ellie

You're calling Shouta "Daddy."

Not even calling, really—you're crying. Big, fat tears which roll down the apple of your cheeks and strike clean through the blush settled on their peaks. The sight is distracting. Hitoshi isn't sure there's enough blood left in his brain to do anything but leer at how Aizawa's form swamps your own—your pretty hands scrabbling at the bicep tucked around your neck, your throat working around strangled, shallow gasps.

He's never seen you from this angle before, so when Aizawa snaps his hips into you, Hitoshi watches both your toes curl and your hips rise from the bed like a wave cresting with some strange out-of-body feeling. As though he’s an incorporeal being merely floating by the scene.

With Aizawa's weight settled atop you, pressing you flat to the bed, there isn't far for you to go.

Hitoshi swallows.

You cry again—a sweet, high-pitched noise of alarm—and Hitoshi's fingers tighten in his pants, twisting the fabric beneath fingers like a child as he’s drawn to soothe the noise through pure Pavlovian response. He has to remind himself that, for once, he isn't in charge of the scene.

Not tonight.

"Daddy."

A brush of lips on your sweaty nape. "What is it, sweet girl?"

Your expression screws up as though it's a slice of paper put to flame. "Please, I— I—"

Heat crawls up Hitoshi's spine at the panic lacing your voice. The lilting vowels and consonants so familiar to Hitoshi suddenly sound foreign. He doesn't recognise your headspace, and if the way you buck under Aizawa's hold like a spooked animal is any indication, neither do you.

Aizawa squeezes your waist with a big hand. "Words."

"Dad-dy," you repeat, a sob fracturing the word in two. "I—" You suck in a quick breath, exactly the way you do when you're trying to suppress more tears.

Hitoshi bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood. Are you okay? Aizawa doesn't appear worried, but he never does. While Hitoshi trusts his Sensei with his life, entrusting him with yours is a different ball game entirely. He finds his fingers itching to reach out and touch you.

"I can't." Shaking your head, you press your cheek into the comforter miserably, and Aizawa lays his cheek atop yours.

"Yes, you can."

"No—"

"You can," Aizawa repeats, nothing but confidence to be found in his tone. He slows his movements down, grinding deep and slow inside until you're able to gulp in a few big, shuddering breaths.

Hitoshi likes seeing you cry when you're feeling good.

This is… this is decidedly not that.

The pout twisting your lips is nothing short of overwhelmed. Wetness clumps your lashes. Splotches of red decorate your face. And yet, Hitoshi feels the arousal rush to meet him like a physical force, sweeping him under as though caught in a rip current and carried out to sea.

Why is he into this?

Why is he into his girlfriend crying because she's fighting subspace as another man fucks her? Not even another man—Aizawa. Sensei, pseudo-father figure, and friend all rolled into one mess of a relationship.

Surely this isn't right.

Then his gaze drifts up to Aizawa, and he realises… maybe it is. Because Aizawa is staring down at you with an expression nothing short of smug, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards into the most irritatingly attractive expression Hitoshi has seen in his life.

And isn't that another realisation…

Hitoshi trembles slightly as the ferocity of his arousal worsens.

He could jerk off. He knows he could. But he's never been great at keeping quiet, and if either of you acknowledges Hitoshi's involvement in this scene, even as an uninvolved third party, he might spontaneously combust in the most humiliating death of all time.

"Words," Aizawa murmurs, when you seem only an inch more lucid than before. Though he punctuates it with a particularly deep roll of his hips, the hand on your waist lifting you slightly to meet him, and you keen like you've been shot.

Because he's mean.

Meaner than Hitoshi thought he would be, anyway.

Yet, you don't seem to hate it. The opposite, really. You raise your hips further—it must feel good, the way his thick cock is splitting you open—and Aizawa switches attitudes abruptly, forcing your hips back down in a blink. Somehow, this makes you moan the loudest.

Hitoshi manhandles you in bed. He throws you around, slaps you when you ask, ties you up and fucks you until you're babbling so good so good 'toshiii. So perhaps it's truly the fact that he's never seen seen you from this perspective that's skewing his own, but he's sure you've never sounded quite so pathetic about it—as helplessly turned on as you do now. As though you're powerless under Aizawa’s touch and enjoying every second of it. The thought sends a fission of arousal lancing straight through Hitoshi's sanity and heat curls into the cavernous reach like a cat. Hitoshi slouches further in his chair, thighs spreading wide and hisses when his hard cock brushes the seam of his pants before wincing at the fact he’s made any noise at all.

You appear to search your brain for a few seconds before moaning another guileless, "Daddy."

"Hm?"

Aizawa is plastered over you from head to toe. You sigh when he presses his knees against the outsides of yours, forcing your legs tighter together. Hitoshi knows from experience you love the drag of a cock inside you like this—how it stretches you perfectly, strokes your pussy just right, the pressure high enough to have your head swimming.

You love how you're forced to take it when you're trapped under Hitoshi.

When you're trapped under Aizawa, too.

"What are you whinin' for, huh?"

"I'm not," you exhale shakily. "I'm not whining."

"Oh yeah?"

You shake your head petulantly.

"Not whining on my cock?" Aizawa slows to a stop and both men watch the way you bite back a noise of complaint, desperate not to prove his point. "Not scarin' poor Shinsou here?"

Hitoshi lurches at the reminder that this is happening. That he's merely sat and watched as Aizawa has fucked you silly. Your bleary gaze falls to Hitoshi, and he tries his best to look normal.

If the small quirk of your lips is anything to go by, he failed.

Your voice is small when you ask, "Y'scared, 'tosh?"

Hitoshi shakes his head, mutely.

Aizawa raises an eyebrow.

Hitoshi straightens slightly. "No, I'm—" He clears his throat. "No, baby."

"Liar," Aizawa accuses blandly, eyes slitting in amusement.

You bristle, the palms you have pressed to the comforter suddenly trying to push you upright; as though the possibility of Hitoshi not being into this isn't funny to you, as though you're being dragged from the space you were so close to with an abruptness that brings only strident. Aizawa stops the motion easily, his chest barring you from getting any further than a scant few inches from the bed. You let out an uneasy noise from the back of your throat.

"Hey, hey."

Your eyes are fixed on Hitoshi. "Let me up."

Hitoshi can't find the words to soothe you.

"Sweetheart—"

"No. Let me up."

Aizawa sighs—quiet and long-suffering—before releasing his bicep from around your neck, grabbing your chin in the same big hand and forcefully turning your head downwards. You bristle at the manhandling this time and try to rip your chin away. He doesn't budge, though, shaking your jaw once sharply.

"Look."

"Shouta," you growl, lowly.

"Does Shinsou really look scared to you?"

For a second, Hitoshi thinks you're going to fight the older man again. Instead, you hesitate and do as he says.

You look.

Your gaze drifts up from Hitoshi's feet. He fights to keep still under the worried heat of it. Only moments before you reach his crotch, Hitoshi realises exactly what Aizawa is playing at and blood rushes to his cheeks. He sits up quickly, flexes his fists on his legs. He can't cover his dick because you're his fucking girlfriend and you've seen it before and more importantly, it would only make him look super guilty.

Like incriminatingly so.

Your eyes land on his crotch.

Hitoshi wants to sink into the floor as he watches your body lock into a kind of stillness he's only ever seen in nature documentaries, right as a predator spots its prey. It's not a dynamic Hitoshi is used to with you and his eyes blow wide in surprise, dick twitching in his boxers. You notice. He knows you do.

Does Aizawa notice, too?

Fuck, he hopes not. This is humiliating enough as is. He knows once the two of you get back to your flat, he's never living this down.

He has no idea what his expression is right now, but it can't be anything good.

"Y'see?" Aizawa asks quietly, right by your ear.

You nod, still staring at Hitoshi's straining cock.

"He's scared because he's never seen you like this."

You swallow. Blink slowly.

"Never seen you fucked into silence."

Some emotion caught between shame and arousal washes over Hitoshi.

Is that true? Has he not been treating you right?

Experiencing a similar awakening of your own, you wriggle under Aizawa. He only braces his palms on the comforter, either side of your tits, and starts up a harsh rhythm again, fucking into you without remorse. You let out a startled moan, collapsing bonelessly into the sheets.

"Guess you needed a real daddy, hm?"

At that, you really do cry. An awful sound, tangled high in pleasure and embarrassment, which snakes across the room to settle on Hitoshi's shoulders like a curse. Aizawa fucks into you as though you're rabbits in heat, muscled limbs weighing your own down to the bed and Hitoshi feels like he's losing his mind a bit, so he can't imagine how you're feeling. Sole subject to his mentor's fierceness. Limbs pinned like a butterfly's wings.

Your eyes flutter. "Fuck-nghhh— yesyesyes!"

"Y'call Shinsou daddy, too?" Aizawa asks conversationally. "Let him treat you like this?

Gasping, your palm hits the comforter once, as though you need some sense of control in the face of Aizawa's onslaught.

Aizawa grins, thick thighs tensing with each thrust. "You shouldn't, you know. It goes to people's heads."

"Ohmygod."

"Feel good?"

"Yeah— yes."

"Good."

A moan lights up the air. Even Hitoshi smiles at that noise—Aizawa wasn't calling you good, but you've reacted as though he was all the same. He loves how you respond so freely to praise, instinct overriding any overthinking. There's something so… sweet about it.

About you, really.

Naturally, Aizawa recognises you for what you are immediately.

"You want me to tell you how good you're bein' for me?"

Expression flashing, you arch deeper into the bed, presenting yourself to him.

"How gorgeous you look right now."

A broken whine. More tears.

"How well you're takin' me."

Your thighs tremble violently, legs bending at the knee and kicking up into Aizawa. You don't seem like you're trying to escape. Not with how you're also biting your lip raw to stifle your moans. Out of nowhere, Aizawa changes the angle, shifting higher up your body to drill down into you and the reaction is instantaneous—like a forest fire to bone dry tinder. Even Hitoshi inhales at the slick noise of Aizawa's cock fucking your dripping pussy, the sight of your brain quieting right in front of him.

Aizawa chuckles, though it's tense, lined by the pleasure he's clearly trying hard to ignore for your benefit.

"You always this sweet for Shinsou?"

It's a pointless question.

You're drooling into the comforter, small fingers tangled in the sheets like you're holding on for dear life. You try to suck in a breath, but Aizawa fucks the answer out of you within a second. You never stood a chance.

Instead, Aizawa turns his head to Hitoshi.

He jolts at being remembered.

Jolts again at the molten arousal in his Sensei's eyes.

"Uhhh, she's usually…"

You let out a high whine, animalistic in quality. Both men glance at you for a second, at the way you're slipping through your own fingers with every thrust.

"…more… lucid," Hitoshi finishes lamely.

"Is that right?"

Hitoshi suppresses a shiver at his gravelly tone. He nods.

Aizawa's lips quirk up.

The new angle appears to be your undoing, because very quickly you're tumbling back into teary-territory—wet lines streaking down your face as you get flung towards your edge.

"Daddy," you sob.

"Daddy's here."

"Da—" you suck in a shuddering breath, "—ddyyy."

"I know, baby."

You must tighten around Aizawa because he releases a low, choked moan and you respond to the sound like a flower blooming in the sun—squeezing around him again, fingers twitching with the urge to touch when you can't do anything but take what Aizawa is giving you.

You hiccup. "I'm—"

"You close?"

"I'm close," you echo.

Aizawa fucks into you faster somehow, and you all but bow off the bed, trapped between sweaty sheets and his hulking body—your orgasm clearly biting at your heels.

Hitoshi would know.

"Ah, ah, ah, ah—"

Can read desperation in your climbing voice. Delirium in your glassy eyes. Mind-numbing pleasure in the severe quakes lining your entire body, as though you can't take much more, as though you'll meet your edge and be lost in its abyss.

"Please, daddy."

Aizawa doesn't say a word, dragging his palms up the bed until he's pressing his big hands over your forearms. You whine, the noise spun out endlessly with each wet schtick of Aizawa's cock slamming into your pussy until it's one continuous mewl, until it's barely anything more than mindless crying. Hitoshi's sanity is in tatters—his mind swimming in the knowledge that all it takes to get you like this is apparently Aizawa's low murmurs and his older cock. Your fingers spasm on the bed and Aizawa slides his hands up your arms, tangling his fingers over yours to press them into the bed harder.

You let out a choked sob. "Please, pleaseplease—"

Aizawa brushes his stubble over your shoulder, biting down lightly on your shoulder.

"Daddy's got you."

You gasp. "Don'tstopdon'tstop!"

Turning your head to the side, you search blearily for Aizawa's eyes. He tilts his own and meets your gaze. Hitoshi watches quietly as your own flick down to his Sensei's lips, as the idea of kissing him crawls into the forefront of your mind, exactly how it always does with him when you're close. When you want to cum with Hitoshi's mouth on yours.

Aizawa watches you carefully. You lean forward, a whine on your lips begging to be pressed against his. Hitoshi waits with bated breath for the moment you both connect. At the last second, you stop. Wide eyes flicker to Hitoshi's, a clear question in them and feeling for the first time tonight like he's back in control, even if for a brief blink, Hitoshi straightens and nods his chin.

"Go on."

You whimper in relief, wasting no time as you immediately turn to Aizawa and kiss him, wet lips parting to lick into his mouth, shame a long-forgotten concept with Aizawa bullying into you. Sensei's eyes don't close fully, but it's a near thing, and he returns your hungry kiss with just as much heat—tipping his head to deepen it with a groan from the back of his throat.

You sink into the kiss like someone coming home, all worries and anxieties and thoughts left at the door for tomorrow. All the matters is now, Aizawa on you, in you, coaxing you right where he wants.

Hitoshi's dick twitches again, and he slides his palms under his thighs.

You press a broken whine into Aizawa's mouth.

Aizawa swallows it easily before raising himself up slightly—cock still fucking your wet heat, fingers still tangled with yours—and breaking apart for a breath. Hitoshi watches a string of spit lengthen until it snaps, hitting your cheek to become indistinguishable from the tears spilling with each thrust. His Sensei pants an inch from your mouth. Then, he's lifting his head higher and waiting for yours to echo his movements.

Inevitably, you do. Your head tipping back to stare at him, cock-drunk.

Aizawa smiles, something small.

"Open your mouth," he murmurs.

There's no hesitation as your lips drop open obediently.

Hitoshi watches, shell-shocked for a reason he doesn't want to face, as Aizawa drops a glob of spit into your waiting mouth.

You light up, moaning louder than he's heard all night, and he finds out why a second later as you cum—body shaking through your orgasm. Face screwed up in surprise, thighs trembling fiercely. Aizawa fucks you through it in a way that can only be described as mean. Quick, fast thrusts that quickly have you gasping, choking air into your lungs, hands pushing up against where Aizawa has them pinned as you ride out the blinding pleasure.

Hitoshi's hips kick up into the air at your broken keens.

Maybe he can touch himself… it's not like either of you will notice right now. And he's so hard that if he doesn't do something soon, he'll have no blood left to drive you both home after this, and surely that can't be safe. Driving with a boner has got to be somewhat like driving while tired… right? Nodding to himself, he frees a hand from under his thigh to drop it down atop his cock. He hisses at the light pressure and grinds the heel of his palm along his hard length, biting his lip.

Your whines get louder as Aizawa fucks you right through your orgasm and into oversensitivity. Hitoshi can hear the wet squelch of your pussy sucking in Aizawa's cock despite your little pained whimpers.

"Shouta," you plead.

Aizawa snaps his hips into you cruelly.

You correct yourself without missing a beat. "Daddy."

"There you go."

Hitoshi shivers.

Then, abruptly, Aizawa slides out of you. Neither of you is expecting it, if yours and Hitoshi's twin inhales are anything to go by.

A whine gets punched out of your chest at the emptiness and when Aizawa lifts his weight from you, it seems the combined absence of everything him is enough to have a fresh bought of tears spilling down your face. You slump into the bed like a puppet with its strings cut and press your face into the comforter pitifully as your body trembles through the aftershocks. Hitoshi watches Aizawa crawl down your body and peer at your swollen cunt. He palms at the globes of your ass. You jolt, clearly not expecting the touch. It's this side of sweet—thumbs stroking at the crease where your ass meets your thighs, long fingers squeezing the flesh like a stressball.

Then, he tightens his grip.

Hitoshi has barely a moment to wonder what he's doing before Aizawa is using his hold to expose your cunt further and lift your hips from the bed slightly. You make a low noise of discontent at being manhandled so soon after cumming.

