Sin título

you do. he slides two thick fingers past your lips, pressing down on your tongue so you can’t make another sound. the guy keeps talking money, timelines, whatever. toji nods along, fucking you deeper, slow drags that have your eyes rolling back.

“mm-hmm,” he hums, curling his fingers in your mouth when you start to drool. “i’ll handle it tonight.”

you come clenching around him, whole body shaking, muffled around his fingers. he grunts once, low, then spills inside you with a lazy thrust, filling you up while still on the call like it’s nothing.

but you’re not done. you lift your hips slow, greedy, and sink back down, dragging his half-hard cock along your soaked walls just to feel the stretch again. you roll your hips in circles, grinding the thick head against that spot inside that makes your breath hitch, thighs trembling from how sensitive you still are.

his fingers slip from your mouth, wet with spit, and land heavy on your waist like he’s gonna stop you. instead his grip tightens. you do it again (lift, drop, grind) and catch the tiniest twitch of his hips up into you, a rough exhale through his nose.

he likes it. likes you using him while he’s still leaking inside you, likes the messy drag of his own cum making it slicker, likes watching you fuck yourself stupid on a cock that’s already hard again, impossibly fast, stretching you open while the guy on the line keeps droning about drop points and payment.

toji mutes the call for half a second, growls “keep fucking yourself on me, doll” against your throat, then unmutes like nothing happened and answers with a bored “uh-huh” while you ride him harder with his cum dripping down your thighs.

satoru grew taller, broader, more dangerously handsome with that lazy grin that made girls at school blush. but you stayed the little sister in everyone’s eyes, the one who tagged along behind her brother and his best friend, the one who fell asleep on the couch between them during horror movies, the one satoru would tuck a blanket over with gentle hands while your brother snored on the other side.

everyone else thought like that but satoru. satoru noticed the changes. he noticed the way your legs got longer, the way your laugh got softer and feminine, the way your body filled out in ways that made his throat tight and his thoughts guilty. he told himself it was nothing. you were his best friend’s little sister, which meant you’re off-limits. and by off-limits, you’re a forbidden fruit he wasn’t allowed to even look at for too long or he would rot you with his dirty thoughts.

nobody sensed how he started pulling away in small ways after sometime. longer gaps between visits, fewer sleepovers, more excuses about being busy with college and then with work. but he never stayed away completely. satoru couldn’t.

every time he saw you he felt that familiar pull, the way his chest tightened when you smiled at him like he hung the moon for you. the way his cock would twitch traitorously when you wore those tiny shorts around the house in the summer every time he came over and god, he hated himself for it because right after he’s done, he would go home after and jerk off in the shower with his jaw clenched, whispering your name like a curse while hot water beat down on his back, telling himself it was the last time.

it was never the last time.

now you’re twenty-two and he’s twenty-eight. your brother still treats you like the kid who used to beg for piggyback rides. satoru still calls you “boogers” sometimes, but the word tastes bitter on his tongue now.

the three of you still hang out, still have movie nights from time to time since satoru could never say no to your asking, he joins your family and still act like nothing has changed. but everything has. satoru can barely look at you without feeling the weight of all those years of wanting. he watches the way you move around the kitchen in your sleep shorts when you’re getting snacks ready for the movies, the way your t-shirt rides up when you reach for something on the top shelf, the way you laugh at his stupid jokes and rest your head on his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

every innocent touch feels like torture. every time your thigh brushes his on the couch he has to fight the urge to pull you into his lap and show you exactly what you do to him.

this time your brother is out of town this weekend for a work trip he couldn’t get out of.

he left satoru with the spare key and the casual instruction to “keep an eye on her.” satoru laughed it off on the phone, responding with a choked ‘yeah, ‘course, i got you man.’ but the second he hung up his mind was already spinning. he told himself he’d just check in once, maybe bring some takeout, make sure you weren’t lonely and nothing more.

but fuck was he wrong, cause satoru only lasted exactly four hours before your text came through:

“movie night? the new horror one just dropped. brother’s gone so no one to complain about the jump scares :)”

he stared at the message for ten full minutes. then that’s when he grabbed his keys, all thoughts starting to get pumped to his dick.

when he knocks on your door it’s a little after ten. you open it wearing your usual oversized, small ribbons printed t-shirt and those damn cotton shorts that have haunted his dreams for years. your skin is soft under the radiating light from the porch, face bare, and you smile at him like he’s the best part of your night.

shit. satoru feels his stomach drop.

“hey, you came,” you say, stepping aside to let him in. your voice is casual, warm, the kind of voice that used to make him feel safe and now makes his cock stir in his sweatpants.

“couldn’t let you watch horror alone,” he replies, forcing that tired, loose grin. he holds up the bag of snacks like a peace offering. “brought the good stuff.”

you laugh and it hits him straight in the chest. he follows you to the living room, trying not to stare at the way the hem of your shorts teases him in front of him. the fabric riding up with every step. the tv is already on, lights dimmed, blankets piled on the couch. you settle in your usual spot, patting the cushion beside you. satoru sits, puts the snacks down onto the coffee table, leaving what he hopes is a respectful distance, but you immediately scoot closer, tucking your legs under you and leaning your head against his shoulder like always.

maybe your nickname was not supposed to be boogers but dumbass cause you don’t seem to take sign on how you’re making it hard for him to stay normal and sane. or so he thought.

the movie starts. the opening credits roll. satoru tries to focus on the screen. he really does. but all he can feel is the warmth of your body against his side, the soft press of your bare thigh against his, the faint vanilla scent of your shampoo. his hand rests on the back of the couch, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder when he shifts.

every innocent touch feels loaded tonight. the house is too quiet without your brother’s loud commentary. it’s just you and him and years of unspoken tension hanging heavy in the dark.

halfway through the first act you stretch, arms lifting above your head, shirt riding up to show a strip of soft stomach. satoru’s eyes flick down before he can stop them, fingers twitching not to touch you and when you settle again your leg presses fully against his. he doesn’t move away. instead his fingers brush your shoulder again, slower this time, thumb stroking once along your skin.

“cold?” he asks, voice quieter than he means.

you shake your head, tilting your face up to look at him. your eyes are soft in the glow of the tv. “no. just getting comfortable.”

he swallows hard. his hand drops from the couch to rest lightly on your upper arm, thumb still stroking slow circles. the touch is supposed to be casual but it isn’t. at least that’s what satoru knows.

the movie keeps playing but the man sitting next to you is not really watching anymore. the air between you feels thicker, warmer, charged with everything you’ve both been pretending doesn’t exist for years.

satoru’s jaw clenches. he can feel his cock starting to thicken in his sweatpants, the traitorous heat building low in his gut. he tells himself to stop. he tells himself you’re his best friend’s little sister. he tells himself a lot of things.

you shift again, turning slightly so your knee brushes his thigh. and lord knows how he’s struggling not to make a sound, especially when your voice is barely above a whisper when you speak.

“satoru?”

he looks down at you, blue eyes dark in the low light. “yeah?”

you bite your lip, just for a second, and the small movement sends another rush of blood straight to his cock.

