hannah

he had been kissing and suckling all over your oversensitive little pussy for hours now. rubbing his nose gently against your pulsing clit while he runs his tongue along your slit with a sweet moan that makes you whimper in response.

“she’s so sensitive… poor girl, and I’ve been so gentle.” he coos into your glistening folds, placing a featherlight kiss to your clit that makes your whole body shiver.

he isn’t lying, either.

he’s been maddeningly gentle with you. coaxing slow but all consuming, mind melting orgasms out of you one after the other. praising you, teasing you, mocking you in that saccharine tone that makes your walls clench around nothing.

“so perfect… letting me worship this little pussy as long as I want..” he praises, sucking on your folds before inserting his tongue slowly into your gushing hole. your back arches at the intrusion, the wet muscle stroking your inner walls slowly. Megumi groans into your cunt, making you cry out.

“f-fuck, ‘gumi!” you cum around his tongue with a broken sob, walls spasming and spurting your release as he ever so delicately sucks and nibbles at your puffy clit.

“such a good girl” he hums, kitten licking your quivering pussy.

“you’re shaking so much, sweetheart. jus’ feels too good, huh?” he murmurs softly into your painfully sensitive core. he peppers devastatingly slow little open mouthed kisses all over your messy center, the cute sounds you were making only spurring him on in his worship.

“wish i could feel this perfect pussy pulsing on my tongue all damn day” he groans, laying his tongue flat against you, unmoving, making you whimper and squirm from the steady pressure. he sighs, moaning softly as he finally drags his tongue over your pussy.

“christ… she’s throbbing so hard.” his voice is strained, his cock raw and messy from humping the mattress. his hips rock forward, the mess of his previous orgasms making his cock slick and easy to glide against the sheets. he pulls your tiny bud between his lips, humming softly. you cry out at the delicate suction, fingers gripping his inky black strands like a lifeline.

“‘s okay, sweet girl. jus’ one more, okay?” he promises, adorning your pussy with the most loving strokes of his tongue. you’re not sure if he’s talking to your pussy or you, anymore. his lips closed around your clit, sucking just enough to make your vision white out as you cum for the nth time.

megumi is panting into your soaked, contracting cunt, licking gently over the expanse of your warm, leaking pussy.

“that’s it, baby. you did so good…”

you try to respond, your brain working to form a coherent thought. you babble something nonsensical, whining at the vibration of megumi’s laugh.

“my girl’s all dumb now, poor thing.” he coos, sucking marks into your thighs as he rubs his hands soothingly over your stomach.

“that’s okay, princess, just keep that pretty head empty. i’ll take care of you.”

the morning light filters through the lecture hall windows, catching the mess of his hair—not quite platinum, not quite pearl, but something like the color of fresh snow under streetlights, if snow could defy gravity and stick up at impossible angles while somehow still looking effortlessly perfect. you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time cataloging the way it moves when he turns his head, the way it catches light like spun silver thread, the way one particular strand always falls across his forehead no matter how many times he pushes it back with that same precise, annoyed gesture.  

(you’re pathetic. you know you’re pathetic. you’ve literally counted the number of times he does that little hair-push thing per lecture—it’s seventeen on average, and you’re horrified by the fact that you know this. even more horrified by the fact that you’ve started timing the intervals between each gesture. twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds, give or take.)  

professor yaga’s voice drones on about derivatives, but you’re lost in the way satoru’s shoulders hunch slightly as he scribbles notes, the careful precision of his long fingers around his pen—fingers that are almost delicate, pale and elegant like they belong to a pianist rather than a college student. the way he occasionally pushes his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose with his knuckle—never his fingertip, always his knuckle, like he’s afraid of smudging the lenses or maybe like he’s performed this exact motion so many times it’s become muscle memory.  

there’s something almost ritualistic about it, this careful maintenance of his perfect image. you’ve noticed he does a quick check of his appearance every time he enters a room—subtle, barely perceptible, but you’ve been watching him long enough to catch the way his eyes briefly scan his reflection in any available surface, the way his fingers make minute adjustments to his hair or the position of his glasses.  

you wonder if he knows how pretty his hands are. you wonder if he knows you’ve been staring at them for the better part of two months, memorizing the way his thumb taps against his pen when he’s thinking, the way he flexes his fingers when he’s about to write something he’s particularly proud of. you wonder if he knows that you’ve started taking notes about his note-taking habits instead of actually taking notes, which is definitely going to bite you in the ass come exam time.  

(seriously, your notebook is less “advanced calculus” and more “comprehensive guide to satoru gojo’s micro-expressions and fidgeting patterns.” you’re a fucking disaster.)  

you’re so busy staring at the way his neck curves when he tilts his head—and god, what a neck, all pale skin and sharp angles, the kind of neck that makes you want to trace your fingers along the line of it—that you don’t notice the classroom has gone quiet until professor yaga’s voice cuts through your reverie like a blade.  