Even from where he's sat, Hitoshi can see the arousal slicking your folds and the creamy white dripping down to your clit. The longer Aizawa keeps you like this, the further it leaks over your swollen folds.

Luckily, his Sensei has never been a patient man.

The only warning you get is Aizawa gently blowing air on your clit before he's licking a lazy, wide stripe up your core as though mimicking a big cat preening their young.

You light up like a firework.

"No—" you gasp, "daddy, no!"

Aizawa swirls his tongue around your clit and sucks, humming airily. You jolt as though electrocuted. Hitoshi supposes it isn't that far off. Not with the way you immediately tense up, legs kicking out helplessly. Aizawa isn't even holding your down anymore, but you still can't move—boneless and held in place by your hips as easily as one would a child.

"Please, it's too much— I— ahhh-nghh—"

Aizawa fucks his tongue back into you and moans. His clear noise of pleasure only seems to make you panic further.

"No, nonono—"

Hitoshi finds himself leaning forward in his seat subconsciously, following your call like an ancient summons. Something so intrinsically written in his DNA, he can't ignore it.

He should say something, right?

Tell Sensei to stop.

For some reason, he opens his mouth and cannot find the words.

Hitoshi brushes an anxious hand back through his hair, sweeping it off his forehead, and shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

Aizawa's ruby eyes flicker over to him at the movement. Face still buried in your cunt, he leans back enough to bite out a sharp, "Sit."

The word lances through Hitoshi's dazed panic before he even registers it as a command. His spine locks immediately, and he presses it against the chair's back as though cornered by Aizawa’s voice. He hadn't been planning on getting up, despite his ruminations on interrupting, but he certainly isn't going to now. The command pools like liquid honey in his stomach as he silently wonders what the hell is wrong with him.

Aizawa licks at you, sliding his tongue inside again within a blink and forgetting about Hitoshi just as quickly. Meanwhile, he's still reeling from being chastised in this context.

Your cries, somehow, aren't the loudest thing in the room.

Because sure, he's been scolded by Aizawa countless times. Cuffed over the head and yanked back by the collar and levelled with looks that could topple villains. Yet here he is—inarguably aroused by his Sensei directing a slice of that dominance on him.

"Hurts," you whimper lowly.

"I know it does." Aizawa presses a kiss to your clit. "Doing so good, sweetheart."

You settle at once, though not without a quiet sniffle.

Hitoshi feels much like he's drifting out at sea with no hope of finding land. No life raft. No meager drift wood to cling to until he's saved.

He watches you sink deeper while he's drowning himself.

Aizawa leans back and trails a glob of spit onto your pussy.

You moan.

"Daddy," you turn your head, "'s' t'much."

Hitoshi stares unseeingly at your foggy expression, hears through layers of cotton the slurring of your words.

Sensei doesn't stop.

"You're okay," he murmurs into your cunt.

You keen at the vibrations, arms splaying wide, feet kicking out. Pretty face smushed in Aizawa's comforter as though you belong there. If anything, the slack leash on your composure only seems to spur Aizawa on more, who squeezes your ass in two big hands, lifting you higher to eat up into you like a starving man with his final meal. The temperature in the room is rising; Hitoshi can feel sweat beading along his collar despite barely moving; you are covered in a thin sheen of perspiration.

Aizawa almost purrs against you, and your spine arches so deeply it looks as though it should hurt. A drawn-out whine tipping into the first vestiges of pleasure once more.

"Daddyyy—"

You don't sound like you're complaining anymore.

By Aizawa's rumbling laugh into your cunt, it's clear he's realised the same.

Pleasure licks up Hitoshi's spine as he grinds his hand down against his cock, and he exhales a shaky sigh—thighs spreading, spine relaxing from its rigid posture into his chair’s soft back. His eyes flicker between Aizawa's wet face, buried in your cunt as though he's trying to carve a home for himself there, and the way you're gasping and writhing and crying into the comforter, like it's a tennis match.

Hitoshi's dick twitches under his hand when you try to squirm away—clearly panicking as the pleasure creeps back up on you in the face of Aizawa's relentlessness—only for his Sensei to tug you backwards as easily as breathing, straight onto his waiting mouth, two large hands spanning your hips and digging into the meat painfully.

You cry out, hips spasming.

Hitoshi watches through some kind of fog as Aizawa stops fucking his tongue into the mess you've made and drags it down to your clit instead, mouth closing around the sensitive bundle of nerves much like an airlock on a spaceship.

You know you can't escape. Hitoshi does too.

He's not even sure he could escape his Sensei.

But you seem much more confident to try, chest heaving and fingers clutching the comforter like you're holding on for dear life as your hips jolt up and down. Hitoshi's not even sure it's a conscious movement, but Aizawa follows you easily, abusing your clit and your sensitive cunt with his tongue and his mouth and the attractive scruff on his face.

You get no reprieve.

A loud slurp rings in the air, right as Aizawa sucks your clit into his mouth, and you almost yell, a shrill, strangled noise caught in the back of your throat begging to be heard. You turn your head to the side and search for Hitoshi's gaze. Hitoshi takes in your blown-out eyes and the glassy way you stare at him in supplication. His heart stutters in his chest.

"Daddy," you stretch out a hand towards him along the bed, breath hiccuping, "help."

At that, Aizawa stills. Hitoshi tenses a moment later. You don't even seem to realise you've said anything wrong. Fingers lifting to grab at Hitoshi as though pure will could summon him to your side. Sensei lifts himself from your cunt a few inches to utter carefully.

"'Daddy,' huh?"

Aizawa's tone bites at his ankles. The urge to run far away from the older man and drag you with him rises, flash flood-fast.

"Shinsou can't help you, sweetheart. Not tonight."

Your whimper cracks the air like a whip.

"You think he's going to come save you?" Aizawa asks, hands kneading your ass.

You gasp when he slides a thumb between the two globes, only to drag it up and down your swollen folds. He circles your clit once, twice, enough to hear a hitch in your breath, before he presses his thumb inside your cunt and hooks it. Your hips drop down to the bed without both his hands holding you up. His Sensei doesn't seem bothered, though, content to let you flump under his touch.

"He's sat there getting himself off, sweet girl."

Hitoshi's hand flies from his cock and to the safety of the chair seat embarrassingly fast. He had almost forgotten—had been grinding against his palm like a teenager and so wrapped up in the fantasy before him, despite still scarcely believing it to be real.

"Little pervert loves this."

Aizawa nods his chin at Shinsou like he's showing you, despite your face still being buried in the sheets as you whimper lowly at every brush of Aizawa's fingers over your clit, every twitch of his thumb inside you.

"Seeing you crying on my cock," he continues through a small grin. "My face."

At the reminder, Hitoshi's eyes flicker to Aizawa's mouth—glistening with your slick in the low light of his bedroom. He trails upwards and almost exits his own body when he sees his Sensei's dark gaze locked onto him.

How long has he been staring?

Aizawa's next words are directed at you; Hitoshi knows they are, but the way his Sensei doesn't glance away has him twitching in his slacks. "You're stuck with me tonight."

Hitoshi feels a wave of fire consume his thoughts for a rational second.

"Jesus."

The first word Hitoshi has uttered tonight, and great… he sounds like a fucking idiot.

A bleary set of curious eyes flickers over to him. He can feel the blush staining his face and fights to keep a straight face despite the way he can feel precum leaking from his tip and wetting his boxers.

There's a suspended moment of quiet and then a gentle slap echoes in the room.

"Ohhh…" You bow from the bed immediately, back curling up like a cat's.

It takes Hitoshi a second to figure out what happened, but he catches on just in time to see Aizawa's fingers—his thumb still hooked inside you—lifting from your pussy and landing in another wet smack.

"Hh—nghh—"

His fingers smooth over your clit in apology. Three more slaps in quick succession—each wet plap further stuttering the gasp you try to inhale.

You hide your face back in the sheets and release a muffled whine. "Da—a-ddyyy."

Hitoshi swallows. You don't sound like you anymore, voice high and ready and plaintive in a way he so rarely hears—if ever. A part of him wants to panic. But he knows Aizawa has got you. Can read it in the confident tilt of his body, the assured look on his face. If Hitoshi had to guess, he had this scene planned down to the minutiae from the moment you brought it up.

You're only playing right into his hands.

"More?"

You shake your head into the bed and press a dull, pathetic whine there. Aizawa delivers another slick slap to your clit, and you shiver, hips jerking once instinctively.

"Can't think, huh?"

You shake your head again.

"That's alright," Aizawa murmurs kindly, pressing a small kiss to the back of your thigh—right on the crease where it meets your ass. "Daddy can think for you."

Hitoshi watches as those words fall over you like a weighted blanket, the only thing tethering you to this world, he's sure. For your expression loses all its indignant colour at once, smoothing out into a calm ocean. It's almost disquieting. Hitoshi knows you carry too much, knows you struggle to leave it at the door—knows what you really need is someone to force you to drop it. He didn't expect Aizawa to catch on this quickly. As though he's had years to learn you inside and out the way Hitoshi has, and not a matter of an hour, if that.

The corner of Aizawa's lips quirk up, though this time it's less mean and more pleased. Hitoshi swallows at the way you're spread out like a waiting sacrifice. Without hesitation, Aizawa dips back down and licks into you once more, tongue flicking inside you alongside his thumb. Your gasp is muted. All your subsequent sounds too. As though they're being forcefully filtered before they can be heard, and all that's meeting the air is you at your core, peeled back and bare and so raw, Hitoshi could cry.

He doesn't.

But it's a near thing. Especially when you close your eyes and start to bask in the attention Aizawa is lavishing on you, hips drawing back and forth to meet his mouth.

His Sensei hums happily into you.

You whimper in response, as though there's nothing better to you than hearing your partner pleased, than the knowledge that you're doing something right, doing good.

Hitoshi bites his lip. Between one blink and the next, his hand finds its way back to his cock—grasping the shape of himself through his pants and stroking it firmly. His hips jump up from the chair at the first wholehearted touch.

He wants more.

Wants to get his cock out and stroke himself until he's cumming all over the smart shirt he put on earlier this evening when he was still a bundle of nerves at the prospect of Aizawa fucking his girlfriend. But he forces himself to be happy with the heavy petting, instead. Anymore, and it would mean admitting quite how much it's turning him on to see his beloved Sensei turn you into a sobbing mess.

In his eagerness to consume you, Aizawa is near unhinging his jaw—tongue licking wide stripes up your pussy, dipping inside you, curling around your clit. You tremble beneath it all, body melting into the sheets and hands twitching absently at each touch. You seem overwhelmed. Like your edge is approaching closer than you thought it would. Your hips rock back onto Aizawa's face more insistently, and he matches you easily, doubling down his efforts until you're releasing a litany of sweet, short whines consecutively—toes curling and shins kicking upwards at the knee.

Hitoshi can smell the sweat in the air—see the beads of perspiration catching the light along the dips and curves of your body. Aching to taste, his jaw unsticks itself from the iron grip it's been held in, and a small sound of arousal meets the air. Hitoshi winces immediately, but neither of you notices, not when you're a breath away from cumming, nor when Aizawa is clutching you like a meal—all big predator hands and tongue.

"Closecloseclose, 'm close, daddy-nghhh, daddy—"

Aizawa hums into your cunt, pulling out his thumb, petting one hand down your thigh and tightening his fingers there, using his hold to splay you open further. Your hands jerk out. One stretched wide and clutching the bedspread. Another flinging back in an effort to find Aizawa's.

"Daddy," you plead.

Sensei glances over the swell of your ass and sees the request for what it is—touch, connection. A rock in an open ocean threatening to swallow you whole. He reaches for you easily with his other hand, as though the action of grounding you is as familiar to him as breathing. As natural as the tides and the wind and the way a predator plays with its food.

Tangling your fingers together, Aizawa lowers them to the bed and squeezes. Hitoshi's breathing has long since surpassed shaky. He thinks he might actually be dying. Lungs expanding and contracting in short, heaving spurts that bring nothing but madness to poison his mind.

You sob, the sound lined with comfort—you know you're safe.

Daddy's got you.

Daddy's making you feel so good.

Daddy's in charge. You don't need to think.

Hitoshi swallows back a groan, head tipping back slightly as the pleasure surges—as you clutch Aizawa's hand so tightly the colour bleeds into white.

When you cum, there's a strangely silent air about it for someone usually so loud.

Your mouth opens around a moan that he never hears, another gasp cut off at its head. Your eyes open and then widen. Every muscle in your body locks tight—thighs tightening around Aizawa's head, toes and fingers curling. It's the hottest thing Hitoshi's ever seen.

But Aizawa doesn't let up.

Doesn't seem phased by the death grip, nor the way you're trying to strangle him.

He licks you through it, slurping on your clit and flicking his tongue cruelly. You shake and shake and shake. Trembling like a leaf barely clinging to its tree in the heart of a storm. Eventually, you find your voice again. A light, throaty keen tumbling from your lips.

Aizawa doesn't stop.

Your keen turns into a whimper, blown-out like spun sugar.

Aizawa doesn't stop.

More tears fall down your face. Body tensing and relaxing rhythmically, as though you wish to escape, to crawl away from Aizawa, but that endless well of your energy is finally dried up.

A broken sob. Helpless.

Aizawa doesn't stop.

Hitoshi's so close. Boxers soaked through, hard cock pulsing under his hand. Every noise you make has his dick twitching like a reflexive action—like you're both one and the same, one mind in two bodies.

"Da-ah-ddy," you sob, hiccuping over the word. "T'mucht'mucht'much."

You try to lift the hand tangled with his to push at his face, but Aizawa shuts that down quickly, chuckling into your cunt when you let out a panicked whine, too limp to do anything but take what he's giving you.

Aizawa doesn't say anything, keeps his mouth close to your pussy. Eats away at you like oxygen corroding metal—stripping back layer after layer until there's nothing left, until you're twitching like a dying animal, until you're crying out and cumming on his face again. Cunt fluttering on Aizawa's mouth, arousal dripping down the stubble on his chin—the insides of your thighs rubbed pink and raw.

You have nothing left to give after this one. Hitoshi can see it as clear as day.

You're gone.

The cries he hears aren't your own, nor is the way your body shakes through your third orgasm helplessly.

Aizawa doesn't stop.

Hitoshi feels his stomach swoop.

Your hips spasm madly and he uses his hold on your thigh to push you wider, to push you down into the bed and scrape his teeth gently over your clit just to hear you sob.

"Da-ah—"

You try. You really do.

"Da-ddy-ple-ah-seee-uhhh-nghhh—"

Your cries fall on deaf ears, though. And Hitoshi can do nothing about it. Can't help you. Can't soothe you. Can't do anything but watch you fall apart and hope that his Sensei knows how to pick up the pieces after the scene ends.

"Please-ah-ahh-ngh-plea—" you hiccup wetly. "—please."

Hitoshi doesn't even know what you're begging for. If you want Aizawa to stop or keep going until there are truly no thoughts left in your brain. If you're begging for the sake of begging or begging because you really will rupture at the seams, if all your insides will tumble onto the bed in a vulnerable, undignified heap of entrails that Hitoshi honestly doesn't think he's equipped to handle.

Aizawa slurps at your cunt. All it takes is him fucking his tongue inside you, chin brushing your clit roughly, and you're coming again with a sharp, startled cry.

"Daddy!"

Hitoshi's toes curl, thighs tense. He takes one look at the blissed out expression on your face and cums too, thick spurts of release wetting his already damp boxers. Warmth drips down to his balls. He kicks up into his touch with a hiss and notes the way Aizawa's gaze flickers over to him for just a moment before he's focusing back on you, sucking your clit into his mouth as you tumble within moments back into overstimulation. The pleasant wave of your orgasm is barely a wave at all—as though you dipped a toe in the water only to be submerged entirely a beat later, yanked so deep you can't breathe.

You honestly look like you're about to pass out.

"Haaa-ngh-ahhh, st-stop n'moren'morepleaseda-ah-ddy."

Now, you’re desperate enough to try to crawl up the bed, body heavy with delirium, and you try to get your knees under you to move. It doesn't work. As soon as your hips raise up a scant few inches, they drop back to the bed with another brush of Aizawa's tongue. As though that's all it takes to render you utterly useless.

You get an elbow under you—another suck on your clit—and collapse face-first into the sheets.

"Daddydaddyda-ah-ddy," you chant listlessly, as effective as words being carried away by the wind. "I c'n't— can't— nonono, n'moreplease— ple-hah-please. Please!"

Aizawa hums against you and your gasp melds with a low, wounded whine—more pain than pleasure, but Hitoshi can't help the way his spent dick twitches anyway. He's sick in the head like that. Enjoys seeing you writhe and cry. He's never seen you quite this fucked out before, though.