“you’ve been really quiet tonight.”

fuck.

he forces a laugh, but it comes out strained. “am i?” he asks. “just focused on the movie.” his reply doesn’t satisfy you and you don’t look convinced so your hand rests lightly on his chest, right over his heart. “liar.” you call him out.

liar…

the sting of the word is heavy because satoru is not the only one suffering alone here, you’re a liar as well. and you’re pretending none of this is eating you alive when that’s exactly how it’s been for you since satoru came to your house.

you’ve been stiff as a board since the moment you sat down, even though you’re trying so hard to act normal. you can feel it in the way his shoulder has gone tight under your cheek, the way his breathing isn’t quite as steady as usual, the way his long fingers keep flexing against the couch like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

the tv flickers soft blue light across both of you, painting shadows over his sharp jaw and the faint flush creeping up his neck, but you’re not watching the movie anymore. you’re watching him, noticing every detail.

your hand stays light on his chest, right over his heart, and you can feel how fast it’s beating under your palm. thump-thump-thump, way too quick for someone who’s supposedly just chilling on the couch. you shift a little closer, letting your bare thigh press more firmly against his — testing water — and that’s when you notice it full.

the soft, heavy bulge under the dark blue-black sweatpants he’s wearing. it’s not fully hard yet, but it’s definitely there, thickening slowly against the loose fabric, the outline just visible every time the tv screen flashes brighter. your stomach flips, heat pooling low between your legs because you did that. you’re doing that to him right now, just by sitting here in your tiny shorts with your head on his shoulder like you always have.

the tension sits thick and heavy between you, wrapping around every small movement. every time you breathe, your chest brushes his arm.

every time he shifts, his thigh presses harder against yours. the air feels warmer than it should, like the room itself is holding its breath along with both of you. you can smell his cologne mixed with the faint mint from his gum, and underneath it all something warmer, something that makes your mouth water.

satoru’s hand on your upper arm hasn’t stopped moving. his thumb keeps stroking those slow, careful circles, but now each pass feels heavier, more deliberate, like he’s fighting the urge to slide his whole palm down your skin.

you tilt your head up a little more, letting your breath fan across the side of his neck. his jaw clenches. you watch the muscle jump, watch the way his adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. the bulge in his sweatpants twitches again, growing thicker, the fabric starting to tent just enough that you can see the clear shape of him.

your own body reacts instantly, a warm rush between your thighs, your nipples tightening under the thin t-shirt. you’re suddenly aware of how little you’re wearing, how your shorts exposed so much skin the bottom curve of your ass is almost showing, how your shirt keeps slipping off one shoulder no matter how many times you fix it.

satoru’s fingers tighten on your arm for half a second before he forces them to relax. his breathing has gone shallow. you can feel the heat pouring off him, the way his thigh muscles are locked tight under your leg. the movie keeps playing, some girl screaming on screen, but none of you flinch and the only sound that matters is the quiet hitch in his breath when your knee accidentally nudges higher up his leg, brushing right against the side of that growing bulge.

he doesn’t pull away. he stays perfectly still, like moving even an inch might break whatever fragile control he has left.

you bite your lip, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. the flush on your neck is spreading, warm and prickly, and a tiny bead of sweat is already forming at the small of your back. you feel sticky and hot and aching, and all you’ve done is sit here with your head on his shoulder.

the years of quiet ‘wanting’ press in harder tonight, sharper because your brother isn’t here to act as a buffer. it’s just you and satoru and the heavy, suffocating knowledge that you’re both thinking about the same thing.

satoru clears his throat suddenly, the sound rough and forced. he shifts, moving his arm from around you, and stands up in one quick motion. his sweatpants do nothing to hide how hard he is now, the thick outline pressing obviously against the front, the fabric stretched tight. he keeps his back half-turned to you like that will somehow fix it.

“uh… i need some water,” he mutters, voice low and strained. “or a coke. something cold.”

you sit up slowly, fixing your shirt so it covers your shoulder again, but it doesn’t help much. your skin feels too warm, a light sheen of sweat already making the back of your neck sticky. your cheeks are flushed, you can feel the heat in them, and between your legs you’re starting to get embarrassingly wet, the thin cotton of your panties clinging to you. you swallow, trying to sound normal even though your voice comes out a little breathy.

“oh yeah, okay. it’s in the fridge. you know your way around.”

satoru nods once, still not fully facing you, and heads toward the kitchen. his shoulders are stiff, steps a little too deliberate, like he’s forcing himself to put distance between you. you stay on the couch, legs pressed together, heart still racing and satoru disappears into the kitchen.

you stay on the couch, legs pressed tight together, trying to calm the flutter between your thighs. the movie is still playing but the sound feels distant, like it’s happening in another room. you can hear him open the fridge, the soft clink of a can, the quiet hiss when he cracks it open. a few seconds later he walks back in, coke in one hand, the other rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to shake something off.

he’s too distracted to consider bringing you one.

he looks at you for a long moment before he sits down again, this time leaving a little more space between your bodies but it doesn’t help.

the air still feels charged, heavy with everything neither of you has said out loud. you notice the way his sweatpants still sit a little awkwardly, the thick line of his cock not fully softened, pressing against the fabric every time he shifts, manspread awkwardly.

your own skin is warm and sticky, a faint sheen of sweat on your neck and between your breasts, your nipples tight and sensitive under the thin t-shirt.

satoru takes a long sip of the coke, throat working, then sets the can on the coffee table. when he leans back against the couch his arm brushes yours again, and this time he doesn’t pull away. his fingers find your shoulder once more, but instead of the casual thumb strokes from before, his whole palm settles there, warm and heavy.

it seems he’s calmed a bit.. which means you’re the one who’s suffering hundred percent.

“you okay?” he asks, voice low, a little rough around the edges.

you nod, but it feels like a lie. “yeah… just warm in here.”

his eyes flick down to the flushed skin of your neck, then lower to where your shirt has slipped off your shoulder again. he doesn’t say anything, but his thumb starts brushing the bare skin near your collarbone. the touch is slow, almost absent, but it sends heat straight down your spine. you shift like you’re under a spell without thinking, your bare thigh sliding against his again, and this time your knee nudges right against the side of his cock through the sweatpants.

satoru inhales sharply. his hand slides from your shoulder down your arm, stopping at your wrist. his thumb presses lightly against your pulse point, feeling how fast your heart is racing.

“you’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“so are you,” you whisper back.

the only light flickering on both of you is the glow from the tv, casting soft blue and white across both of you. satoru turns his head to look at you fully, blue eyes dark and conflicted, pupils blown wide as if he’s high. his free hand comes up, hesitating for half a second before he cups the side of your face, thumb brushing your lower lip.

“this is a bad idea,” he says, eyes dancing over your lips but he doesn’t sound convinced. his voice is thick, breath warm against your mouth.

“then why does it feel so good?” you have no idea how words are forming in your mouth when your brain disconnected from your tongue a long time ago, and the only option you have is leaning into his touch.

he lets out a quiet, broken sound, half groan, half sigh. his thumb presses a little harder against your lip, parting it slightly. you part your lips more, letting the tip of his thumb slip just inside, brushing against your tongue. satoru’s eyes flutter for a second, jaw tight.