“miss,” yaga says, and you can hear the barely contained irritation in his voice, the way he draws out the word like it’s personally offensive to him, “perhaps you’d like to solve this equation for us?”  

your stomach drops to somewhere around your ankles. the whiteboard might as well be covered in ancient sumerian for all the sense it makes to you. you enrolled in this class for exactly one reason, and that reason is currently turning in his seat to look at you with those eyes—god, those eyes that aren’t just blue but something deeper, stranger, like the color of deep ocean water when afternoon light hits it just right, or maybe like the heart of a glacier, all crystalline and impossible.  

his head tilts slightly as he looks at you, and you catch the way his lips part just a fraction, the way his eyebrows draw together in what might be concern. there’s something almost protective in his expression, the way he leans forward slightly in his seat like he’s preparing to spring into action.  

there’s a collective shift in the room, students turning to look at you with expressions ranging from mild curiosity to outright schadenfreude. jennifer, two seats over, is definitely smirking, her perfectly glossed lips curved in a way that makes you want to throw your textbook at her head. you can feel your face burning, can practically hear your heartbeat in your ears, and you’re acutely aware that everyone—including satoru—is watching you flounder like a fish out of water.  

you catch the way your hands start to shake slightly, the way your breath catches in your throat, and you know your face is doing that thing where it goes blotchy and red in the worst possible way. your mouth opens and closes once, twice, no sound coming out, and you’re pretty sure you look like you’re having some kind of breakdown.  

(this is fine. this is totally fine. you’re just about to publicly humiliate yourself in front of the boy you’ve been mooning over for eight weeks. no big deal. just your entire academic reputation and any chance of ever talking to satoru again going up in flames. totally manageable.)  

you’re about to open your mouth and make a complete fool of yourself when satoru’s hand shoots up with the kind of lazy confidence that makes half the class want to throw things at him. but you catch the way his fingers tremble slightly, so briefly you almost miss it, the way he presses his lips together for just a moment before speaking.  

“actually, professor yaga,” he says, and his voice carries that particular blend of polite condescension and casual arrogance that makes your chest flutter even as you watch three people in the front row visibly bristle, “i think there’s an error in the problem setup.”  

the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. you can practically feel the collective eye-roll rippling through the lecture hall like a wave. behind you, someone mutters “here we go again” under their breath, and you have to resist the urge to turn around and defend him. but you’re too busy watching the way satoru’s jaw tightens slightly, the way his free hand curls into a loose fist on his desk before he forces it to relax.  

yaga’s eyes narrow dangerously, his entire posture shifting into something that suggests he’s about to commit murder. “excuse me?”  

“the coefficient in the third term,” satoru continues, completely unbothered by the teacher’s glare or the way half the class is now shooting him looks that could kill. his fingers drum once against his desk before he catches himself and forces them to still—a tiny crack in his perfect composure that somehow makes you want to protect him, want to build a wall between him and everyone else in this room. “it should be negative, not positive, based on the previous step. common mistake, really.”  

and there it is—that little smile, barely there but unmistakable, tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s just performed a particularly clever magic trick. his chin lifts slightly, and you catch the way his eyes briefly flick toward you, checking to see if you’re watching, if you’re safe.  

(common mistake. god, he’s such a little shit, and you’re completely gone for him. absolutely, irrevocably, pathetically gone.)  

the silence that follows is deafening. you can see yaga’s jaw working, can practically feel the collective urge to murder emanating from your classmates like heat waves. satoru just sits there, chin tilted up slightly, that insufferable little smile playing at the corner of his mouth, but you notice the way his fingers tap an anxious rhythm against his thigh, the way his shoulders are held just a little too rigidly.  

there’s something almost performative about it, the way he wields his intelligence like a shield, deflecting attention from the fact that he’s just saved you from public humiliation. again. you’re starting to recognize the pattern—the way he times his interruptions, the way he makes his corrections sound like casual observations rather than calculated rescues.  

but more than that, you’re starting to recognize the cost of it. the way other students look at him like he’s some kind of academic boogeyman, the way professors tolerate him with barely concealed irritation, the way he sits alone in every class despite being the smartest person in the room.  

“you’re right,” yaga says finally, and the admission sounds like it physically pains him, like each word is being dragged from his throat with pliers. he turns back to the board with more force than necessary, chalk scraping against the surface with a sound that makes half the class wince. “thank you for the... correction.”  

as the professor erases and rewrites the equation, you catch the subtle way satoru’s shoulders relax, the way his fingers uncurl from where they’d been gripping his pen. his head drops slightly, and you see him take a deep breath, his chest rising and falling in a way that suggests he’s been holding his breath this entire time.  

he’s nervous, you realize. he’s just as affected by these moments as you are, just better at hiding it behind layers of calculated arrogance and that insufferable smile.  

that’s the fifteenth time this semester—you’ve been counting, because apparently your brain has decided to catalog every single instance of satoru saving you from academic humiliation. fifteen times in eight weeks, and each time you fall a little bit deeper into this ridiculous, hopeless crush. each time you’re more convinced that you’re the only person in this entire lecture hall who doesn’t find him completely insufferable.  

