop, above his wispy lashes at you and then to Shoko, “She spent half of the lab playing with my hair.” 

Your book almost fell out of your hands as Shoko sat up with a barking out a stunned laugh, your hands mirroring each other as they flew to cover your mouths in shock, and Suguru nodded again, his eyes wide as he clicked his tongue. 

Another thing about Gojo? He hated being touched. Despised hugs, only suffered through quick handshakes, and shuddered at the thought of someone touching his face. You’ve seen the way he pulls back whenever someone approaches him with open arms, seen the way he tries to brush people off of him. He can tolerate Suguru and his insistent bear-hugs from time to time, can sometimes allow Shoko to swat a fly away from his face, and for some reason, doesn’t grumble whenever you try to fix his ties before events, but whenever a stranger or someone he isn’t close to attempts to touch him, he grows reclusive for the rest of the day.

“I told her to stop, too,” he adds, his big frame seeming to grow in frustration as he thinks back to it, “It was only after I had to shove her off that she got the hint. I forgot my disinfectant too, so I was just…” he shuddered, his eyes fluttering shut as he shifted uncomfortably, and you watched him let out a restrained exhale as he dropped it and went back to work.

But, after studying him for as long as you have, you know that he probably washed his hands and his face a couple of times after that. You know that he also wouldn’t feel complete without some sanitizing wipes and a good shower, so you do the closest thing to that and fish out a hand sanitizer from your bag, an item that you refused to move around without due to your own cleanly nature, which was ironically something else that you and Gojo silently shared, and passed it to him, knowing that he was probably itching till he was able to shower again.

Your friends sometimes joked that you had a Mary Poppins bag, but it came in handy for times like this. 

Gojo’s ears perked up at the sound of your rumaging, his eyes almost brightening at the sight of the hand sanitizer, and you pinched it between two fingers before throwing it his way, watching as he effortlessly caught it and began spraying his large palms with the lavender scent. 

“Thank you,” he mumbled again, his voice slightly losing the edge it had from before as he passed it back to you, and you smiled, nodding once before you zipped it back up. 

You tried to ignore the way Shoko was staring at you.

“Lucky us that we don’t have labs, huh?” Suguru called out, throwing another tiny pillow in your direction, but this time you dodged it, moving your head down slightly so that it would miss. You huff a bit, looking over at Suguru as he shrugged, winking as he went back to his phone. 

Suguru was another English major, the reason the two of you got familiar in the first place. He liked to say that the two of you balanced out Gojo and Shoko, but you just thought that it pushed you even further down the list of potential people your pathetic crush could be interested in. 

There were a couple of things that you had come to terms with if you were going to crush on him. One was that you had to know in full certainty that nothing was going to come from it. You weren’t going to risk the friendship, no matter how small, by going and confessing and having everything be messy. Two, was that you weren’t going to feel, or at least try not to feel, jealous if he entertained the idea of pursuing something with someone else. And three, was that Gojo Satoru was so incredibly picky when it came to potential partners, that it might be impossible for even the most amazing people to snag a chance. 

“I don’t know,” you mumbled, eyes squinting as you tried to make out what one of the characters was saying, “You didn’t have to do that project with Armie.” 

Suguru hummed, his brow raising as he thought back to your shared class and the project that paired you up with people you didn’t know, Suguru getting the better end of the stick while you were stuck with someone who insisted on plugging the project prompt into a generator. 

“Didn’t you report him?” Satoru asked, his eyes still trained on his work, but the question was now directed to you given the fact that he had sat in on a couple of your tirades in which you would drone on about how the boy was nearly about to graduate and still couldn’t cite sources when he, in one of his brief moments of providing comments, would reiterate to report it to the professor. 

You sank into your spot, giving him a suppressed look, one where your eyes met before you shared a glimpse with Suguru. Your friend rolled his eyes from across the room, shaking his head in annoyance as Satoru looked between the two of you. 

“She said that she didn’t want to ‘be a bitch’,” Suguru said, restating the words as his fingers move up and down in the air, quoting the statement you had said to him moments before you had to present the assignment in front of the class, shushing him as you pushed him away, insisting that even though you had done the entire project on your own, that it wasn’t worth the hassle to make a report with the professor and potentially have someone out for you, “I said otherwise, but she,” Suguru gave you a pointed look, “Said she’d cut my hair if I made it a ‘big deal’.”

Satoru’s eyes lingered on the side of your face, and you purposefully kept your head ducked and the book closer, so close that it was nearly touching your nose, as you tried to shield away their judging eyes in embarrassment. 

“You need to stop caring about what other people think,” Shoko said as she shoved you with her knee, this time just a little bit harder because she knows you and knows what you hide in the fear of making others think something of you that wasn’t good, “I really think your professor would’ve heard your case if you made it.”

You groaned, swatting at her leg with your book as you shuffled away, backing into another corner as you tried to readjust to the new position. 

“Yeah,” Suguru added, resting his phone momentarily on his chest, “I think it would help if you were more selfish.” 

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head at the prospect. 

“I just hate confrontation,” you murmur defensively, gnawing on your bottom lip as you flip a page, “And, plus…you have to give me some credit - at least I told him that he was being frustrating,” you say, pretending to ignore them, your eyes re-reading the same word over and over again until you were confident that they were going to drop this subject, this horse that they’ve beaten multiple times, one that ended with you assuring them that you were going to speak up more until it all looped back again to times like this.

“Speaking of confrontation, did you ever get a refund for that ticket?” 

There was a beat of silence before you let out a frustrated groan when Shoko reminded you of the one task you had forgotten to do in the past couple of days, your head falling to your knees as your palms jammed into your eyes. 

“No, oh my god, you’re so right,” your voice is muffled as you bookmark your page, your fists clenching at your own mistake as your eyes crack open, “Oh my god, I can’t believe I forgot to follow up on that!” 

Shoko chuckled, rolling her eyes as Suguru and Satoru shared a look, them now sharing confusion as you writhe on the floor at the thought of knowing you could’ve saved a couple of bucks had you not forgotten to call up the school of drama help center for accidentally buying an extra ticket to the showing of The Beggar’s Opera. And, seeing that it was Tuesday and just days before the theatre program, one that needed funds, was about to perform, the deadline for your refund was most likely up.

“So does that mean you need me to come with you next Saturday?” Shoko offered, her lips quirking up slightly as your head shot up, nodding quickly as your hands flew to hers, shaking them feverishly. 

“Would you? Would you really?” You ask, and her laughter grows, shoving you off playfully by pushing your forehead back to where you were sitting. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says with a sigh, winking at you before she goes back to her phone, and you settle back in your seat as you gnaw on your lips, thinking back to how on earth you could have possibly messed up so bad when you so usually only buy one ticket for yourself, but you push it aside, thankful that your dearest friend was at least going to make use of it. 

You, Suguru, and Shoko shared a small laugh and went on with the conversation, but you heard a low, deep noise, something only you could hear, as Suguru and Shoko returned to bickering about which major Shoko was best suited for. 

The sound made you glance up briefly, looking over the pages to see Gojo still staring at you, his lashes fluttering before he snapped back to it and went back to doing his work. 

Minutes turned into a few hours, and the room was filled with the occasional story and laughter, but mostly the four of you worked together on different assignments, sometimes looking up as you would recall something from the past couple of days that you were saving to tell them in person. 

It seemed like everything was going smoothly until Suguru got a notification on his phone, his face lighting up as he swiveled out of his bed, jumping onto the floor as he tugged his shoes on, not explaining anything as the three of you glanced up, waiting. 

“My food’s here,” he said over his shoulder, practically gleaming as he cocked his head in Shoko’s direction, “Come down with me, will you? I need some help.” 

You scoff, smiling to yourself as you try to imagine just how much food he had ordered, but careful not to be too loud because you knew he would be sharing it with you all after some choice complaints were heard. 

Shoko grumbles, but obliged, lifting up from the couch as she stretches, nudging you playing with the tip of her foot as she throws a pillow your way, walking towards Suguru as he holds the door open for her, the two of them calling out some brief goodbye as they head down to the lobby.

When the door clicks behind them, you’re suddenly aware of the fact that it’s only you and Satoru left, and you let your stare linger on the wall for a bit before you look away, suddenly sheepish when you catch his glance from his seat on the couch.

He clears his throat, eyes flickering from his screen to the book in your lap, the highlighters strewn around you, sticky notes sticking out from between the pages, and he points a finger at it. 

“What’re you reading?” 

Your brows raise slightly, and your chin ducks down to the book, and you sit up a little straighter as you place a bookmark in the middle of your page you lifting the cover, letting him read the cover as he adjusts his glasses over his eyes. 

“Oh,” he says, his voice holding a lithe of acknowledgement as he slowly sets his laptop to the side, shifting slightly closer, “I’ve read this, I think.” 

Your head tilts a little, lips quirking a little bit at the sides with a small smile as you look back at the cover.

“You’ve read The Norton Anthology, Volume C before?”

His mouth parts, closing it before he gapes at you, and your grin turns into a big smile, waving it away as you shake your head, shrugging at his stammering expression. He’s so cute when caught in a lie. 

“I’m only kidding,” you swear, setting your book down, your knees pulled towards your chest, arms wrapping around your legs, “I’m sure you’ve had to read something like this for one of your previous classes.” 

“You’re bothersome,” he murmurs, but his voice holds no bite as you let out another barking laugh, rolling your eyes as he tries not to smile, “I’m only trying to be polite.” 

You purse your lips together, giving him a questioning look as he shoots you one back. 

“I didn’t know politeness was in your artillery,” you quip, and he scoffs, moving his glasses upwards as he rubs at his tired eyes, resting backwards into the cushions as his legs part, and you try not to let your eyes linger on his thighs. 

“I have a reserve for choice people,” he says, opening his eyes back as he looks back at you, yawning as he moves on, “How was your presentation?” 

Your smile falters for a second as your stare turns questioning, chewing on your lips as it turns into something sweeter, something smitten because he’s asking about the presentation you had mentioned once in passing the last weekend you had hung out, stressing over your slides and sources, and trying to seem nonchalant as you finger traces little patterns on the floor. 

“It was good,” you tell him, trying not to seem too prideful as you murmur, “My professor said it was exactly what he was looking for.” 

His face shifts, no longer annoyed as you try not to appear bashful, but his teeth shine as his rosy cheeks pull upwards as he gives you one of those smiles that makes you feel warm and happy and giddy. 

“Yeah?” He asks, shifting a little bit as he waved his teasingness off, rolling your eyes as you groan, nodding exaggeratedly as you go back to organizing your highlighters and pens, but he seems intent on pushing this: “Didn’t you say it was the hardest assignment of the class?”

You look up at him from above your lashes, trying not to smile again as you shrug indifferently, done with arranging your stationery based on colors as your knees knock together, throwing a pillow his way that he effortlessly catches.

“I mean, everyone told me that it was really, really hard, so-” But you’re cut off by the door swinging open, and the two of you crane your necks around to see Shoko and Suguru arguing over something irrelevant, food nestled in their hands as they close the door behind them with a slam. 

They start telling you two about the delivery fee and the outrageousness that one of the containers had tipped over, but you’re still busy thinking about how Satoru remembered something so trivial, giving them quiet hums as they spread out the food on the small coffee table, and trying to act normal. 

Like you have for the past two years.

—

The week passed as it usually does, with papers, readings, and assignments that needed to be completed at an unmanageable rate. 

You had expected the usual and mundane things, and for the most part, that’s what came your way. Nights spent in each other's rooms as you finish up your work, spliced with moments where you would all talk, days filled with going to lectures and walking around campus till you found a quiet study spot. Things that you could predict and plan for. 

For the most part.

Another thing that your little group would occasionally do was meet up at the end of the week at one of the pubs around campus, most of them serving mediocre food and somewhat better drinks, and offer you all a time to reconvene after a usually stressful couple of days. 

The pub was small and quaint, but you enjoyed the warmth and laughter that muddled together to make the ambiance somewhat private. Either Suguru or Shoko would arrive there early and try to secure the usual spot at the booth near the end of the establishment, seeing that either of them didn’t have classes on Fridays, while the other three would meet up outside of Satoru’s biophysical chemistry class and walk there together.   

Which is why you found yourself back on that Friday, sitting next to Shoko, settling into your seat as she clambered in after you. Suguru almost pushes Satoru in, impatient to sit down and get back to talking, and you watch as the white-haired man sits in front of you, his hands clasped together as he stares at the wood-grain of the table. 

“How were classes?” Shoko finally asks, looking between you and Satoru as she takes a sip from her drink. 

You sigh, shrugging as your fingers play with the bottom of your cup, the condensation slipping down as you rub at your tired eyes. 

“Fine, I guess,” you say, drinking some water as you wipe at the corner of your lips, “My professor could’ve ended the class, like, twenty minutes earlier than he did.” 

She nods solemnly, patting your thigh in solidarity as she passes the bowl of crisps towards you, nudging you to take one to help settle your stomach after having back-to-back classes, knowing how hangry it made you.  

“Is this the professor who needs you to see a classical play?” Suguru asked, taking some of the snack as his arms crossed on top of the table, leaning in slightly as you licked some of the salt from your lips, nodding. 

“Yeah,” you heave another sigh, elbowing Shoko as you continue, “Which is why I’m seeing Beggar’s Opera next week. I mean, the theatre program did a couple of Shakespeare ones earlier this semester, but…ugh, I just can’t watch another performance of Romeo and Juliet.” You murmur with a groan, resting your chin on the palm of your hand as Suguru hums in agreement. 

“You don’t like Shakespeare?”

Your eyes shift over to the man in front of you who asked the question. 

Your brows furrow slightly in the middle, lips pulling into a small pout as you shake your head, playing with the ring of water your drink had left as you itch your nose, trying not to focus too hard on the pretty pink color on Gojo’s cheeks because of the slightly toasty feel of the room. 

“I do,” you say slugishly, “It’s just that when the only work of his that tends to be popular isn’t The Tempest, I get a little annoyed.” 

Suguru snorts, shaking his head as his fingers wag at you. 

“That’s not even nearly his best stuff,” he argues, and you roll your eyes, your head tilting badly in annoyance after knowing what this was going to lead to, “I can’t believe you still think that it outweighs Richard II.” 

Satoru and Shoko’s eyes bounce between you and your ink-haired friend. 

“I’d rather die on the hill of petty magic versus royal family drama,” You quip back, your brow slightly raised. 

Suguru huffed, shaking his head in dismay as he lightly shoved your foot underneath the table, a small smile on both your faces. 

“Is Tempest the one with the shipwreck?” Gojo asks, his head tilting slightly as his glasses lean on his nose bridge. You nod, grinning at the fact that someone in the group was able to identify such a classic piece of literary work. 

You open your mouth to agree, but Suguru beats you to it. 

“How do you know that?” He glances sideways at his friend, his brow raised in slight shock as Shoko snorts. 

Gojo shrugs, his elbows resting on the table as the fabric of his sweater tightens around his arms, making him look delectable and otherworldly. You have to tear your eyes away from it before it becomes too noticeable. 

“We went to the same secondary school,” Gojo argues, saying it as if it were the most obvious explanation in the world, “I paid attention…clearly more than others,” he adds under his breath, causing you to drop your hand to your mouth to hide the satisfied grin from when Suguru deflated in slight embarrassment. 

“Oh, speaking of blast from the past,” Shoko shuffles, looking at her phone screen as if suddenly remembering something, “Vi’s coming back for break.” 