“fuck… you’re killing me.”

you suck gently on his thumb, just enough to make his breath hitch. his other hand slides down to your waist, gripping the fabric of your shirt like he’s anchoring himself. the tension snaps slowly, like a rubber band stretching thinner and thinner until it finally gives.

satoru pulls his thumb from your mouth with a wet sound and replaces it with his lips. the kiss starts soft, almost careful, lips sliding together warm and slow. but the second you make a small needy sound in the back of your throat he deepens it, tongue licking into your mouth, hot and hungry. years of holding back pour into that kiss, all the stolen glances, all the guilty nights in the shower, all the times he told himself no.

his hands slide down to your hips, gripping firmly as he pulls you sideways until you’re straddling one of his thick thighs. the moment your core settles over the hard muscle you both moan quietly into the kiss. your soaked panties press right against his leg, the thin cotton already clinging to your folds from how wet you are. satoru’s fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, guiding you into a slow, rolling grind.

you start moving. slow, deliberate rocks of your hips that drag your swollen clit along the firm muscle of his thigh. every pass makes the fabric of your shorts and panties rub against you, the friction hot and slick and perfect. each roll pushes more wetness out of you, soaking the cotton until it clings transparently to your pussy. satoru groans low in his chest when he feels the damp heat spreading across his thigh, his cock twitching hard in his sweatpants, the thick head nudging against your inner thigh with every grind.

he breaks the kiss with a wet sound, lips shiny, breathing ragged. his mouth trails down your neck, sucking softly at the sensitive skin, then lower, until his lips brush over your collarbone. when he reaches your chest he doesn’t push your shirt up. instead he closes his mouth around one of your pebbled nipples right through the thin fabric.

the sensation is immediate and filthy. his tongue swirls slow and heavy over the stiff peak, soaking the cotton instantly. warm spit seeps through the material, making it cling to your breast, turning the white fabric translucent.

he sucks gently at first, then harder, pulling your nipple deeper into his mouth while his tongue flicks fast and wet. the wet patch grows, dark and shiny, the outline of your hard nipple completely visible through the soaked shirt. every pull of his mouth sends sharp sparks straight to your clit, making your hips roll faster against his thigh.

“mmh… fuck,” he groans against your chest, the vibration traveling through the damp fabric. “look at you. letting me cover you with my spit. your body’s so fucking readyfor me already, yeah?”

he switches to the other nipple, sucking it deep into his mouth with a wet, obscene sound. more drool collects from the corners of his lips, smearing down the front of your shirt in shiny trails, soaking the fabric until both your tits are glistening and see-through. the cool air hits the wet patches and makes your nipples ache even more, stiff and sensitive under his relentless mouth. he keeps sucking noisily, alternating between slow, deep pulls and quick flicks of his tongue, you could swear his spit is probably dripping down your stomach now, making the front of your shirt stick to your skin.

you’re grinding harder, hips rolling in needy little circles, clit dragging over his thigh with every movement. the friction is slick and constant, your soaked panties sliding against the hard muscle, the wet sounds of fabric rubbing together mixing with the filthy noises his mouth makes on your chest. your hands are in his white hair, tugging gently, soft whimpers and gasps spilling from your lips every time he sucks particularly hard.

satoru’s cock is throbbing visibly in his sweatpants, the thick ridge pressing insistently against your inner thigh, leaking enough that a small dark spot has formed at the front. every time you grind forward the head of his cock nudges closer to your core, teasing you both with how close he is to where you both desperately want him to be.

he pulls back just enough to look at the mess he’s made. your shirt is completely ruined, plastered transparently to your tits, nipples dark and shiny with his spit, little droplets still sliding down your stomach. his eyes are heavy-lidded, breathing ragged, lips swollen and wet.

“so fucking pretty,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “y’know how i’ve been dreaming about marking you up like this for years? look how filthy i got you… your brother will fuck me up.”

he leans in again, mouth latching back onto your nipple through the drenched fabric, sucking harder while his hands grip your ass tighter, helping you grind faster against him. the wet, messy sounds fill the room — his mouth sucking noisily, your slick panties sliding over his thigh, both of you breathing hard and shaky.

the tension is thick and suffocating, every slow grind and every wet kiss pushing you both closer to the edge without either of you saying it out loud yet.

after what feels like euphorically forever, satoru pulls back from your chest with a wet pop, lips shiny and swollen, eyes heavy as he looks at the absolute mess he’s made of your shirt.

his breathing is ragged, chest rising and falling fast under his hoodie, and for a second he just stares at you like he can’t believe this is real. then his hand slips down, fingers dipping into the pocket of his sweatpants, and he pulls out a small foil packet. the condom glints under the dim light, and you raise a brow, lips parting in quiet surprise.

he catches the look and just shrugs, a lazy, almost sheepish tilt of his shoulders, causing your cheeks flushing darker. “had to,” he mutters, voice low and rough, like the words are being dragged out of him. “couldn’t risk it. not with you.”

you let out a soft, cheeky laugh, the sound breathy and teasing even though your heart is hammering. “you’ve always wanted to fuck me, huh?”

satoru’s brows knit together instantly, that familiar stern little frown pulling at his face, but his eyes stay dark and hungry. “that’s a vulgar word, boogers,” he says, the nickname slipping out like habit, but there’s no real bite to it. he leans in and presses a soft, almost tender kiss to the tip of your nose, lips brushing there gently before he pulls back just enough to look at you again. “i want to make you feel good. that’s all.”

you groan, half playful, half frustrated, and swat your hand lightly against his chest. “stop calling me boogers, toru. seriously!”

he just hums, low and warm, the sound vibrating through his chest as his hands slide to your hips. he helps lift you a little higher on your knees, giving himself room, and shoves his sweatpants and briefs down in one smooth motion. they pool around his calves, leaving his thick cock springing free, heavy and flushed, the head already glistening.

he tears the foil packet open with his teeth, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet room, and the sweet strawberry scent of the condom fills the small space between your bodies, fruity and almost too innocent for how filthy this feels.

satoru rolls it down his girthy tip first, jaw tightening as the latex stretches over him. a soft, broken whimper slips out of him when the cool material slides along his sensitive head, his hips twitching once before he rolls it all the way to the base with steady fingers. the condom sits snug, shiny and strawberry-sweet, the faint pink tint of it catching the tv light. he looks up at you then, eyes dark and solemn, waiting.

his hands move to your shorts and panties next, hooking into the waistband and sliding them down your thighs together in one slow tug.

you lift your hips to help, and the soaked fabric peels away from your pussy with a wet sound, leaving you completely bare from the waist down. he doesn’t stop there. his fingers catch the hem of your spit-drenched shirt and peel it up and off, tossing it somewhere on the floor. now you’re completely naked in his lap, skin flushed and glowing under the flickering light, tits still shiny with his dirty work, pussy glistening and swollen from all the grinding.

satoru is still mostly dressed, only his hoodie on, sweatpants and briefs shoved down to his calves, the contrast making everything feel even unholy. he licks a bold stripe across his palm, tongue dragging slow and wet, then reaches between you and swipes the slick hand over your folds. the touch is warm and deliberate, fingers spreading your wetness, thumb brushing your clit once before he grips the base of his cock and guides the thick, condom-covered head to your entrance.

he presses in slow, so slow, the blunt tip stretching you open inch by careful inch. his brows knit tight with concentration, eyes locked on your face, watching for any flicker of pain or discomfort. you feel every thick ridge as he sinks deeper, the stretch burning sweet and full, your walls fluttering around him.

your eyes start to haze, lashes fluttering, jaw going slack as the overwhelming sensation of being filled by him hits you. your breathing stutters, lips parted on a silent gasp, completely detached for a moment while your body adjusts to the heavy, girthy length pushing inside.

satoru knew you were small compared to him but never did he think you’d be struggling to fit his fat cock in your tight cunt this much.

satoru stays perfectly still once he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, breathing hard through his nose. his hands grip your waist tight, thumbs stroking soothing circles on your skin as he waits, watching the way your eyes glaze over and your jaw hangs open. the strawberry scent mixes with the sharp smell of your arousal, the room quiet except for the low hum of the credit scene of the horror movie and the sound of both of you trying to breathe through the intensity.