(you’re also probably the only person who’s noticed the way his ears go pink when he’s called out, or the way he clicks his pen three times before he raises his hand, or the way he always makes sure his “corrections” benefit you specifically. you’re definitely the only person who’s noticed the way he glances over at you after each rescue, checking to make sure you’re okay, that little furrow between his brows that suggests he’s genuinely worried about you.)  

because that’s the thing about satoru—he’s brilliant, and he knows it, and he’s absolutely shameless about wielding that intelligence like a weapon. he’s the type of person who corrects professors mid-lecture with a smile that suggests he’s doing them a favor, who finishes exams in half the allotted time and then sits there looking bored while everyone else scrambles, occasionally glancing around the room with barely concealed amusement.  

but you’ve started to notice the moments when the mask slips. the way he sometimes looks out the window with an expression that’s almost wistful, like he’s thinking about being anywhere else. the way he doodles in the margins of his notes—not equations or formulas, but little sketches, delicate and precise, usually of things he can see from his seat. a leaf, the corner of a building, once, memorably, a tiny sketch of the back of someone’s head that looked suspiciously like your silhouette.  

he’s condescending without meaning to be, arrogant without trying, and you’re pretty sure he’s never encountered a problem he couldn’t solve or a question he couldn’t answer. you’ve watched him turn in homework assignments written in what you can only describe as mathematical poetry, each solution more elegant than the last, and you’ve seen the way professor yaga’s mouth tightens every time satoru raises his hand.  

it should be annoying. it should make you want to throw things at him like everyone else does. jennifer actually did throw a pencil at him once—it bounced off his shoulder and he just turned around and smiled at her like she’d given him a compliment, but you caught the way his smile faltered for just a moment, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to rub the spot where it hit.  

instead, it makes you want to lean over and whisper ‘thank you’ directly into his ear, makes you want to trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips, makes you want to mess up his perfectly styled hair just to see what he’d do. probably fix it with that same precise, methodical care he applies to everything else, but maybe—just maybe—he’d let you be the one to mess it up again.  

you’re so far gone it’s not even funny anymore. it’s concerning. it’s the kind of pathetic that would make your friends stage an intervention if they knew. the kind of pathetic that has you checking your reflection in every surface before class, wondering if today might be the day he actually notices you beyond your academic incompetence.  

the lecture continues, yaga’s voice taking on that particular sharp edge that suggests satoru has ruined his entire day, and you watch the way your classmates shoot covert glances at the boy three rows ahead. there’s resentment in those looks, the kind of frustrated irritation that comes from being consistently outshone by someone who doesn’t even seem to be trying.  

but you’re not watching them. you’re watching satoru, cataloging the way he takes notes with the same meticulous care he applies to everything else, his handwriting neat and precise even when he’s obviously bored. you’re watching the way he occasionally glances toward the window, his expression going soft and distant, like he’s thinking about something far more interesting than derivatives.  

you’re watching the way he doesn’t look back at you, but you catch the subtle way his ears are still pink, the way his fingers tap an anxious rhythm against his thigh before he forces his hand to still. you notice the way he shifts in his seat, adjusting his position so that he’s angled slightly toward you, like he’s subconsciously trying to keep you in his peripheral vision.  

you wonder if he knows what he’s doing, if he’s keeping track too, if he notices the way you always seem to be in trouble right when he’s ready with an answer. you wonder if he’s cataloging your expressions the way you’ve been cataloging his, if he’s noticed the way you bite your lip when you’re concentrating, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous.  

(he is. he’s been counting too, actually, though his count is higher because he includes all the times he’s wanted to interrupt but didn’t, all the times he’s watched you panic in that particular way that makes your eyes go wide and your bottom lip disappear between your teeth. he’s been cataloging your expressions the same way you’ve been cataloging his, though he’s infinitely better at being subtle about it. he knows you bite your lip when you’re concentrating, knows you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous, knows you have this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re trying to work through a problem. he’s memorized the way you look when you’re happy, when you’re confused, when you’re frustrated. he’s got it all filed away in his brain like the most important data he’s ever collected.)  

you’re wondering what it would be like to know him outside of this careful academic performance when the lecture ends, students immediately scrambling for the exits with the kind of urgency that suggests they’re fleeing rather than simply leaving. you can hear fragments of conversation as people file out—“such a show-off,” “can’t believe yaga puts up with that,” “probably thinks he’s smarter than everyone”—and you want to defend him, want to point out that he is smarter than everyone, but you’re too busy shoving your barely-touched notebook into your bag, trying to look like you weren’t just spending ninety minutes staring at the back of someone’s head.  

your hands are shaking slightly as you pack up your things, a combination of leftover adrenaline from your near-humiliation and the growing realization that you’re about to be alone with him, maybe for the first time since this whole ridiculous crush started. you fumble with your bag’s zipper, curse under your breath when it catches, and generally look like the disaster you are.  

when he appears beside your desk, you’re struck by how different he looks up close. all sharp angles and pale skin, the kind of boy who looks like he’d snap in half if you hugged him too tight. which is perfect, actually, because you have no interest in the alternative.  

but more than that, you’re struck by how he seems to take up more space than his slight frame should allow. there’s something about his presence that’s magnetic, commanding, the way he stands with his weight shifted slightly forward, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. he’s close enough that you can smell his cologne—something clean and understated that makes you want to lean closer, something that makes you think of morning frost and expensive soap.  

there’s something almost fragile about him when he’s not performing for the class, something that makes you want to handle him carefully. his glasses have slipped down his nose slightly, and when he pushes them up with that familiar gesture, you catch the way his eyelashes flutter against the lenses, impossibly long and pale.  