"St-sto-ah-stop," you whine. "Pleasedaddyplease, stop."

Hitoshi wonders where the line is for his Sensei. What would it take to get him to actually stop? Is there a number of orgasms he's going for? Or is he reading your body and listening to your little whimpers the same way animals sense air pressure changes? Hitoshi would've hesitated when you were trying to crawl away from him at least. Aizawa didn't even seem phased. In fact, he's still eating you out like there's nowhere he'd rather be. Perfectly settled on his stomach, lapping at the wet mess of arousal dripping from your core, with one big hand keeping your pussy on his face and the other pressing your weak hand to the bed.

"N'moren'more I c'n't— daaaddyyyy!"

Aizawa laughs again, a soft puff of breath that only serves to make you arch your back, thighs tightening and spasming through a weird, panicked stretch as you relax them right after. You let out a choked sob and press your face into the blankets. You've been crying for so long that your entire face is wet, and Hitoshi stares at the sight in some kind of daze.

Aizawa is tongue-fucking you again. Your chest is still heaving—not even recovered from your last orgasm, or the one before that—and Hitoshi might actually die. He can feel his dick hardening again in his ruined boxers, and the feeling is simultaneously uncomfortable and so hot that he bites his bottom lip until he feels it split. Until there's an iron tang along his tongue. Until he wishes he were the one with his face buried between your legs instead. Until he wishes he were the one beneath—

"Daddydaddydaddy—" you jerk the hand under his again, desperate for something, anything, but Aizawa merely squeezes his own, "—nghhh stopstop, plea-uhhhhhhh—"

Between one breath and the next, you're tipping over into another orgasm, but this time it isn't pretty. You let out a loud, cracked cry—so pitiful that Hitoshi winces in sympathy immediately—and immediately dissolve into shuddering tears, riding out the orgasm through wet, gasping breaths. Hitoshi isn't even sure if it feels good this time. There's been no real break between orgasms, and Sensei has been torturing you nonstop.

Though Aizawa does lap at you more gently this time, tongue licking wide, flat stripes up your pussy. When your whine overflows into anguish, Aizawa finally slows to a stop. Apparently, stopping doesn’t mean not touching you at all. He gives you a brief reprieve, letting you suck in one stuttering breath, another, lets you open your eyes—Hitoshi didn't even realise they'd closed, gaze caught on Aizawa’s vigour—then, he leans forward and presses a soft kiss on your clit: a brush of lips, a quiet, wet smacking sound as he parts, like how Hitoshi kisses the forehead of his cat.

Hitoshi startles at the wall of heat that realisation brings.

You whimper, entire body twitching like a live wire.

A kiss.

Another.

Hitoshi inhales something shaky. More tears stream down your face.

You both know he's winding down the scene now—that you're okay, that you're good, that you got through it. But you're still reacting to every kiss like it's a brand. As though each one could be the promise of more trials and tribulations you won't survive.

Aizawa tilts his head up and kisses your entrance. Places a chaste kiss on either side of your pussy. One on your perineum. Another on the crease of your ass. He loosens his fingers around yours and brushes his thumb over the back of your hand kindly.

"Did so well," he murmurs into your thigh, pressing a kiss there. "So well, sweet girl."

Your sob of relief splinters in two as you recognise the words for what they are—you're done.

Aizawa sits up after placing one final kiss on the globe of your asscheek, and you immediately slump deadweight onto the bed without his hand propping your hip up. You're a mess. Flushed and sweaty and teary-eyed. Trembles wrack your body with every shaky breath you inhale as you try to get oxygen back in your lungs—as you try to slow down the borderline-hyperventilating you've been doing.

Unfortunately, Hitoshi is immediately distracted by Aizawa's cock. Red and weepy, slapping against his stomach when Aizawa shifts his legs under to sit between your spread ones. He rolls his shoulders before brushing big palms up and down your legs soothingly, content to quietly watch for now as you regulate your breathing. Hitoshi watches the exchange with a strange pain in his heart, as though someone has reached through his chest and squeezed it in their fist.

"There y'go," Aizawa says, a palm massaging the meat of your thigh.

You whine lowly, but it's more for the sake of making noise than anything else. This is particularly apparent when you make no move to do anything after—lying like a corpse as though Aizawa literally ate your soul out through your pussy. Leaning down to brush the hair matted to your nape, Aizawa's mouth tips up into a small, satisfied smile. It's fond, too—Hitoshi realises with a start. Undeniably sweet and soft and… affectionate, where he stares down at your spent, quivering form.

Hitoshi feels like he's going to throw up. His dick is also half-hard again.

Predictably, this moment of panic is precisely when Sensei decides to turn towards him.

Aizawa gives him a once-over before quirking a brow.

"You okay?" he asks quietly, as though preserving the peace of your afterglow.

Hitoshi nods. Swallows once against the sand in his throat. Brushes an antsy hand back through his hair to try to burn some of the weird energy simmering low in his gut. He isn't okay, not really, but he can't say as such to the older man.

Aizawa doesn't chastise, but Hitshi can tell he wants to.

"I'm okay," he corrects, putting his thoughts into words—stomach swooping when he registers the rough notes to his voice, coarse from disuse.

Narrowing his eyes, Aizawa gives him a short nod.

Then, "Go shower. I'll clean her up."

Hitoshi winces. Shouldn't he be the one looking after them both? After all, he wasn't even technically involved in the scene.

"No, it's— it's okay. I'll, uh," he moves to stand, "I'll get you both a wet flannel."

"Shinsou."

Hitoshi's spine locks again embarrassingly fast, despite being only halfway out of his seat. Jesus. He really hopes his Sensei doesn't notice how weird he's being. A bit of weird after his girlfriend just got fucked is fine, but if he realises why he's acting weird…

Hitoshi will die.

He tilts his head, trying to seem nonchalant. "Hm?"

Aizawa only trails his eyes down to Hitoshi's crotch. He's confused for all of a heartbeat before he follows his Sensei's gaze to where there's an absurdly obvious cum stain on his trousers. He tenses his jaw. That's humiliating, Hitoshi thinks to himself dryly. What am I, a teenager?

But then again, this is less humiliating than the alternative: jerking off and having his spent dick in his hand and cum all over his nice shirt, had he not thought better of it.

Thank god he did cum in his pants, all things considered.

Aizawa smirks, the corner of his eyes crinkling in amusement. "Go shower," he repeats. "I've got her, don't worry."

Hitoshi glances down at you and—oh. You're asleep.

Upset expression smoothed out into peacefulness. Face still wet and flushed. Hands still half-clutching the sheets like you're not quite convinced you're safe just yet. He looks back up at Aizawa, but his gaze gets caught on the way.

"But you're still..." he gestures helplessly to Aizawa's hard cock, hanging between his legs.

How the hell do you tell your mentor they're still hard?

How the hell do you say it's okay if you need to go and deal with that?

"I'm okay," Aizawa chuckles. Hitoshi feels his skin break out into gooseflesh "Why don't you both stay the night? I'll get you some clean clothes. Cook you dinner.

Hitoshi bites his lip uncertainly.

"Saves you driving home…" Aizawa adds.

Hitoshi can't find his words. Aizawa seems to notice.

"That was heavier than I was anticipating," he offers lowly, eyes turning kind.

So his Sensei didn't have it all planned out then. Weirdly, Hitoshi feels some relief at that.

"It was," Hitoshi agrees a bit uselessly, still lost as to the turn tonight's taken—the realisations he's been forced to reckon with.

Aizawa nods. "So stay."

He says it like it's simple.

Maybe it is.

Hitoshi stares at his fucked out girlfriend strewn across Aizawa's bed. At his Sensei, hovering over her like a sentinel.

Yeah, Hitoshi thinks to himself quietly, tipping his chin up to meet Aizawa's wine-pool eyes. Maybe it is.

"Alright, we'll stay."

‹‹ MASTERLIST

In your universe, accidentally falling into another is pretty common. 

You never fully understood the science behind it, but in your world, cracks lingered everywhere. An object, an animal, or even a person slipping through was not unheard of. 

It happened often enough that a system was created to retrieve those who slip. Warnings are issued throughout the city whenever there’s a ‘reality tear’ in Central Park. Certain places of the world are permanently closed off from humanity. Schools make drills educating children on what to do if they’re ever trapped in another universe, alone. The world does whatever it can to protect society and the people from slipping into another world, lost forever. 

Slipping isn’t an inevitability, but it’s a possibility. Like getting into a car accident, or getting stuck outside in a hurricane. It’s something to prepare for. 

So when you woke up underneath a bright blue sky, away from your bed, your apartment, your town, your entire universe, you weren’t wholly unprepared. 

It’s not that you weren’t surprised. It took you an hour to finally give up the delusion that you’re dreaming. Another hour later and you were finally starting to realize this new world played a whole lot differently than your old one. 

Firstly, there were no people. 

You walked around for what felt like years now, and yet, there was no hint of humanity. No sign of intelligent life. No roads, no cars, no telephone towers in the far distance. There were just trees and plains and valleys. Back home, this would be a rarity. A place untouched by civilization. 

But there were remnants of it. 

At first you thought it was a piece of furniture–decayed and rotting in the middle of a random clearing. It wasn’t until you took a few trepid steps closer that you realized it was something more intricate. 

Clunky and robust with gray metal that was starting to oxidize. It was some kind of robot. It might have been years since this thing was active. 

You stared at the find for several minutes. Was it man-made? That didn’t really feel right. You didn’t know how to explain it, but this robot looked foreign to any Earthly element. Alien. 

Strangely, you felt as if you were examining a corpse. 

Weird, really really weird. But apart from the strange robot, you couldn’t find anything else off with this world. You mostly recognized the animals, as well as the plants. The most you could conclude was that this was some type of post-apocalyptic Earth where humanity was scarce or just gone entirely. 

That sounded a bit depressing, but you weren’t surprised. You’d heard of others who’d slipped into similar realities where humanity had blown themselves up till extinction. Or a disease wiped them out entirely. They often talked about how nice it was seeing animals that were on the endangered list, just frolicking about in the thousands. You hoped this was one of those realities. Realities without humanity often sounded more peaceful.

The panic hadn’t set in yet. There was no need for it to. You knew people would eventually realize you’re missing and the system would kick in to find you. Accord was really good at her job. It was what she was created for, after all. Since her creation, everyone who slipped was often found by the end of the day, perfectly safe. 

You were in good hands, you assured yourself. Accord would find you. She’s found everyone else, so far. Why would you be an anomaly? 

You ignored the tiny voice of paranoia in your head, distracting yourself by admiring the large trees and other vegetation. One field in particular caught your attention. It was not the beauty that made it pop, rather, the familiarity. 

You bent down, lightly touching the bright red tomato happily growing from its stem. Beside it was a cucumber vine, creeping along the floor with its dark green vegetables. There were a few strawberry shrubs, something that looked vaguely like a pomegranate bush. All of the plants were bunched together, healthy and growing strong. It almost resembled a shabby garden.

“Oh, hello there.” 

You jumped up straight, surprised to hear a voice, and from the sound of their tone, they seemed to share your reaction. 

When you spun around to face the source, you were partially expecting to see that robot you’d seen earlier. 

It wasn’t that robot. It was a different one. 

You stared, the robot stared right back. It was larger than you, bulkier, and a bit more humanoid in shape than the other one. Its metal was old and rusted in some places. What could only resemble eyes were bright green lights on either side of its face. 

Given any other situation, you might have run. Maybe even screamed. But being stuck in a world where you didn’t know the rules of the game was enough to leave you stumped, and so you just echoed what the robot said. 

“Um, hello,” you replied back nervously, raising a hand in greeting.

The thing straightened up at your voice. You could hear the gears and bolts shudder every time it moved. 

“Hello!” It repeated. It almost sounded excited. “How are you, today?” 

“Fine?” You responded before your mind caught up to you, force of habit forcing pleasantry. “I’m sorry, but…what–what are you exactly?” 

You heard the gears again. “I’m Pascal!” The thing chittered, clearly misunderstanding your question. “What’s your name?” 

Not quite what you were looking for, but it seemed friendly, at least? You gave ‘Pascal’ your name with less enthusiasm and more caution. ‘Pascal’ didn’t seem to mind. If anything, the robot strode even closer, clearly not sensing your wariness. If anything, it seemed entirely oblivious to it.

“Is this yours?” You tried, gesturing to the garden. God, you hoped it was a nice robot and wasn’t about to kill you. Pascal gave an eager nod. 

“Yes! Yes!” Pascal agreed. “The deer like them, as well as the rabbits. I try my best to keep the plants growing every year.” 

An animal lover. You wondered if it was programmed for that. Your shoulders relaxed a little, relieved that the thing was harmless. Probably.

“Really?” You prompted, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “Do you grow anything else?”

It shook its head. “These were the only plants that sprouted,” it informed you, gears crunching as they got stuck for a second, then continued to operate smoothly. I collected them during my travels and decided to plant them here.”

Pascal’s blabberings simmered. It peered at you with those green lights it called eyes, digging far too deep for your liking.

Robots weren’t supposed to replicate life. Their entire existence stemmed from certainty — a feature of life that often fails to be duplicated. 

But maybe you were wrong because, just for a brief moment, he hesitated. Then, he asked.

“...Are you lost?” 

-

It’s a village, at least you thought it was a village. 

High up in the trees. You weren’t sure if the rickety ladder would’ve held your weight, but you believed the fear was well worth the scenery. 

A treehouse village. Each hut was built into the trunk. There were at least two ‘floors’, with another clearly in the process of being built. There were clothing lines where clothes and rags were hung up to dry, though it looked as if they had been up there for a long time. 

“Welcome to my home,” Pascal chirped while you gazed around in awe. “This is so exciting! It’s been a while since I’ve had someone see it. Would you like a tour?” 

You nodded, finally beginning to feel properly excited about this world you’d fallen into. Pascal clasped his ‘hands’ together, thrilled, as far as you could tell. He led you around the village enthusiastically, pointing out every detail he could find. He talked a lot, enough to fill the space for two people, leaving you to bob your head long to everything he said. It was nice, you were content enough to sit back and let him do the talking. It allowed you to absorb everything just a bit more. 

The chirping of cicadas, the rustle of leaves, being able to weave between the trees and never touch the ground — it all called back to the more childlike side of your being. The desire to have a majestic treehouse from which to rule, that childhood dream almost felt fulfilled as you took in your surroundings, learned where all the ‘houses’ were. 

The more he showed you, however, the more strange this place became. There were hints of life everywhere, clues that somebody should have been actively living there, occupying the huts, greeting you as you passed. There were multiple ladders and bridges, clearly made for more than just one person in mind. There was something that oddly resembled a children’s toy — a shabbily made see-saw. Clearly, it couldn’t have been only Pascal residing here.

Every so often, you expected someone — a robot, maybe one shaped like Pascal — to pop up. Yet, there was nothing; only the eerie silence, save for your footsteps and Pascal’s metal clanking. 

“Where is everyone?” You interrupted Pascal in the midst of his rambling, feeling a spark of guilt at the way he stuttered. 

He looked back at you, and by now you were starting to get the hang of gauging his reactions enough to understand that he looked confused. 

“What do you mean?” He prodded. “It’s only ever been me here.” He paused to think for a moment. “Actually, when I first got here, there was a lot of junk laying around. It took a while to get rid of.” He hummed good-naturedly. “It’s more than likely other machine lifeforms found this place first before moving on.” 

That caught your attention. 

“Machine lifeforms?” You repeated. “Is that what you are?” 

“Machine lifeforms are those brought by aliens to Earth.” Pascal provided, nodding along.

So they weren’t made by humans. You had a feeling, but it was nice to be certain. It was obvious that this world is far into the future compared to your own by decades — perhaps even centuries.

“Pardon me for asking but…” Pascal tilted his head. “You are human, yes?” 

You assented, albeit reluctantly. It sounded more like a yearning for confirmation than actual ignorance. Besides, it might have been pure naivety on your part, but in the short while you’d known Pascal, he’d never once been malicious. A bit weird, but not bad. 

You flinched when he threw his arms up in the air, jolted out of your thoughts. The gears within him whirred in delight at your testimony. 

“Splendid! I had an inkling you were…but I didn’t want to assume!” He gushed, bypassing your personal space once again to analyze you. “I’ve never met a human before. How exciting.” 

You had a feeling you were the only one left, but for your suspicion to be confirmed was a little disappointing. You didn’t want to admit it, but you were holding out a little bit of hope for another human to be around, someone you could relate to more easily. Someone who understood.