You watch as Gojo and Suguru stop their silent bickering by messing with each other's stuff as they look up to Shoko. Suguru’s thin brow shoots upwards, his mouth turning into a surprised line as Gojo stares blankly, an unreadable expression on his face as you poke Shoko’s thigh, shaking your head in confusion. 

“Who?” You murmur, your eyes squinting as Shoko looks at you, her mouth slightly dropping as she also remembers that you didn’t grow up with them. 

“Vivienne March,” Suguru explains, beating someone once again to explain something because he could never hold onto a piece of information for longer than three seconds if he knows that somebody in his vicinity doesn’t know it, “She went to school with us for, what? Five, six years?” He looks between Gojo and Shoko, and they both nod, Shoko unlocking her phone as she goes to pull up the girl's instagram to show you what she looks like, “She’s his ex,” he murmurs as if secretly, pointing at his friend next to him as you feel something in your gut shift, but he clearly doesn’t tell because he leaves that point entirely. 

“But I thought she preferred to stay in America till her spring semester was over?” He asks, confused, waiting for you to be done looking, as he waits for Shoko to explain it. 

You take her phone gingerly, looking at the girl's account as you carefully click through her posts. You’re greeted with an aesthetic array of photos, some of her friends, some of her cat, and pretty pictures of old brick buildings and fall trees. But your eyebrows slowly move up your face when you see her. 

Your thumb swipes through each post as you see her stunning hair framing her face in freshly done curls, her eyes striking and delicate as she wanders around a bookstore. Her outfits are always perfectly curated, and her makeup delicately done to accentuate her already natural beauty in a way that makes a part of you, something you tried to bury and starve, twist with envy at the effortlessness of her perfection. 

“Guess she had a change of heart this year,” Shoko says, taking her phone back from your outstretched hand, turning it off as she placed it face down on the table, “She texted me this morning saying that she was ‘gonna be here for December and some of January and that she wanted to catch up.” 

“You would like her,” Suguru directs his attention back at you, his words matching the genuine smile on his face, “She’s super bright and bubbly. And she’s so funny. Oh, and she's, like, insanely smart. She graduated from Cambridge when she was nineteen, and she’s doing grad school at Harvard.” 

“Hmm, yeah,” Shoko hums, “I mean, she almost came here if she didn’t get the call from Harvard,” she nudges you with her shoulder, “But I don’t know how much he,” she points her eyes to Satoru, watching the way his mouth slightly parts at being called out, “Would’ve appreciated that, though.” 

He scoffs, his tongue poking at his cheek as he leans in slightly, his arms crossing the table as Suguru snickers. 

“I have no issue with Vivienne,” he argues, his brows pulling into a cute little frown, “She was just…”

“What?” Suguru juts in, Shoko scoffing a laugh next to you as Gojo only peers at him from the side of his eyes, “Madly in love with you? Was going to pick Oxford to be with you? And you were…what, days away from breaking up with her when she came sobbing to us that you have the emotional intelligence of a rock?”

Your eyes widen slightly, looking over at Shoko for confirmation, one she returns with a faint grin. Despite the sunken feeling in your heart, one that you often get whenever you are reminded of the fact that, unfortunately, literally everyone is also in love with Gojo Satoru, you have to control your face not to giggle at the statement. 

Gojo makes a noise deep in his throat, the tips of his ears slightly pink from the added attention. 

You swallow as you try to grapple with all this information. But, as always, the conversation moves on and you push everything back as you find yourself smiling once again, listening to how Suguru animatedly tells the story of how he bombed one of his essays because he forgot which citation format to use, and you try to not make it obvious how you’d peek over at Shoko now and then and see who it was that she was stalking, probably some girl from her class that she was plotting on. 

The music lolls on in the background, the pub getting more packed with students and tired workers, and you find yourself content with listening to your friends tell you about their week, taking small sips from your straw as you grin and laugh as poke Shoko’s thigh whenever a cute guy, devastatingly never as cute as Gojo, walks by the table, and she, gripping your knee whenever a girl her type flashes her a look from over their shoulders. 

“I think I’m wanted somewhere else at the moment,” she whispers, leaning closer to your ear as you follow her line of sight to a girl sitting at the bar, her long blonde hair thrown over her shoulder as she steals the occasional glance at your friend, “I’ll be back.” 

You giggle, pushing at her to go as she swats your hand away playfully, sending you a wink as you send one back, watching her go as Suguru and Gojo watch silently, sending each other knowing looks before Shoko disappears behind the other booths. 

“Well, if she’s going, might as well take this time to piss,” Suguru states, putting his hands on the wood as he hoists himself up, sending a cheeky little smile as he imitates Shoko’s sashay, “Don’t wait up.” 

You roll your eyes, trying not to watch him leave as if to draw out the silence that will inevitably follow, seeing that it’s just you and Gojo remaining. Your fingers play with your empty glass as you glance back to him, sending him a small smile as you feel chagrin already seeping into your veins.

He clears his throat, his eyes darting from your face to your arms, his tongue poking his cheek as he swallows. You wonder how much he’s dreading the awkward silence that has the possibility of ensuing.

“Water?” 

Your eyes squint at the sudden question, looking down to the long finger he has pointed at your glass, and you look back up at him, wondering if he was stating the obvious or if your feelings for him had made you delirious and unable to compute anything that comes out of his mouth. 

“Do you want some more water?” He explains, and you feel your cheeks heat again at your blunder, “I’m going up there to get a refill anyway.”

You nod gratefully, swallowing your feelings down as you glance up at him, handing him your empty glass with ice sloshing around as your smile wobbles. 

“I’d appreciate it, thank you,” your voice dips slightly as you grin stupidly the longer you look at his long lashes and his pink lips, somewhat glad that he was getting away so you could less opportunities to screw up, and you watch as his beautifully large hand wraps around the glass like it was nothing, sending you a small nod as he crouches slightly so that the overhanging light wouldn’t hit his head on the way out. 

Leaving you alone, you pull out your phone, also thankful to have a little moment to yourself as you quickly try to catch up on the notifications you had gotten in the past couple of hours, as the noise around you mixes, adding a comforting ambience as you lean against the old walls, your head leaning against your fist. 

You were so engrossed in your own little bubble that you didn’t notice the figure hovering near the other end of the table, only noticing the man when you looked to the side, thinking that either Suguru or Gojo was back, only for your eyes to widen in shock and surprise to be greeted with an unfamiliar face. 

Letting out a small noise, adjacent to an audible gulp, you sit up straighter, looking bashfully at him as you turn your phone off, taking in his slender frame and the rectangular-framed glasses that sit wonkily on his nose as he fidgets nervously with the hem of his lumpy sweater. Ironically, having everything that Gojo has but wearing it so drastically differently that you have to snap yourself out of the comparison. 

The boy's hair is slightly parted, light blonde, and his eyes framed with what seemed like brown lashes. His cheeks are dusted with light freckles, and his smile is lopsided as he scratches the back of his neck. 

Cute in a schoolish way, you think.

“H-hi,” his voice is high, squeaking and wobbly as he leans on the booth, not knowing what to do with his arms as he uses the back of his hand to push his glasses upwards, “Hi, I just…” 

Your head tilts slightly, curiosity filling your eyes as you give him a gentle smile, waiting patiently for him to find his words. 

“I’m Kento,” he stammers after a second, scratching behind his ears as a red flush settles over his high cheeks, “I’m sitting over there,” he points to a table behind him, and your neck cranes to see a group of boys his age all staring at his back, “And I just thought-” 

He opens his mouth to say something else, but pauses, his gaze drifting to something, or rather someone, coming his way, and you’re too focused on the way sweat dots at his hairline or the way he fidgets with the hem of his sweater to even notice the full glass of water sliding in front of you from the other side of the booth. 

Your back straightens as your head whips to the side, eyes widening when you realize that Satoru had returned, his one drink nestled in his hand as his stare bounces between you and, who you evidently had just discovered, Kento. 

Blue eyes flicker over your face, a moment's decision faltering in his mind as he slithers into not his original seat in front of you, but next to you, his large frame taking up half of your side of the both as your brows furrow in confusion, lips pulling into a tote as your eyes squint at the way he hunkers in like it was normal. 

Is he okay? You try not to have your heart burst out of your chest and flip flop around on the table like a fish out of water at being in such proximity to Satoru, but you don’t even have time to think about that as the rest of your mind falters, trying to make sense of this behavior. 

One of his beefy arms unravels from his side as it stretches above your head, resting atop the cushioned seats as he sighs deeply through his nose, taking a sip of his drink as if he hadn’t interrupted anything, and his chin turns over to the boy, waiting. 

Kento stammers, even worse than before, as he pushes back his spiky hair with a hand, looking between you and Satoru as you blink slowly, not really knowing what to do, awkwardly lingering in your seat as you wonder if anybody’s going to talk.

“Everything alright?” Satoru asks finally, his voice slightly lower than usual, somewhat taunting but hard to tell, seeing that his face was blank, thick as it almost bounces off Kento’s skull, his cheeks turning into a bright pink as you lets out a small exhale of air, something resembling a shocked laugh at the strange and sudden shift in his behavior. 

“I, uh, I,” Kento’s voice wobbles as he seizes up Satoru’s size and his overall presence, a strange look of shock and even awe as you gnaw on the inside of your cheek, not fully knowing what was going on as Kento’s head dips in embarrassment, “I’m sorry…I didn’t know, uh, that you, you were…yeah…sorry…”

His arm raises in a small wave, quickly turning on his heels, the back of his neck almost red as you blink rapidly, letting out a small huff of air as your neck almost snaps towards the man next to you, stammering as you try to find your words. 

Satoru looks at you, taking another sip. 

“What?” 

You scoff, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you stumble over a slew of words. 

“What? W-what do you mean what?” You let out a bewildered laugh, looking across the pub at the boy and his group of friends that almost seem to be comforting him, their hands on his shoulders as he profusely shakes his head, “What the hell was that for?”

His white brows pinch in the middle, as if he doesn't understand your startlement, as if you were the one being crazy.

But you weren’t being crazy. Not in the slightest. 

You brushed it off the first time Satoru scared off a guy who was talking to you. You thought it was strange, sure, how in the middle of your lively conversation of John Milton and Paradise Lost that he wandered from the other side of the room, suddenly attached to your side, his height towering over the other guy as he quieted down and scurried away. You just chalked it up to him being bored, despite how annoyed you were. 

The second time, a guy was seconds away from putting his phone in your number when Satoru’s voice rang in your ears, and you watched, horrified, as he peered down at the guy's cracked phone screen, scoffing at the fact that he was listening to some stupid band he disapproved of. 

Then there was the time when you were at this same pub, getting some drinks for Shoko, waiting at the counter, flirting with the guy next to you when Satoru found his way back to you, as if pulled by a magnet, and asked the guy if he always chose to talk to girls he didn’t know with a fresh hickey on his neck. (That one you weren’t mad at, more so embarrassed).

But it’s happened countless times. At the pub, at gatherings, at galas he’s invited you to as his plus one because he said nobody else could make it, at the library when he came a little too early and a guy from your class was sitting next to you, at the cafe, and at the small party he threw last year.

And if you weren’t so in love with him, you’d be madder than you were. You knew he was just being a protective and caring friend, not wanting you to get hurt, but you knew you’d have to start moving on from this debilitating crush, and he wasn’t making it any easier.

“I just asked him if everything was alright,” he explained, his tone bordering on bored as he pulls out his phone, checking the time as he angles his body slightly to look at you better, and you're somewhat aware of the fact that his arm is still somewhere above your head, “He’s the one that scurried away.” 

Your mouth drops open, your palms jamming into your eye sockets as your head hits the table, banging it a couple times as you try to pull away from him, slightly angered, slightly, and very, ever so slightly, internally flustered at something you definitely should be flustered over.

“You…you scared him away!” Your voice is muffled as you groan, not caring much as you shoot him an angry and bitter look.

Satoru’s lashes flutter slightly, his pink lips pulling into a confused line as you shove his knee with your own, realizing that you were, in fact, not joking and were seriously considering the idea of giving that blubbering mess a chance.

“Are you - are you serious?” His thumb jabs in the general direction of where he had gone, “Him?”

You roll your eyes, chest heaving with a sigh as your forehead continues to rest on the cool tabletop, the tip of your nose rubbing against the varnish as you groan.

Deep down, you know that this crush of yours is fruitless and useless. It’s never going to get anywhere, and the only thing it can offer you is more hurt and rejection. You know that you are so far from his type and out of your league that he’d never see you as more than a friend, if that, but you continued to have it because it lit a fire inside of you that you sadistically enjoyed. 

That being said, you would prefer, at some point, to have a romantic moment, even if fleeting, and having the man you’ve been in love with for two years chase away the only guy who’s had the balls to come up to you made you irrationally annoyed for some reason that you didn’t fully understand. 

“He…he seemed nice,” you argue, your eyes closing shut as your hand shifts, and you rest your cheek on the back of it, your back bent at an angle as you look up at him from your position on the table, “And he was cute-” 

Gojo cuts you off with a startled laugh, a disbelieving one as his eyebrows shoot upwards, showing more than the five emotions you usually see him with as genuine shock laces his features, and it only spurs on that angry fire inside of you as you press. 

“What? What? He was cute!” Your head lifts quickly from its spot on the table as your body shifts to look at him even better than before, trying not to notice the cute wrinkle of his nose or the frosty irises of his eyes that are looking so intently at you that it could knock the air out of your lungs if you stare long enough, “And I…I don’t know, I think he wanted to talk to me!” 

Gojo snorts, his arm tightening around the cushion behind you, his hand dangling off the end, his fingers dangerously close to the side of your ear as you swallow thickly. 

“Well, of course, he wanted to talk to you,” his other hand pushes his glasses upwards, the veins on the back of his hand evident, “ I just can’t believe that he’s someone you’d want to entertain.”

You stutter, hurt flashing across your face as it pulls into sour bewilderment.

You’ve barely talked to Satoru for more than a couple of minutes at a time about classes or projects or annoying classmates, and you can’t believe your luck that the first conversation between the two of you that stemmed outside of those points is about this.

“What, what’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice dips slightly, embarrassed, as his own expression slightly shifts at your tone.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly not expecting this to blow up in his face as it did, and he sighs, retreating to his old, composed self as he explains himself. 

“Look, I have him in a couple of my classes,” he starts again, lips pulling into a thin line as he looks over his shoulder to Kento and then glances back to you, “He shows up late and never does his work and always asks to most ridiculous questions,” Satoru adds and you try not to have your lips quirk at the sudden revelation, not wanting to give in and let your foolish feeling stake the wheel and guide you to forgiving him, but it’s not use as he continues, “I just figured that…someone like that isn’t someone good for you. Even if he did just want to talk.” 

Your mouth dries up, and you try not to let your head burst and remind yourself that he’s thinking about this from a friend's perspective, something kind and caring and companionly, but not in the way you would want from your crush, but Satoru is still waiting on your response so instead you swallow everything down and your lips tote, avoiding eye contact as you attempt to seem indifferent despite your outburst. 

“How ridiculous are his questions?” You finally ask, peeking over at him from where your gaze had been training on the ice in your water, and you swear you see a flicker of surprise take over his gorgeous features, as though you were going crazy with the way his blankness faded momentarily and gave way to a little smile. 

He sighs, this time lighter, his hand behind you shifting ever so slightly to push at the back of your head, gingerly but in a teasing way as you try not to smile a giddy smile, one that doesn’t reflect the fact that you couldn’t really care about the guy who had come up to talk to you when Satoru cared enough because he didn’t think he was good enough for you to talk to. 