“rough lecture?” he asks, and there’s something almost apologetic in the way he says it, like he’s aware that his interventions might be drawing unwanted attention to you. his head tilts slightly, and you notice the way his hair falls across his forehead, the way he doesn’t bother to push it back this time. there’s a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes are serious, concerned.  

you catch the way your breath hitches slightly, the way your fingers tighten around your bag strap. “depends on your definition of rough,” you reply, slinging your bag over your shoulder, hyperaware of how close he is, how the simple act of standing puts you almost at eye level with him. “if by rough you mean completely incomprehensible, then yeah, absolutely brutal.”  

he laughs, and it’s nothing like the polite chuckle he gives in class. this is genuine, warm, the kind of laugh that makes his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. “it’s not that bad once you get the hang of it,” he says, falling into step beside you as you head toward the door. you notice the way he shortens his stride to match your pace, the way he holds the door open for you with casual politeness, his fingers briefly brushing yours as you pass through. “calculus is just like... a language. once you learn the grammar, everything else falls into place.”  

the brief contact sends a jolt up your arm, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way you shiver slightly, the way your cheeks flush. you step through the door, and he follows, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. the hallway is busy with students rushing to their next classes, and you have to resist the urge to grab his arm to keep from losing him in the crowd.  

“easy for you to say, mr. perfect score on every exam,” you say, and you can’t help but smile at the way he preens slightly at the compliment, his chin lifting just a fraction in that familiar gesture of pride. his eyes light up in a way that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.  

“perfect score is an exaggeration,” he says, but he’s clearly pleased, a faint flush coloring his cheeks, spreading down his neck in a way that makes you want to trace the path of it with your fingertips. his fingers fidget with the strap of his bag, and you wonder if he’s as nervous as you are, if he feels the same electric tension that seems to crackle between you whenever you’re this close.  

“ninety-eight percent is still perfect in my book.”  

“that two percent haunts me,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest with such dramatic flair that you can’t help but laugh. his eyes are dancing with mischief, and you catch the way he leans slightly closer as he speaks, like he’s sharing a secret. “keeps me awake at night, wondering where i went wrong.”  

this is how it always goes with satoru—easy banter that makes you forget why you were ever nervous around him in the first place. he has this way of matching your energy, of making conversation feel like a game where you’re both trying to make the other laugh first. it’s addictive, the way he responds to your sarcasm with his own, the way he seems genuinely delighted when you give as good as you get.  

but underneath the easy conversation, you’re hyperaware of every detail—the way he gestures when he talks, his hands moving in precise, elegant motions like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra. the way his eyes light up when he’s about to make a joke, the way they seem to focus entirely on you like you’re the only person in this crowded hallway. the way he keeps glancing at you like he’s trying to memorize your expressions, the way his smile goes soft and genuine when he thinks you’re not looking.  

you notice the way other students move around you both, giving satoru a wide berth, but he doesn’t seem to notice. he’s too focused on you, on the conversation, on the way you laugh at his ridiculous dramatics.  

“hey,” he says suddenly, and his voice drops slightly, becomes more hesitant. his fingers find the strap of his bag, fidgeting with the buckle in a way that suggests he’s more nervous than he’s letting on. “i was wondering... would you maybe want to study together sometime? i mean, if you want. no pressure or anything, but i think i could help you with some of the concepts that are giving you trouble.”  

you stop walking so abruptly that the student behind you nearly crashes into your back, muttering something unflattering about people who don’t know how to walk in hallways. satoru takes two more steps before he realizes you’re not beside him anymore, then turns back with a slightly confused expression, his eyebrows raised in question. behind his glasses, his eyes are doing that thing again—that impossible color that makes your brain short-circuit and your thoughts scatter like startled birds.  

“you want to study with me?” you ask, and you hate how breathless you sound, hate the way your voice goes up at the end like you can’t quite believe it. students flow around you both like water around stones, and you’re vaguely aware of someone muttering “move it along” as they squeeze past, but you can’t bring yourself to care.  

“well, yeah,” he says, and now his ears are definitely pink, a flush creeping down his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his sweater. he pushes his glasses up his nose in that familiar gesture, and you realize it’s become a tell—something he does when he’s nervous or uncertain. “i mean, you’re smart, obviously. you just need someone to explain things in a way that makes sense. and i...” he trails off, his gaze dropping to the floor for just a moment before meeting your eyes again. “i like talking to you. about math stuff. and non-math stuff too.”  

there’s something almost vulnerable in the way he says it, the way his fingers twist in the strap of his bag, the way he rocks slightly on his heels like he’s fighting the urge to flee. you catch the way his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, the way he bites his lower lip briefly before releasing it.  

your heart is doing something acrobatic and probably medically concerning in your chest. you’re pretty sure you’re staring at him like he’s just offered you the moon, and maybe that’s not far from the truth. this beautiful, brilliant boy who corrects professors and makes calculus sound like poetry wants to spend time with you outside of class.  

“okay,” you say, and you know you’re smiling like an idiot, can feel the way your cheeks are starting to hurt from the sheer width of your grin. you probably look deranged, but you can’t bring yourself to care. “yeah, i’d like that. i’d like that a lot.”  

“really?” the relief in his voice is so obvious it’s almost endearing, and you catch the way his shoulders relax, the way his grip on his bag strap loosens. his smile transforms his entire face, making him look younger, softer, less like the intimidating academic weapon everyone thinks he is. “cool. great. how about friday? there’s this coffee shop off campus that’s pretty quiet, good for studying.”  