“can i move?” he asks, voice low and calculated, almost a whisper, like he’s afraid to break the moment. his brows are still knitted, waiting for any sign from you.

you can’t find words right away. instead you just tap his shoulder once, twice, a small, mute signal that you’re okay, that you want this. satoru exhales shakily, relief and hunger mixing in the sound, and he starts to move.

at first it’s slow, careful rolls of his hips that drag his thick cock along your walls, the stretch burning so good it makes your breath hitch. you start grinding down to meet him, hips rolling in small, needy circles, your slick coating the base of his cock and smearing messily over the soft, dark trail of hair that runs from his navel down to where he disappears inside you. every grind leaves a shiny trail of your wetness glistening on his skin, the wet sounds squelching in the quiet room.

you’re vocal in little bursts, whispers of his name slipping out between shaky breaths. “satoru… toru…” the words are breathy, almost reverent, filling the living room like a secret. your hands slide up his hoodie, fingers digging into his chest as you grind harder, chasing the friction, the fullness, the way he fills you so completely.

“too big.. you’re– toru, fuuuck,” you cry out.

satoru leans back against the couch, arms dropping to his sides for a moment, face going almost numb with pleasure. his blue eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, white hair messy and falling into his face as he watches you ride him. he looks completely under your spell, like the sight of you naked and grinding on his cock has short-circuited his brain. the curve of his cock jerks inside you when you desperately grab his hand and bring it to your tits, pressing his palm against the soft, post spit-slick flesh.

that seems to snap him back. his face shifts from dazed to focused in an instant, intention clear in the way his jaw tightens. he wants to make you feel good. that’s all he cares about right now.

“i got you, yeah? ‘m here.”

he braces himself, planting his heels firmly on the floor, one arm wrapping tight around your hips while the other hand stays on your breast, fingers tweaking and rolling your nipple between them. then he starts fucking up into you. the first thrust is deep and powerful, hips snapping up so his cock drives into you harder, the angle perfect, the thick head rubbing right against that spongy spot inside you that makes your vision spark.

“that’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked but steady, focused entirely on you. “feel good? tell me if it’s too much.”

he sets a rhythm, slow at first but building, each upward thrust meeting your downward grind, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder. his arm around your hips keeps you steady, guiding you, while his fingers keep playing with your nipple, pinching and tugging just enough to send sparks straight to your clit. every time he bottoms out you whimper his name again, softer, breathier, your slick continuing to smear over his happy trail and the base of his cock, making everything messy and shiny.

satoru’s eyes never leave your face. he watches every twitch of your expression, every time your lips part on a moan, every time your eyes flutter. his whole focus is on you, on making sure every thrust feels perfect, on drawing out those little whispers of his name until they turn into broken cries. he fucks up into you with controlled power, the condom sliding slickly inside your soaked pussy, sweat mixing with the sharp smell of sex.

he leans forward slightly, mouth finding your other nipple again, sucking it into his mouth through the remnants of dried spit still on your skin, tongue swirling while he keeps thrusting. the dual sensation — his cock dragging inside you and his mouth on your breast — makes your back arch, a louder moan spilling out this time.

“good girl,” he breathes against your wet skin, voice low and praising. “taking me so well. just let me make you feel good, yeah? that’s all i want.”

his hips keep snapping up, steady and deep, the arm around your waist holding you down so you take every inch while his fingers keep working your nipple and his mouth keeps sucking the other. the living room fills with the wet sounds of him fucking into you, your soft whispers of his name, and the heavy breathing of two people who have waited years for this exact moment.

satoru keeps that steady, deep rhythm, hips rolling up into you with controlled power while his mouth stays busy on your tits.

every upward thrust drags his thick, condom-covered cock along your walls, the head catching perfectly against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. his arm around your waist holds you down on his cock, the wet slap of skin meeting skin growing louder, messier, your slick continuing to smear over his happy trail and the base of his cock until the dark hair glistens with it.

he switches between sucking one nipple and tweaking the other with his fingers, tongue swirling slow and wet, spit dripping down your chest in shiny trails that catch the flickering tv light.

you’re riding him but barely, your hips grinding in small, desperate circles while he does most of the work, fucking up into you with deep, purposeful strokes that make your breath hitch every single time he bottoms out. your hands clutch at his hoodie, nails digging into the fabric as soft, broken whispers of his name keep slipping out — “toru… satoru…” — the fruity scent of the condom mixes with the sharp smell of sex, filling the dark living room until it’s all you can breathe.

your legs start to twitch first. the muscles in your thighs quiver against his sides, small, uncontrollable tremors that travel down to your calves.

satoru notices immediately. his eyes flick down, watching the way your knees shake beside his hips, the subtle way your body is starting to tighten and flutter around him. a low, knowing hum vibrates in his chest and he shifts beneath you, sliding one arm under the knee closest to him. with a smooth, effortless motion he hooks it up and presses it toward your chest, folding you open even wider while you’re still on top of him.

the new angle spreads you so much more, your pussy stretching tighter around his cock, the head dragging harder against that perfect spot with every thrust.

you gasp sharply, the sound cracking in the back of your throat as the deeper penetration hits you all at once. satoru’s other arm stays banded around your waist, holding you steady, and now he’s fully in control even though you’re on top. he fucks up into you with stronger, deeper strokes, hips snapping with purpose, the wet squelch of your soaked pussy taking him echoing louder in the quiet room.

“c’mon, you’re gonna bless me, baby?” he murmurs against your neck, voice rough and focused. “come on my cock, there you go. you just gotta feel it.”

your riding turns sloppy, hips stuttering as the pressure builds fast and overwhelming. your legs tremble harder, the one he’s holding to your chest shaking visibly. your walls start to flutter and clench around him in tight, rhythmic pulses, your slick gushing out around the base of his cock with every thrust. satoru groans low when he feels it, but he doesn’t slow down. he keeps driving up into you, steady and relentless, the arm under your knee keeping you spread wide and open for him.

you come hard.

your whole body folds forward suddenly, chest pressing against his as a broken, whining cry tears from your throat, your mouth is open and breathing straight into his mouth. your pussy clamps down around his cock in strong, pulsing waves, gushing wet and hot around him even through the condom. tears slip down your flushed cheeks, eyes squeezing shut while you sob his name in soft, overwhelmed whimpers — “toru… fuck, toru…” — your hips jerking and twitching uncontrollably as the orgasm crashes through you.

satoru keeps fucking you through it, slower now but still deep, drawing out every pulse and every shaky sob. his hand on your waist rubs soothing circles while the other keeps your leg folded to your chest, holding you open so he can feel every flutter and gush. he presses soft kisses to your temple, your wet cheek, murmuring quiet praise against your skin as you tremble and cry in his lap, completely spent and folded against him.

tsatoru holds you close through the last trembling waves of your orgasm, his cock still buried deep inside your fluttering pussy. he presses gentle kisses to your damp temple then your flushed cheek, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back while you come down.