“Even more ridiculous than asking if adding ice to rice would help it steam up more than if you used water,” he says, picking up his drink as he nurses it over his mouth, fighting back a smug grin at the way you sputter, pushing him roughly as your cheeks heat up again for bringing up one of your late-night queries. 

“Fine, fine, fine, I’ll give you this one!” You rub at your eyes, shoulders hunched, “But you have to stop scaring off every single guy that tries to talk to me! He could be a normal guy who’s going to come up, and you’re going to disapprove of him just because he wears mismatched socks or only writes in pen!” 

Satoru snorted indifferently, proving your point that he didn’t seem to care. 

“Writing solely in pen is psychotic behavior,” he grumbled to himself, recalling the time one of his classmates had the gall to ask you for your number before he quickly shut it down, inserting himself in the middle of the conversation until the guy gave up and left. 

You groan, head dropping back onto the table as you tap it lightly, a quiet thud reverberating in your tiny corner of the room. 

“One of these days you’re going to have to come to terms with the fact that the reason you shut people down is different from the reasons I shut people down.” You say, moving your arms upward so that you could set your cheek on it, looking at the empty seats in front of you instead of the man you’ve had a crush on, sputters. 

“What do you mean?” His voice drops a little bit, and you angle your head to look up at him, brows pinching in the middle as you let out a little laugh, something sardonic as you shake your head to yourself. 

“You…” you pause, stopping, sighing to yourself as you try to control your words before you say something you’ll regret, “You have like…perfect people coming up to you. And if you choose to reject them, that’s up to you, I get it. But last week you turned a girl down because she said that Star Wars was a waste of money,” the two of you share small laugh because you can recall just how red he got, embarrassed but peeved when somebody just offended his entire lifeline, but you continue, “It…it’s just,” you press your lips together as something in your chest clenched, “I don’t really have that luxury. I don’t have perfect guys coming up to me with little quirks, you know? There’s always something wrong with them, even if I don’t see it then. Like they don’t show up to dates or they make fun of my major, or just…only want to sleep with me, and then when they find out I don’t want that, they leave. And any of the sane ones that have small issues, you’re always there to shoot them down!” 

You stop, taking in a deep breath as you try to regulate your emotions, refusing to look at him right now as you let some pent-up feelings loose, just grateful that he hasn’t left and decided to let you figure this out on your own. 

“Look,” you glance at him, giving him a small smile, “I’m thankful that you care. Really, I am. But…but I just want to experience something…with someone, y’know? At least once when I’m still in university. I’m almost twenty-one, and I haven’t even had my first kiss!” Despite how embarrassing it is, it slips out, and your chees heat up as you hurry on with your ramble, “And if it has to be with something who asks stupid questions or says my name wrong on the first attempt or doesn’t know what my favorite color is, I guess I’m just gonna have to bite the bullet and take that risk. I,” you look away, back to focusing on the leather cushions in front of you as you gnaw on your lip, “I don’t really have any other option.”

Giving it a moment, you let your shoulders sink, going back to playing with the straw wrapper in front of you as you debate whether it would be better to just throw yourself out the window or risk saying something else that you’d stay awake the next couple of nights pinching yourself over.

You heard him inhale exaggeratingly, the arm behind you moving a little downwards in order to hook one of his fingers around the collar of your sweater, trying to grab your attention. You tilt your chin sideways, lips pursed, and attempt not to let his overwhelming presences budge how bitter you were feeling for some reason. 

“I think,” he sighed again, gnawing on his bottom lip as he tried to formulate his thoughts, the overhead lamp casting a soft orange light over his face and it made your pitiful stomach churn with desperate want, “I think that if you’re too pessimistic.” 

That get’s a dry laugh from you, and you roll your eyes at his statement. Before he’s able to say anything, he gets interrupted by Suguru rounding the corner, sliding into his seat with a wide grin, one that falls when he sees his friend has changed the seating arrangement. 

“Why’d you move?” 

Satoru paused, tearing his eyes away from the side of your face as he glanced at his friend, his fingers moving upwards as you tried not to look at him and make anything obvious. You hope he doesn’t bring up Kento and your little meltdown, but he seems to read your mind. 

“You were bothering me too much,” he mutters, and Suguru lets out a startled scoff, throwing the hair tie around his wrist at him as Sator just flings it to the side. Suguru doesn’t push, though, and starts telling the two of you that he was held up at the bathroom entrances because a couple was having a ‘lover's spat’, his words not yours, and he just had to hear it before he left.

The rest of the night continued as it usually does. 

If you could consider the uneven rhythm of your heart as normal. 

—

Another week had passed, another seven days of agonizingly slow school work and duties. 

It seemed like the days would flicker away at a snail-like pace until it got you to the one day of the week that you actually wished wouldn’t arrive, and would force you to stalk around the limited space of your dorm room as you think about what to wear to the theatre production that’s taking place in thirty minutes. 

Your hand was on your hip, feet tapping against the floor as you looked at the two outfits you had hung on your dresser, lips pursed as your eyes moved back and forth between the one that would go better with those pair of kitten heels you thrifted with Shoko, or the dres that you rarely get to wear. 

It took a couple more seconds of deciding, but you ultimately picked the more comfortable option, knowing that the university theater was always freezing, especially in October, and that a cute sweater was probably the better choice.

Thankfully, this gave you some more time to fix your hair and touch up your makeup, humming along to the music as your eye kept wandering down to your phone and then to your door, squinting as you turned it over, confused as to what was taking Shoko so long. 

Instantly, your eyes widen at the plethora of messages you have from Shoko, a telltale sign that something was seriously wrong, given the fact that she never sent more than two messages at once. 

shoko: pick up

shoko: girl ur literally always on ur phone wya

shoko: pls pls pls pick up 

shoko: ur making me beg rn pls can u call me back 

shoko: pls 

You don’t have time to send her one of your stupid stickers, your fingers fumbling around as you look at the five missed calls you have from her, shaking your head in dismay at how it was possible to leave your phone alone for twenty minutes and come back to this. 

It doesn’t take more than a ring before she answers on the other line. 

“Are you okay?” Your voice cuts through immediately, rushed and worried, your legs bouncing as you hear some people talking in the background, and you can hear the way Shoko snaps at them to hush so that she can hear you better. 

“Hi, yeah, no, no I’m fine - hey can you guys just,” she calls out again, hey annoyance dripping form her tone, some shuffling happening over the line as she moves somewhere where the noise is less, “Hey, hi, sorry for the noise,” she starts again and you just hum, eyebrows still pinches together in worry as you wait for her to continue, “I’m really sorry for spamming you, but I have some news.” 

The worry on your face melts as you lean back in your seat. 

“Yeah…?” you ask, but already predicting what it was that she was stressing out over telling you, but she lets out another exhale, and you could imagine her nodding wherever it was that she was at. 

“I’m so sorry but I’m at work right now and,” some clattering happens in the background, the kitchen in great hustle for the Saturday evening rush it usually has at the restaurant she waitresses for, “God, Tommy just screwed everything up with our shifts and I thought he had written me as off for tonight but he wrote me as off for next Saturday and I wasn’t able to fine somebody to-” 

You laugh softly, cutting off her rambling. 

“‘Ko, babe, it’s fine, don’t worry about it,” you stress, leaning in slightly as you hear some silverware being unloaded, “It’s so okay, your job is so much more important than-” 

“No, you’re more important than this - believe me,” she cuts you off this time, and you can see her standing hunched in the corner, gnawing on her fingernails in stress, “And I promised you I’d come with you and I can’t, and now I…I feel horrible.” 

A smile creeps onto your lips, and you shake your head. 

“It’s fine,” you stress, chuckling at her incoherent rambles, “I promise. The play’s going to be lengthy anyway, might as well take the time to make some money while you’re at it.” 

You hear nothing except the kitchen roaring in the background for a few seconds before she sighs, clicking her tongue as she hums softly. 

“You sure?” 

“I’m sure,” you tell her, hearing her chuckle softly over the phone, the disappointment evident in her voice, and you didn’t want to push her over the edge despite the small flicker of disappointment of having to go alone, “I promise you’re not gonna be missing anything.” 

“Look, I know it’s not the same, but I was with Suguru when I found out, and he’s said that he could-” 

This time, she’s cut off, but not by you. 

A knock sounds over your door. 

You sigh, smiling at your friend as you slowly rise, “You guys are so sweet, but you should’ve told him I’d be fine. Really, I usually do these things by myself anyway.” 

She groans at your antics, somebody calling her name from the back as she tells them that she’s almost done. 

“Shit, I have to go, but promise me you’ll tell me about how tonight goes, yeah?” She sounds hurried, and you make a few steps towards your door as you snort, rolling your eyes as you unlock the brass knob, shaking your head at the thought. 

“Tell you about what? Oh, like how Suguru has a horrific attention span and can’t…” You swing the door wide open, but you trail off as your mouth hangs slightly, not greeted by your black-haired and eyebrow-pierced friend, 

But Satoru. 

Shoko seems to have picked up on your silence as meaning that you finally understood what she was talking about, and you can barely register her sing-songy bye as she leaves, the phone in your hand lying limp as Satoru’s brow raises skeptically at your dumbfounded expression.

Damn you, Shoko Ieiri. 

“Hi,” you say breathlessly, almost stupidly, as your hand falls from behind the door to your side, tilting your head a bit as Satoru just stares, hands in his pockets, and you shake back to reality, laughing apologetically as your neck prickles, “Sorry, I…I was just expecting someone else.”

His brow arches even more, and you huff out a laugh. 

“Shoko just said that Suguru was coming,” you explain, stepping back from the entranceway as his mouth parts slightly. 

“Right,” he nods, his hair falling gracefully in his face as you churn in your spit at the magnificent sight of him in his denim jeans and the navy sweater he was in, “I hope it’s okay that I came. Suguru couldn’t make it.”

You blink, wanting to say that you were so okay with him, but you swallow that done as you shake your head, waving his statement away. 

“This is…this is fine,” You stammer to say, your smile wobbly. You hope that he can’t pick up on the way that your eyes are roaming over the way his button-up sits comfortably on his broad chest, or the way his glasses look on the bridge of his nose, “I, uh, I just have to do my mascara, so give me like,” you look at the clock behind you. Your eyes bulge at the fact that you have only five minutes left, “Two seconds and I’ll be done.”

He nods, his head tilting slightly to the side as he looks at your face and his eyes travel down your outfit. His hand raises, a finger pointed at your sweater. 

“Nice sweater,” he says, something teetering on teasing, and you look down, suddenly realizing that it’s the sweater he had given you last year for your birthday, the one that you had seen months prior after walking past a vintage store and exclaimed how much you liked it, only to be stumped by the price. 

Your confusion melts into a wide smile, your head still poking out from outside your door as you survey the material, not noticing the way his eyes soften just a smidge at your flighty reaction. 

“Oh - right, thank you again for getting it!” You say cheerfully, an entire evening or perfection and romance already forming in your head as you try not to appear too excited, pointing back to your room as you duck away, “I’ll, uh, I’ll be back, then!”

Satoru nods, giving you a small smile as you shut the door behind you, your back hitting it as you give yourself a moment to reciprocate, curse Shoko and her blasted antics, and calm your heartbeat down long enough. 

This was so fine, you tried to tell yourself, 

Everything was going to be fine. 

—-

The lobby of the Oxford theater was unusually packed, and you even voiced your surprise when Satoru led you in, your eyes wide as you took in all the students, some looking at the programs, others waiting in line for the bathroom. 

“Damn,” you mutter, squeezing past someone as Satoru follows behind you, “I didn’t think it was going to be this busy.” 

The walk here had been…fine. You had talked for most of it, which you had predicted, and with the few times Satoru would interject and give some comments on the stories you told him about your week, you feel like you told five times that amount of embarrassing and lame jokes, shutting yourself up once after wincing at how terrible it was. Satoru cracked a small smile, though, a pitiful one, most likely to keep you from shutting up the entire night. 

It’s strange, just how different you act around him. In attempts to make yourself seem cooler and interesting, you wind up embarrassing yourself even more. You could have sworn that you never acted like this with Shoko or Suguru, or literally anybody else, even your old crushes, but when it came to Satoru, you seemed to lose the sense of normalcy you had come to know. 

But you don’t have time to worry about that, now trying to put your attention on wondering how many of the students here are from that stupid class you’re taking right now, and even looking in the sea of bodies confirms that answer when you see some familiar faces. The concession stand in the corner, the one run by the theater department to raise some extra funds, seems to be swarmed, and your stomach grumbles instantly at the smell of buttered popcorn that wafts through the air. 

“Where’re our seats?” He’s standing by you now, and you have to crane your neck slightly to look at him. You sift through your tote, pulling out your wallet and opening it to reveal the tickets tucked inside, and hand one to him while keeping the other for yourself. 

“Row H,” you read out loud, “You’re seat 18, and I’m 19.” 

He nods, pocketing it before he looks back out into the lobby, his eyes focusing on the wide double doors that led you into the theater, watching the ticket taker check the people’s tickets before looking back at the concessions, remembering how much you were raving on your walk here about how good the snacks were. 

“Do you still want some…?” He juts his chin towards the hand-made sign that reads Beggars Snacks! 

“Hm?” You look back at the table, and you let out a small laugh, “Oh, yeah, right,” you look through your wallet again, putting your ticket there for safekeeping as you glance back up at his gorgeous face, “Yeah, I’ll be back. You can go find your seat, if you want.” 

Satoru opens his mouth and then shuts it, glancing at you and then the doors, and his shoulder straightens slightly. 

“Right, well….right,” he murmurs, looking a little torn, his voice drowning out by the roar of sound around you two, but you’re able to make out the low grumble of his after being near him for so long, “I’ll…I’ll see you in a few.” 

You smile again, giving him two thumbs up as you turn on your heel, your hands clenching in frustration at how utterly inhuman you seem to act around him, somehow making it seem like it was your first day on this planet. 

Peeking over your shoulder, you watch as he leaves towards the entrance of the theater, and you duck your head down as you find your way to the large line leading up to the snacks. Coming here for the past four years has taught you to go for the popcorn, pass on the homemade cookies, and snatch up the little boxes of candy if they have them. 

Checking your phone as you wait idly, you text Shoko a slew of messages cursing her and her entire bloodline for blindsiding you like this, hoping she sees them after her grueling shift and only feels worse about leaving you like this. 

Keep a tab of the line as it slowly moves, you eye the clock, knowing that the show was going to start soon. It seems to dwindle a bit, as some people in front of you and behind you give and leave, deciding it wasn’t worth it, and after scrolling through your feed a little bit more, you find yourself next in line. 

Glancing through the snacks, your stomach protests louder, ravenous after a day fueled on granola bars, a pathetic excuse of a yogurt bowl, and some crisps you had lying around, until you feel your hopes and dreams plummet when you see a small sign at the edge of the table that says only cash. 

Fucking bullshit, you think angrily, whipping your wallet out again as you rifle through the confines, who still uses only cash? What medieval system was this? They accepted cards last time, this is entirely-

And you could complain petulantly in your head as much as you want, but your face falls as you search through for the third time, coming to the consensus that you didn’t have a lick of cash on you. The person in front of you is almost done, but your shoulders sag as you begrudgingly step away, shaking your head in dismay as you make your way to the theater entrance, flashing your ticket to the ticket taker as he lets you in with a wide smile. 

The ushers point you towards aisle H, and you patiently dispute the hate still inside of you, burning. Waiting as those in front of you find their seats, and it doesn’t take long before you’re able to see a pop of hair standing high amongst the rest of the people in the audience. 