“it’s a date,” you say, and then immediately want to melt into the floor because who says that, who actually says ‘it’s a date’ in response to a study session invitation, what is wrong with you—  

but satoru’s smile goes soft and genuine, transforming his entire face, and he says, “yeah, it is,” and suddenly your mortification transforms into something warm and fluttery that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.  

there’s something different about the way he looks at you then, something that makes the busy hallway fade into background noise. his eyes seem to trace your features like he’s memorizing them, and you catch the way his lips part slightly, the way his breathing seems to quicken.  

you’re standing in the middle of the hallway, students flowing around you like water around stones, and for a moment it feels like you’re the only two people in the world. you can see the exact moment when he realizes how close you are, the way his eyes widen slightly, the way his gaze drops briefly to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes.  

then the moment breaks as someone jostles past you, muttering about people blocking the hallway, and you’re both laughing, a little breathless and a lot overwhelmed. the spell is broken, but something has shifted between you, something that makes the air feel charged with possibility.  

“i should probably get to my next class,” you say, even though you want to stay here forever, want to memorize every detail of this moment, want to bottle up the way he’s looking at you and save it for later.  

“yeah, me too,” he says, but he doesn’t move away, doesn’t break eye contact. his hand twitches at his side like he wants to reach for you, and you wonder what would happen if you just took that step closer, if you eliminated the careful distance he’s maintaining.  

you can see the internal struggle playing out on his face, the way his jaw tightens slightly, the way his fingers flex at his sides. there’s something he wants to say, something he wants to do, but he’s holding himself back.  

“friday,” you say, and it comes out softer than you intended, almost like a promise.  

“friday,” he agrees, and then he’s walking away, but not before you catch the way he glances back over his shoulder, the way his hand lifts in a small wave that’s almost shy.  

you watch him go, noting the way other students move out of his way, the way conversations seem to pause as he passes. he’s magnetic in a way that draws attention even when he’s not trying to, and you realize with a start that everyone else sees it too—they just respond to it differently than you do.  

where you see brilliance, they see arrogance. where you see careful precision, they see showing off. where you see someone who’s maybe just a little bit lonely behind all that intelligence, they see someone who thinks he’s better than everyone else.  

maybe he does think he’s better than everyone else. maybe that’s part of what makes him so fascinating.  

you’re still standing there, watching his retreating figure, when you realize you’re going to be late for your next class. but you can’t bring yourself to care, too busy replaying every moment of the conversation, already counting down the hours until friday.  

this is dangerous territory, you think as you finally start walking toward your next class, your feet practically floating above the ground. this is the kind of crush that could completely derail your academic career, the kind of infatuation that makes you do stupid things like enroll in advanced calculus just to stare at someone’s neck.  

but as you think about the way satoru looked at you, the way his voice went soft when he asked you to study with him, the way he said “yeah, it is” like he meant it, you decide that maybe dangerous territory isn’t such a bad place to be.  

especially when it comes with the promise of friday afternoon coffee and the chance to finally figure out what makes satoru gojo tick.  

even if he is still, fundamentally, a complete and utter show-off who somehow makes that quality devastatingly attractive.  

you’re so screwed.  

friday arrives like a slow-motion disaster, the kind where you can see the crash coming from miles away but you’re powerless to stop it. you’ve changed your outfit three times—first too casual, then too formal, then back to casual because this is just studying, right? just two people and some textbooks and definitely not a date despite what you said in that moment of temporary insanity.

(except he said “yeah, it is” with that soft smile and those impossible eyes, and you’ve been replaying that moment on loop for three days straight like some kind of masochistic highlight reel.)

the coffee shop is exactly the kind of place you’d expect satoru to choose—minimalist décor, overpriced drinks, the sort of aggressively hip establishment where the baristas have philosophy degrees and the wifi password is something pretentious like “nietzsche123.” you spot him immediately, sitting in a corner booth with textbooks spread across the table like he’s preparing for academic warfare.

he’s early. of course he’s early. probably calculated the exact time needed to arrange his hair in that perfectly imperfect way, probably positioned himself at the precise angle where the afternoon light would catch the silver threads woven through the pearl-white strands like he’s his own personal photographer.

when he sees you, his face transforms—eyebrows lifting slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching up in what starts as surprise before blooming into something genuine and warm. he stands up with fluid grace, all long limbs and careful coordination, and waves you over with a gesture that’s somehow both casual and theatrical, fingers splaying wide before curling into a beckoning motion.

“you made it,” he says when you reach the table, and there’s something almost breathless in his voice, like he’s been holding his breath without realizing it. his fingers drum once against the table edge before he catches himself, shoving his hands into his pockets with a self-conscious laugh.

“did you think i wouldn’t?” you ask, sliding into the seat across from him, your knee bumping against his under the table. he doesn’t move away—if anything, he seems to lean into the contact, and you can see the way his pupils dilate slightly behind his glasses.

“honestly? kind of.” he pushes his glasses up his nose with his knuckle, and you’re starting to recognize it as his tell for when he’s being more honest than his usual performance allows. his gaze drops to the table for just a moment before meeting yours again, and there’s something vulnerable in the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones. “i have this effect on people where they find me charming for about thirty seconds and then remember i’m insufferable.”

you’re watching the way his mouth moves when he talks, the way he emphasizes certain words with tiny gestures—a tilt of his head, a slight lean forward, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip when he’s thinking. it’s hypnotic, the careful choreography of his expressions, and you’re rapidly losing the ability to form coherent thoughts.