“I’m guessing humans here are long gone then.” You murmured, mostly to yourself, but Pascal heard it loud and clear. 

“No?” He told you, confused. “All humans are on the Moon. Isn’t that where you’re from?” 

“The Moon?” You echoed, glancing up at the sky. “All of them? How did they even–” 

You swallowed your voice, perplexed. What kind of world was this? Robots on Earth? Humans on the Moon?

“No, I’m not from the Moon.” You finally told him. “And…I’m not even from this Earth. It’s–it’s hard to explain.” 

Sighing, you took a seat on the wooden floor of the village. Pascal followed, watching as you crossed your legs, and he did the same. It reminded you of a child following the actions of an adult, learning from the people around them. 

You assumed you spent about twenty minutes on the platform, explaining about how you woke up here no more than a few hours ago, Accord, how you were supposed to be in your own bed at home…and now you were somewhere else. 

“I’m still not too sure how it works.” You admitted to him. “But…think of a cup filled with water. Whenever you shake it, the water spills over. That would sort of make me a droplet.” 

Insignificant, in the grand scheme of things. 

“Fascinating.” Pascal swooned before his posture dropped. “My sincerest apologies. I’m sure your friend is very worried.” 

“My friend?” 

“Accord.” Pascal clarified. “You mentioned she was looking for you.” 

You weren’t sure if you could call Accord a friend. You’d never met her before, but every human in your universe knows her name. 

“In my universe, people get into these types of situations all the time.” You motioned to yourself. “Accord is the overseer of my world. She’s a system! Whenever someone goes missing–like I did–she tracks them down and brings them back home.” 

Accord would find you eventually. You were sure of it. Ever since her creation, there hasn’t been a single human that wasn’t recovered in a week. 

“I bet my friends and family are pretty worried.” You acknowledged, realizing how long you’d been gone. “But I’ve heard that time moves slowly in my universe. A few hours here, might only be a few seconds there.” 

A few days here could be a mere few hours there. Weeks and weeks might only be a day or two. Years might be–

“From what you’ve told me, Accord seems very proficient.” Pascal proclaimed, proud for you, somehow. “I’m sure she’ll find you soon.” 

You gave a weak smile, your stomach churning at the unsettling feeling that his words seeded. “Of course she will.” You agreed in spite of the anxiety that licked at the soles of your feet. After all, Accord hadn’t lost anyone before, right? 

Right? 

You just had to stay put, and stay hopeful. You’d be found soon. Someone would notice you’d been gone, or you hadn’t been answering your phone, and you’d be reported. It’d be fine. 

Everything will be fine. 

Speaking of, you weren’t sure how interdimensional travel worked, but you didn’t want to take a chance of straying too far from your original spot. Pascal’s place wasn’t too far from where you originally woke up. Maybe if you lingered around a bit, Accord might have an easier time finding you. 

“Pascal?” You called. 

He tilted his head as an answer. 

“I really don’t mean to be a bother, but.” You glanced away into the trees. Despite the sun hovering strong and still in the sky, the forest looked dark and daunting. You weren’t sure if it was a good idea to be alone anymore. 

“Would you mind if I stayed for a while?” 

You wanted to say more. You wanted to explain yourself. You wanted to promise you wouldn’t take too much of his time, or be too much of a burden, but Pascal didn’t seem to want any of it. The most inhuman thing on this planet was showing you the most humanity you’d ever experienced.

“Of course.” He chirped cheerily. “Stay as long as you would like.” 

True to your word, you made sure you weren’t a burden. You tried your best to help out in the village, folding the rags of cloth he had lying around, brushing off the twigs and leaves that occasionally cluttered the floor. You didn’t think you were doing a lot, but Pascal was very sweet with his assurances. 

“So are there any other machine lifeforms that you’ve seen?” You asked, tucking away another bundle of twigs as per his instructions. 

Pascal sat right next to you, showing you the proper way to store the sticks. You lacked the efficiency and the perfection he had, and your bundles looked like complete messes compared to his. Thankfully, he said nothing about it, placing the stacks you made right next to his own. 

“Yes.” He answered. “Most don’t stay around these parts, however. The android kingdom is very close, though.” 

“Android kingdom.” You quoted, brows furrowing in consideration. Robots like Accord? 

“Oh, yes,” Pascal said, “I  heard they have contact with the humans on the Moon.” 

Okay, so aliens created Machine Lifeforms, and androids were clearly an invention of humanity. What could they possibly have created them for, you sarcastically wondered. You were just glad you came into the aftermath of whatever horrors happened, rather than the midst. You were no fighter, you wouldn’t survive longer than a minute if you were dropped into an all-out war in the middle of who-the-hell-knows-where. Much less one between androids and aliens, of all things.

Still, a kingdom of androids, fully independent from humanity to the point where their creators were up on a satellite doing who knows what. It sounded fascinating, you couldn’t deny that you were immensely curious as to how things turned out this way.

“What are they like?” You prodded, wanting more information out of your walking history book. “The androids, I mean.” 

“I don’t know, these days.” Pascal hummed. “ The Android King doesn’t allow much contact.”

So much for history book.

The androids didn’t seem very friendly, then. Maybe it’d be different for you, considering your humanness, but you weren’t ready to take a chance today. The adventure you were on right now was more than enough excitement for a lifetime, throwing in the risk of hostile entities in a single day was too much.

“I was friends with one.” Pascal suddenly murmured. “I don’t think she’s around anymore.” 

You waited for him to continue. 

He never did. 

-

Pascal didn’t know a thing about humans. 

You thought you could bear it, but after he kept bringing these robot fish and tried convincing you to eat them, you decided to take things into your own hands. 

The fishing pole was basic, but it got the job done. You waded in calf-deep water, your shoes and socks tossed on the shore. The calm river lazily passed you by. You’d never seen water so clear before, rippling around your legs, bouncing off the pebbles and gravel.

“Oh.” You felt a tug on the rod, your heart skipping a beat. “I think I got something.” 

“Really?” Pascal asked in excitement, bounding over. 

“Pascal, wait–” Too late, whatever was on the other end was scared away by his movements. You watched with a frown as a shadow trickled back into the water. There goes lunch. 

You pulled back the empty rod. Pascal stood still next to you in the water. 

“I startled it, didn’t I.” He realized in disappointment. “I’m sorry.” 

You shook your head and offered a placating smile, reaching out to pat his shoulder comfortingly. “There’s plenty of fish in the river.” You told him kindly and held out your rod to him. “Want to try?” 

He grabbed the stick eagerly, mimicking your movements. Pascal didn’t try to hide his curiosity about humans, nor his willingness to learn from you. He was clearly being honest when he claimed he hadn't met one before you. Since the moment you got here, you’d been barreled by questions about humanity and the world you came from. He was floored when you revealed there were billions upon billions of humans in your universe. It must have been an unfathomable number where humanity was scarce. 

“Did you eat fish back home as well?” Pascal questioned, flailing with the rod. At least he was having fun. You sat back on the shore, enjoying the sun beating down on your skin. 

“Hm, sometimes.” You answered lazily, closing your eyes. “But humans eat other things: Other types of meat, fruit, vegetables. We use spices to make them taste even better.” 

“Really?” Pascal asked. You gave him an affirmative, dipping your toes back in the water, feeling the biting chill and the trickle of water weaving past. 

“Humans do a lot to make food taste good.” You admitted. “Regardless of how healthy it is. The most popular foods are sweets; cakes, cupcakes, cookies, brownies.” What you wouldn’t do to have one of those right now. 

“I’m sure we can make those!” Pascal exclaimed, and you realized you muttered that out loud. 

You smiled warmly at him, appreciating his wishes to help bring you joy. “That’s sweet.” You told him, letting him down gently. “But I highly doubt it. Those foods are pretty complicated. We’d need a lot of ingredients like eggs and sugar.” 

“I wonder if the android kingdom has those items.” Pascal pondered. 

“I thought the android kingdom was closed off to outsiders?” 

“Sometimes the Android King allows trading.” Pascal answered back. 

That’s the second time Pascal mentioned him. What kind of person was he to forbid entry to his kingdom, and only occasionally open routes for trading? Was he scary? Cruel and tyrannical, keeping his people clutched in an iron fist?

Or was he simply protecting his citizens? 

“It’s a little funny we went back in history, though.” You said out loud. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Back home, most governments aren’t monarchies anymore. We mainly have democracies.” You enlightened Pascal. “If you asked any modern-day human, they’d have some pretty choice words about royalty in general. So now, centuries later, with even androids adopting monarchy…makes me wonder if there’s a human king up on the Moon now.” 

Pascal’s machinery droned. “Well, on Earth, I think the Human King would be you.” 

You barked a laugh, taken aback by his declaration. “Yeah? Are you the Machine-lifeform King then, Your Majesty?” 

He preened. Something simmered in your chest as you continued to look at him. You were so happy to see your friend so happy. 

“Still, what are humans even doing up there?” You questioned aimlessly, gazing up at the sky. “When I was young, every kid on the block wanted to be an astronaut. And now, apparently, every human is born one.” 

Pascal didn’t answer. He was distracted by something tugging on the fishing pole. 

“Did you get something?” You perked up, jumping to your feet. Please, oh, please be a fish. You were starving. Hell, even those robotic fish were beginning to look appetizing.

“Yes!” He chirped back animatedly. “It’s rather big, I hope the rope holds…” He trailed off as the thrashing got louder and more violent, droplets of water splashing every which way. 

You were both silent when he finally pulled it up, a clump of algae hanging limply from the hook, peering back at you. 

“Yeah.” You said after a pause. “I don’t think fishing is either one of our strengths. Maybe we should try to make a salad instead.” 

“Agreed.” Pascal grumbled. 

-

It was the strangest thing. You'd been here for a couple of days now. You were sure of it. 

And yet, you hadn’t seen the sun move an inch. 

It was still hovering above Pascal’s Village, sunlight filtering through the leaves and branches. You lied flat on the wooden pathway, staring up blankly. Pascal was next to you, fiddling with one of his machines. 

“Pascal?” You summoned his attention. “Do…sunsets not happen here?” 

“Sunsets?” Came his response. “What are those?” 

You sat, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Seriously? The sun just stays up there? There’s no day-and-night?” 

Pascal considered you with what you equated to a frown. “Are you referring to the night kingdom?” 

“Night kingdom?” 

He pointed across the village, far past the trees and plains. 

“It’s on the other side of the world. Sunlight can’t reach there, so they mostly rely on artificial light.” 

You tilted your head. “People actually live there?” 

He nodded. “I believe a small group of androids, also a multitude of machine lifeforms.”

You kept forgetting that humans no longer lived on Earth. It was overrun by androids and machine lifeforms now. 

“I was there a few centuries ago.” Pascal happily continued, oblivious to your disquiet. “I bet a lot has changed since.” 

“Centuries?” You repeated. “Pascal, how long have you been on Earth?” 

He’s not human, and yet you’d learned how to read his emotions. It wasn’t hard; he practically wore everything on his face, in the way he moved, the tone of his voice. 

His arms dropped into his lap. His body language became stiff. He’s hesitating. 

“I can’t remember much from that time, Machine Cores aren’t made to last this long.” Pascal divulged to you. “But I believe I was created between the 7th-8th machine war.” 

You gaped at him, eyes flickering over the dents—battle scars, metal bent by violence and a bloodless war. 

It was like pulling out teeth. Pascal revealed to you the history of the wars that had ravished Earth for centuries upon centuries. Aliens created machine lifeforms to take over the planet. Humans created androids to defend Earth. How overwhelming the machine lifeform army was, to the point where humanity retreated to the Moon, letting androids continue the war. He talked about the brief memories he had of those times, where he was hunting down androids from orders — where he was nothing but a machine. 

“And then, one day, you woke up?” You probed, when he grew silent. 

Pascal confirmed with a droll hum. You leaned back on your hands, thinking on all he told you, processing all the information you’d received.

“Humans and aliens are enemies.” You said out loud, “Does that make us enemies, Pascal?” 

Pascal flinched. “No! Of course not!” He vehemently denied it with so much certainty you had to smile at how seriously he took it. “I’d never do anything to hurt you.” 

“I know, I know.” You assured him. “I’m glad. I consider you my friend. I don’t care about anything else.” 

You didn’t know how you could’ve survived out here, had Pascal not found you. How much did you owe him? Hundreds and hundreds of lifetimes over. He was practically the only thing keeping you afloat. You didn’t care if Pascal was created to end humanity. That wasn’t who he was. He was the kindest, gentlest person you’d ever met. You wouldn’t let his past taint his present. 

“I consider you a friend as well.” Pascal voiced sweetly. You thought, if he could, he’d be smiling right about now. Maybe even blushing. 

You wished you could stay here forever with him. It could be a nice life. You could help Pascal spruce up the village. In the late evenings, the two of you could go fishing. In the mornings, you could tend to the garden. Maybe the two of you could start a new adventure to the night kingdom one day. 

It would be really nice, but you knew you couldn’t.

“It’s been days,” you finally started, “and there’s still no sign of Accord.” 

Pascal’s movements stopped. You knew he was sharing your thoughts. 

Accord should’ve been here days ago. The fact that she hadn’t showed up yet was alarming. Despite enjoying your time here, you missed home, your friends and family, the internet. Your patience was wearing away. Anxiety was starting to grow. You needed to make your own move. 

“Accord is an android,” you spoke, trying to avoid Pascal’s eyes, “I was thinking, maybe if I talked to the android kingdom, I could get closer to going home.” 

You didn’t say it out loud. You’d have to leave Pascal. 

The thought made your stomach twist.

Pascal, who was nothing but kind and gentle to you. Pascal, who had made sure you were safe and protected. Pascal, who was your friend. You were leaving him just for a bleak shot of getting home. 

The machine lifeform said nothing. He just turned away, looking up at the sky. The sun was still up, lingering over the world, you could feel its warm rays on your skin. They almost scorched you now, burning you for scorning your only friend in this world.

“I’ll contact them later today,” he finally said, “they’ll be here tomorrow.” 

His gears and metal felt awkward under your skin as you threw yourself at him, but you didn’t care. You squeezed him into the tightest hug you possibly could, even as his endoskeleton pinched your forearms and hands. Pascal barely seemed to register the hug. He froze for ten whole seconds underneath you. You knew, because you counted each one. 

“Thank you,” you whispered to your friend, “thank you so much.” 

Pascal stayed silent, but when he hugged you back, his hands were warm. 

The silence in Megumi Fushiguro’s apartment had never felt like a weapon before. It had always been a soft, comfortable thing. The quiet of shared space, the peace of two people who didn’t need to fill every moment with noise. But tonight, the silence it felt different.

Megumi had come home late, later than usual, his shoulders hunched and his jaw tight. You’d watched him shrug off his jacket, his movements jerky and exhausted, and your heart had clenched with sympathy. You knew he’d had a brutal week. A mission had gone sideways, leaving him with a concussion and a civilian casualty that wasn’t his fault but weighed on him anyway. Then there had been the endless debriefings, the paperwork, the sidelong glances from the higher-ups who always seemed to be waiting for him to fail. You’d seen the dark circles under his eyes deepen with each passing day, watched him pick at his food without eating, and felt him toss and turn beside you in bed long after the lights went out.

So you’d done what you always did. You’d tried to help. You’d made his favorite tea, the ginger one that stung the nose and warmed the throat. You’d set out his comfortable clothes, the soft sweater with the frayed cuffs he loved. And when he’d sunk onto the couch with a bone-deep sigh, you’d settled beside him and started talking, hoping to pull him out of his head, to distract him from the darkness you could see swirling behind his eyes.

“I was thinking about time today,” you’d begun, your voice soft and meandering, the way it always was when you were trying to soothe him. “Not like, clock time, but geological time. Did you know that if you compressed the entire history of the Earth into a single year, humans wouldn’t show up until like, eleven-forty PM on December thirty-first? And the entire recorded history of human civilization would be the last few seconds before midnight? It’s wild, right? All of our wars and art and love and everything, just this tiny little blip. And it made me think about how when you’re in the middle of a bad week, it feels like it’s going to last forever, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s not even a fraction of a fraction of a—”

“Can you just be quiet?”

The words weren’t loud. They weren’t even particularly harsh. But they stopped you cold, your mouth still half-open around the next syllable, your hands frozen mid-gesture. You stared at him, waiting for the punchline, the softening of his eyes, the small quirk of his lips that meant he was teasing.

It didn’t come.

He wasn’t looking at you. His head was tilted back against the couch, his eyes closed, and there was a furrow between his brows so deep it looked carved there. The words hung in the air between you, ugly and final, and for one bizarre, disorienting moment, a single thought cut through your shock: This isn’t Megumi.