You move past a couple of people talking as you move closer, almost skidding when you stop instantly, realizing that Satoru was, in fact, not alone. 

From this angle, you could see the girl standing in front of him, a wide grin on her face as she laughs at something he says. Your eyes go to his face, your posture falling even more when you see the little quirk of his lips, a sign that he wasn’t necessarily hating the conversation, and the loss of the popcorn feels pointless now as your stomach churns for another reason. 

It was selfish to think that you were the only person who liked Satoru, but it didn’t hurt any less when you were confronted with this fact at least once a week. You knew you couldn’t expect anything from this stupid crush, a theorem forming inside your head that you continued to fall for Gojo Satoru just because you liked the sting of knowing you had no shot with him, and seeing other girls and their gleeful smiles at the fact that you probably had a chance is what maybe hurt the most. 

You weren’t ever angry at these girls, understanding them completely, even admiring the way they could flirt so effortlessly, and treated you kindly whenever you were near, but it singed a part inside of you that liked to act that you were in this small fictional bubble that you dreamt of whenever he looked your way. 

Like he was right now. 

Standing awkwardly to the side, at the end of the row, you sway idly in your spot, looking at the two of them and then around, wondering when the lights were going to start dimming and notify you of when the show was about to start. 

You hear your name being called, a familiar cluster of syllables from his throat, and you look away from the painting on the wall to the side as you see Satoru throwing up a hand, trying to grab your attention. 

When he sees you finally looking his way, he turns back to the girl, saying a few more words as she nods, her smile still soft as she glances at you, a strange look on her face as she sends you another smile, and you can’t help but return it despite the sinking feeling in your gut. 

She leaves through the other end, and you mutter a few apologies as you finally make your way down to where he was standing, ducking your head down sheepishly as you fidget with the strap of your tote. 

“Hey,” you say meekly, your cheeks heating as you finally get to him, “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.” 

One of his hands waved, shaking his head as he looked back to where the girl had retreated with her friends. 

“You weren’t interrupting,” he tells you, and your brows furrow slightly because that was a white lie if you’ve ver heard one, “I knew her from my lab,” he he says, scratching the back of his neck as his eyes trace of your face, falling to your empty arms as they squint, the conversation with the girl suddenly feeling his head as he points, “Where’s your popcorn?”

The past couple of moments seem to flee too as you wring your hands awkwardly together, shooting him a tight smile as you try to appear indifferent. 

“Oh, they didn’t take card,” you mumble bitterly, “And I forgot my wads of cash back in my dorm, so,” you shrug, laughing it off as you point to the seats, “But it’s fine, I…erm, wasn’t really feeling it anyway,” a lie, since that was all you could talk about, but you push past him as you sit down, setting your tote on your lap as you look at him, waiting for him to do the same.

Satoru peeks at you, his lips pressed into a thin line as he swallows, not doing anything to sit down as one of your brows moves upwards, confused about the mental turmoil that he was going through, which made him reluctant to sit. 

“Everything okay?” You ask slowly, shifting your legs, wondering if he was tight for room, but he just nods, tongue poking through his rosy lips as he glances back towards the double doors as he briefly nods. 

“I need to use the bathroom,” he mutters, and you nod, lips pursing in understanding as you look over your shoulders, watching as more people start taking their seats.

“Okay,” you sit back a little bit, your finger pointing behind you to where the bathrooms were, “Well, you, you should probably go, like, now. I think the shows going to start,” you say with a light chuckle and check your phone, realizing that there were only five minutes left till the lights turned off, “In a little bit.”

Satoru just nods again, saying spoke few words before he turns to leave, murmuring apologies to the people sitting down as his long legs knock their knees, and you watch him leave the aisle and go before you turn your attention back to the stage, taking the time to admire the props and the set design, trying to think back to the original story and see if it lines up with how you remembering it starting. 

When the overhead lights start flickering, and Satoru isn’t back yet, you churn in your seat, looking over your shoulder every couple of seconds, hoping that he doesn’t have to navigate back in the dark. 

You send him a small text saying that it was almost going to be lights out when you see his figure in the corner of your eye, watch as he nears your row with his arms full, and you squint, trying to see through the dimness to see what it was that he was holding. 

The closer he gets, the more you’re able to see, and it’s only until he’s lowering himself to sit down that you make out the popcorn bag in one hand, and some boxes of sweets in the other. 

He says nothing as he shoves the popcorn into your hand, settling in as he looks around the seat, trying to move the armrests up only to see that they’re stuck in place, completely oblivious to your wide-eyed stare as he lets out a big sigh, resting back as his legs spread out a little bit. He opens a box of Maltesers, adjusting his glasses as he looks at the stage. 

“Want some?” He finally says, his voice low as he pushes the red box towards you, and your cheeks are almost on fire as you glance at the paper bag of popcorn in his outstretched hand. 

“I…” you blink, holding onto the popcorn so that it doesn’t spill, “Here.” You dumbly give him the bag back, assuming that he had only given it to you so that he could sit down more comfortably. 

Only now does he tear his eyes away from the stage, tuning out the voice over the announcements, the regular message of turning off your phones and staying quiet, as his elbow pushes your arm back to your seat. 

“Can’t have corn,” he says bluntly, looking over at your startled expression, “It’s yours.” 

It’s yours.

Here’s another moment you're going to mull over before another minuscule thing he does happens again, and you spend the next months thinking about that.  

“Are you sure?” You whisper, already pulling your phone out to Venmo him for it, but Satoru can already tell what you're about to do as he flicks it away, as if it was repulsive to him, and you don’t have any time to argue because the curtains pull outwards and reveal the actors.

You drag a hand over your face, trying not to look over at him anymore as you begrudgingly accept the kind token, trying to relax in your seat as the show begins, a tentative finger plucking out a popcorn as you bring it to your mouth, hoping that the only person who can what the blood roaring in your ears is you. 

—

Nearly a quarter in, and you start to realize just how bad an idea this was. 

The play itself was great. The actors were delivering their performance in a manner that felt reminiscent ot the campy nature of the original text, and some people in the audience were keeling over with laughter in certain parts. 

You found yourself with a wide smile throughout most of it, recalling some of the bits and others jogging your memory, but you were thoroughly enjoying it nonetheless. The issue was, the person next to you seemed to be despising it. 

The rare couple of times you peeked over to see his reaction to a couple of things, you noticed his jaw clenched, sitting straight and uptight as his eyes never left the stage. He barely mustered up a smile during the funny portions, looking utterly depleted during the serious bits, and his hands were clasped together, fingers interwoven as he sighed, unamused. 

Every time somebody would do something weird, you’d glance his way and would still see the same stone-cold expression on his face. You were aware that the play itself was over exaggerated and strange at times, but that was the whole appeal of it in the first place. But at times, you tried to view it through the lens of someone who didn’t go in-depth into literature and read the nuances of somebody like Satoru, who would rather spend their free time studying and working on their mountain of assignments, not something like this, and you felt your chest getting heavier and heavier with each second. 

When it neared intermission, you could’ve sworn you had nearly melted in your seat, your popcorn done as you glanced over at Satoru when the lights finally turned back on, people around you standing up to leave or stretch. 

A beat of silence passes before you clear your throat, mustering up a wobbly grin as you jab a thumb to the curtains. 

“Funny, huh?” 

Satoru blinks, as if coming back to, and you debate if he had been half asleep. The thought makes you sink even deeper in embarrassment. 

“It’s, uh,” he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back as he swallowed thickly, “It’s…interesting. I haven’t really seen anything like it before.” 

You pause, chew on the side of your lip, rubbing at your eyes as you try to think of anything else to say. You’ve spent time with him alone, sure, but never in a situation where it felt like you had to defend yourself, your background, the whole reason why you were here in the first place, like you are now. 

People bustle around the two of you, and he sits up a little straighter, pushing his shoulders back as his neck cracks a bit. 

“It’s raunchy and… theatrical,” you try to explain, attempting to seem unconcerned as you fold the paper bag up and set it neatly on the ground, making a mental note to pick it up before you leave. “But I think it’s really interesting given the period it was written and how vulgar, everything is, and the characters are all super unlikable, which you don’t really see in these kinds of productions, and, well, it’s supposed to be funny and…fun, I guess,” your voice dies down, your lips almost chewed raw as you wait for a reaction, a facade of interest, a pitiful acknowledgement to what felt like your livelihood, but he just nods. 

You suck in a deep breath, gaze darting around the theater as you try to look at anything else.

Noticing your sudden silence, his eyes leave the stage for a moment as they rake over your expression, see the way your lips pull into a small, worried line, the crease between your brows, something that appeared whenever you were stressed or confused. His face seemed to melt to mirror yours. 

“Is there a reason why they keep calling the daughter a slut?” He finally asks, and your eyes dart back to him, and your cheeks puff, blinking slowly as you nod, embarrassed for some reason as you stammer to find words. 

“It’s, erm, well, it’s in the original material, but,” your words mesh together as you try to call back on the research paper you did for this piece, your mind blanking as your cheeks heat, “But I think they keep it in because it’s supposed to be a demonstration of the degradation of women and the differentiation between men who also exhibit premarital interest in the sex…and it’s not supposed to be funny but they repeat it a lot, so you kind of become numb to the meaning of the word...” Your rambling quiets near the end as you shoot him another tense smile, wringing your hands together as your lips tremble, looking away as a last resort to save your dignity. 

After spending two years with him, you’ve become familiar with his routine and what he expects from his day-to-day life. What some describe as the prodigal son, Gojo Satoru, if not with friends, is usually found in the back of the library, in his dorm, or somewhere quiet with papers strewn in front of him, with his laptop out, typing away. He sometimes goes to benefits and galas, some to attend because of his parents, others because of his biochemistry path, but his time isn’t usually spent at the theater watching vulgar plays. 

That’s what you did.

And of course, you didn’t come here weekly. You had to be here for that godforsaken Literature in English class. But this was a part of you, this play, this environment, these exaggerated dialogues are what you spent your time obsessing over. The history and the meaning, and the importance of English literature and writings are your life, and having someone next to you, watching a personification of it live, felt like inviting them into a piece of your mind, even if they wouldn’t view it as such. 

But to you, you who liked to overcomplicate and read into things, saw it as such, and your heart was thumping erratically when you realized that Satoru probably saw this, you, as equally insane for enjoying something like this. 

And you hated how much the thought made you spiral, made you think of yourself less than when there was a possibility that this wasn’t what Satoru was thinking at all, but the slight chance, the small probability, is what stirred the trepidation in you. 

“Are you enjoying it?” 

His question brings you out of your mental fever, and you bite your cheek, wondering what the right answer would be. He’s watching you, waiting, and you exhale shakily, smiling poorly as you swallow back some bile.

“I, I am,” you say finally, “It’s just…I did this huge essay on this last year, and I’ve been looking for a rendition of it, but there’s only this old movie that’s so far been made, so…seeing this live is pretty cool.” 

He nods, looking at your stalled expression as you keep your eyes trained on the curtains, not wanting to show your internal thoughts on your ever-so expressive face, and he tries to keep his slight confusion at bay for your suddenly reserved self. 

As you try to feign indifference by going on your phone, you can watch him from the corner of your eyes, look around, and uncharacteristically fidget in his seat as he debates doing the same as you or talking some more, which, at the moment, you don’t appear content to do. But the more you try to ignore him, the more it seems like your body has a physical reaction to it, protesting your desire to keep to yourself. 

“Did you do anything fun today?” You ask, putting your phone down as you scratch at the inside of your wrist. He blinks, looking a little quizzically at you before he clears his throat. 

“Well, Suguru had set me up for a double date,” he explains, and you feel your chest tighten a little bit, “But…eh,” he shrugs, “I wasn’t really feeling it,” he drags a hand over his face, “If only he knew where I’d end up instead, huh?” He nudges your elbow with his, a teasing grin on his face, but blood roars in your ears upon hearing his words. 

Gods, the man who despised dates and unaccounted occasions and strange meetings would rather take that over this.

You let out a little puff of air, trying to give him a smile as you feel sweat dot on the back of your neck, your palms clammy as you wring your hands together, looking down at your shoes as you try to bite back the lump in your throat.

He’d rather be anywhere else than here, your mind blares, the unspoken words ringing in the small expanse of your heart.

There’s a strange gurgle in your stomach, one that shifts sharply, and you wince. This is definitely not a part of your internal trade, and you hope that when you shift to place a hand on it to try and calm it down. You turn your phone off, pocketing it in your tote, and the sudden movement makes you jerk in pain. You sit back up, hoping that he won't notice. 

But, of course, he does. 

He angles his body towards you, brows cinched as your eyes twitch barely. 

“Are you okay?” His voice his deep, tinged with worry, his head leaning towards you just a bit so that you can feel his minty breath fan across your warm cheek. 

You wave him off, shooting him a horrifically terrible smile as you shift, your head tilting to the side as your stomach makes another alien noise. 

“Yeah,” you mutter, almost like a question because even you don’t know if you’re alright, “Yeah, I just think it’s the popcorn on an empty stomach.” But even that explanation made no sense. It seems like your stomach is churning even more with each passing second, and you really wish that he couldn’t tell that every moment is a testament to your battle for control of your own body.

“Do you want some water?” He asks, looking over his shoulder to the doors, remembering that the concession stand was also selling bottled drinks, “I’ll get some-” 

But your hand shoots out, gripping the fabric of his sleeve as you tug on it, shaking your head as you attempt to situate yourself back in your seat, your act going well besides the slight crack in your face at a particularly painful jab. 

“No, no, it’s fine, I’m fine,” the lights flicker again above you, and you’re somewhat grateful for them, grateful hat you can’t see the obvious fear on his face at the prospect of you being sick near his very hygienic self, “The shows starting, anyway, so just,” your voice dips a little as you try to contain a groan, “Just stay.” 

He goes to protest, but your hold on him is strangely tight for someone so riddled with pain, and his mouth parts to say something, but the glare you shoot him nearly shuts him up. 

“Please,” you mutter, the embarrassment from several things thick in your voice as you wince, your eyes melting into something pleading as the applause begins, and his face falls for a second, but you look away, weakly clapping along with everybody else. 

You feel tears prickly in your eyes. 

And you hope he can’t see the shining gloss when you try to blink them back. 

—

When the show ends, you’re nearly debilitated with the pain in your abdomen, and the mortification from having watched Macheath’s other wife battle it out with Polly alongside Satoru. They mix into a terrible combination, one that forces you to come back into consciousness in the middle of the theater, the bright overhead lights nearly sending you into a psychosis. 

There must have been something horrifically wrong with either the popcorn or the butter they put on it, because, despite your blurry view, you can see a few people in the audience huddled up in their seats the same way as you, despite the play ending. 

Satoru cleans up next to you, taking his boxes of candy and your strewn popcorn bag, and sits back up to look at you nervously.

“Are…are you sure you’re okay?” His gentle tone is one that you barely register as your hands grip onto the armrest. You can barely even muster up a hum, giving him a shaky thumbs up as your stomach gurgles again, this time, audibly. 

You try to stand, but your knees wobble, and you grip onto the back of the seat as your head sways. You can feel his grip on your elbow, nearly knocking over some people's bottles beside him from how fast he stands up, and your clammy face looks upward at him, swearing that he looks like an angel with the light framing his hair.

“I,” you clamp your mouth shut, swallowing thickly as you wince, taking a few seconds before you start again, “I have to use the loo.” The declaration comes out as a whisper, an ashamed one, and you can’t look him in the face, even if his nods insistently, an arm of his wrapping around the expanse of your back as he tries to steady you

“There’s one near the concessions,” he tells you, his voice strangely considerate and temperate, head leaning down to get closer to your ear so that you could hear him better, “Do you think you can make it?”