“thirty seconds? wow, that’s generous.” you’re unpacking your bag with deliberate slowness, trying to give your hands something to do so you don’t reach across the table and touch the strand of hair that’s falling across his forehead. “most people clock you as insufferable immediately.”

“ouch,” he says, but he’s grinning now, the kind of sharp-edged smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes them shine like winter light on water. his head tilts to the side, and you can see the way his hair shifts with the movement, revealing the elegant line of his neck. “and here i thought you were different.”

“i am different,” you say, finally looking up at him fully, and something in your tone makes his expression shift. his smile softens, becomes less performative, and he leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand in a way that makes his eyes seem impossibly large behind his glasses. “i think you’re insufferable and charming.”

the silence that follows is loaded with the kind of tension that makes your skin feel too tight. satoru’s fingers drum once against the table—index, middle, ring, pinkie in perfect succession—before he catches himself and forces his hand to still. you can see the way his throat works when he swallows, the subtle flex of muscle beneath pale skin.

“well,” he says finally, and his voice has dropped to something softer, more intimate, the words shaped carefully around a smile that’s trying to be casual but comes out fond instead. “i can work with that.”

he’s already ordered you a coffee—somehow knew exactly how you like it, which should be creepy but instead makes your chest feel warm and fluttery like you’ve swallowed a handful of butterflies. when you raise an eyebrow at him, he shrugs with practiced nonchalance, but you can see the way his ears go pink at the tips.

“you get the same thing every morning from the campus café,” he says, pulling out his calculus notebook with movements that are just a little too precise to be natural. his fingers trace the edge of the cover before flipping it open, and you notice the way his handwriting is perfectly neat even in the margins. “vanilla latte, extra shot, no foam. you also tap your card exactly three times before you put it away, and you always check your phone right after ordering.”

you stare at him, and he meets your gaze with something that’s trying to be confident but comes across as almost shy. his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, and you can see the way his breathing has gone slightly shallow.

“that’s either very observant or very stalky.”

“i prefer observant,” he says, and there’s something almost vulnerable in the way he says it, like he’s admitting to more than just casual people-watching. his fingers fidget with his pen, clicking it once, twice, three times before he realizes what he’s doing and forces his hand to still. “i notice things. especially when they’re interesting.”

you’re hyperaware of every micro-expression—the way his eyebrows lift slightly when he’s waiting for your response, the way his lips part just a fraction when he’s thinking, the way his eyes track your movements like he’s cataloging every detail for later review.

“are you calling me interesting?” you ask, taking a sip of your coffee to hide the way your hands are trembling slightly. the movement draws his attention to your mouth, and you can see the way his gaze lingers there before snapping back to your eyes.

“i’m calling you distracting,” he says, and the way he looks at you makes your stomach flip. his voice drops to something almost husky, and you can see the way his fingers tighten around his pen. “do you know how hard it is to focus on derivatives when you’re sitting three rows behind someone who makes the most adorable face when they’re confused?”

you nearly choke on your coffee, and satoru’s immediate reaction is to half-stand, his hand reaching across the table like he’s going to pat your back before he catches himself and settles back down. but his eyes are wide with concern, and you can see the way his whole body has tensed with the impulse to help.

“adorable face?” you manage once you’ve stopped coughing.

“mmm,” he hums, and now his smile is pure mischief. he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and you can see the way his sweater pulls slightly across his shoulders. “you get these little lines right here—” he reaches across the table and almost touches the space between your eyebrows before catching himself, his hand hovering in the air for just a moment too long. you can see the way his fingers curl slightly, like he’s fighting the urge to make contact. “and you do this thing where you bite your bottom lip when you’re thinking really hard.”

your face is burning. absolutely burning. you can feel the heat creeping up your neck, and you know he can see it because his eyes are tracking the flush with obvious fascination.

“you’re making that up.”

“am i?” he tilts his head, and his hair falls across his forehead in a way that makes your brain short-circuit. his smile is absolutely wicked, and you can see the way his canine teeth are just slightly sharper than the rest. “you’re doing it right now.”

you immediately stop biting your lip, which only makes him grin wider. his whole face lights up with delight, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he does this little victorious bob of his head that’s so smug you want to throw something at him.

“see? adorable.”

“shut up,” you mutter, but there’s no real heat in it. you flip open your own textbook with more force than necessary, and you can feel him watching the movement with obvious amusement. “we’re here to study, remember?”

“right,” he says, but his tone suggests he’s not particularly invested in the idea. you can see him in your peripheral vision, the way he’s propping his chin on his hand, the way his eyes are still tracking your every movement instead of looking at his textbook. “studying. with calculus. very serious business.”

(this is hopeless. you’re supposed to be learning about derivatives and instead you’re cataloging the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. you’re supposed to be focusing on equations and instead you’re wondering what it would feel like to run your fingers through his hair. you’re so far gone it’s not even funny anymore.)

for the first hour, he actually does help you study. he’s a good teacher, you’ll give him that—patient in a way that surprises you, breaking down complex concepts into manageable pieces without making you feel stupid. but he’s also incredibly distracting in ways that feel almost intentional.

he keeps scooting closer under the pretense of getting a better look at your notebook, his movements casual but deliberate. first it’s just his knee pressing against yours under the table, then his shoulder brushing against yours when he leans over to point at something in your textbook. you can smell his cologne—something clean and understated with hints of cedar and something else that’s purely him.