The thought was so strong, so visceral, that your eyes darted around the room, half-expecting to see the shimmer of a veil, the telltale distortion of a curse’s technique. Because this couldn’t be real. Your Megumi—your sweet, quiet, secretly tender Megumi who let you put face masks on him and once sat through a three-hour documentary about nudibranchs because you’d said they looked like tiny sea dragons and you loved them—your Megumi would never, ever say that to you. This had to be a curse. Some vile, parasitic thing wearing his skin, twisting his voice, using his exhaustion as a doorway in.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until your lungs started to burn. Your hands were trembling in your lap, but you kept them still, kept your face as neutral as you could manage, while your mind spiraled through every exorcism you’d ever studied, every curse you’d ever encountered. You searched his face for some sign of the supernatural, some glint of something that wasn’t him.

Megumi’s eyes opened, and you searched them desperately. But all you saw was exhaustion. Bone-deep, soul-crushing exhaustion, and underneath it, a flicker of irritation that made your stomach drop.

He must have seen something in your expression—the wide-eyed horror, the desperate scanning—because his brow furrowed further. "Nothing is wrong, I just… I can’t right now. I need quiet. Please.”

Please. He’d said please, like it was a reasonable request, like he hadn’t just taken the thing you were most vulnerable about—the thing you’d been terrified of your entire life—and confirmed it was true. You talked too much, you shared too much, you were too much, and the one person you’d trusted with all of it had finally gotten sick of pretending otherwise.

You didn’t remember standing up. You didn’t remember walking to the bedroom. All you remembered was the click of the door closing behind you, the sound of your own heartbeat thundering in your ears, and the slow, creeping horror of a new thought slithering into your mind.

What if he’s been holding this back for our entire relationship, and tonight he just… slipped?

You pressed your back against the bedroom door and slid down until you were sitting on the floor, your knees drawn up to your chest. The tears came hot and silent, and with them, the spiral.

Because the thing was, it made sense. It made terrible, perfect sense.

You’d always known you talked a lot. You’d been told so your whole life—by teachers who moved your desk to the back of the classroom, by friends who slowly stopped returning your texts, by family members who smiled tight smiles and said, “Don’t you ever run out of things to say?” You talked when you were happy, when you were nervous, when you were sad, and when you were excited. Talking was how you processed the world. It was how you connected, how you loved, how you breathed.

And Megumi… Megumi was so quiet. He spoke in glances and small gestures, in the brush of his fingers against yours, in the way he’d make you tea without being asked. You’d always thought—hoped—that your talking was the yang to his yin, that you filled the silences he didn’t want to fill himself, that he liked it, that he liked you.

But what if he didn’t? What if every story you’d ever told him, every random observation, every excited ramble about sea slugs or cloud formations or the socioeconomic implications of ancient Roman plumbing—what if every single word had been sandpaper against his nerves? What if all those little hums and nods, the ones you’d interpreted as listening, had actually been him just… enduring?

You thought back through your entire relationship, and the memories shifted and warped before your eyes, taking on a sinister new shape. The time you’d spent forty-five minutes explaining the plot of a book he’d never read, and he’d just sat there, silent. You’d thought he was being a good listener. What if he’d been wishing you would stop? The time you’d made him watch a video essay about the history of buttons, and he’d fallen asleep halfway through. You’d teased him about it, thinking it was cute. What if he’d been so bored, so exhausted by your endless stream of words, that his body had just given up?

Every memory became evidence. Every silence became a verdict. And you, who loved him so much, realized with a sickening lurch that your love might have been a burden. That the very thing you’d been offering him—yourself, unfiltered and enthusiastic and overflowing—might have been the thing he’d secretly wished he could escape.

You didn’t sleep that night. You lay in bed, still and silent as a stone, listening to Megumi’s breathing on the other side of the mattress. He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t say anything. And that, too, felt like confirmation.

───

The next morning, you woke up with a new resolve. If Megumi needed quiet, you would give him quiet. If your talking was a burden, you would set it down. You would become smaller, neater, easier. You would be the girlfriend he deserved, not the one he’d been saddled with.

It was the hardest thing you’d ever done.

The first day, you caught yourself a dozen times. You’d open your mouth to tell him about the weird bird you’d seen outside the window, and you’d snap it shut again. You’d pick up your phone to text him a thought that had just occurred to you, and you’d set it back down. Every suppressed word felt like a small death, a little piece of yourself that you were burying alive.

But you did it. For him, you did it.

“Morning,” you said when he stumbled into the kitchen. One word. Neat. Contained. You placed his coffee in front of him—black, no sugar, the way he liked it—and turned back to the sink.

Megumi grunted in response, rubbing his eyes. He didn’t seem to notice anything different. Why would he? This was probably what he’d always wanted. A quiet morning. A peaceful coffee. A girlfriend who didn’t assault him with trivia before he’d fully woken up.

The second day was harder. You saw a dog on your walk home that looked exactly like his Divine Dog, a big black shaggy thing with soulful eyes, and your first instinct was to take a picture, to send it to him, to say, “Look! It’s your son! He’s working at a café now apparently, very distinguished!” You had your phone out, the camera app open, before you remembered. You put the phone away. You walked home in silence. And when Megumi asked, “How was your day?” you said, “Fine,” and nothing else.

The third day, the fourth day, the fifth day—they all blurred together into a haze. You’d never realized how much of your life was made of words until you had to swallow every single one. You’d never realized how lonely silence could be until you were drowning in it.

You didn’t have a lot of close friends. It wasn’t that people didn’t like you—they did, or at least, they seemed to. But friendships required maintenance, and you’d always poured so much of yourself into your relationship with Megumi that there hadn’t been much left over. He’d been your person. The one you texted at 2 AM when you had a thought that couldn’t wait. The one whose shoulder you shook when you saw something beautiful or weird or funny, because sharing it with him was what made it real.

Now you had no one. The thoughts piled up inside you, a tower of unsaid words growing taller every day. You started a journal, but it wasn’t the same. The journal didn’t hum in the right places. The journal didn’t roll its eyes fondly or call you an idiot with that particular soft inflection that meant I love you. The journal was just paper, and you were so, so lonely.

Megumi didn’t notice.

Well, that wasn’t entirely fair. He noticed something. He noticed that you were quieter, but he chalked it up to mood swings. You’d always been emotional, up and down, sunshine and rain. He figured you were going through something personal—maybe family stuff, maybe hormones, maybe just the general weight of being a sorcerer in a world that never stopped needing saving. He’d ask, “You okay?” and you’d say, “I’m fine,” and he’d accept it, because Megumi was not, by nature, a person who pushed.

A small, petty part of you wanted him to push. You wanted him to grab you by the shoulders and say, “You’re not fine. You haven’t told me a single fact about marine biology in five days. What’s wrong?” But he didn’t. He just drifted through the apartment like a ghost, and you drifted with him, two silent ships passing in a fog of your own making.

Weeks passed. You got very good at being quiet. You learned the precise number of words required to get through a day without arousing suspicion: “Good morning.” “Do you want dinner?” “I’m going to bed.”

And through it all, the thoughts kept coming. They never stopped. Every moment of every day, your brain was churning out observations, questions, connections, jokes, stories. Did you know that octopuses have three hearts? Did you know that the moon is slowly moving away from the Earth? Did you know that I love you so much it’s killing me not to tell you? The words pressed against the inside of your skull and you had nowhere to put them.

Until Yuuta.

───

You’d gone to the sorcerer headquarters to drop off some paperwork for Gojo—a favor you’d agreed to in the morning. You were walking across the training grounds, head down, already composing the text you wouldn’t send Megumi about the interesting moss pattern on the path, when you literally ran into someone.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I wasn’t—” You looked up into a pair of kind, worried eyes, and your brain short-circuited. “Yuuta?”

Yuuta Okkotsu smiled at you, that gentle, slightly awkward smile that made him look like a startled puppy. “Hey! It’s good to see you. I feel like it’s been forever. How are you? How’s Megumi?”

And something in you, something that had been wound tight for weeks, just… snapped.

“Did you know,” you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them, “that there’s a species of jellyfish that’s biologically immortal? It’s called the Turritopsis dohrnii, and when it gets injured or stressed or just old, it can revert back to its polyp stage and start its whole life cycle over. It’s like hitting the reset button on your own existence. Scientists are studying it to see if there are applications for human aging, but honestly, I think the jellyfish is onto something. Imagine if every time you made a horrible mistake, you could just turn back into a baby and try again. Megumi would probably appreciate that, right? A do-over button for relationships? ‘Oh no, I’ve been a terrible boyfriend, time to become a polyp!’ Though I guess that’s not really fair. He’s not terrible. I’m the terrible one. I’m the one who talks too much. That’s literally what he said. Well, not literally, but implied. He said, ‘Can you just be quiet?’ and I’ve been trying, I really have, but it’s so hard because I have all these thoughts and nowhere to put them and I can’t tell him because he doesn’t want to hear it and I don’t have anyone else because he was my person and now I’m just—I’m just full. Do you ever feel full? Like you’re going to burst if you don’t say something, but if you say something, the person you love most in the world is going to look at you with that exhausted, annoyed expression, and you’ll die a little inside? No? Just me? Okay. Okay, I’m sorry. I’m doing it again. I’m talking too much. I should stop. I’m going to stop now.”

You stopped. You were breathing hard, your heart pounding, and you realized with a distant sort of horror that you’d just verbally vomited all over Yuuta Okkotsu, a man you barely knew, a man who was probably just trying to be polite and was now trapped in a conversation with a lunatic.

But Yuuta didn’t look trapped. He looked… concerned. And interested. And maybe a little bit sad.

“The jellyfish thing is really cool,” he said quietly. “Tell me more about that.”

You stared at him. “What?”

“The immortal jellyfish. How does it work, exactly? Does it remember its previous life, or is it a blank slate every time?”

It was like someone had opened a floodgate. You couldn’t stop yourself. You didn’t want to stop yourself. You told him about the cellular transdifferentiation process, about the way the jellyfish’s cells could change from one type to another, about the implications for regenerative medicine and the philosophical questions it raised about identity and consciousness and what it meant to truly die. And then, because he was still listening, still nodding, still asking questions with genuine curiosity in his dark eyes, you told him about octopuses and moon phases and the time you’d gotten lost in a museum and accidentally attended a lecture on medieval grain storage, and it had been the most fascinating hour of your life.

You talked for two hours. Two solid hours of uninterrupted, uncensored, gloriously rambling. You told Yuuta things you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding in. You told him about the specific shade of gray the sky turned before a storm, and the way Megumi’s hair fell over his eyes when he was concentrating, and the dream you’d had about flying whales, and the theory you’d developed about pigeons being government drones, and—

And through it all, Yuuta listened. He didn’t endure. He listened. He laughed at your jokes. He gasped at your revelations. He leaned in when you got to the good parts, and he shook his head in wonder when you finished a particularly convoluted tangent. He was, you realized with a pang, everything you’d been missing. Not a romantic prospect—you were too in love with Megumi for that, even now, even after everything—but a friend. A real, true friend who didn’t seem to mind that you talked too much. Who maybe even liked it.

“That was incredible,” Yuuta said when you finally wound down, your throat hoarse and your heart lighter than it had been in weeks. “You’re like a living Wikipedia, except way more entertaining. Megumi’s a lucky guy.”

The mention of Megumi’s name was like a splash of cold water. “I should… I should probably go. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

“You didn’t take anything,” Yuuta said firmly. “I offered. And honestly?” He ducked his head, a little shy. “It was nice. I enjoyed learning so much, and if it made you feel better, then I am even more glad. So thank you. For talking to me.”

Something in your chest cracked open. “You’re welcome, thank you too for hearing me.” you whispered. And you meant it.

───

The afternoon sun was slanting through the trees of the training grounds, casting long, golden shadows across the grass, and Megumi Fushiguro was worried.

Something was wrong with you. He’d noticed it in the small things—the way you’d stopped texting him random facts in the middle of the day, the way the apartment had become so painfully quiet, the way you’d answer his questions with one-word responses and tight, brittle smiles that never reached your eyes. He’d told himself it was a mood swing, or stress, or something personal that you’d share when you were ready. He’d told himself to be patient, to give you space, to be the steady, silent presence you needed.

But today, the worry had sharpened into something sharper. You hadn’t answered your phone. Three calls, straight to voicemail. You were supposed to drop off paperwork for Gojo, a simple errand that should have taken an hour at most, but three hours had passed and you still weren’t home. Megumi had tried to ignore the cold knot forming in his stomach. He’d tried to reason with himself—maybe your phone died, maybe you got caught up talking to someone, maybe you just needed time alone. But the image of your face that morning, pale and drawn and so terribly quiet, had pushed him out the door.

He found you on a bench near the old training fields, a secluded spot dappled with light and shadow, the kind of place you used to drag him to for “cloud-watching dates” where you’d spend an hour narrating the lives of the cumulus sheep and their stratus shepherds. The memory hit him like a punch to the chest, a reminder of everything that had been missing, everything he’d somehow let slip away.

But you weren’t alone.

Yuuta Okkotsu was sitting beside you on the bench, his body angled toward you in a posture of complete, undivided attention. And you were talking. You were talking the way you used to talk to Megumi, your hands flying through the air, your face alight with an animation he hadn’t seen in weeks, your voice carrying across the grass in a bright, effervescent stream that made his heart seize in his chest.

"—And that’s why I’m convinced pigeons are actually government surveillance drones,” you were saying, your voice breathless with laughter. “I mean, think about it, Yuuta. They’re everywhere. They never migrate. They have that weird red eye thing that looks exactly like a camera lens. And have you ever seen a baby pigeon? No. You haven’t. Because they’re not born. They’re manufactured.”

Yuuta laughed—a real, genuine laugh, warm and surprised—and Megumi watched him shake his head in wonder. “That’s the most unhinged wild I’ve ever heard,” Yuuta said, but his voice was fond, almost admiring. “I love it. What else do you have? What’s your take on squirrels?”

“Oh, squirrels are just tree spies,” you said immediately, and you launched into another tangent without missing a beat, your whole body leaning toward Yuuta like he was the sun and you were a flower desperate for light.

Megumi stood frozen at the edge of the treeline, hidden in the shadows of a large oak, and watched.

He should have walked away. He should have announced himself, or texted you that he was there, or done anything other than stand there like a ghost, eavesdropping on a conversation that was never meant for his ears. But he couldn’t move. His feet were rooted to the ground, and his eyes were fixed on you, on the way you sparkled, on the way you came alive in a way you hadn’t around him in weeks.

Look at her, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, cold and insidious. Look at how happy she is. Look at how she’s glowing. You haven’t made her look like that in weeks. Maybe ever.

He tried to push the thought away, but it clung to him like a curse, sinking its claws into the softest, most vulnerable parts of his heart. He watched Yuuta lean in slightly, his dark eyes soft with genuine interest, and something bitter and acidic rose in Megumi’s throat.

Of course. Of course it’s Yuuta.

Yuuta Okkotsu, the prodigy. The special grade sorcerer who had overcome a curse born of love itself. The one everyone admired, the one everyone trusted, the one who was unfailingly kind and gentle and everything Megumi knew, deep in his bones, he could never be.

He’s perfect for her.

The thought was a knife twisting in his gut. Yuuta was everything you deserved. He was affectionate. He was emotionally available. He probably knew how to say “I love you” without choking on the words, without hoping his actions could speak loudly enough to drown out his silence. He would never snap at you after a hard week. He would never make you feel like your voice was a burden. He would listen—really listen, with his whole heart, the way he was listening now—and he would make you feel seen, cherished, adored.

And what did Megumi do? He grunted. He nodded. He made tea and hoped you understood that the steam rising from the cup meant you are my whole world. He was a coward, a man made of silences and shadows, and he’d always known, somewhere deep down, that it was only a matter of time before you realized you deserved more.

This is it, he thought, and the cold certainty of it settled over him like a shroud. She’s found someone who can give her what I can’t. Someone who can listen. She’s going to leave me.

He watched you laugh again, your hand reaching out to touch Yuuta’s arm in a gesture of easy familiarity, and something inside him cracked. You used to touch him like that. You used to look at him like that, like he was the only person in the world who mattered. And he’d thrown it away. He’d thrown it away with two stupid, careless sentences, spoken in a moment of exhausted weakness.

“Can you just be quiet?”