You feel like a child, but you only nod, neck and face flaring up in embarrassment as you allow him to guide you through the aisle of people, not looking anybody in the eyes as you make it out, your legs shaking slightly. If it weren’t for him, you’re sure you would’ve toppled down in pain by now.

The walk out of the theater becomes a blur, letting him guide you towards the bathrooms with one of your hands wrapped tightly around your stomach, as if it would ease the pain, and you feel the two of you come to a stop as you stand next to the ladies' door. 

His arm around you falls, and you miss its warmth. He looks crossed with different emotions as you use the wall to hold yourself up, wobbling towards the bathroom as you shoot a look over your shoulder. 

“Thanks,” you whisper, your eyes widening and then shutting instantly at how much it hurts your head, “I’ll…I’ll be back.” The words slur in your mouth, and you don’t give him any time to react before you leave through the wooden door and book it to a stall. 

The moments that follow afterwards are what you’d expect from a case of bad butter. 

You kneel on the floor, heaving everything up, trying to be as quiet as possible so the girls in the stalls around you can’t hear, but it’s not a process that you’re particularly fond of and can feel your will to continue weakening as you leave back on the wall, your head in yours hands as you hear the toilet automatically flush. 

At least getting it out of your system seems to have made the painful throbs dull down to an annoying little jab, but you feel like the bulk of the damage has already been done. Satoru was sweet enough that he’d try to never bring this up again, but you knew you’d have to live with the humiliation of this evening for a couple of months before you did something else that would top it. 

You let your head tilt back and heave a gulp of air, palms jamming into your eyes as you attempt to swallow, your mouth too dry to produce any saliva. If Shoko were here, she’d at least try to make you laugh about the ridiculousness of it all. But it’s just you and Satoru, and you don’t know if you can even look at him for the next week after tonight.

Giving yourself a little more time to calm down, you heave yourself up from your position on the floor, careful not to touch the ground, and pluck your bag off the hook, miraculously throwing it on before you hunched, so as it wouldn’t touch anything too icky. 

You wash and scrub your hands, feeling dirty and still a little sick as you splash some water on your face, hoping the cool water will help snap you back. The girls around you talk, some drying their hands, others touching up their makeup in the mirror. One of the girls next to you watches you through your reflection, her face pale and strands of hair wet as she splashes some water onto her face. 

“Popcorn?” She asks, and your eyes find hers through the mirror, blinking slowly as your hands grip the counter. 

“Yeah,” you take a deep inhale of air, sharing a small smile with her as you turn off the faucet, “Do you want some hand sanitizer?” You offer, going to reach into your tote, but she waves it off, giving you a kind smile as she continues to wash her hands, probably feeling just as bad as you were. 

Giving her a small nod as you go to the paper towel dispenser, you reach around for your phone, opening it up as you quickly send a text to Shoko to update her on where you were, nothing too long, just to be safe, and tap the tip of your shoe on the ground, debating what to do next. 

You could go see Satoru, probably waiting outside, and awkwardly explain that you should probably walk back, seeing how his germaphobic personality might not mesh with the fact that you had basically deposited your entire day in the theater washroom. You could also try to sneak away and hope that he was standing somewhere that granted you the option of stealth, but you quickly shook that off, quickly understanding how pathetic and childish it was.

After another moment of thought, you ball up the towel and throw it away, pushing the door open with your shoulder as you enter back into the lobby, the business having died down just a bit, and look around bravely for the man. 

Spotting the pop of white near the end of the room, you take a few steps forward before you halt, stopping near a wall that offered you a little bit of insight as to what he was doing as you peeked around the corner. 

2 - 0, you think sunkenly, watching the way Satoru talks to another girl, his broad shoulders shielding her from where you originally were, and that familiar ache enters your chest as you play with the hem of your sweater.

You could be sadistic when it came to your unrequited feelings; that much you had made peace with. But the universe was horrifically masochistic for the situations it thrust you into. 

His face is a little more stiff than before, but still polite and kind as he cranes his neck to look at the girl. Her hair is pulled into a sleek bun, one that you always envied with how clean and precise some girls were able to make theirs, and watched how her hand lingered on his arm, something you could never get away with without his face falling into contained disgust. 

It’s unfair to think this way of this stranger, you remind yourself, after all, if you had the guts, you’d try to make a move on him too. 

So, in another moment of decision-making, you get your phone out again, trying to contain the little tremble in your lips as you start drafting a message to him. It’s for the best, you try to reason, telling him that you were too sick and didn’t want to give him what you had. You send another message, saying that you were going to make your way back to your dorm and that you hope he had fun, thanking him as much as you could without sounding pathetic for how much he did this evening and for coming. 

You also sent him the venmo transfer for the popcorn you were going to make earlier for good measure. 

Where you were presented you an easy way to slip out of the building, one of the exits a little bit behind you, as you rubbed at your tired eyes, wrapping your arms around your torso as you prepared for the cold gusts of wind that were going to hit you the moment you stepped out. 

People around you were talking in muted voices, laughter ringing around your ears as you ducked your head down, hoping that this time by yourself could give you some moments of peace, even though you knew that being alone with your onslaught of thoughts was going to do the exact opposite.

This campus was always bustling on a Saturday night, so you never felt too alone as you made your way away from the theater, pulling out your headphones as you geared up your phone to listen to some music before you heard a muffled shout from behind you. 

Brows furrowing and your eyes slightly shifted in confusion, you, along with some other students around you, looked to see what the sound was. 

To your utter horror and stupefaction, you watch as Satoru whips his head around, as if he were looking for something, or rather someone. 

You stand like a deer in headlights, hands raised mid-way to your ears to put your headphones in them as you see him check his phone and then look up again, not caring that other people were looking at him strangely as he runs a worried hand down his face, typing something furiously fast as he looks around again. 

Finally, it seems like he found what he was looking for when your eyes lock, and he sends you an ice-cold, deathly glare, one that made you glance around as if it were someone behind you more deserving of such a look, but before you can do anything, he’s jogging over to where you were frozen in place. 

The closer he gets, the more you can see the agitation and vexation in his microexpressions, things you’ve taken pride in before in reading, now not so much because you were on the receiving end of them. 

When he comes to a halt, phone still in hand, his chest rises and falls a little fast, as if he were out of breath, and he runs another frustrated hand through his white locks as he pushes them back.

Your mouth gapes, and you suddenly remember that you were supposed to be “deathly ill” according to the text you had sent him, and try to make your breathing seem more labored, your posture more haggard, but that doesn't work as he eyes you like he knows.

“Where the hell are you going?” He snaps, and you wince slightly at his tone, and he reels, shooting you an apologetic look despite the fire burning inside of him from the way you’ve been acting this night.

“Back…back to my place,” you whisper, voice hoarse, and he hears it instantly, expression melting as he takes the time to really dissect the way your eyes are slightly bloodshot, your lips chapped, your lashes clumped with tears, and he takes a small step back, taking in a deep breath.

“No, I, shit,” he stammers, restarting, “Are you…” His voice comes out as thick and low, and you almost feel it in your bones as he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his nerves as he gives you a tilted look, “Are you okay?” 

This time, he’s not asking because you were exhibiting signs of ailment, but because you had been acting like you were strangers since the moment you saw him tonight. Because your behavior was so off and unlike you, he was struggling to understand if there was something beneath the surface, something that had happened that he wasn’t aware of, that was fueling this shift. 

Your eyes seem to waver as you try not to look at him, attempting a nonchalant shrug that is anything but, as you think of how to lower your voice to a deeper register to appear more sick than you really are.

“I feel sick,” you mutter, coughing feigningly as you pull on the straps of your tote upwards, as you clear your throat, trying not to feel the weight of the looks other people were giving the two of you.

A single brow of his raises, one that you know is detecting bullshit as you rub at your nose.

“I’m sure,” he finally murmurs, rolling his eyes at the obvious statement, “I think the entire lobby heard you throwing up your small intestine.” That statement alone almost makes you keel over in shame, humiliation, embarrassment, and disgrace, but he continues, “But…are you…okay? You’ve been…off…the entire night.” 

And you know you can’t sidestep this landmine because you know how weird you’ve been acting this evening, knowing that your attempts to make things better have only backfired, and the past couple of hours come screaming back at you, and for some stupid, depressing reason, cause a sting of tears to prick behind your eyes. 

Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as your head falls slightly, your stomach still aching, your pride and confidence bruised, and you can still smell the lingering perfume of the girl he had been talking to, another reminder that you probably didn’t smell like that perfume you had spritzed on so long ago.

“I’m okay,” you murmur, looking at the cracks on the ground, your voice shaking and wobbling and so clearly not true that you tilt your head back up to see his reaction, your face crumpling into a little wet laugh when he seems completely unmoved. Upon hearing your little giggle, his anger fades a bit, but is quickly replaced with another emotion when he hears you sniffle. 

“Look, you-” he looks down at his phone to reread the text you had sent him, and his confusion seems to grow even more when he reads another notification, “Did you Venmo me?” 

You nod again, weakly, and when you look up at him, you see him fighting back a startled laugh, the quiver on his face making your lips pull up into a wobbly smile, your own emotions turning into something strange as you watch him shake his head in dismay, running a stressed hand through his hair. 

“Did something happen today?” He asks, not taunting, never taunting, but something you can’t place as you weakly not, a sheen over your eyes as you tug at your sleeves. 

“…no,” you whisper, but the two of you know it’s far from the truth because even you can’t hide the way your lips tremble and your hands shake slightly. 

He presses his lips together tightly, his jaw ticking as he takes in your sunken form, something he’s never seen before, and chews on his cheek, thinking. 

Sighing deeply, he pockets his phone, not able to look at your texts anymore because they made him too nauseous, and moves to be closer to you. 

“Come on,” he says after a moment's silence, “Let’s go.”

You peek over at him, your brows furrowing slightly as you huff out a breath of air, trying to contain your tears as you sniffle again. Your bottom lip trembles slightly, and your stomach still has a lingering ache, but there’s something else that’s causing you to be like this, and you don’t like whatever it is. 

He’s waiting, his elbow budging yours, and so you heave a sigh, rubbing at your cheeks as you nudge him back slowly. 

“Thank you, ‘Toru,” you murmur, and he pauses, his tongue caught between his teeth because you rarely call him by that nickname, rarely use it unless you really mean it, “For everything. And I’m sorry,” you peek over at him from above your lashes, looking back at the ground at your shoe so you couldn’t see his reaction, “I didn’t mean to spoil your evening like this-” But before you can say anything more he raises a hurried hand, cutting you off. 

“You didn’t spoil my evening, love,” he says quickly, his tone soft and teetering on worried, the little title slipping out of his mouth like it was natural, and if you weren’t feeling like a pile of shit, you might have fixated on it more, his eyes roaming your anxious face.

But you insistently nod, your lips pressed together as if you were trying your hardest not to let out a pitiful cry in front of him.

“I-I did,” you voice cracks, and you rub at your eyes as some treacherous tears escape, and if only you could truly see the way he looks like he was breaking seeing you like this, “With you getting the popcorn and then me getting sick and then the s-stupid show,” and he winces because he knows you were enjoying the play, could hear your twinkling laugh and he hates it whenever you feel the need to shut down the things you like because you’re worried other people will judge you for doing so, “And…and I wish you had told Shoko o-or me about your date, I would have totally understood,” you try for a smile, your words choked and wobbly and if only you knew what you were doing as you ramble, “I’m just…I’m really sorry for everything." You finish with a quivering chuckle, your heart shaking like a leaf as you finally meet his eyes, hoping he can’t see the little shake in your breathing when you finally do.

He breathes in deeply, and you can hear the gears in his head turning. But you nudge his side again, wanting to leave it at that. You can feel his eyes burning into the side of your face, but you don’t want to look. 

And you’re grateful that to some extent, he understands that, even if not fully. He murmurs a gentle come on, his hand gingerly wrapping around your arm as he tugs to next to him, his warmth enveloping you as he leads the way.

—

As much as you insist, the one thing he doesn’t seem to budge on is taking you back to your dorm. 

You pleaded with him, begged him not to get him sick, but he wouldn’t listen. It’s almost as if he steered you towards his building, a hand hovering over your back as he led you inside and up the elevator and to his room before you could even have the ability to ditch and run away. 

“If you’re going to talk, fine, but don’t think I’m insane enough to leave you alone right now.” 

That alone could have sent you into a psychosis if you weren’t so worried about puking all over his bed. 

With the way his germophobic and clean tendencies forbade him from going to public restrooms, you’re stunned that he’s even standing near you with everything that has happened this night. He even lent you his old band shirt and trousers from when he was going through a phase. 

It was a blur as you spun around his room, rifling through his drawers for towels and soap and things he thought you might want to use in the shower. You stood awkwardly at the foot of his bed, not sitting down on the mattress because you knew how he felt about outside clothes on his sheets, and you said nothing as he handed everything to you, shooting you a shaky smile, one that was tense because you figured he was most likely worried about you staining or ruining one of his clean things. You don’t say anything as he suddenly ducks, his knees hitting the floor as he starts undoing the laces to your shoes, mumbling something about how you bending over might not be the best for your stomach.

He was lucky enough to be in one of the newer buildings, meaning that he had a personal washroom, so he just led you to it and let you know to use the shower and to call out to him if you needed anything. He even had an extra pack of toothbrushes and boxers that he hadn’t touched that he set aside for you. 

You watched as he shut the door, the water roaring behind you as it began to heat up, and you silently stripped, neatly folding your clothes as you set them to the side. You took a tentative step inside his very clean shower, letting the steaming water hit you as you stood there for a couple of minutes, reflecting. 

Washing your face, scrubbing roughly at the makeup and the evening away, you feel some salty tears bite at your cheek, and you don’t even know why you’re crying right now. Well, in all honesty, you do, and that’s probably what hurts the most.

You’ve never cried over Gojo Satoru before. You’ve never felt like it was so depressingly lost where you’d need to use these muscles and these feelings that you reserve for truly important things, but it felt like tonight was a confirmation and closure all in one. It felt like you slowly came to your senses, realized that despite your wishes, it was fruitless. You just weren’t the kind of girl that he could cherish, at least, not in the way you wanted him to, and you knew it would be selfish of you to ruin any chance another girl could have of him being hers. 

It took you a little longer than expected, but you feel like you were slowly gaining consciousness, the reality at hand as you turned the water off, patting yourself dry with the soft towel he had provided you. 

You move carefully, brushing your teeth, pulling on the clothes he left you, as you assess yourself in the fogged-up mirror. Your eyes are a little puffy, but you can just tell him from earlier. Your voice is croaky, but you’ll just bite your words back tonight until you can go back to your place in the morning and start distancing yourself from him until your feelings are choked out. It’s time you began moving on, anyway. 

Braving the other side, you take a deep breath before you carefully open the door, peeking around the corner until you see him sitting on the corner of his bed, furiously typing away until he hears the creak, looking up from across the room as you sheepishly smile. 

He quickly puts his phone away, standing to his feet as he rubs his hands, not knowing what to do as he buffers. 

“Was, erm, was everything good?” He motions to the bathroom, and you quickly nod, walking away as the steam from behind wraps around you, your body adjusting to the shift in temperature as your eyes stray to the couch in the corner, pillows and blankets set up in a makeshift bed. 

“It was great, thank you,” you say gently, “I’m sorry, again-” But he holds a hand up, cutting you off as he insistently shakes his head. 

“Really, it was nothing,” he stresses, his cheeks dusted pink, his glasses discarded on his desk. 