“you’re overthinking it,” he says, leaning closer to look at your work. his breath ghosts across your cheek, and you can see the way his eyes dart to your lips before focusing back on the page. “see, right here? you’re making it more complicated than it needs to be.”

his hand covers yours on the pen, and you can feel the warmth of his skin, the way his fingers are slightly longer than yours, the careful way he guides your movements. his touch is gentle but sure, and you find yourself focusing more on the pattern of his breathing than on whatever mathematical concept he’s trying to teach you.

“are you paying attention?” he asks, and there’s something almost smug in his voice, like he knows exactly what effect he’s having on you. when you look up, he’s closer than you expected, close enough that you can see the flecks of silver in his storm-cloud eyes, can count the individual eyelashes behind his glasses.

“yes,” you lie, trying to focus on the equation in front of you instead of the way his thumb is tracing absent patterns on your knuckles.

“liar,” he says, and his voice is low enough that you feel it more than hear it. his smile is absolutely wicked, and you can see the way his pupils have dilated slightly. “you’re not thinking about calculus at all, are you?”

you pull your hand away, probably too quickly, and immediately miss the contact. satoru’s expression flickers—just for a moment—with something that looks like disappointment before he covers it with that trademark smirk.

“i’m thinking about how insufferable you are.”

“mmm,” he hums, leaning back in his seat with a satisfied expression. his head tilts slightly, and you can see the way his hair catches the light, the way his eyes are still tracking your movements. “and how charming?”

“jury’s still out on that one.”

“i’ll take it,” he says, and then he’s back to explaining derivatives like he wasn’t just completely derailing your ability to form coherent thoughts. but you can see the way his ears are still pink, the way his fingers tap an anxious rhythm against his thigh before he forces them to still.

(he’s nervous too. the realization hits you like a freight train—satoru gojo, who corrects professors and makes calculus sound like poetry, who wields his intelligence like a weapon and his smile like a shield, is nervous around you. it’s a heady thought, knowing that you affect him even a fraction of how much he affects you.)

this is how the afternoon goes—moments of genuine studying interrupted by satoru being absolutely shameless about testing your boundaries. he finds excuses to touch you, to lean close, to make comments that toe the line between helpful and flirtatious.

when you get frustrated with a particularly difficult problem, he reaches over and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek for just a moment too long. you can see the way his eyes soften, the way his touch is gentle despite the calluses on his fingertips.

“there,” he says softly, and his voice has gone impossibly fond. “now i can see your face when you’re thinking.”

when you finally solve a problem correctly, he grins like you’ve just discovered the cure for cancer, his whole face lighting up with genuine delight. he does this little pleased wiggle in his seat that’s so endearing you want to kiss him senseless.

“knew you had it in you, smarty pants.”

when you make a joke about his handwriting being too neat, he leans over and deliberately writes something messy in your notebook, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration. the movement draws your attention to his mouth, and you can see the way his lips curve around the task, the way his eyebrows furrow slightly when he’s focusing.

“there,” he says, sitting back with a pleased expression, his eyes bright with mischief. “now we match.”

(you’re in trouble. deep, catastrophic trouble. every small gesture, every casual touch, every moment of shared laughter is another nail in the coffin of your carefully constructed emotional defenses. you’re falling for him in real-time, and he seems to know it, seems to be cataloging every blush, every stutter, every moment you lose track of what you’re supposed to be doing because you’re too busy staring at him.)

it’s infuriating how easily he gets under your skin, how he seems to know exactly which buttons to push to make you flustered. but it’s also kind of thrilling, the way he focuses all that sharp intelligence on figuring out how to make you smile, how to make you laugh, how to make you forget that you’re supposed to be studying.

by the time the sun starts to set, painting the coffee shop in shades of amber and gold, you’ve made decent progress on your calculus homework. but you’ve also developed what feels like a permanent blush and a serious case of satoru-induced brain fog. the other patrons have thinned out—the philosophy-major barista is cleaning the espresso machine with the kind of methodical precision that suggests closing time is approaching.

“we should probably head back,” you say, glancing at your phone and trying to ignore the way satoru’s face falls slightly at the suggestion. “it’s getting late.”

“probably,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move to pack up his things. instead, he leans back in his seat and studies you with those storm-glass eyes, his head tilted slightly to the side. you can see the way his hair falls across his forehead, the way his glasses have slipped down his nose just a fraction. “can i ask you something?”

“shoot.”

“why’d you take advanced calculus?” he asks, and there’s something genuinely curious in his voice, like he’s been wondering about this for a while. his fingers drum against the table—that same precise rhythm you’ve started to recognize as his thinking pattern. “i mean, it’s not required for your major, right?”

you freeze, your hands stilling in the process of shoving your textbook into your bag. because how do you explain that you enrolled in a class you have no business taking just to stare at someone’s neck? how do you admit that you’ve been making academic decisions based on a crush that’s gotten completely out of hand?

“i...” you start, then trail off, scrambling for a plausible lie. your eyes dart around the coffee shop, landing on anything but satoru’s face. “i thought it would be... useful?”