The memory of that night crashed over him like a wave of ice. He remembered the way your face had crumpled, the way you’d frozen, silent and terrified, before retreating to the bedroom without a word. How you’d looked at him like he was a stranger wearing a familiar face. And he’d been too tired, too wrapped up in his own misery, to follow you. He’d let you go. He’d let you think, for weeks, that your voice was a burden, that your beautiful, bright, overflowing self was something to be endured rather than cherished.

And now here you were, blooming under someone else’s attention, because he had starved you of his own.

She deserves this, he thought, and the resignation was so heavy it made his knees weak. She deserves someone who doesn’t make her feel like she has to be small. Someone who doesn’t need weeks to notice she’s dying inside. Someone like Yuuta.

Yuuta said something that made you laugh again—a full, unrestrained, head-tilted-back laugh that Megumi hadn’t heard in so long he’d almost forgotten the sound of it. The joy in it was a blade, and it cut him to the bone. He wanted to be the one making you laugh like that. He wanted to be the one you leaned toward, the one you touched, the one you trusted with your wild theories and endless curiosities. But he’d forfeited that right, hadn’t he? He’d pushed you away, and you’d found someone else to fill the space he’d left.

If you love her, you’ll let her go. The thought was noble, self-sacrificing, the kind of thought the heroes in your stories would have. But Megumi wasn’t a hero. He was a jealous, terrified, broken man who couldn’t stand the idea of losing you, even if it was exactly what he deserved.

He watched Yuuta stand up from the bench, saying something that made you smile and nod. You stood too, and for one horrible, heart-stopping moment, Megumi thought you might hug him, might press yourself against Yuuta the way you used to press against him. But you didn’t. You just waved, a cheerful, grateful wave, and Yuuta walked away, leaving you alone on the path.

Megumi should have waited. He should have let you walk home, should have given himself time to compose his thoughts, to find the right words, to be calm and rational and mature about this. But he’d spent his whole life being calm and rational and mature, and look where it had gotten him. Standing in the shadows, watching the love of his life light up for someone else because he’d been too stupid, too silent, too scared to tell her how much she meant to him.

He stepped out from behind the tree.

You saw him immediately. Your head turned at the sound of his footsteps, and the smile—the beautiful, radiant smile you’d been wearing for Yuuta—froze on your face and then slowly, painfully, died. It was like watching a door slam shut, and Megumi felt the impact in his soul.

“Megumi,” you said, and your voice was flat. Neutral. Nothing like the bright, bubbling stream he’d just been eavesdropping on. “What are you doing here?”

He opened his mouth to say something reasonable—“I was worried about you,” or “Your phone was off,” or “Let’s go home and talk about this calmly”—but what came out instead was: “So that’s it, then. You’re going to leave me for him.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“Yuuta.” Megumi’s voice was shaking, and he hated it. He hated the way he couldn’t control it, the way all the fear and jealousy and self-loathing he’d been swallowing for weeks was spilling out of him like poison. “I saw you. Just now. You were so happy, talking to him. You were so… you were yourself again. And you haven’t been yourself with me in weeks. So I get it, okay? I get it. He’s better than me. He’s everything I’m not. And you deserve someone like him.”

The words hung in the air between you, ugly and raw and desperate. Megumi watched your face cycle through shock, confusion, and then—slowly, devastatingly—understanding.

“You were watching us,” you said quietly.

“I came looking for you.” He couldn’t meet your eyes anymore. He stared at the ground, at the grass, at the ants marching in a neat line across the path. “You weren’t answering your phone. I was worried. And then I saw you with him, and you were talking the way you used to talk to me, and I just… I knew. I knew you’d finally realized I’m not enough.”

“Megumi—”

“Do you know what I was thinking the whole time I watched you two?” The words kept coming. His hands were shaking at his sides. His chest was so tight he could barely breathe. “I was thinking, ‘Of course. Of course it’s Yuuta.’ Yuuta is kind and gentle and he probably never forgets to tell you how much he loves you. He probably listens to every word you say and tells you you’re brilliant and doesn’t just grunt and hope you understand. He’s affectionate and he’s sweet and he’s exactly what you need, and I’m just… I’m just me. I’m dark and quiet and broken, and I’ve always known, deep down, that someday you’d wake up and realize you could do better.”

He finally looked up at you, and the expression on your face made his heart shatter into a thousand pieces. You were crying. Silent tears were streaming down your cheeks, and you were looking at him with something that wasn’t anger or confirmation—it was heartbreak. Pure, aching heartbreak.

“Oh, Megumi,” you whispered.

He couldn’t stop. Everything he’d been holding in for years was pouring out in an uncontrollable torrent. “He’s better for you. Everyone knows it. Gojo, Nobara, probably even you. Yuuta is the kind of person who deserves someone like you—someone bright and warm and full of life. I’m just the guy who told you to shut up when you were trying to help me. I’m the guy who didn’t notice you were dying inside for three whole weeks because I was too wrapped up in my own head. I’m the guy who can’t even say ‘I love you’ without feeling like I’m going to choke on it. So go ahead.” His voice cracked, and he felt the hot sting of tears in his own eyes, tears he’d been fighting for weeks, for years, for a lifetime. “If you’re going to leave me for him, just do it. I won’t stop you. I won’t fight. I just… I need to know.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Megumi stood there, trembling, his heart laid bare in the ugliest possible way, waiting for the axe to fall. He’d said it. He’d said all of it—every fear, every insecurity, every dark thought that had ever whispered in the back of his mind. And now you knew. Now you knew exactly how fucked up he was, exactly how little he thought of himself, exactly how terrified he’d been from the very beginning that you would leave.

You took a step toward him. Then another. And then you were right in front of him, your hands reaching up to cup his face, your thumbs brushing away the tears he hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“You absolute walnut,” you said, your voice thick with tears. “I’m not leaving you for Yuuta.”

Megumi blinked. “You’re… you’re not?”

“I’m not.” You tightened your grip on his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. “I’m not in love with Yuuta. I don’t want Yuuta. I want you, you emotionally constipated disaster of a man. I have always wanted you.”

“But you were so happy with him,” Megumi whispered, and the words came out small and broken. “You were laughing. You were talking. You were… you were yourself. And you haven’t been yourself with me in weeks. I thought… I thought you’d finally found someone who could make you happy.”

Your face crumpled. “I haven’t been myself with you because you told me to be quiet,” you said, and the words were gentle but they hit him even harder. “You told me to be quiet, and I thought… I thought you’d been holding that in our whole relationship. I thought every story I’d ever told you, every random fact, every ramble about clouds or sea slugs or whatever—I thought you’d just been enduring it. I thought my voice was a burden to you, the person I loved most in the world. So I tried to be less. I tried to be what I thought you wanted. And it was killing me, Megumi. It was killing me because I have all these things I want to tell you, all these thoughts and ideas and questions, and I couldn’t, because I was so terrified you’d look at me the way you did that night. Like I was exhausting. Like I was too much.”

Megumi felt the ground tilt beneath him. Everything you were saying—it was so much worse than he’d imagined. He’d thought you were pulling away because you’d outgrown him. He’d thought you were preparing to leave because you’d found someone better. But the truth was so much more devastating: you’d been trying to stay. You’d been contorting yourself into someone smaller, someone quieter, someone you thought he wanted, and it had been destroying you. And he’d been so blind, so self-absorbed, that he hadn’t even noticed.

“I talked to Yuuta today because I was desperate,” you continued, your voice breaking. “I’ve been drowning in silence for weeks, and he was there, and he listened. That’s it. That’s all it was. He was a life raft in the middle of an ocean I’ve been trying not to drown in. He’s not you. He’ll never be you. I don’t want a life raft. I want my person back. I want the man who makes me tea without being asked and lets me put face masks on him and sits through documentaries about nudibranchs even though he’s probably bored out of his mind. I want you, Megumi. Just you. But I need you to talk to me. Actually talk to me. With words. Out loud. So I don’t have to guess what’s going on in that beautiful, overthinking brain of yours.”

Megumi stared at you, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. “You want… me? Still? Even after everything?”

“Even after everything.” You smiled, a watery, trembling smile that was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “I’m still mad at you, by the way. Very mad. ‘Can you just be quiet?’ What kind of thing is that to say to the love of your life?”

“I’m sorry.” The words came out in a rush, desperate and sincere. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was exhausted and I was taking it out on you, and that’s not an excuse, it’s just… it’s the truth. I was drowning in my own head, and you were trying to help, and I pushed you away because I’m an idiot who doesn’t know how to accept love. I should have apologized the next morning. I should have apologized every single day for the past three weeks. I should have noticed. I should have seen that you were hurting and asked you what was wrong instead of just… assuming.”

You shook your head, still holding his face in your hands. “Don’t blame yourself. I know you love me, Megumi. But sometimes I need the words too. Sometimes I need you to tell me, out loud, that I’m not too much. That my voice isn’t a burden. That you like listening to me.”

“You’re not too much.” The words came out fierce, almost angry in their intensity. “You’ve never been too much. You’re exactly enough. You’re more than enough. Your voice is—it’s the best part of my day. Every day. When you talk to me about clouds or jellyfish or the socioeconomic implications of Roman plumbing, it’s like you’re chasing all the shadows out of my head. I’m not bored. I’m never bored. I’m just… quiet. I’ve always been quiet. But that doesn’t mean I’m not listening. That doesn’t mean I don’t love every single word.”

You were crying again, but you were smiling too, and Megumi realized with a jolt that these were good tears. Relief tears. The tears of someone who had been holding their breath for weeks and was finally, finally allowed to exhale.

“I’m sorry I compared myself to Yuuta,” he said quietly. “I just… I saw you with him, and you looked so happy, and I thought… I thought maybe he could give you something I can’t.”

“He’s not you,” you said simply. “And I don’t want someone who isn’t you. Yuuta is sweet. He’s kind. He’ll probably make some other rambling disaster of a person very happy someday. But he’s not my person. You are. You’ve always been my person.” You paused, and a mischievous glint flickered in your tear-bright eyes. “Now, I have approximately four hundred more facts to tell you, and I’ve been holding them in for three weeks, and I’m pretty sure my brain is going to explode.”

Megumi let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, and he didn’t kiss you—not yet. Instead, he pulled you into his arms and held you as tight as he could without breaking you, burying his face in your hair and breathing you in like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning for weeks.

“Tell me,” he whispered against your temple. “Tell me everything. I’m listening. I swear I’m listening.”

“Did you know that wombats have cube-shaped poop?”

He laughed, a real laugh, startled out of him by the sheer absurdity of it. “…What?”

“It’s true! It’s so they can stack it to mark their territory without it rolling away. Nature is amazing and also deeply weird, and I have so many more where that came from. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” he said, and he meant it. He was ready to listen. He was ready to learn. He was ready to spend the rest of his life proving to you that your voice was the most precious thing in his world, that your words were never a burden, that he would never, ever make you feel small again.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, to take in the way the setting sun caught the tears still drying on your cheeks and turned them to gold. “I love you,” he said, and the words didn’t choke him the way they usually did. They felt right. They felt necessary. “I should have said it more. I love you and I love your voice and I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to be quiet.”

Your smile, when it came, was the sun breaking through the clouds after a storm. “I love you too, you walnut.”

And then you kissed him, and he kissed you back, and the silence between you wasn’t a weapon anymore. It was a soft thing. A comfortable thing. A thing you could share together, without fear.

Later, you would walk home together, your hand in his, and you would tell him everything—the immortal jellyfish, the medieval grain storage, the flying whales, the specific shade of gray the sky turned before a storm. He would listen to every word, and he would ask questions, and he would make the right hums in the right places, and he would silently vow to spend the rest of his life being the kind of partner who deserved the gift of your voice.

But for now, there was just this: the two of you standing in the golden afternoon light, holding each other like you’d found your way home after a long and lonely journey. The sky overhead was doing that thing you loved—turning that specific shade of gray before a storm—and you’d tell him about it later. You had time. You had all the time in the world.

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐖𝐒 ◞ TOJI › AVAILABLE NOW !

toji zenin is at the end of his rope. drowning in student loans, child support and working himself to death while in college. when he falls for you, the pretty rich girl who frequents his shifts at the local supermarket, can his frat brothers help him hide his true identity? or will you find out and love him regardless? wc: 9.4k

ⵌ 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐒 › © HEARTKAJI !

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 ◞ GETO › AVAILABLE NOW !

when geto gets partnered up for a ‘fake family’ project with the girl of his dreams, it gives him the perfect opportunity to touch you like he owns you. but what happens when you keep laughing off his every attempt ? can his frat brothers help him go from ‘bestie’ to ‘boyfriend’? wc: 8.Ok

ⵌ 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐒 › © HEARTKAJI !

RYOMEN SUKUNA ◞ to be added !

NANAMI KENTO ◞ to be added !

TAGLIST !

@kkkieraaa @cttelina @xhiraxh @chosolvrr @bisouari @vonnlou @norahlolzz @cutiepie208 @kebablover @renshukaku @poopyshrek @lorikuma @sweetsformysoul @nonamedreams @luvs-angel @moonmintedx @aaylameow @soltoshi @stillsearching1name @throatgoatgojo @sugarxrottentiger @sunnyfieldsz @eaterx @unadulteratedtranquility @amourflores @cl0udyst4rs

to be updated + taglist is open ! comment to join !

suckmyclituchiha

dude, no. NTA as long as you keep it in your pants.

notthatkentakakura

Mmm a little? I feel like you shouldn’t have a crush on your best friends girlfriend…

gogogokudolls

NTA. I fear we’ve all been there, my guy

6ixeyes

How gay are you for your bro????

Eijirō’s moving out. That’s the only logical course of events.

“Katsuki—! Oh my God—”

Eijirō groans, sinking a head into his hands. He threads fingers through his bright red hair and tugs. He’s going insane—he’s going to be in a straight jacket in two years if he doesn’t leave right now, this isn’t even fair, this is—

“Oh fuck, right there, right there, right there—”

What is the fucking point of walls. What is the fucking point, when it sounds like you’re right here.

Maybe, you guys don’t realize he’s home. Which is fair—by the time he got back, you two were already hidden away in Katsuki’s room. He should send a text, or knock on the door to be like hey, shut up please, or at least, put headphones in. But, no—instead, he chooses to torture himself, listening to you whine on his best friend’s cock.

“Yeah, Baby? You like that?”

The headboard slams hard enough to rattle the wall, and Eijirō debates on crying. He wants to see. He wants to see so bad that it hurts.

He suffers that night, just like he does all the others. Reddit doesn’t help, and neither does the throbbing between his thighs.

Eijirō likes to make breakfast. It’s the only meal he can make, really, other than chicken and rice. And broccoli—he can make broccoli. But, since you moved in, he likes making breakfast for a different reason.

“G’mornin’, Eiji.”

You come in yawning, bleary eyed and bra-less, just the way he likes. He doesn’t let his eyes drift the expanse of your thighs for too long—just enough to remember until tomorrow morning. Until he sees you in those shorts, again.

“Hey! How’d you sleep?”

Because, he slept horribly. He fell asleep halfway through the sex marathon, and doesn’t know if he had a wet dream, or heard you past the fuzz of slumber. Either way, he fell asleep at two and woke up at six, wholly unrested.

“Mm…good…” You stumble over to the fancy coffee machine he bought for Katsuki’s birthday last year. You maneuver around the kitchen with half a mind, and Eijirō tries to avoid burning breakfast. God forbid Katsuki wakes up to the smoke alarm in a panic, worried the world is on fire. You open the fridge to get water, nearly hitting yourself upside the head with the door, and Eijirō snorts, catching your forehead from his spot by the island.

You sniff, blearily blinking up with a nod as a thank you. “What’cha making?”

“Pancakes,” he grins, gesturing to the freshly poured griddle. “Try not to concuss yourself before then?”

“No promises,” you mumble past a sleepy smile, and its cute enough to make his heart hurt. He returns it, hoping it comes across less endearing than he feels. You shuffle closer to watch pancake batter bubble under the heat. “Ugh, pancakes are gonna hit. Thank you.”

You let out a moan, one that sounds a little too similar to what he heard through the walls last night. He focuses on flipping the pancakes with an unsteady hand, refusing to feel the edges of your molecules when you get too close.

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” he preaches with a laugh, and you nod vehemently in agreement. The coffee machine starts to whirr.

“Yeah, ‘n if not for you, I’d be having straight coffee for breakfast.”

“That’s…horrible,” he realizes aloud, and you snort in response, collapsing your face into his arm. His arm, which is, now, nearly pinned between your breasts—and Eijirō wants to cry for the twentieth time this week. “You should definitely not do that.”

“But, I don’t even like breakfast,” you whine, jutting out a bottom lip. Eijirō takes a very deep breath, before flipping the last pancake. He fucks it up, and the battered side folds in half.