“i’m.. fuck, you’re so good to me.” the way he grunts those words out shows you he’s not done yet.

his grip tightens on your waist and under your knee, and he starts fucking up into you again — deeper than you thought was possible. each thrust is slow, powerful, and deliberate, driving his thick cock so far inside you that you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

the new angle has the head of his cock pressing right against that spot with every upward snap of his hips, stretching you open wider, filling you fuller than you’ve ever been filled. the wet, filthy sounds of him plunging deep into your soaked pussy echo in the quiet living room, your slick leaking out around the base of his cock and dripping down his balls with every thrust.

“shit… so deep,” he groans against your ear, voice wrecked and low. “can you feel me, baby? feel how deep i’m getting? that’s it… take every inch.”

he fucks you with long, grinding strokes, hips rolling up hard and steady, the arm under your knee keeping you folded and spread so he can bury himself to the hilt every single time. your body jolts with each thrust, tits bouncing against his chest, soft cries and whimpers spilling from your mouth as the overstimulation turns into another building wave of pleasure.

satoru’s breathing grows ragged, his thrusts turning sharper, more desperate, the slap of skin on skin getting louder as he chases his own release.

“gonna come,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, blue eyes dark and hazy. “gonna fill you up… fuck, you feel too good.”

he drives in deep one last time, hips stuttering as he buries himself as far as he can go.

“fuuuck,” a low, broken groan tears from his throat as he comes hard, cock pulsing thick and hot inside the condom while he grinds against you, drawing out every last spurt. his whole body trembles under you, arms locked tight around your frame as he empties himself, the strawberry-scented latex stretching with every heavy pulse.

for a long moment the only sounds are your shaky breathing and his quiet groans. he stays buried deep inside you, holding you close, the leg he had hooked to your chest gently lowered back down so you can relax against him. slowly, carefully, he pulls out, tying off the condom and setting it aside before he gathers you fully into his arms.

satoru shifts so you’re both lying on the couch, your smaller body draped over his chest, his hoodie soft against your bare skin. he pulls the blanket from the back of the couch (you didn’t notice that was there from the beginning.) over both of you, tucking it gently around your shoulders. one hand strokes slow, soothing lines up and down your back, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

“you okay?” he murmurs, voice soft and rough at the same time. he presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips — gentle, lingering kisses that feel like apologies and promises all at once. “did i hurt you? was it too much?”

you shake your head against his chest, still catching your breath, and he hums in quiet relief. he keeps touching you. slow strokes along your spine, gentle kisses to your shoulder, his palm rubbing warm circles over your lower back where you’re still a little sore. every touch is careful, tender, like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel in his arms now that the line has finally been crossed.

and now that his time with you is very limited. by limited:

“your brother told me to keep an eye on you,” the topic feels heavy already when he says it after a while, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips as he looks down at you. his fingers keep tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “if this is what it takes… so be it.”

so be the risk of making the person, his person whom he lov—

realization hits and splashes on satoru like a bucket filled with water and ice. satoru loves. satoru loves you. he is in love, satoru loves someone who is a very much forbidden person.

he pulls you closer, wrapping both arms around you fully, the thought of your brother finding what he did to you can be stressed over for later, what matters now is your naked body tucked safely against his mostly-clothed one. the tv is still playing a new trailer for next movie faintly in the background, completely ignored.

satoru holds you like that for a long time — warm, steady, protective — pressing soft kisses to wherever his lips can reach, murmuring quiet praises and gentle nonsense until your breathing evens out and your eyes start to drift shut.

“toru, do you think this is okay?” your voice is muffled with how you’re both tangled together. he doesn’t reply at first so you take it as a sign to continue. “what are we gonna do after this? what if my brot—”

“i’ve got you,” he cuts you off with a whisper against your hair, one last kiss pressed to the top of your head. “always have and nothing will happen, just take some rest and we’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

he can feel your body relaxing the moment he says that and satoru smiles a little, his heart swelling of fonding.

the living room feels smaller and warmer now, the weight of years of tension finally settling into something softer, something real, as satoru keeps holding you close under the blanket, his hand never stopping its gentle strokes along your back before he himself is dozing off from reality.

feeling too tired from his post nut session his brain is blank.

After the show was a whole blur.

Hundreds of fans wanting autographs, pictures, hearts, and so on. Cameras were flashing, fans were yelling, screaming for your attention that you couldn’t deny—literally.

Yet there was one fan in specific that caught your attention—She wasn’t energetic like the others, no. She looked.. suspicious in a way.

Nothing on her phone that told you that she was a fan, and she wasn’t even holding anything for you to sign. She looked at you—not saying anything, just silently staring. Yet that was enough to make you tense up.

The way that she looked like she knew something that none of the other fans knew about. It was unsettling to say the least. But you forced a smile at her as you carefully passed her, and she only looked at you in return.

That’s when you caught a glimpse of a keychain on her purse—one that said something related to CORTIS. You couldn’t read it properly yet it stood out to you enough either way.

You moved past her area, suddenly more tense than earlier—the simple keychain being more than enough to keep you on edge about her.

Anyways.

After that then you guys had to get in the bus to head to the next city that you guys had a concert in. The moment you and the girls got on the bus, all of you were forced to go to sleep, or at least be quiet so someone could get sleep.

A few minutes after you got settled down, your phone buzzed.

taglist ->.. @pumrikku @lunaryoongie @chocolateislife @slvdsjjk @kpopsmutty69 @cherryluvssss @itsdragonius @rickyshensgirlfriend @ilovegojosatoru13 @sxmnc

a quiet beat passes, and MARTIN'S able to take in the sight of you. your hair is perfect, as always, and your makeup is flawless, even at the end of the day. you were unattainable. people at school wished and dreamed of either being you or having you.

so what do you have to do with MARTIN of all people? he asks himself that question every day.

MARTIN is, to put it simply, an outsider. people don't look twice as they pass, and they never give him a second thought. he has a few friends, one guy in his class, two in the year below, and then someone who graduated a year ago. but these people, they were it. group projects never lead to new friendships, passing words by the lockers never matter in the long run.

so he took pride in these people, these few guys that cared and showed it. barely two weeks after he met juhoon, the guy in his class, they decided to kickstart a small band from their shared love of music. juhoon on drums and MARTIN on mic and guitar.

two weeks later, juhoon introduced him to two friends who were a year younger, and they were quick to join the band. james kind of just melted into the band eventually, being a neighbor of MARTIN'S, he constantly overheard their rehearsals in his garage. he'd walk up the driveway, saying something like, "I had some leftover cookies I thought you guys might want," and after a few weeks, it turned into him picking up a guitar and playing with.