You nod again, embarrassed, and smile stiffly, pointing to the couch as you make your way over. 

“Thanks for this, too,” you say, but he seems to awkwardly shuffle, his hands behind his back, looking like he wants to say something, and your brow slightly quirks at his odd reaction. 

“That’s…that’s for me,” he explains, moving away from his lofted bed as he shows you the changed sheets and the new pillow case covers, what he must have been doing in the time it took for you to shower, “You can sleep here.” He pats the mattress, and you let out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking your head as you move closer to the couch, feeling like the worst person in the world. 

“I couldn’t,” you stress, but he’s already moving closer to you, looking like he wants to move you away from the cushions, “I’ve already imposed enough. I’ll sleep here. It’s fine, really, I like couches.”

He opens his mouth and closes it, lips pressed into a thin line. 

“You haven’t imposed,” he finally says, as if that’s all he took away from your rambles, and you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you wave aside his polite nature and hold your hands up. 

“If I sleep on your bed after everything, I’m never going to be able to look you in the eyes again, okay?” You put it bluntly, “So I’ll take the couch, and you’ll take your bed, and it’ll be fine. Okay?” 

His tongue darts out, blinking rapidly as if he’s assessing his different options, and he looks at you, to the couch, and then to the bed. He seems like he’s torn, but he figures that the next best thing is to ignore this completely, shaking his head to himself as he moves around you to the cupboards behind your body, shuffling around until he finds what he needs.

“I’m going to wash up,” he mutters, glancing briefly at you as he pulls in his towel to his chest, his new pair of clothes, and you feel your chest tighten at the sudden dismissiveness in his tone, ad if he’s given up with you, and he makes his way to the separate room, “Make yourself comfortable.” He calls over his shoulder before he shuts the door behind him, and you give it a few seconds before you wince, falling back down onto the couch as you pull a pillow to your chest and allow yourself some time to relax before he comes back. 

You allow yourself some time to look around, appreciating his tidy room and the mess-free atmosphere. You can smell the lingering scent of bergamot, and you see the warmer on his desk, a candle right under it. The wall that his desk is parallel to is littered with postcards and retro movie posters (mostly Star Wars and Star Trek). There are some polaroids he has pinned up, some with Suguru and Shoko from their years in secondary school, some photos he had taken himself with his camera. His bookshelf, which is nearly leaning over with how heavy it is, is at the end of the couch, and you shift to get a better look at the books he has on his shelf. 

You’re so rarely in here, especially by yourself, so you peek around, hearing the water still running, and lift from the cushions, your eyes squinting as you move closer, trying to make out the names on the spines, your curiosity getting the better of you. 

Most of the shelves are full of textbooks from previous courses he had taken; therefore, most of them are science-related. Your eyes shift across the spines, seeing some books about botany and a couple about astronomy and astrophysics, a specific interest of his despite specializing in biochemistry. Notes are jammed into the empty spaces, and you make out his cursive on some of them, smiling despite yourself when you pull some of them out, making out his quick scribble from when he was either in class or studying. 

The bookshelf itself is insanely tall for no reason, tall enough that you’re sure Suguru or even Satoru, in his sprawling height, would struggle reaching to top, so you have to go onto your toes, stretching your calves as you tilt your head upwards to look at some of the higher shelves, pulling some books out by placing a finger on the top of the spine, careful not to disrupt anything as you let yourself get lost in the names. 

Suddenly, in the midst of all the chemistry and biology and Latin names, something familiar catches your eye, a book that was resting on its side on the highest shelf, and you struggle but can wedge yourself up on the edge of the couch to reach it.

The Count of Monte Cristo.

Your eyes widen in spite of your heavy emotions riddling your mind, and you turn it around, reading which edition and publisher it was as you scour through the pages, seeing his little citations in blue ink in the margins. You flip through the pages, each one highlighted and marked for different reasons, similar to the way you read through a book, and you close it shut, feeling like you were somehow intruding on something private as you set it back down in its initial place on the shelf until something else caught your attention. 

Familiar titles and authors all paint the top level of his bookshelf, books that have nothing to do with his major or classes or even remotely with something you think he might enjoy reading, and you almost fall as you try to get closer. 

A small box at the edge of the shelf piques your interest, and your lips catch between your teeth as you put all of your focus on this task, your nimble fingers moving closer, plucking it from its spot as you hold it gingerly in the palm of your hand, looking back to the bathroom as you hear the pipes groan as he turns the water off, an alarming sound, one that meant that you didn't have a lot of time left.

The box itself is also familiar, this one for more reasons than most, because you remember this box; you gave it to him for his previous birthday. amongst other little trinkets, finding it at a flea market, and thinking he could make some use of it. The wooden grain and the carvings on it were delicate, and your hold is even more careful as you unlock the little latch, the top lifting open as you peer inside. 

Your eyes adjust to the sight, something you weren’t necessarily expecting, as what you can only describe as junk littered the inside of it. A ticket stub from a movie he had seen, a dried leaf, candy wrappers, spare coins. You huff a little in disappointment, your nosey nature quelled by the contents within as you rifle around a little more, knowing you should stop and sit down and act like you saw nothing when you feel a glossy texture beneath your fingertips. 

Gently, you pinch it between your pointer finger and thumb, pulling it out from beneath all rubble as you hold it closer to your face, your breath catching in your throat. 

It’s a polaroid of the two of you.

You remember the night well, a couple of months ago, during the summer. The four of you and a couple of mutual friends had rented a car and had gone up to a cabin, one of the many properties Satoru’s family owned, and had spent the weekend there. Suguru had insisted on setting up a fire and eating around it, and you had huddled up next to Shoko as the night got colder. You remember the voices and the laughs and the squeals as some of the friends, people you didn’t know that well, began chasing each other, and you and Shoko watched, amused. You remember how one of the boys had been carrying a jug of water, one meant for inside, when somebody bumped into him, and he tripped, and the water came falling on you. You remember letting out a small laugh, shocked and forgiving as you assured the stranger that it was okay, shivering, nonetheless, as Shoko laughed uncontrollably. 

But above all, you remember how Satoru hurried over from wherever he was, his stare worried that you were hurt, everything shifting when he saw the playful glint in your eyes, the fireplace illuminating your features in red, yellow and orange hues as you shrugged his worries off, his hands on your elbows, steadying you as Suguru took a photo of the moment, of your head thrown back in a laugh and his eyebrows pulled into an anxious line while his lips pulled into a gentle smile, the stars twinkling in the background as he steadied you to your feet. 

You distantly recall hearing the click and asking Suguru about the photo, but hearing him say something along the lines of the lighting being too dark, but clearly that was a lie because you were holding the small photo in your hand, staring at it with no problem.

Before you can spend more time thinking about his junk box and what the hell this photo was doing in it, you heard some shuffling on the other side of the bathroom, the door clicking open as you scramble to put the box back, nearly tripping as you jump down, going back to where you were seated on the couch in a flash, appearing to look nonchalant as he stepped out. 

You don’t let your eyes linger too long on the way his shirt stretched tightly across his chest, or the way that the water has caused the fabric to slightly stick to his arms. He shakes his hair into a towel, ringlets of water falling as he pushes his hair back. You also try not to fawn too much over his mismatched pajamas, or how his trousers have prints of lightsabers in different colors all over them. 

“Hey,” he calls out gruffly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he tosses his towel into the hamper, his feet padding over to his desk as he checks the clock and then his phone for any notifications. He sighs, and your throat is dry, heart hammering in your chest as you realize a grave mistake. 

In your haste to put everything back, the careful clutch you had on the photo had appeared nonexistent, and you had, for some reason, made the blunder of still holding the photograph of the two of you resting in the palm of your hand. 

His back is still to you, and you swallow thickly, shuffling across the couch as you try to deposit it onto one of the nearer shelfs, hoping that if he were to see it he would think it had mistakenly fallen out or something less drastic, but his ears turn towards your movement, looking over his broad shoulders at the way you scramble to dispose of the film. 

“What are…?” His eyes pierce yours, and you sheepishly snap around to look at him, your hand going behind you as you shake your head, acting confused as his head tilts to the side, jumping from your seat at the edge of the cushion to your leg, angled towards his bookshelf. 

“I was just looking at your books,” you quickly state, trying to cover your ass as lips purse together to give you a knowing look, a white brow rising so high that it disappears in his hairline, one calling you out on your obvious bullshit. 

“Hm,” he hums, taking a step closer to you, his skin still glowing from the shower as he makes his way to where you were sitting, towering over you as his arms cross deliciously across his chest, “Then what do you have behind you?” 

You feign innocence, blinking as you shake your head, acting dumb as you shrug. 

“I,” you scoff, leaning back into one of the pillows as you shrug, “I don’t have anything behind me.”

“Right,” he drawls out, his voice slightly deeper, intimidatingly so as he crouches down a little until his face is to face with you, his fingers moving to poke at your arms, twisting at an odd angle to hide behind your back, “Then you wouldn’t mind if I gave you some medicine, yeah? Something that requires both hands?” 

Damn him. 

You shake your head, swallowing as you shoot him a shaking smile. 

“Not at all,” you stress, shifting uncomfortable as he nods, his eyes raking over your face one last time as he moves to his desk, pulling a drawer out, his medicine drawer, you deduce, and watch as he pulls out a bottle that seems to promise helping with stomach aches, and he turns it over, reading the label until he seems satisfied. 

He strolls back to where you’re seated, holding the medicine bottle out towards you as he patiently waits. 

You shoot him a fake smile, biting back annoyance as you shift awkwardly, wringing out a hand from underneath your body, the one that’s not holding onto the photograph, as you take the bottle from his outstretched hands. You stare at it, realizing that he’s waiting for you to open it, and if it wasn’t for the unimpressed look on his face, you’d almost wager that he was amused.

“Something wrong?” He asks, fully knowing the answer, and you shoot him a glare. 

“No,” you bite back, your other hand moving slowly, careful not to crumble or tear the film as you place it under your thigh, showing him both of your hands as you twist the cap of the medicine bottle off, “See?”

He nods, still unbelieving of your little tactic, as he takes the bottle away from you. You watch as he moves to set it down on the table, assessing the situation as he moves down in one swift motion, not giving you any time to understand what was going on as he loops one hands under your knees, another across your back as he lifts you up and over his shoulders like you genuinely weighed nothing more than a sack of flour and you screamed in horror at the rudeness of everything. 

“Freak!” You shout, your face looking at his muscular back as he chuckles, not seeing anything yet as you try to kick his face, “This is so degrading, put me down!” You scream, horrified and mortified as he pinches your calf that was near his chest. 

“Stop squirming,” he chides, but his voice is anything but chiding as he swivels around, your body jerking sideways as your head drops, motion sickness from already feeling a little off from earlier tonight, and you weakly punch his back, groaning.

“I’m going to puke all over you,” you threaten, but he just chuckles, shaking his head as he pretends to drop you, only to catch you last minute, his chest shaking with the sound, and you go to snap at him again,

 But you feel it, hear it the moment he sees the polaroid you had taken. 

He goes tense, his grip on you tightening a little bit out of shock, and he’s suddenly silent. You wince, turning around, hoping he could take the hint and set you down, and he finally does, carefully setting you on the ground as he bends, picking up the photograph from where it had fallen onto the floor, and staring blankly at it. 

Your hands clench, chest tightening as his eyes flicker from it to you, his face unreadable as his jaw clenches slightly. 

Nobody speaks for a moment, the room suddenly as tense as it was when you first entered, and you watch as he puts the photograph face down on a random shelf, turning back to you as he sighs deeply. 

“Were you…Were you going through my things?” 

The question shakes you, and your mouth parts as you clamp it shut. 

“N-no,” you finally say, “Well, no, not really, but I guess…I don’t…I was,” your head drops to your hands in mortification as you motion weakly to the bookshelf, “I was only looking at your books.” You mutter weakly, not even able to look at him as you keep your stare trained on the books and their titles. 

“I didn’t mean to see it, but…” You trail off, thousands of emotions racing through you as you try to deny it in your mind, sadness from before, anger with yourself, and suddenly feel vexation towards him for no particular reason as your eyes snap to his, “God, why do you care? It’s just a photo! I didn’t…I didn’t mean to look, but I saw that thing I gave you, and I had thought you would’ve tossed it away by now, and I just wanted to see what you’d keep in there and…yeah, fuck, okay, I looked! I’m sorry, okay? But…I mean, you keep it as a junk box anyway, it’s not like it’s…like it’s an heirloom!” You’re trying to ration and reason and trying to justify your clearly immoral actions as you ramble again, a terrible trait of yours, as he just takes it, takes your anger and your slew of words and your hurt as you feel your eyes water for no reason again as you hug your arms to yourself. 

He says nothing for another moment, his eyes dark and piercing. 

And then he moves. 

His arm reaches upwards, up to the shelf, up behind your head to where the box was resting on the top shelf, and he slowly brings his hand down, your heart in your throat as he nearly throws the lid open, beginning to pull everything out one by one.

“This,” he’s holding the ticket stub, “This is from tonight.”

Your hands instantly drop to your sides as the anger fades and utter confusion floods your senses. 

…huh?

You had just looked at the box; how did you not notice? But you look closer at it, the date and the row and seat number nearly the same as the ticket stub you had thrown away after leaving the theater in a hurry, and your eyes flee up towards him, his chest heaving as he continues. 

“This is from when we went to the beach,” he pulls out a chipped seashell, and you recognize the pattern instantly, remembering the one time the four of you had gone to the shoreline, a seashell you had picked up and thought was interesting, showing it to him before Shoko called you away, but you don’t have any time to compute that as he pulls out the next time. 

“This is from the candy you gave me during a study session we had,” he pulls out a wrinkled wrapper, “This is the hair tie you left at my place and forgot,” he has a simple black elastic band sitting in the palm of his hand, but he could very much so be holding your pittering pattering heart the more he continues, his voice quivering slightly, and you’ve never heard him ramble like this, ramble like you.

“This is the leaf that was stuck in my hair that you pulled out,” he admits quietly, holding up the dried leaf from the time you had been walking next to him in the fall, the trees shaking in the wind, giggling at his white hair littered with the colorful leaves, “These are the coins you gave me because I didn’t have any change,” he’s holding up the spare sterlings you had lent him when he wanted some ice cream but forgot his card at home, and your eyes move up and down, a strange thumping sound in your ears because you feel like you’re about to faint, and he slows to a stop, his cheeks flushed and his hands shaking as his hand fills with all of the things you have given him over the past two years, things that a normal person would have thrown away or used or given back. 

“This…” his lips tremble as he shuts them for a second, looking unlike the person you’ve begun to know so deeply as his fingers wrap around something, pulling out a neatly folded white napkin, unused, as he takes in a steadying breath, “This is the, erm, the napkin you lent me. From the night we first met.”

The box is empty now, but the room fills with moments in time, moments that you would cherish in the deepest parts of your mind before you went to bed, and pretended like they were fleeting and didn't matter so that you could face him bravely the next time you saw him. Moments that you thought he treated like normal moments in time that would pass and would never be remembered again, moments that you didn’t think he would…hold onto.

Not the way you did.

“It’s not…junk,” he admits thickly, “For me it’s not.”

He stops, taking in a deep breath as he pushes his hair away from his face, carefully putting everything back in the box, including the photograph, as he sets it down, turning back to face your stunned expression. 

“Look, have you ever seen me without my glasses?” 

You blink. Realizing that he’s waiting on you to answer, you blank before shaking your head slowly, and he nods. 