Then, he remembers what you just said, and frowns. “You eat it, though—I’ve seen you.”

“I eat your breakfast,” you argue sleepily, and the coffee machine beeps for attention. You leave to grab the full cup, leaving his right side much colder than you found it. “You cook good breakfast.”

Eijirō isn’t fully sure what you mean by that, but beams nonetheless. “Thank y—”

Katsuki stretches in the kitchen doorway. Languid like a cat, with arms above his head, and groaning loud enough to startle. He’s shirtless, and Eijirō does not see the purpling hickey on his neck. Does not.

Katsuki waltzes over to you and drapes himself across your shoulders, eyes swollen and voice rugged from sleep. He steals a kiss from your cheek before asking, “Coffee.”

You hum, lifting the mug closer to his collapsed self. “Want some?”

Katsuki scrunches a nose and shakes his head, only for his face to end up in your neck. “Not from you.”

That earns him a gasp and a flick in the forehead, both of which Katsuki takes in stride. He snickers into your skin, biting behind your ear until you yelp, with a hand tight around your hip to ensure you don’t squirm to far.

And, it’s sickening.

It’s sickening, because these are the moments when Eijirō doesn’t quite know who he wishes to be—you, or his best friend. Katsuki mutes a smile in your skin, and Eijirō wants to feel it, but he also wants his hand on your hip, and he wants, he wants—

“Oi, Shitty Hair—the pancakes are on fire.”

Eijirō looks down at charred circles he once called pancakes. He wants to cry.

With a snort, Katsuki moves past you to grab a plate. Then, he’s nudging Eijirō in the shoulder, and the redhead starts plating the useless ones with a pout.

“I can’t believe I messed up the first batch,” he whines, because now they’ll have half the amount they normally would for leftovers. And, he was sort of hoping to not cook breakfast tomorrow. (Though, he’s not as sad about it as he’d like to be—which makes him even more annoyed with himself, in turn.)

Katsuki just rolls his eyes, setting the burnt plate aside, probably to let it cool before throwing it away. “What the fuck was so fascinating outside?”

Eijirō’s eyes flicker to the window he was allegedly looking out of—he doesn’t really remember, to be honest—and irritation floods his being tenfold as he huffs, “Dude, literally nothing. Literally zoned out.”

Which is a half-lie—he did zone out—and luckily, Katsuki’s back is turned to grab the bowl of batter, so he doesn’t have to look him in the eyes. Eijirō can lie, as long as he isn’t looking Katsuki in the eyes.

But, Katsuki turns around with a knowing smirk, like he does know it’s a lie. That makes Eijirō doubt his lying capabilities.

“Uh-huh,” he hums, and starts pouring pancakes in perfect circles while barely looking. Which, Eijirō thinks is wholly unfair—he has to really lock in, and even then, they come out vaguely dinosaur shaped. Don’t ask him why. He doesn’t know.

“Ooh! I want a heart pancake!”

Katsuki eyes finally leave Eijirō—thank God, he can breathe now—to narrow at you. “…Baby. I just poured the last one.”

But, Katsuki knows you’re not going to let up, as does Eijirō. You have that look in your eyes when you want something, and want it now.

Before you can even open your mouth, Katsuki’s warning, “Wait for the next batch.”

You whine and melt, propping your chin onto the island counter with the biggest pout known to man. The most effective pout, because Eijirō would fold for it time and time again, if he had the chance.

“But, I want it now,” you whimper, and while Katsuki sighs out of his nose, Eijirō has an idea.

He walks over to a small cupboard, the one with the straws and syrup cups, and dips a hand between both for a container of toothpicks. Thanks to Katsuki, they always have some on deck—because, every time they go out to eat, Katsuki is convinced he has something in his teeth, and simultaneously convinced that everyone is lying to him, including his phone camera. So, Eijirō sacrifices one of Katsuki’s holy toothpicks to bend a bubbling pancake into a heart. It only kind of works.

“Fuckin—no, Shitty Hair, y’gotta start from the middle an’ go down—”

“No! Start with the edges first! If he takes too long, my heart is gonna have a round bottom!”

“…Y’know who else has a round bottom—”

“Finish that statement and you’re fired, Katsuki. This is serious business.”

Eijirō Kirishima cannot function under this conditions.

“Guys,” he chokes, looking down at what is now a squiggly mess of pancake. It looks nothing like a heart, but definitely an accurate depiction of how Eijirō’s heart feels—squishy and out of shape and useless. Like an amoeba. Or a blobfish.

Yeah. His heart feels like a blobfish.

“I give up.”

He releases the cake-covered toothpick, and it sticks to the counter in a quietly depressing splat. Katsuki huffs, shoving him out of the way to snatch the toothpick and try himself. And, try he does.

But, the issue is that the pancakes are cooking quick—the others have already been flipped and now, they’re almost ready. Meanwhile, the flailing heart shaped pancake is burnt around the edges and gooey in the middle, but they’re still committed.

Eventually, the three of you look at the burnt ball of dough with a sigh.

“We tried. On that front, we get an A, right?”

“If you look at it from the side and squint your eyes…it, like…kind of looks like an actual heart, so I say yeah.”

“…It looks like shit.”

You all prepare to eat the successful pancakes in a dejected silence. You end up cutting a heart out of your pancake instead. Eijirō eats the corners.

6ixeyes

How gay are you for your bro????

redredriot

um. probably gayer than i should b.

6ixeyes

Wait, srsly

Beach is bad. Beach is horrible—Eijirō will never beach again.

‘Guys, I wanna go to the beach,’ you said. ‘It’s so hot today, it’ll be fun,’ you said. ‘Eijirō’s going to be so miserable, and have to fight a hard-on the entire time,’ you didn’t say. He should’ve seen it coming.

Because, if he can barely handle you in pajamas, how the hell is he supposed to be chill while you practically prance around the sand in a bra and panties. He’s going to cry.

And, Katsuki—Katsuki isn’t helping one bit.

“God, fuckin’ look at her,” he groans, adjusting the sunglasses on his nose. You’re in the water alone, because Katsuki refuses to (’I’m not gettin’ fuckin’ wet just to have fuck-ass sand stick to me—no.’) and honestly, Eijirō would join you if he wasn’t suffering. “Ain’t she a pretty li’l thing.”

And like, what is Eijirō supposed to say to that? What is the socially correct thing to say when your bro is frothing over his girl. Do you agree, and possibly look like you want to fuck her, or do you not agree, and by proxy, call his girlfriend ugly?

Eijirō decides not responding is the safest option. He focuses on the self-help book in his lap, but he’s can’t read right now. The words rearrange into something accusatory, and it’s undeniable:

YOU ARE THE ASSHOLE.

Fuck.

“Don’t know how I bagged that,” Katsuki mutters to himself, before reclining underneath the umbrella. Because he burns too easy, and the sun makes him sleepy, and—why does Eijirō know this? He doesn’t need to know this.

“Awh, c’mon dude,” he shoves Katsuki in the shoulder from his seated spot in the sun. His words come out stilted and awkward, because how do you let your bro know he’s a catch without letting him know you’d probably be down to suck his dick. “You’re, like…hot. You guys are the same level of hotness.”

Katsuki snorts, and rolls his head until it’s facing Eijirō. He cracks an eye open. “D’you think I’m hot?”

Eijirō chokes on air. What kind of question is that.

“I mean,” he blows a raspberry and shrugs, and suddenly, can’t look at his roommate. He watches the horizon until you shift into frame, and then, he switches to the sky. “Yeah, of course, Dude. You’re, like, an objectively hot guy.”

“Objectively,” Katsuki repeats, and Eijirō’s eyes dart to the side just in time to see that quiet smirk from earlier return, from breakfast when Eijirō lied before, and he’s starting to worry Katsuki might be onto him. Which is not good. Not good at all.

“Yep, mhm.” His eyes squint into the sun, in hopes it’ll burn his retinas and give him some form of brain-fried amnesia. That would be great. When it doesn’t work, Eijirō finds himself rummaging through the snack bag instead, hoping that stuffing his mouth shut might keep him from saying anything stupid.

“Oi,” Katsuki perks up. “I want fuckin’ grapes.”

Eijirō laughs, nearly collapsing his face into the snack bag when the arm he rests weight on starts to wobble. “Lucky for you, we brought ‘fuckin’ grapes.’”

“I know, that’s why I said it, Dumbass,” Katsuki faux-bristles. “Feed ‘em to me.”

Eijirō swallows.

“Uh, no Dude, feed them to yourself,” he snorts (and very proud of how he played it off, thank you) and grabs a protein bar out of the bag, along with a Ziploc bag of grapes with a melting ice pack in it. He drops them at Katsuki’s side, but Katsuki knocks them over like a petulant cat.

“My hands are sandy,” he says like it’s obvious, and lifts them up. Respectfully, they are not sandy—but ‘sandy’ to Katsuki means that his hands can feel the ‘sand dust,’ or whatever he said, and Katsuki is stubborn. Eijirō knows he won’t have his grapes untainted.

“Then get Y/N to do it,” he grunts, teeth preoccupied with tearing the label away from his protein bar. “She’ll be out soon, I think.”

“No,” Katsuki groans, loud and useless, and grabs the bag of grapes at his side to chuck them at Eijirō’s head. And, chuck them he does—it gets Eijirō in the side of his face, and the flaxen blond snorts at the sound. “Her hands‘re gonna be all sandy and salty. You do it.”

Eijirō scratches his scalp and sighs.

Eijirō Kirishima, at twenty-six years old, is being forced to feed his Bro grapes on the beach like Katsuki is Cleopatra, while you frolic in the water, half-naked and mouth-watering. What series of events led him here, exactly?

“Then just, like…eat it out the bag, or something.”

Katsuki’s eyes narrow beneath his aviators. “If you don’t, I’m telling Y/N that you think she’s hot.”

Eijirō stiffens.

“Fine. Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine—fine,” Eijirō huffs, and feels his face go hot as he scoots closer. Katsuki gives him a self-satisfied smirk, like he enjoys watching his best friend fumble like an oaf. Over him—over you.

This is so not fair.

Katsuki crosses arms behind his head while Eijirō pops the Ziploc open. Eijirō’s not exactly sure how to go about this, but once he picks a firm grape with no strange squishy spots (Katsuki will have a fit), Katsuki’s lips part, and Eijirō just…drops the grape right in there. Katsuki’s jaw pops as he chews with a nod, like the redhead did good in finding a grape he deems decent enough. It makes him feel all warm and gooey, like a chocolate cookie fresh out the oven, and because Eijirō can blame that feeling on the sun, he lets himself bask in it a bit.

It gets quiet, save for the crashing of waves, music from teenagers seated not too far from them, and the occasional pop of a grape. It’s kind of nice—he finds a rhythm, and space in between Katsuki’s chomps and grabbing grapes to nibble on his protein bar, which is gone quick. He must be hungrier than he thought…We should get actual food soon.

Eijirō zones out, thinking about possible food options and how, honestly, he could go for any of them. Then, he feels something round in his hands, and turns to Katsuki, who’s staring at him with a scrutiny that makes Eijirō think he’s got something on his face. He purses his lips, trying to figure out what Katsuki wants for based off expressions—and finds nothing. He finds nothing that he wants to see, and everything he doesn’t—from the sweat forming in Katsuki’s cupids bow, to freckle in his hairline that darkens with the sun, to the curve of his brows and color in his cheeks.

“…What?”

Katsuki blinks himself out of whatever that was, and the lax expression on his face turns into a scowl as he points.

“Grape.”

redredriot

why does that even matter tho

6ixeyes

Ngl, bc I’m going thru somn similar and tryna figure it out LMAO

redredriot

oh damn my condolences bro

For the third time today, Eijirō would like to know how the fuck he got into this predicament.

You come out the water like a…a fucking beach goddess, water clinging to your form like a sheer dress with sand as an jewelry. The sun seems to agree, as it douses you in something ethereal, something just for you.

Eijirō wants to tear his hair out. He’s already suffering because of one set of sweaty tits, he doesn’t need another—

“What are you guys doing?” You snort after getting enough to see Eijirō hover another grape over your boyfriend’s mouth. The redhead pouts.

“I’m being forced into servitude!”

“I see that,” you laugh, and instead of sitting next to Katsuki, you sit next to Eijirō. He tells himself it’s because you need to dry off, and he’s sat in the sun—not that Katsuki minds, seemingly content on consuming grapes from Eijirō’s hand for the foreseeable future. You squish your wet side into Eijirō’s to get a look in the snack bag, and he shivers for all the wrong reasons.

“Ah! You’re cold!”

Plays it off well, though.

“Sorry,” you giggle, but don’t move until you pull out a fruit roll-up, snatching a grape on the way back. “Damn Kat, you ate all the grapes—fat ass bitch.”

Eijirō didn’t even notice, and looks into his lap—where you just had your hand, mind you—to a severely empty bag, now mainly left with undesirables.

“Oh, right, it’s fat ass bitch now, but later it’s ‘oh my god, Kat, your muscles—oh my god, Kat, you’re so big—oh my god—”

Eijirō is going to die.

Katsuki mocks your voice with an unsteady and nasally falsetto, causing you to reach behind Eijirō, balancing a hand on his shoulder while you try to wack your boyfriend in the head. You miss due to range, and because Katsuki sways his head right with a cackle.

“That is not how I sound,” you hiss, resigning yourself to the other side of Eijirō, even though you could easily walk over to give Katsuki a piece of your mind. He shrugs, eyes flitting to Eijirō, and, uh oh, why is he—

“Oh, that’s totally how you sound,” but he’s looking at Eijirō, like he could confirm, and he doesn’t think the blond talking about how you sound outside the bedroom. Fuck. “Right?”

He’s not asking you—he’s asking Eijirō.

And Eijirō, poor Eijirō, quickly looks out to sea like it’ll put a partition between him and this conversation. Maybe, he should try to burn his retinas again. Maybe, he didn’t try hard enough.

He plays dumb.

“Don’t include me in your couple’s quarrel, Dude!” He says, but its more to the sky. “I’m not even here. I’m a ghost. I’m invisible.”

“Well. In that case,” Katsuki grunts. You squeal as your arm gets yanked in Eijirō’s peripheral, falling behind him and into the sand with a thump. “C’mere.”

“Kat—mmph!”

Who knew kissing could be so loud?

If Eijirō lets out a tear, it’s because his fucking dick hurts.

AITA FOR HAVING WANTING TO FUCK MY BEST FRIENDS’ GIRLFRIEND?

u/redredriot

edit: kay my bro is kinda hot but that just makes things SO MUCH WORSE WHAT DO I DO???????

bigdaddytamaki

petition to be a third!

sasakilovesmiyano

Plot-MF-Twist, I’m so invested.

kusuo_saiki

Get a therapist.

redredriot

THATS WHAT YALL ARE FOR

komicommunicatesverywell

Or get a girlfriend!

That night, Eijirō commits a sin.

It’s not his fault—he’s pent up, because you guys are pent up. He had to drive that fucking car, dammit, and had to ignore the fact that he enjoyed watching you and Katsuki makeout in the rearview mirror more than he should.

And, it’s not his fault again, because you and Katsuki decide to fuck in the living room—the living room that his door faces. It’s like you’re trying to kill him, at this point.

So. Maybe, he leaves his door cracked. It’s not like it matters—moonlight spills through the window above his bed, and barely illuminates te edges. While you engage in foreplay, Eijirō gets ready for bed (skips brushing his teeth, because he’s impatient, and so, so horny) and by the time he’s sliding under the covers, you’re sat comfortably between Katsuki’s legs with a full mouth.

“Fuck yeah, Baby—just like that.”

Tucked under his duvet, Eijirō shucks his boxers down to his hips and grabs himself. His eyes flutter at the feeling, underwear and cock soaked enough that anyone lacking context would assume he already came. Meaning, the slide is easy, and he peeks through the doorway and into the lovingly lit living room.

Eijirō shouldn’t be doing this. He also shouldn’t be obsessed with the way his best friend’s cock fits in your mouth. Not all the way, but enough to make you tear and choke and gag. All Eijirō can really see is the back of your head and Katsuki’s blissed out face, both of which he thinks is wildly unfair.

Katsuki shivers, and it’s a full body affair. Eijirō’s hand wraps tight around the base of his dick because, jeez. Give a guy a warning before you do something really hot next time?

Katsuki lets out something akin to a whimper, which was not a sound he thought his bro could make. But now, he wants to hear it again and again, and possibly occasionally be the reason, every once in a while.