MARTIN felt as if he had achieved something. he now had somewhere to belong: his overflowing garage, with instruments, amps, and a few wonderfully weird people.

so he'd go from quiet conversations with juhoon at the back of math class to loud beats of music and echoing lyrics. for once, life was a little airy, going from secluded and ignored to having a part he loved and loved him.

and then, you came along. you lived on the same street, MARTIN knew this. back when you were kids, the two of you would even play in the streets from time to time. but as time passed, and social constructs grew in your teenage years, your mellow contact broke; waves in the hallways and gentle smiles came to a halt.

you were never close, but it hurt MARTIN a little to have to go from sheepish waves to nothing. but life goes on, and he learned to let it go, let you stay unattainable.

you didn't think much of him, that is, until that one day. you'd been cramming in study time at the school library for what felt like an eternity. the sun shone encouragingly at first and began to set when you decided to call it a day. chemistry was screwing you sideways, and of course, the teacher was a punishment sent from hell, so you were stuck teaching yourself the syllabus the day before the exam.

you ended up packing up at around 5pm, approximately five hours after your classes ended. your last lesson had been canceled, and instead of your usual departure to the corner shop or hanging out in the courtyard with your group of girl friends, you decided to make camp in a pile of chemistry books and notes, and the sterile light of your laptop.

your friends had laughed, dragged you by the arm towards the exit in protest, but you insisted, and, with a sigh, they left you to your misery as they celebrated their early end to school.

when you finally collected your things, defeated by the pain that is chem, it was too late to go to the corner shop and too late to find any of your friends still available. so you retorted to going home. you took the bus to the closest stop, but it still made your walk home ten minutes.

this walk was often relaxing, a way to start your morning or end your school day, but now, it feels like a death sentence. each step takes more and more out of you. the sky's turned beautifully orange and purple, the spring ─nearly summer─ sun shining everything in comforting tones. but you can't find any energy to actually appreciate the warmth.

the day had defeated you, you're tired, you feel clammy, and you yearn for the shower waiting for you at home.

so what could possibly put you in the position you're in now? stopped dead in your tracks; unmoving, mesmerized.

MARTIN, that's who. the sun hits him in a way that makes his blond-dyed hair golden and his dark brown eyes shine. he's pretty; painted nails strumming his electric guitar, lips close, intimate with the microphone; the mic stand stretched tall to reach him.

you remember him, of course, you do. the boy who'd always come up running to you with the brightest smile on those warm summer days when you two and a couple of the other neighborhood kids would swim and play around in your pool. the boy who'd always share his pocket money with you so you could also buy a popsicle when the ice cream truck came around.

he's sweet, he always has been. but when reputation and standards caught up, letting people go felt non-optional. MARTIN came with that "non-negotiable" ruling, and your friends convinced you not to care. and you haven't cared, not for five years, but now, when you're witnessing him at his best, it's hard not to look away. he's effortless in his strumming and plucking of the guitar; he's cool and natural with the mic that's nearly touching his lips.

you're not the first to stop and stare. a whole crowd has formed in his driveway, clapping in rhythm, and a few shouting the lyrics with MARTIN. he looks so happy, so in his element.

you don't join the crowd; you're too intimidated to, you stay on the sidewalk, a good few meters away from the ordeal. but you stay, you stay for the entire show. over the thirty minutes they play, they don't miss a single time. every song gets the crowd hyped, gets people singing, dancing, and applauding.

MARTIN is quiet, from what you've seen nowadays anyway. soft-spoken in class, on the low-key in hallways. but here, he's loud and catches everyone's attention with as much as a striking smile and an encouraging shout. time passes quickly with his on-stage charm, and after he lands his last chord with a confident strum, he says his thank yous as people start filtering out with newly found smiles and pleased ears.

you however, you're stuck, you can't bring yourself to move, to leave. the crowd grows thin, and the people who once blocked your appearance have left. you ─in your school uniform, imperfect hair, and a mountain of textbooks in your hands─ still stand on the pavement, teetering on the edge of his driveway. you stand out like a sore thumb against the astray people dressed in black and studs.

MARTIN spots you. spots you in your pretty white blouse and plaid skirt, that somehow manages to look better, different on you than on everyone else. you and your ─in his eyes─ perfect hair, holding a pile of school work tight to your chest.

time doesn't slow, sparks don't fly; it's rather clumsy. shivers of shock rush through him at the sight of you, and in his flabbergastment, he drops his guitar, the neck bumps into a cable, tearing it from its socket in the amplifier. feedback screeches for a few seconds at the commotion, echoing and causing the rest of the band to shout annoyances.

"sorry," MARTIN insists, picking up his fallen guitar.

when he starts making his way over, hand grasping his guitar, your body yells at you to move, to leave before you do anything you'll regret, but you're suddenly face-to-face, and it's too late to flee.

when he's close enough, you truly realize how much older the two of you have gotten, because he towers over you, and he's no longer dressed in playfully colorful clothes or wearing hairclips his sister dressed him in.

you see him in the hallways from time to time, his glasses and painted nails, but the fact has never clicked in your head. you realize that MARTIN'S not stuck in some memory in your head. he's real and there.

"you play," is all you can get out, the first words you've spoken to him in five years, and he chuckles, sounding embarrassed.

"yeah, I do," he says sheepishly, glancing down at his red guitar.

"you were great," you say. he smiles, looking down at you.

"we, uhm," he stutters, pointing back to the garage with the guys tidying up and grabbing cans of soda from a red cooler. "this's our first gig, kinda," he laughs awkwardly. he leans his guitar on his shoe so he doesn't have to hold all its weight. "we were playing and people sorta just gathered y'know."

you find yourself smiling. "really?" he glances at your eyes, but looks away after a second. "that's.." you lose your words, the thought of your group's voices taunting you. they make fun of people like MARTIN, the glasses-wearing, note-taking, alone-sitting somebodies that are so easy to ignore and even easier to point and laugh at with the excuse of feeling pity.

it's the fact that you're standing here, in front of this tall, gentle, glass-eyed guitarist, and you don't really care what they'd have to say. you've missed him, a fact only ever made apparent right in this moment when he's close, and the sunrise gleam shines him rosy and flushed, and his glasses are still a little lopsided from past commotion.

you two grew from that, this small interaction. subtle, sheepish waves in the hallways, to you stopping by his house when they were playing. sitting in a nearby armchair, drinking a dr. pepper that MARTIN always offered the minute he saw you walking up his driveway.

you were welcomed in a way you haven't been before, and that just led to you two. a late august evening, the sun mere inches away from hiding under the horizon. just the two of you are left after juhoon said his goodbyes. an innocent conversation turned romantic with the help of a sunset, a blush, and far-too-cute glasses.

one detail that always reminds you of that evening is the fact that he gave you a diet dr. pepper rather than an original. seeing that white can, always reminds you of that smile he gave you, of that kiss you shared.

"you got any studying to get home to?" MARTIN asks as he puts down his guitar on its stand. you chuckle at the question, because you do, quite a lot at that. you have a book seminar in english this friday, and you've got half the book left. it's constantly been slipping your mind thanks to your newly frequented stops at MARTINS and the fact that the book is just mind-numbingly dull.

"just a bit of reading," you lie, taking a sip of your diet dr.pepper. his eyes land on yours again after having put his guitar down, and he's wearing a pleased smile.