“Right, right, well, I used to wear contacts. All the time. Ask Suguru o-or Shoko but…ever since you said that you like the way glasses look, I…I don’t know, I kept wearing them, hoping you’d…” he trails off, his cheeks completely red, the tips of his ears a bright pink as he ducks his head down, scratching his nape sheepishly, whispering, “Hoping you’d maybe say it again.”

Your eyes go wide, and you blink owlishly, swearing you look fish-adjacent with the way you can only give him this look on repeat as he takes your silence as an okay for him to go on a rare nervous tangent of his own.

“When I was little, my grandfather taught me how to tie his tie. He said that I should learn how to do it by myself so that I wouldn't need any help when I grow up.”

You don’t say anything, and he doesn’t get angry at your silence, but simply offers you a small, worried smile. 

“I’ve gotten pretty good at it,” he confesses with a farce laugh, something empty and shaky, "But you always ask to tie them, and…I always let you. You’re the only person I feel comfortable with; the only person who it doesn’t feel like,” he shivered, wincing slightly as if his skin was prickling at the thought of other people touching him the way you do, “The only person who can touch me and I feel…okay.”

“I have a shelf of all the books you’ve talked about,” he persists, motioning upwards, and you slowly look around to where The Count of Monte Cristo was sitting, along with all the other books you’ve raved about in the past, thinking he’d only listen and give you kind comments, not knowing that he had gone home and sat down and read them all afterwards, “I stopped drinking whenever we go out together because you said you don’t really like the smell of alcohol on people’s breaths. I…” he rakes his hand through his hair again, a nervous fidget of his as he looks pleadingly at you, “I have my spot on Suguru’s couch because your spot is right next to it.”

“And our friends tell me that I’m not crazy, that…that I might have a chance,” he motions a shaking hand between the two of you, and you allow yourself this time to blink again, “But, I don’t know,” his head ducks as he chokes back some tears, and your eyes widen even more, your eyebrows up in your hair at this point because you’ve been rendered speechless, “It’s like any time I try to get closer to you, you leave or immediately want to be anywhere else or seem uncomfortable and I don’t want you to feel that way, especially because of me.” 

When he looks up, his eyes are glassy, looking like a stormy ocean, and you feel tears prickle at yours, your breath lodged in your throat as you try to pinch yourself, swearing that you were in some vision, but this is real, and he’s not stopping, saying the words you’ve only dreamt of. 

“I know I’m not really…the kind of person that you’d usually go for,” he explains, his voice dim, “I’m not good with literary nuances or dissecting medieval texts. I can’t read the way you read, and I’m not good with understanding people the way you do, but…I want to be. I want to be that, I want to be good for you.”

Your mouth is wide open as you gape at him, trying to make sense of the words that you could only imagine as you stared silently at him saying to you, saying them to you here. The two of you don’t say much for a second, your eyes blinking rapidly as your mind travels faster than the speed of sound, and you realize that he’s not lying or trying to make you laugh. He’s not confessing his love for another girl, but instead clutching his chest because it felt like your silence was leading up to a personal rejection, and you can barely muster up any actual words as you surge towards him, stopping his rambling as your arms wrap around his neck, knees knocking against his as your lips slam against his. 

Your heart plummets as you feel him still, his arms still at his sides as his eyes widen in shock, and you feel like you’ve completely screwed things up, going to step away before his hands shoot upwards, wrapping around your waist and legs as he hoists you up, his lips moving against yours hungrily. 

“You’re so…so stupid,” you mutter in between breaths, his lips parting yours, soft and gentle and fast and desperate as they chase the way you taste, wanting to savor the plushness of yours as you mewl at the way his fingers dig into your soft skin, moving you effortlessly towards his bed as the two of you smile against each other, laughing in the air as your back hits the mattress. He fidgets with his glasses, pushing them up with his middle finger, coming a little loose after everything. 

“Yeah?” He murmurs, happy, giddy, his eyes bright and alive and electric as he nips at your bottom lip, his own shining with spit as he ducks down again, pressing kisses to your face, and you feel lightheaded, “Tell me how I’m stupid, baby.” 

You groan, lightly hitting his chest as he chuckles lightly, his kisses moving to your cheek, across your nose, as your smile turns bright enough to power the sun for the rest of eternity if it were to die in this very moment.

“I,” you huff, your chest burning and your hands tangled in his hair, fisting his shirt as you bring him in impossibly closer, “I’ve had this…debilitating crush on you ever since I saw you,” you admit quietly, and he pauses, his sunset dusted cheeks turning into a wide grin as he huffs out a laugh and push his face away from your as you turn away in discomfiture, “And I’ve done everything to get you to notice me. I’ve embarrassed myself like, twenty times a day, hoping you’d look my way.” 

Satoru raises a slender brow, and you have the urge to pull him down by the collar, pressing your lips to his as he happily obliges, his tongue poking out to tease yours as he turns to an even bigger taunting menace as he pulls away. 

“I can’t stop looking at you,” he mumbles shyly, ducking down as he kisses your throat, and you shift slightly to give him more access, your breath catching in your lungs as his kisses turn into him sucking in a patch of skin, licking it over when he’s satisfied it’s going to mark. “I could barely focus on the play tonight because I kept looking over.” 

You let out a giggle, curling his soft strands of hair around your finger as he glances up to see your smile, pressing a chaste kiss as if he wanted to taste the way your unabashed happiness felt.

“And I try to sound smarter whenever you’re around,” you admit, and he snorts against the skin of your cheek again, enjoying how plush and soft it was, biting it as you squeal, but it was never hard enough to hurt, just experimental, and he laughs, “And you never even acknowledged the number of times I’d bring up a science-y article I had spent the entire night analyzing just for you to ask me about my stupid book report.” You pout, and he attempts to kiss it off of you, his hands roaming the exposed skin of your waist and stomach, hot against your cold self, and he rolls his eyes. 

“That’s only because I was having tiny aneurysms whenever you’d do that,” he reasons, his face morphing into something sweet and gentle and something so entirely new and…yours that you wish you could take a picture of it, “And I wanted you to know that I remembered the things you told me.” 

You throw a hand over your face, not wanting him to see the gleefulness on your face, but he just wrings your hands away, slotting his long legs in between yours as he lets out another joyous laugh.

“Come on,” he insists, nudging his nose against your jaw, “How else am I stupid?”

You let out an exaggerated groan, biting your lip as you try to think through your muddled thoughts. 

“You…you…you kept only the ridiculous things I gave you!” You argue, and he moves upwards slightly, giving you a pointed look, as if you were offending his lifeline or treasures, “I’ve given so many things and…” But you trail off, feeling his large hand gently wrap around your face, turning it to the side so you could see his room from his point of view. 

“Look closely,” he softly urges, and your eyes trail across the walls, the shelves, the tabletops, “This room is full of you.”

And he’s right. 

The postcards he has up are the ones you gave the three of them from the time you had gone to Paris with your family over the summer, picking out individual ones you thought each of them would like. Vintage telescopes and microscopes you imagined him enjoying, but never enough to actually put them up. The music box that plays the theme of A New Hope, a simple melody from his favorite movie that you had also gotten for his birthday, sits on his bedside table. The books you had found on sale about plant biology, a little thing you thought he might like, rest on top of his bookshelf. 

Your bottom lip catches between your teeth, and he chuckles at your quiet reaction, dipping down to kiss you again, wanting to nudge those sounds from you, even if he has to take them like this.

“Is this why you’d scare off any guy who came up to me?” You ask, but you already know the answer, just wanting to see the look on his face as he groaned, pinching your side as you giggle at his antics. 

“I thought I was being so obvious,” he murmured against your lips, his tongue roaming through your mouth as you part it slightly for him, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling, a string of spit connecting the two of you as he pulls away, “Everyone could see how badly I wanted you.” 

You shrug, feeling sluggish from his movements. 

“I didn’t,” you argue faintly, and he looks up, white lashes fluttering as he grins, kissing the tip of your nose as he smiles. 

“Guess I didn’t either,” he whispers teasingly, “Guess we’re both stupid for that.” 

You go to fight back, but you let out an embarrassing moan at the way his hands travel across your stomach, pushing your shirt upwards slightly as your back arches upwards to chase the feeling.  His hands are large and travel expertly across your body, as if he’s mapped out the small things that make you squirm and the things you itch for, as if he’s spent the past two years studying you instead of his dusty textbooks, and the thought alone makes you shake with anticipation. 

“Can’t believe I waited this long,” he murmurs against the skin of your stomach, kissing the plain of it as you shake with an uncontrollable giggle, “Why didn’t you say anything, hm? Did you like tormenting me like this?”

The question makes you stop.

Suddenly, everything from before comes rushing back. 

It seems like it sets off alarm bells in your head, as if you had been functioning through a rose-tinted fog for the past couple of minutes, and suddenly reality hits you because…you haven’t told him for a reason. The months and months of pining after him weren’t just because you liked torturing yourself, but because of your frankly very real fears of rejection for more reasons than one. 

After a second, you huff, hands clenching by your sides as you feel a surge of feelings, deep ones that you’ve choked on and tried to hide, and he notices the instant way you tense up, stopping his movements as he glances upwards at you. 

“Do you want to stop?” He asks gently, tugging the hem of your (his) shirt back down to cover your stomach, and you let out a delicate laugh, a pensive look on your face as you chew worriedly on your face. 

Sighing, you rub a hand down your face, sitting upright with your back resting on his headboard, and turn to look back at his desk, feeling the weight of his stare more than before as heat licks at your cheeks. 

“What about…what about the others?”

The question rings through the room, bouncing off the walls, and his brows furrow in slight confusion as you still refuse to tear your eyes away from his desk, your hands resting in your lap, and he moves slowly, his large hands encompassing yours, unraveling your fingers, alleviating the tension you didn’t know was building. 

“What others?” Satoru asks after a moment, unjudgmentally, tenderly, and caring, patient as you huff out another shaky laugh, shrugging your shoulders as they fall in a heavy drop, your chest rattling with the emotions you had been trying to kill off from the past two years.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, feel his fingers against yours, and your gaze flickers to his before going back to focusing on something to the side. 

“This is gonna sound stupid,” you preface, but his thumb presses into the palm of your hand, a small sign that he wasn’t going to judge anything that came out of your mouth because he just showed you that he kept the first napkin you had ever given him. 

“But…” you drop your head into your hands, your voice muffled as you continue, “I see the girls that come up to you. O-or your ex. Vi…right?” You peek up, and his eyes are slightly squinted, nodding slowly, as if he wants you to make your point before he says something, “And they’re just so…ugh, I don’t know…perfect? Like, they seem perfect for you. Either they’re stunning, or they’re in your major, or they’re both, or just…so different, and I feel like I’m…not…that.” 

He blinks slowly, piecing this together with the fact that he asked you why you hadn’t spoken up sooner, and his lips tug upwards in a little grin, one that makes you want to roll your eyes if not for the storm brewing inside of you, and he tugs you closer, one of his hands wrapping around your waist as he drops his head onto your chest. 

“I think you’ve got it backwards,” he says against you, his voice vibrating off of you, and you feel it shake you to your core, his hand moving up and down the expanse of your back as you hand unconsciously move upwards, back to his soft white locks, “Because none of those girls could measure up to my perfect girl.”

You stop, glad he can’t see the large smile on your face as you head falls backwards, thumping against the wood as your chest swells with joy, and when he looks up, his goofy grin could match yours, and you push him away by the cheek, but he just moves, kissing the palm of your hand as you laugh softly.

“You’re so stupid,” you repeat, but he knows you’re only masking the giddiness you feel as he nods against your hand, his eyes shimmering and bright as he sits up a little straighter, nearly encompassing you with his body as he leans closer, his nose nudging yours as the two of you smile against each other's lips. 

“You’ve got that right,” he whispers in the small space of air between you, “I’m such a fool for you.” 

You decide then that you don’t give him any more time to talk or say something else that could turn your insides to mush, so you tug him down by his neck, his lips curling upwards as they press against yours. 

He seems like he’s experimenting with kissing you, as if he knows you’re learning in real time, and has no qualms taking it slow. He lets you take the lead when you want, lets you dart your tongue out slightly, and opens his mouth to welcome you in. When you get a little shyer, he takes the initiative, hands roaming around your hips, pulling you into his lap as you mewl him again. When he could tell you needed some air, he’d pull away, kissing the corners of your lips, your cheeks that he loved so much, the edge of your brows that would pull into the cutest furrows whenever you were confused, and cherished you the way he’d been aching for ever since he saw you at that stupid English department banquet. 

You chase the feeling of his skin on yours, the way his fingers feel when they trace your features, the way his hands run up your arms, the way his palm cups your jaw. Your hands seem to have a mind of their own, his as well, as they drop down to the drawstring of his trousers, running up the smooth and hard skin of his abs, feeling greedy as you run a finger down his delicious v-line. You feel him shuddering beneath you, and you grin evilly, your mouth water as you untie his pants, your fingers running over the white tufts of hair of his happy trail, and your shuffle around a little bit to help him as he tugs up the hem of his old band shirt that you donned, and you almost let out a whine when they suddenly stop, lashes fluttering open to see what he was going to do next. 

His forehead drops onto yours, one of his arms pulling you closer to his chest, the other still cradling your face, and you see the way his face has gone pink, a light hue that you rarely see him in. 

“Just so you know, this, em, this isn’t how I wanted things to go.” 

You let out a stark laugh, your hands pressing against his as your fingers curl around his hair, tilting your head slightly to the side. 

“Yeah? How were things supposed to go?” You ask, trying not to sound too selfishly drunk on him as he shrugs, his lips pressing together as he divulges you in his own fantasies, things he’d only think about when it was the two of you together and he’d be wanting to confess his undying love for you while you’d be rambling on about John Milton or another one of your other favorite authors.

He looks shy, and you want to bite him, watching him gather up some of the courage you had kissed away as he takes one of your hands away from his arms, playing with your fingers as he pushes some of his tousled hair away from his face.

“Well, I was planning on telling you how crazy I am about you after this whole day I had planned out,” he starts, scratching the back of his neck as he turns a little red, “I had, erm, bought tickets to the museum you’ve been wanting to go to,” he says, his eyes flickering from your face to the side as his head drops, and you nudge it back up as he chuckles, “The one displaying the original copies of those old books you like so much.” 

He swallows, taking a deep breath, and then continues. 

“And I wanted it to just be us, nobody else. I would have obviously read up on all the authors on exhibit, so I wouldn’t look like a total idiot when, or if, you had come, and I’d spend the entire time sweating and hoping you couldn’t see.” You giggle, and he squeezes your hand, rubbing his thumb up and down the back of it in a soothing gesture. Your eyes drop, urging him gently to continue because you feel like you’re in a dream, and if he stops, you’re going to wake up from it. 

“Afterwards, I’d take you to this restaurant I’ve heard is good,” he grins boyishly, tongue poking in between his lips, “And when we were done, I’d walk you back to your place and…tell you that I liked you then.” 

You can’t stop smiling, and he can’t stop either. 

“Just…just that you liked me?” you tease, humming as he shifts a little, his arms wrapping around your waist, “Not to be…selfish, or anything, but I feel like this way was so much more romantic with your little box of trinkets and your rambling.” He groans, pinching you lightly as you snicker, but he ultimately shakes his head, smoothing over the place he pinched with his soothing touch.