You’re not any better—you’re humming around his cock like you’re the one getting a blowjob, and it’s messy, Eijirō can fucking hear it, and it’s driving him insane. Katsuki grabs ahold of your hair and tugs, causing you to mewl, fall further down his cock, then choke. Katsuki groans and Eijirō stifles his own, praying to every God out there that he remains sane after tonight.

It’s a losing battle.

“Yeah? Y’like imagining that this is his cock, huh?” Katsuki takes control, moving your head at his will, and Eijirō’s arm flexes to match the pace. You whine, and Katsuki chuckles. “Dirty fuckin’ girl.”

You huff, irritated, and pinching Katsuki in his inner thigh, which earns you a jolt and a groan. Wow, Eijirō’s learning so many new things today. Like how you get cock drunk easy, and that Katsuki’s a pain slut. And Eijirō, who will never have any use for this information, stores it anyways.

Katsuki tips his head back and moans at something, and for a moment, Eijirō worries he’s been seen. Only for a moment—the ice in his blood is gone as quick as it came as Katsuki’s eyes flit back to you, and melts straight into his dick. No, despite what his dick says, he does not want to be caught—because that would be very, very bad.

As time goes on, he seems to care less about getting caught, too preoccupied with getting his fix. Which, makes him sound like an addict, but it’s not his fault, you guys are fucking right outside his door.

Eijirō nearly cums when Katsuki pulls you off his dick. Debates on it, for a good while.

Your mouth is swollen, with teary eyes to match the gloss of spit and pre-cum on your lips. Eijirō knows, because Katsuki pulls you up and sits you right on his dick, with your back pressed flush to his chest. And, like, Eijirō’s imagined this moment—the moment where he finally sees you naked—but figured it’d be some panicked walk in, a time when he wouldn’t be able to take in all of you and regret it, and most definitely not this.

Your bathing suit is still on, but barely. It’s misshapen and askew and doesn’t cover what it’s supposed to, covers the exact opposite of what it’s supposed to, actually. Eijirō bites back a groan.

“F-Fuck, Kat—’s too big,” you huff, wiping at the corners of your lips like you might be drooling. Are you drooling? Or is it leftover from the fucking amazing head he just watched you give his best friend?

Katsuki coos, clutching you tight to his body like you might scramble. His other hand holds your thigh open, enough that Eijirō can see your entrance stretch around Katsuki’s cock, and he wants to scream.

“You can take it,” he insists, low and heavy, but still loud enough for Eijirō to hear. You whimper and collapse into his chest, and the hand that holds you upright drifts, tweaking and pinching where it deems fit. “Y’wanna put on a show, don’t you?”

That’s the first time Eijirō catches it. A show for who?

You nod, but push at the couch cushions like you regret letting Katsuki in to begin with. Is this how you look every night? If so, Eijirō’s going to need you two to start fucking on the couch more often, ASAP.

“K-Kat, I can’t—”

Katsuki’s free hand finds your clit then, and whatever you were going to say is left to the wind, molded into something choked and garbled and completely unintelligible.

“What’s got you all worked up?” He snorts, like he’s any better, like he isn’t flushed to his chest and fluttering his eyes every time you shift just right. Eijirō squeezes the base of his dick.

You clumsily shove your boyfriend in the side of the head, who’s thrusts never falter. “Fuck you, you know why—Oh my god, Kat, slow the fuck down—”

“No,” he huffs with petulance, before, if anything, speeding up. “You’re greedy—you can take it.”

“It’s—” your leg kicks, seemingly involuntary, and Katsuki laughs at it. “That’s different.”

God, you whine is the same during sex and in the kitchen. How the fuck is he supposed to hear that the same again.

“How,” Katsuki chuckles, and pinches your clit. You squirm and tuck your head in his neck. “How the fuck are you supposed to take both of us when you can barely take me, huh? It’d be worse with Eijirō’s fat ass on top of you—shit—”

Now.

Eijirō has three thoughts, all of which he thinks at the exact same time:

hey! he’s not fat! he’s well-muscled with the right amount of squish!

damn kat…you think his ass is fat, though?

wait. why are we saying his name, why are we saying his name, why are saying his name—

The third thought is the loudest and lasts much longer than the rest, lasts perpetually, actually, and Eijirō almost cums at hearing Katsuki say his name. His actual name—not Shitty Hair, not Fuck-Face or Dumbass, but Eijirō—and while having sex, no less! With his girlfriend! What the fuck is this?!

You moan even louder, like you like that idea, like that’s something you could be into, and Eijirō doesn’t know what to make of that. Katsuki doesn’t seem to care, and Eijirō doesn’t know what to make of that, either. All he knows is that he’s cumming regardless, despite his best efforts, biting tight into the fat of his hand with a strained groan that he really, really hopes no one heard.

He’s so confused.

He still watches, though—watches you cum on Katsuki’s cock twice before he’s stuffing you full with a groan of his own, eyes trained on the gap between Eijirō’s door. Like he knows Eijirō is still watching, even if you two have been fucking for over an hour.

Eijirō waits until you both peel away from the couch and pad into the bathroom before moving a muscle. He finally gets up to close the door, and scrapes at the dried cum on his stomach with an old t-shirt until his skin turns red, and frowns as he watches it flake. What the fuck. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck—

He needs to update Reddit. He needs to know what to do.

AITA FOR HAVING WANTING TO FUCK MY BEST FRIENDS’ GIRLFRIEND?

u/redredriot

edit: THEY MIGHT WANNA FUCK ME TOO???????

© mamashima/pumaya. do not edit, translate or copy my work without my permission. do not use for ai. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI.

professor higuruma isn’t paid enough for this.

that’s what he concludes as he fails the nth essay of the night. it’s 9:15 pm & he’s in the discomfort of his home, back bent over his desk & blue light glasses perched low on the hook of his nose.

one more paper to grade before he goes to bed tonight. that’s what he tells himself, at least.

and behold, the paper is yours! law professor higuruma hiromi knows he should save himself the trouble & give you a big fat F. girls like you are only good at picking slutty skirts & bending over just far enough that he can get the perfect view of your ass mid-lecture. not writing reports or drafting thesis statements.

but law demands fairness, so higuruma opens the document anyways.

LAWP-302 — THE BURDEN OF PROOF : PROXIMATE CAUSE IN PERSONAL INJURY CASES.

beyond the title, the document is completely empty.

hiromi higuruma counts himself lucky. empty doc means earlier bedtime. so before closing his laptop & putting his things away, he reopens your assignment thread to send a new email:

———-

Subject: RE: RE: LAWP-302 RESEARCH PAPER

From: [L/N], [Y/N]

To: Higuruma, Hiromi

helloooo professor here’s my research paper!!! finally on time for once :p if u don’t mind could u call me a good girl for my efforts??

xoxo,

[Y/N] 💘💓

————-

hiromi winces. he’d already had the misfortune of reading your email before, but accidentally skimming it a second time makes his stomach curl with disgust. he purses his lip, nose scrunched, glasses slipping down his cheek as he steadies the keyboard.

———-

Subject: RE: LAWP-302 RESEARCH PAPER

From: Higuruma, Hiromi

To: [L/N], [Y/N]

Y/N,

Your submitted assignment was completely empty. Lucky for you, there is still a day to the deadline. Complete the paper and resubmit as soon as possible.

Also, you are a student of a prestigious law school. It is expected your assignments are completed in due time, and I will not “praise” you for your “efforts.” They are expected, and asking me to call you a ‘good girl’ is extremely inappropriate. Not that you seem to care about what’s inappropriate and what’s not.

I’ve also told you to stop emailing me with such casual language. Signing your name with heart emojis is extremely informal and inappropriate. I can only issue so many warnings. May God’s plan for your life be bigger than your breasts, else I can assure that you will never make it.

Higuruma Hiromi

———-

hiromi sighs, body limp & bone heavy. perhaps the late-night frustration has gotten to him—he knows he should delete the last part, but his thumb slips (or not?) & he sends it anyways.

he’s about to close his laptop when an email notification pings. he makes the mistake of refreshing his page, & unfortunately the email comes from you.

———-

Subject: RE: RE: LAWP-302 RESEARCH PAPER

From: [L/N], [Y/N]

To: Higuruma, Hiromi

Professor 😟,

whatttt are u doing awake at this time. not that i’m complaining!! if you’re emailing me this late because you’ve FINALLY decided you’re interested in me & my big breasts (i’m so glad you noticed their size! the fenugreek must be working 😇), you can message me at 42-42-564 <3333

alsoooo my bad i think i sent the wrong draft </3. the actual paper is attached below!!

night night prof 🌙💤

[Y/N] 😇☺️ (no heart emojis this time bcoz im a good girl :)

——-

law professor higuruma hiromi doesn’t get paid enough for this.

that’s what he tells himself for the third time today. he chooses not to respond to your email, instead opening up the file to get things over with. it’s nearly midnight now & the chill of his office is unforgiving, but with red nose & freezing fingertips hiromi opens up the doc regardless.

⋆˚࿔ 𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 ℎ𝑜𝑡 𝑙𝑎𝑤 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑓𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑟'𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑠𝑒.ᐟ mdni. 18+

what ?

at this point, higuruma hiromi should shut his laptop & retreat to bed. this is clearly not your research paper, & whatever you write in your free time is none of his business.

but his name in the first paragraph catches his eye.

“hahh—hiromi,” you whine, a mess of shaky thighs & flushed cheeks. “can’t do it—need your help, please”

higuruma only grips your hips harder, big hands bruising at your thighs. he wastes no time lapping at the juices that spill from your achey cunt, giving your pussy a wet lick before his head tilts back so his nose digs right into your puffy clit. above him you’re half dressed & fucked dumb, mouth hung open & boobs spilling from your bra cup. you’re writhing on his nose, but hiromi doesn’t fucking care.

“you asked for this, no?” his voice is hungry, guttural. “ride, baby.”

what the fuck?

now, professor higuruma should definitely stop reading. he can already feel heat crawling up his throat & itching at his ears. he should step back. mark the document as "Inappropriate Content" & forward it to the disciplinary board. say a prayer & repent, if you will.

instead, his eyes snag the last sentence of the page.

hiromi pulls back, breathless & sticky with your slick, to look at the mess he’s made of his favorite student.

”good girl,’ he murmurs, “look how much you’ve leaked for your professor.”

he slams his laptop shut.

and his heart hammers with a rhythm that has nothing to do with justice. he knows monday will come, & so will your slutty skirts, half buttoned tops, shaky thighs—

he’ll have to see you in his office again. & he knows—with a sorry sense of dread—that it won’t be to fail you.

3. HRSS 3O1 : GET ‘EM BANNED !

monday comes & so does your slutty skirt.

it’s 5PM midsummer & the office air is sticky with heat. a fan hangs heavy in the center, creaky & aching, just loud enough to mask how hard hiromi’s shoe taps against the wooden floor.

in front of him you’re bright smile & pink nose & lace bra peeking from your button-up. hiromi doesn’t let his eyes dip. he doesn’t know how you’re beaming—perhaps it wasn’t clear he’d called you into his office for literal sexual harassment.

“professor,” you coo. “is this about my email on friday? you’re taking up that offer about my breasts?”

two desks to the left, history professor nanami kento clears his throat. on the opposite side is professor giyu tomioka who isn’t paid enough for this & just fucking leaves.

higuruma clears his throat, skin itchy. “i have no idea what you’re talking about, y/n. mind your mouth while in my presence.”

“did you read the smut fic i wrote about you?”

nanami exits the office.

hiromi drags his palm over his face; tired, weary, utterly embarrassed. in all his years of teaching never had he encountered a student as shameless & perverted as you, & even now he’s pretty sure you’re turned on by his exasperation as well because your skirt crinkles from your thighs squeezing beneath his desk. god.

& perhaps hiromi is equally perverted; because some sick, twisted part of him, the part that likes watching you bend over for him to see your panties dig into your pussy, or the part that likes stroking his dick to the memory of you palming your pebbled nipples that one day of class—doesn’t hate it. & he really should. & he really ought to teach you a lesson for fucking with his head & riling him up the way you do.

“professorr,” you sing-song, patting your chest shamelessly. “my breasts? you wanted to take up my offer, right?”

“enough.”

his voice bangs like gavel, and the sound shocks you—he knows because you’re looking up at him now with flushed cheeks & glossy eyes. like you’d never expected him to actually get mad.

and to make things worse, your thighs are squeezing like you like it.

and in that moment, hiromi decides he will take you up on that offer. he’s towering now, jaw tight, palms firm on the mahogany table.

“strip.”

and you waste no time, honestly. hiromi can tell you’re excited, even though you bite your cheek like you’re trying not to show it. your fingers are clumsy against your button-up, pathetic & half-shaky, and hiromi wastes no time before leaning over & snapping your shirt open himself. you let out a squeak as he unclasps your bra. cute.

but he doesn’t lower himself to your perky nipples—nope. higuruma hiromi would rather die than give you exactly what you want. he grabs you by the hair & forces you over his desk instead.

“professor—“

“quiet.”

but girls like you are stubborn as fuck & whine against him anyways. higuruma decides he has no time for that—his palm shifts from your hip to your mouth, keeping you shut & steady against him as he fiddles with his belt. god, you’re already writhing against him, ass rubbing against his already hardened cock. & hiromi doesn’t groan—he’d rather die than give you the satisfaction—so he bites his lip & ignores the taste of blood in his mouth instead.

“f-fuck…”

hiromi takes his sweet time. only his boxers separate you now, clothed dick dragging up your cunt. and he goes slow, painfully slow, like he’s punishing you for all the times you got him rock hard mid lecture & he had to jerk himself off with only the image of your panties digging into your folds or your perky nipples glistening in the fluorescent light.

you’re moaning against his palm now, voice a muffled, damp mess. your hips jerking against his cock make his thighs twitch. god, he’s wanted this so long.

and he finally decides to give it to you.

his dick practically springs from his boxers, heavy & thick & dripping with precum. fuck, he’s aching, practically twitching to get inside you. fuck fuck fuck.

“inside—“ you groan into his hand. “please,”

he’s barely done anything & you’re already a whiny mess! god, what a pervert you are. and hiromi would be a liar if he said he didn’t like it. his palms grip you roughly, lining you up & pressing into your back so you lean far enough to give him the perfect view of your ass.

hiromi doesn’t let you slip your skirt & panties off beforehand because he likes the idea of your skirt fluttering around each time he digs inside you. who says he can’t be a pervert, too?

and he does exactly that, bony fingers sliding your panties over your cunt. & you’re already soaked, wet & sticky so when he slips his fingers aside they’re already dripping with slick.

hiromi doesn’t give you time to adjust.

you don’t deserve it, so he simply doesn’t give it to you. he slides himself in, teeth gritting as your pussy flutters & grips him much tighter than he expected. truth be told, he hadn’t expected your aching cunt to give him such a hard time. dumb sluts like you came easy & pre-stretched, right ?

& he’s half-right, because your folds adjust to him. eventually. just when he lets his palm shift from your hip to your breast to grope them roughly & caress your nipples with his fingers. & god you squeeze with every rub, & you feel so fucking good & hiromi’s not sure how he didn’t give into your pretty pussy much sooner.

well he’s here now, & he wastes no time ramming into you. he digs in deep, hands working your perky nipples as he thrusts into your aching cunt. & he can barely muffle your moans now & he should be concerned about someone walking in but how can he when your whiny moans all go straight to his dick?

& because hiromi’s not easily satisfied, his right hand leaves your lips & sinks to your thighs instead. & god you’re so wet, & he only dips his hand to finger your swollen nub but you’re already a sloppy mess on his palm & fuck he loves it. loves how your ass twitches & hips jerk as his fingers graze your clit, fast & rough, like girls like you don’t deserve warm pace & gentleness.

“hah—ah…hiromi!”

you squeeze him tight, walls pulsing & hips stuttering against him. he thumbs your sensitive clit even harder through your high, thumb digging as you spasm & twitch against him, palms still heavy on your perky nipples. & only when you relax against him, pussy still fluttering, does he slip out his cock to cum on your ass with heavy pants & a breathy “fuck.”

girls like you don’t deserve aftercare or ‘are you okay?’ so hiromi doesn’t give it to you. he’s already buckled belt & smoothed out hair in his seat, watching with lazy eyes as you struggle to shift your skirt over your ass.

you’re still buttoning your shirt when you beam,

“see, prof? that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

except it was, & the post-nut clarity hits him like a bullet. fuck. he should’ve never let a perverted thing like you get under his skin.

hiromi breathes, pulls a drawer from his desk. “i have something for you.”

“another round ??”

higuruma hiromi laughs.

“even better.”

HARASSMENT 1O1, end.