"so, maybe you can stay a little longer?" MARTIN proposes, and there's something about the way he looked in that very moment. eyes aglow by the setting sun and glasses beaming.

you end up sitting on his driveway, the gray concrete cold underneath you, and the can in your hand humid with condensation. there are no words to really describe the moment. sunset shining the world golden, laughter blessing your ears. it's simple, yet your flushed skin is nothing but complex. he's sitting close enough for your shoulders to touch, and it makes all his words so foggy.

he chuckles as he makes a remark, and you nod with a smile, but you're lost in him. in his glasses that mirror the sun, the smile that fits him so well, and the hands that are so close. if you were to stretch your pinky, you'd touch his, and wasn't that a little bit too tempting?

he laughs again, a deep, colorful chuckle that infects you with a warmth; a warmth that gives you courage. your pinky touches his, subtle, but undeniable. it makes him trip over his words a little, and the blush that inches up his face is enough to make you reach over properly, your palm against his outer hand.

his words dissolve before they can reach his tongue, and he's left with only breath and a warm pulse. "I-," he chuckles, his throat bobbing as he looks down at your touching hands.

your contact lies there; open for him to acknowledge and pursue. what you expect is him to slowly intertwine your hands, to give you a smile. but before he even tries, he looks to you, and he holds your eyes so carefully, his gaze so gentle.

"I'm happy we get to hang out so often," he nearly whispers, because if he were to speak any louder, when he's this near, it'd ring in your ears.

you smile, and you see the desperately subtle glance he gives your lips. what you want to say is something along the lines of gratitude and a form of reciprocation, but "prove it," is what you end up saying instead.

he blinks at your response, an airy exhale leaving him, but he dares to glance down at your lips again, lingering a little longer, making it obvious. obvious enough that when he does lean in, his lips on yours already feel natural. it feels like instinct, like the easiest thing to do. when his hand finally engulfs your own, and his other dares to reach for the brink of your neck, that's when it melts into you. him and his presence and warm skin.

his glasses bump into you, but it doesn't grow tense; the two of you merely giggle into each other. your hand that's not holding his reaches up to lay on his chest, but through the humidity of your mind and warmth of MARTIN, you forget about the dr.pepper in your grasp. as your hand moves and your fingers grow loose, the can spills onto your uniform and his jeans.

you both yelp, lips disconnecting, touch leaving, but the hand that's holding his managed to grow tighter, safer. you see the now-dented white can roll down the slanted driveway with a clunky, uneven sound. you meet his wide eyes, pink lips, and slanted glasses, and you laugh. your head clunks into his chest, which is now dressed in a wet t-shirt. his chest rumbles with laughter under your temple.

you walked home that day with one of his old, dry t-shirts. and a kiss goodbye at your front door, as he had insisted on walking you the ten meters to your house. you felt blessed, MARTIN thought it was too good to be true.

the two of you grew into something gentle, into something that was just your own. you wanted to keep your relationship on the low-key, and who was MARTIN to object? he didn't mind having you when no one else saw. he blamed it on different circles, on schedules. but you, you realized, that you do in fact care what your friends have to say.

in the beginning of your relationship, it was giggles and soft touches, secret kisses and passing glances when nobody could see.

a month passed, and then three. it was careful what you two had, something you cherished, but nowadays, over the past few weeks, your friends have gotten to your head.

"god, I feel like I see that blond wannabe wherever I look."

you look up from your lunch plate, the comment landing wrong in your chest. "MARTIN?" you inquire.

your friend scoffs a grimace. "that's his name?" the rest laugh. "I swear if I hear him and his little band-geek friend laugh in math one more time, I'm losing it."

the table erupts in further comments and laughs. you utter a forced snicker, but you cower into your plate, the laugh tasting sour on your tongue.

ever since then, it's continued, it's grown. remarks have gotten rougher, laughs tetering on mockery, cruelty. it all sinks into you with bitter force, with a truth you don't want to face. so subconsiously, sharply, your behavior shifted. subtely, your hands started to hesitate rather than assure. your kisses grew fewer and fewer. your glances, your contact, it grew strained. you tried, you begged yourself to get yourself together, but now there's really no denying your behavior.

it leads you to where you are right now. you got home a while ago, been home for a few hours, MARTIN ended just twenty minutes ago. so you're in comfy loungewear and barefaced, while MARTIN'S tense in his school uniform.

"I want to know why," MARTIN says with a yearning urgency. you don't look him in the eye, you can't. you try to muster up an answer, your arms crossed and your eyes on the living room wall.

he says your name with this desperate hurt, and it hits you beneath your ribs, all flesh and close tears. "why is it so hard to give me a glance. a sliver of your attention."

you swallow, close your eyes hard. "MARTIN, please, as if you don't ignore me too." he scoffs, quiet yet obvious.

"I'm not the one that let's go of your hand when we're out." you clear your throat, sight falling to your hardwood floor. "I'm not the one who refuses to look you in the eye as soon as anyone's near. or no one, for that matter."

this is where all this came from. the two of you crossed paths in the hallway today, no one around. when MARTIN smiled at the sight of you and privacy, you saw it as too risky and steered away, not even as much as glancing his direction.

it was silly, dumb. not a hello, not even eye contact.

"I feel like I'm the only one in this relationship," he chokes on his words; they feel too honest, because deep down, MARTIN knows that this really is a possibility.

"please, MARTIN, a glance doesn't mean much," you defend, but you still can't bear the thought of looking him in the eye.

"to you, of course it doesn't," he states. you exhale, holding back a begging urge at your eyes. "because, you-." he inhales, breathing to withhold what's begging to come undone. "you could leave any day."

you do the unbelievable, the unmistakable, you meet his eyes. they're glassy, they're hurt beneath the furrow of his brow. you swallow.

"a glance doesn't matter when you have the choice to go as you please."

you switch your weight from one leg to the other and shift your arms around in their crossed position, you do anything to do something. "and how come you can't, huh?" he huffs, head turning to the wall. "hm, why can't you leave any day you please?"

"because I love you," he confesses, his tone rough with an urge to hold back what leaps forward. but it still comes out as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

it settles deep in your abdomen, harshly in your throat as your brows furrow and your arms grow loose.

he sniffs. "that's why," he proclaims, meeting your eyes before walking off to the nearest door; your bedroom door, and closing it behind him.

the echo of the door clicking shut is what makes both of you crack. tears fall slowly, hands cover, your body grows limp. you sink into the couch, tears mixing with your skincare, brows folding under the pressure of your head and aching waterline.

MARTIN, he glides down the door, landing with a quiet thud as tears fall with vigor. his lashes crimp, his glasses bend and lift as his hands rub and cover his eyes.

he might be able to choke the excuse that he needed an argument, he needed a way out, but the raw, uncovered truth was that he loves you. every time he sees you walking up that driveway, everything else falters. every time your hand grazes his, nothing else can itch a frown out of him. you make him feel like himself, unfiltered and protected.

but the past few weeks have made him believe that he's not yours, and you're not his. everything you do seems to be in compliance with others. MARTIN knows people think of him as weird, that his dyed-blonde hair is outlandish, and that if he wears glasses, his personality should fit the bill. but he's never believed that you did too. you've convinced him that you're not like your friends, that your surroundings aren't a reflection of who you are.

yet here he is, sobbing against his palms and uneven glasses, having come to the conclusion that it was, in fact, too good to be true. because who could see their lover and not smile, who could see their lover and not care.