“No, no,” he mutters, his face determined, as if he was recounting everything he had planned to say, “I’d tell you how much I liked the way you look when you start talking about your day,” his thumb brushes across your cheek, running across the soft hair of your brows, “And how much I like the way you care about everything you do and everybody around you. I’d tell you that I really like it when you tell me about the book you just finished, and how much I admire your kind heart. I’d tell you that I…I like how wonderfully weird you are, and how I wish I could be half as interesting as you are on a regular day. I would have told you how you’re always the first person I look for when I enter a room. And…” his shoulders rise and drop as he pulls you impossibly closer, “I would have really hoped that Suguru and Shoko were right about this because I’d be…a little embarrassed if not.”

You hum, pretending to think as you twirl his white strands around your pointer finger even though you feel like you’re on fire and you can’t breathe and everything feels like it’s burning in the best way possible, try not to freak out because the guy you’ve been in love with basically just admitted the most amazing things to you, so you take a steadying breath, your head tilting as you smile.

“And what if I didn’t want you to stop?” You feel heat blossom across your lungs when you hear his breathing hitch, “After…after you’d do all of that?” 

He nods, surveying his different options as his blue eyes turn into a slightly different shade, as if they were dependent upon his emotions, and his hands turn a little heavier as they roam across your stomach, up across the skin of your ribcage, and they stop right under your bra. 

“Hmm, well, I would’ve have asked you what you wanted to happen next,” his smile is wicked as his face drops down to your neck, leaving wet kisses until he ends up at your collarbone, right at the neck of your shirt as you nearly whine, feeling his teeth scrape just barely over the soft skin, “What is it you want, baby? What else would you want me to do?”

Your breathing stutters, and you arch your back a little, letting his nimble fingers fiddle with the clasp of your bra, giving you enough time to turn him down, but you don’t; you want, no, need, for him to continue. 

“I,” your breath lodges in your throat when he opens the clasps, helping you tug the straps down until your old ratty bra, the comfortable one that you were sure wouldn’t matter being worn tonight because you never imagined something like this happening, but he doesn’t care, setting it to the side as he wait patiently, menacingly, for you to find your words, “I’d probably ask you to…to come up.” 

He groans lightly, a mix between a guttural moan and a laugh. 

“Yeah?” It’s not so much a question, but a confirmation as you nod, shivering when his hands move back upwards, your chest heaving as you feel his nimble and long fingers cup your tits, his fingers running over your nipples as your head falls to his shoulders, “Then what? What would I have done after I came up?” 

You go down, you want to say tauntingly, but don’t have the willpower as his thumb flicks over a nipple, and you whine. 

“Eh, you’d, uh, I’d, we, would probably end up on…on my bed and I’d probably be wearing something cuter than this,” you try to say indifferently, and he rolls his eyes because you could be wearing faux feathers glued to the entirety of your body and he’d still think you were the most beautiful woman to ever exist, “And I’d probably be a little more confident telling you what I,” you gulp audibly, your cheeks heating up, “What I want, seeing that you wouldn’t have just seen me at my virtual lowest hours earlier.” And he chuckles, and it feels right, feels like this was meant to happen as his hands fall from your breasts, trailing down your stomach as you shuffle a little, moving to lie back on his pillow as he shuffles to, situating his body in between your thighs, waiting for your next command. 

Satoru’s grin turns soft, like he knows what it is you want, but needs to hear you say it for him to feel okay doing the thing that’s setting him alight. His hand moves, taking yours into his again and intertwining his fingers between yours.

“… what do you want, love?” His voice is thick, and it settles deep in your bones as your head falls, squeezing his fingers as you sheepishly mutter something, and he barely hears you, nudging you to say it a little louder as you groan in embarrassment, an arm flying over your face as your head falls back, not able to look him in the eyes as you timidly whisper;

“For you, like…to do stuff,” you murmur so quietly you think that your lips barely even moved, “To…to eat me out or….or whatever.” 

When he says nothing for a moment, you peek between your fingers and see his cheeks flushed, a shit-eating grin on his face as he sets his chin down on your stomach, his glasses crooked as his brow arched. He moves, gingerly tugs your arm away from your face, and sits down by your side as he presses a chaste kiss to your stomach. 

“Yeah….yeah, I think I can ‘eat you out or whatever’,” he says, and you groan ever louder, flicking his forehead as he chuckles, taking your words as the sign to go, go, go, his fingers moving excruciatingly slow as they start to tug the waistband of your pants and boxers (his, again), down, looking up at you for a little assistance, and you lift your hips, allowing him to slide them down fully. 

You blink, relaxing that you’re completely bare right now, but he doesn't give you any time to be self-conscious as his pupils seem to blow up with lust, hungrily eating up the way your pussy is glistening with want and need, his cheeks a fiery red as his chest moves in a large exhale, like the air had been knocked from him. 

His hand raises upwards to take his glasses off, but you make a sudden movement, as if your body was functioning on autopilot, when your hands wrap around his wrist, stopping him from doing anything else. 

“Don’t,” your voice is barely above a whisper, “K-keep them on.” 

His white lashes flutter slightly, and he gives you one of his boyish smiles that you love so much, his teeth shining as he presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, nodding slowly as he pushes his glasses back on. 

“If I knew that waiting so long for you to tell me that you liked my glasses would have been when I’m about to do this, I think I could have waited another couple of years more.” He says honestly, dropping himself down between your thighs, and your eyes flutter shut, head falling back on the pillow as you feel his warm hands slowly move up and up and up, parting you ever so slightly so he could situate himself better between them. 

Your mouth parts when you feel his fingers move on the outside of your lips, collecting the slick, and you hold back a wanton moan, your hands flying up to his hair, tugging him closer. You watch as he pushes his glasses up by using his shoulder to move the frames up, and when his lips suddenly latch onto your clit you actually think you’ve gone insane.

His tongue darts out, moaning like a whore when he finally gets to taste your saccharine taste, his eyes rolling back as he parts your lips, the sound greedy as he moves a thumb to circle your clit, moving down to run his tongue selfishly up and down your pussy for his own pleasure, needing to feel you or else he was going to go mad. 

“You taste,” his voice is muffled as he pants against your cunt, using a finger to move up and down the slit, “You taste sweet,” he said it like he was startled, like he had spent hours and hours studying female anatomy and how to pleasure a girl and what to do, but never could have expected this unexpected turn, to taste you and realize that you were sweeter and more delicious than any candy he’s ever eaten before, “Why do you taste so…so sweet?” 

You would laugh if you weren’t so turned on, saying some jumbled-up words as he ducks down again, your fingers digging into his scalp as his thumb goes a little faster on your swollen nub, his long pointer finger rubbing at the outside of your pussy, getting ready to push it in. 

When he finally does, your walls instantly clamp down on it, and you moan, not expecting the stretch, and he gives you some time to adjust. It’s not like you’re a prude, you’ve at least attempted this before, but your fingers aren’t like Gojo Satoru’s, and you feel like you could come just from this. 

“Feeling good, baby?” He questions, and you hurriedly nod, hearing him chuckle.

“Yeah,” you stutter out, your teeth clenched as you feel his finger start to move out, and then your mouth falls open as he starts to slowly pump it in and out of you, a mind-bending pace that has you clenching around him, “Feels good.” 

He nods, taking it as confirmation to keep going, and he switches between a finger and his tongue, darting them inside of you. He keeps his pressure on your clit, and you grow impossibly wetter when he leans down to lay a cute little kiss on it, his glasses slowly fogging up.

Gojo Satoru eats you out like you’re his last meal, like he’s been living like Tantalus for his twenty years alive, and finally, the fruit tree doesn’t move from his grasp, and he’s able to divulge like the greedy and sinful man he always has been.

Sometimes the hand that’s occupying your clit moves upwards, pulling his old shirt up and over the expanse of your torso to see your supple skin shake beneath his large palms, and he cups your tits, groaning like a slut when he feels your nipples pebble, and he pinches them between his pointer finger and thumb, twisting a little to feel you squeal, and he grins, softening his touch as he smooths it over, moving back down to your nub as if nothing happened. 

You watch from hooded eyes, watch the way his eyes close, like he’s savoring your taste. You see the way he slowly ruts into the mattress, like he was getting off to this, and the thought itself makes you gush even more. 

When he’s satisfied that you’ve adjusted to his one finger, he decides to slip another one in, and the size alone makes you whine, the stretch something that causes tears to dart in the corner of your eyes in delicious pain. 

“Hmm,” you moan, one of your hands fisting the sheets, the other tangled in his white hair as you guide him up and down, and you can swear you feel him smiling against you, as if your reactions were a symphony to his ears, “It’s not like I really have a metric but…you’re good at this.” 

Satoru chuckles, looking up at you, and the sight knocks the air out of your lungs. His cheeks are flushed, wet in the dim lighting of the room, his glasses crooked, and his hair a mess, but he looks positively radiant as his smile flashes bright. 

“I hope I am,” his voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it, and it vibrates against your pussy, “I’ve been studying.”

Despite feeling lightheaded, his statement chased you to come to your senses a bit, sitting up on your elbows as you looked at him through furrowed brows. 

“Studying?” You parrot, and he nods eagerly, his thumb putting pressure on your sensitive and swollen clit as your mouth falls open in a silent moan, barely able to keep your eyes open as he explains. 

“Mhm,” he hums, his nose, the beautiful nose that you want to kiss all over, rubs expertly on the hood of your clit as he presses chaste, sloppy kisses to your cunt, “I read all these posts and books and papers about what the best way to eat a girl out,” his voice is hoarse, licking up and down your syrupy inner walls, his two fingers never stopping their relentless pace as something deep in your stomach begins to build up, “Brushed up on some….anatomy and the sorts.”

You let out a breathless laugh. 

Because of course he had. 

“You,” your mouth clamps shut when he hits the spongy part deep inside of you that makes your toes curl, your lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks, and you can’t talk correctly but make the attempt to, barely above a whisper as you mutter, “Y-you’re insane.” 

He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it as his thumb swirls in figure eight patterns on your clit, his pointer and middle fingers curling upwards, and you can’t really find it in yourself to chide him when he’s making you feel heavenly. 

You feel like you’re unraveling at his skillful hands, and it definitely doesn’t help that whenever you have the guts to open your eyes you’re met with the view of Satoru loosing himself in your cunt, as with each second that passed, he was going just as crazy as you were, and it felt like that familiar feeling of an orgasm building, but unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

It’s almost like he knows, because he seems to go faster, switching between licking and his fingers, and your grip on him tightens, and he moans, welcoming the sting.

“Come on,” he presses, urging, needing you to finish around him, to taste your relief on his tongue, “Come on, baby, I know you wanna come.”

You nod, sweat dotting your forehead, your chest heaving up and down with labored breaths, that knot inside of you tightening as your thighs clamp down around his head, your walls pulsing around his fingers.

It gradually builds, but that feeling suddenly snaps, and you jolt, your back arching, moving into him, his fingers never stopping, his thumb and lips on your clit, suctioning in a perfect way that sends you over the edge. You clench tightly around him, creaming, spasming as you gush, your eyes rolling back in your head as you let out the quietest but sweetest moan, and when you feel your orgasms slow to a dull pulse, you fall back onto his mattress, limp as he doesn’t stop instantly. 

Instead, he lets his fingers slow down carefully, as if you’d get immediate withdrawal from the feeling of having him inside of you. He kisses your clit once, then twice, and pulls away, connected by a string of spit, slick and your cum, and when you finally have the energy to wring your eyes open, the sight of him wrecked form eating you out makes you even more wet.

You take a few moments to catch your breath, your chest heaving up and down, your hand falling away from his soft locks as it sprawls across your stomach, and you stare helplessly at the ceiling. 

Blinking owlishly, you awkwardly scootch upwards until you’re resting on the back of the headboard, and you watch as he brings his fingers up to his mouth, grinning coyly as he moans at the taste of you, and if you could, you’d pinch him, but you just weakly push him with your foot, looking away abashedly. 

“Nasty,” you whisper hoarsely, your voice gone, and he coos, crawling towards you, bringing his face towards yours as he nudges his nose with yours, and you’re weak, giving in as he hungrily presses his wet lips to yours. 

You can taste yourself on him, and you mewl, feeling his tongue in your mouth, licking inside of you, wanting you to enjoy what he just enjoyed, and your shaking hands grip around his neck. He pulls away a little bit, biting your bottom lip before kissing it, and he rubs a loving thumb across your cheek, his eyes turning gentle as he peers at you through those ocean eyes through those stunning glasses you adore so much.

You don’t trust your voice, so instead you let your hands unravel from his nape, moving upwards towards the expensive frames, straightening them on his nose, making sure they rest correctly on his pink ears, and he watches silently, reverently, as you push him back gently by the chin, making sure that they looked right on the bridge of his nose.

“Hmm, looks better,” you whisper affectionately, kissing the tip of his nose like you’ve always wanted, and that seems to push him over the edge, quickly wrapping his arms around your midsection as he pulls you closer to him, falling back on the bed as he tugs you into his chest, his head resting in the crook of your neck. 

At that moment, you feel it, and your eyes blink rapidly from their hazy state as his hard-on pressed against your thigh.

“Hey,” you murmur, poking his side, but he doesn’t seem like budging, his overwhelming heat and size covering you, his thick arms not moving from caging you to him, and you can’t even wrangle free, “‘Toru, what about you?” 

He doesn’t even lift his head, just hums against the skin of your neck, his lips busy leaving hickeys all over it, ones you’re going to deeply regret in the morning but can’t seem to care right now except for the boner you’re sure is deeply uncomfortable. 

“What about me?” He dreamily replies, his voice barely audible, and you roll your eyes. From this angle, you can see the way his shirt is riding up, his abs on display, the veins leading downward prominent, and his trail of white hair is calling your name. 

You wedge your hand in between your bodies as you press against his cock, the movement causing him to yelp and shudder, whimpering against you as you snicker, sure that now he’s going to give you some more undivided attention.

He sits up a little bit, resting his head on his fist, his elbow on his pillow as he peers down at you, his brow slightly cocked, not looking impressed with being tormented like this after treating you so kindly by giving you the best orgasm of your life.

“Not nice,” he reprimands warmly, poking your side as you yelp, his finger much more sturdy than yours, “You’re not really supposed to grab dicks like that, y’know?”

Your cheeks heat at his choice words, and you shrug, feigning innocence as you bring his hand to yours, admiring the large size a syou play with his fingers, feeling more touchy than usual, and you’re ever so glad that he lets you.

“I’m just saying,” you mumble, flashing him a look that sends a nonexistent punch to his gut, the blood rushing south because you look ethereal like this, “Don’t you want me to…return to favor? Tit for tat?” 

He chuckles, his thumb moving across your eyebrow, soothing the furrow as it moves down to rub against your cheek. 

“We can do tat later,” he uses your terminology and you giggle, your lips pulling into a bright smile because you’re sitting in a post-orgasm afterglow with your crush, and that stupid theorem you had stressed over doesn’t even matter anymore because the impossible outcome is happening right now and you don’t bother with looking normal because you’re feeling anything but, “I still have a date I need to take you out on.” 

You try not to gush like an idiot, your head falling into his sturdy chest, and his hand moves up and down your back, tracing stars and circles and hearts and writing his name, as if he wanted everyone to see the invisible ink that’s bleeding from his fingertips into you.

His finger hooks around your jaw, tilting your head upwards so he can see you better. 

“You wanna date me?” You ask breathlessly with dizzingly joy, the question holding no weight because the two of you already know the answer, but he indulges you, his head falling to yours, forehead against yours, glasses sitting perfectly on his perfect face that’s pressing against your perfect one. 

“I want to be yours,” he murmurs, vulnerability thick in his voice as your lashes flutter, “So, yeah, I want to date you.” 

You giggle again, and you lift your head a little to slot your lips against his plush ones.