MARTIN takes a deep breath, sighing into his palms in an attempt to stop his tears from flowing so harshly. he feels dumb, rather silly, sitting here so insatiably affected by something you don't even seem to classify as an issue.

he huffs, standing up as a way to shake this grimy layer of anxiety off him. the simple action doesn't help at all; it only makes him dizzy behind his cloudy glasses. immediately after standing up, he sits down, your bed comfortable underneath him. it's lacy and pink, it radiates you. you and your pretty outfits with matching colors and jewelry. he sniffs, bringing his nail between the knaw of his teeth.

he bites at the chipping color on his nail. it was you who painted them cherry red. "it matched your guitar," you had said, happy after having found the right color in your large collection. MARTIN smiles bittersweetly, looking down at the almost-gone paint. you're just behind that door, so close yet still so abundantly unreachable.

he bites his lip, wrapping his hand around the old polish on his nails, almost as a desperate attempt at preserving something he believes is nearly over.

through his choked back tears and humid waterline, he catches a glimpse of a blue strip of paper hanging on the edge of your vanity mirror. a vibrant blue he recognizes from his own room. on one of your first dates, you went to this arcade. the usual old and modern games. that one dance battle game, where he won by a landslide, and the racing game, where you came first, and he came last.

they had this photobooth. it cost a dollar for a strip of three pictures. you took one, he took one. MARTIN got the black-and-white pictures of you in that pretty sweater you wore, and peachy eyeshadow that turned white and glittery in the photo. while you got his picture, the one that started off serious before he got childish with his poses. him, and his spiky hair and black-painted nails. here it was, displayed right where you do your makeup every morning.

MARTIN makes his way over, taking a seat in the chair by the white vanity. just a simple glance makes him notice the little chikawa plushy hanging right beside the black-and-white photo. this dumb little white plushy with a taiyaki head.

he chuckles, grazing the wide black eyes on the plush. MARTIN won it that day at the arcade. you had laughed, said it was ugly, in which MARTIN acted offended. it wasn't ugly, it was cute; at least MARTIN thought so.

he finally notices the many differently colored post-it notes stuck to the edges of the mirror. a mix of yellow, green, and pink sticky notes tucked into the slants of the white frame. MARTIN leans in, catching the clunky pencil lines of his handwriting. they were his notes, the ones he had sneaked into your locker and managed to discreetly pass to you in class.

"one you've never tried," one said, accompanied by a heart. he wrote that one on a redbull can he bought you with flavor you'd been wanting to try. which he then put in your locker for you to find on a gloomy thursday morning.

"I like your outfit." MARTIN chuckles reading this one. he had given it to you sneakily in class, and you had giggled, knowing you were wearing the uniform of every single other person in the school.

each one was a little stupid, a quick quip, things that didn't really matter too much, yet here they hung proudly, accompanying you every morning when you get ready.

MARTIN sighs, bottom lip sore under his teeth. was all this really futile? wasn't this affection? keeping parts of him without the need to brag about it. he never knew you kept that plushy, or that blue strip of pictures, or a few silly notes.

MARTIN is taken aback by your preservation of a few gifts and a couple of anecdotes, but why should he be? if you care, how come it doesn't show? why do your touches skim and hesitate? why does your smile falter? why do you cower at the tiniest bit of reciprocation?

in the midst of MARTIN'S quick conclusions and bustling brain, he sees it: the white, dented dr.pepper can sitting so innocently in an empty space on your bookshelf. he sits there for a while, just looking. it's scratched, silver metal peeking through the white cover. the dent is obscure and obvious.

it's only when MARTIN stands up from the small vanity chair that he realizes he's been holding his breath. he exhales abruptly, the breath burning his throat. he walks over to the wooden bookshelf. the can has been cleaned, the debris and dirt washed off. it's meticulously taken care of.

he raises a hand, grazing the roughed-up white surface with a red knuckle, and the cold metal takes him back to that day on his driveway, to you and your perfect hair and deep eyes and soft kiss; his first kiss.

never did he think back to that day and let his thoughts land on that spilled dr.pepper. if only it didn't happen, but here you were, displaying it, taking care of it. did the useless really matter? or was it just because it had a part in the moment? he picks the can up, letting it sink into his palm; both its smooth and rough edges.

MARTIN hears a knock at the door; it's soft, attentive. he turns to the sound and takes a second to breathe your barely-there presence in.

"MARTIN?" he hears you say, crooked and cowardly. his heart palpitated, aches at the sound. he takes the leap and opens the door.

there you are, tear-stained and beautiful.

"I hate my friends," you proclaim, and it stifles a breath from him. "they're so mean to you." you wipe your nose, tears continuing. MARTIN'S never seen you cry, and what some would consider revenge is what he sees as failure, because how could he let you end up feeling like this?

"their words keep coming back to me every time we're together, and it's-." you lay your face in your hands. "it's affected how I treat you."

MARTIN'S hold of the white can tightens the slightest.

"and it shouldn't." you brush your hair back. "you don't deserve that because-." your eyes meet his. "because you're so great, MARTIN," you sigh. "you're so sweet to me, and I just answer with being cold, and it's just cruel-."

he looks at you, really looks at you, and all he sees is passion. passion for him of all people. and love. love for him. isn't he lucky?

"please believe me when I say that-." he envelops you before your words can escape you. his arms wrap around you, your flushed and stained cheeks imprinting on his blue blazer.

"I love you," you say, finishing your sentence. MARTIN smiles into your neck where he's nuzzled into you, a final tear managing to escape and land on the fabric of your tank top.

you let your arms take a slow trip up around his neck, holding him tight against you. you sigh into him, closing your eyes beneath your furrowed brows. "I don't want to leave any day, MARTIN."

he still has a hold of the can, keeping it tucked into him, keeping the cold surface from touching your skin. he looks down at the metal from your shoulder, at its dented, imperfect, useless presence.

"I know," he says, knowing you're honest. he plants a reassuring kiss on your collarbone.

a beat passes, a quiet moment that holds you with such certainty. "I didn't know you kept all this," MARTIN mumbles into you.

you barely hear his words. "kept what?"

you two disconnect, you're still close, but there's enough space between you for him to show you the can in his hands. you exhale a laugh at the sight.

"I've kept prettier things from you," you chuckle. he smiles, planting a kiss on your temple.

"I saw," MARTIN answers, and your ears light up with a subtle pink. "my picture." he kisses your cheek, wrapping one arm around your waist as he delicately sets the white can on the vanity. "some of those sticky notes."

"I kept all of them," you're quick to confess.

MARTIN'S brows furrow, eyes widening. "all of them?"

you laugh, a hand going up to cover your mouth. "I have a box full of 'em in my desk." your cheeks have bloomed pink. "I switch the ones up on my mirror from time to time."

MARTIN'S the one who's blushing now. he cowers in the crook of your neck, and you laugh at the contact of his warm skin.

"and what?" he laughs through his blushing state, steering the subject away from his flushed embarrassment. "the chikawa's still ugly?"

you laugh, hugging him properly as your arms go around his neck once more. "as ugly as ever," you giggle. "but at least the guy that won him is kinda cute." MARTIN laughs, glasses a little crooked as he raises himself from your neck.

you smile contentedly. both of you are blushing, both of you are close. of course, your lips inevitably connect, comfortable and warm in the company of the other.

you don't want to leave, MARTIN doesn't want to leave. not someday. not any day.

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