“useful,” he repeats, and his tone suggests he’s not buying it for a second. when you finally meet his gaze, you can see the way his eyebrows have lifted slightly, the way his mouth is fighting a smile. “for what?”

“for... life?” you try, and even you can hear how unconvincing that sounds. your voice goes up at the end, turning the statement into a question, and you can see the exact moment satoru realizes you’re lying.

his grin spreads slowly across his face, like sunrise breaking over a horizon, and you can see the way his eyes light up with delighted understanding. it’s the expression of someone who’s just solved a particularly satisfying puzzle, and you’re the puzzle.

“you took advanced calculus because of me, didn’t you?”

“that’s ridiculous,” you say, but your voice comes out about an octave higher than normal, which somewhat undermines your credibility. you can feel heat creeping up your neck, and you know he can see it because his eyes are tracking the flush with obvious fascination.

“oh my god,” he says, and his delight is so obvious it’s almost offensive. he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and you can see the way his sweater pulls slightly across his shoulders. “you actually took a class you hate just to stare at me. that’s either really romantic or really creepy.”

“it’s not—i didn’t—” you’re sputtering now, face burning with embarrassment, your hands fluttering uselessly in the air like you’re trying to grab the words back. “you’re so full of yourself.”

“am i wrong though?” he leans forward even more, resting his chin on his hand, and his smile is absolutely wicked. you can see the way his canine teeth are just slightly sharper than the rest, the way his eyes are practically glowing with mischief. “come on, admit it. you think i’m pretty.”

“i think you’re insufferable.”

“and pretty.” his voice drops to something almost sing-song, teasing, and you can see the way his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip.

“and arrogant.”

“and devastatingly attractive.” he’s practically purring now, clearly enjoying your flustered state. his fingers drum against the table in that familiar pattern, and you can see the way his whole body is angled toward you, like you’re the center of his universe.

“and completely full of yourself.”

“but pretty though, right?” his voice has gone soft, almost vulnerable, and when you look at him you can see something genuine beneath the teasing. his smile is gentler now, less performative, and there’s something almost hopeful in the way he’s looking at you. “it’s okay, you can say it. i already know.”

you want to deny it, want to maintain some shred of dignity, but the way he’s looking at you makes your brain turn to mush. his eyes are soft and warm and impossibly blue-grey, like storm clouds with sunlight behind them, and you can see the way his breathing has gone slightly shallow.

“you’re... aesthetically pleasing,” you admit finally, the words coming out barely above a whisper.

“aesthetically pleasing,” he repeats, like he’s savoring the words, rolling them around in his mouth like expensive wine. his smile widens, and you can see the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. “wow, try not to swoon too hard.”

“shut up,” you mutter, but you’re smiling despite yourself, and you can see the way his whole face lights up when he sees it.

“make me,” he says, and there’s something challenging in his voice that makes your heart race. his eyes dart to your lips, just for a moment, before meeting your gaze again, and you can see the way his pupils have dilated slightly.

the tension between you is thick enough to cut with a knife, and you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is, how his eyes keep dropping to your mouth, how easy it would be to just lean forward and close the distance between you. the coffee shop has gone quiet around you—just the soft hum of the espresso machine and the distant murmur of the barista’s radio.

“we should really go,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, but you don’t move away. if anything, you lean slightly closer, drawn by some invisible force that seems to exist in the space between you.

“yeah,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move either. his eyes are searching your face, and you can see the way his breathing has gone uneven. “we should.”

finally, finally, he pulls back with visible effort, his hands shaking slightly as he starts gathering his things. you do the same, your movements clumsy and uncoordinated, hyperaware of every brush of his fingers against yours as you both reach for the same pen.

the walk back to campus is quiet, but it’s the kind of charged silence that makes your skin feel electric. satoru walks close enough that your shoulders brush with every step, and you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. every few steps, he glances at you sideways, and you can see the way his mouth keeps twitching like he’s fighting a smile.

“thanks for today,” you say when you reach the point where you usually part ways, your voice soft in the gathering dusk. “for helping me study, i mean.”

“anytime,” he says, and his voice is softer now, more sincere. his hands are shoved deep in his pockets, and you can see the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. “i had fun.”

“even though i’m a terrible student?”

“especially because you’re a terrible student,” he says, and his grin is bright enough to light up the growing darkness. “gives me an excuse to spend more time with you.”

your heart does that acrobatic thing again, and you’re pretty sure you’re staring at him like he hung the stars. the streetlights are starting to flicker on, casting everything in a warm golden glow, and you can see the way the light catches in his hair, turns his eyes into something almost ethereal.

“same time next week?”

“absolutely,” he says, and then he’s walking away, his pace slightly hurried like he’s trying to escape before he does something impulsive. you watch him go, noting the way his hair moves in the evening breeze, the way other students still move out of his way even though he’s not trying to command attention.

(you’re so gone. completely, utterly, catastrophically gone for this insufferable, brilliant boy who makes calculus sound like poetry and looks at you like you’re the most interesting equation he’s ever tried to solve.)

you’re halfway back to your dorm, still floating on a cloud of caffeine and satoru-induced euphoria, when you realize you forgot your phone at the coffee shop. cursing under your breath, you turn around and hurry back, hoping the café is still open.

the door is unlocked, and you can see your phone sitting on the table where you’d been studying, the screen dark against the wood. you grab it quickly, not wanting to keep the staff any longer than necessary, but as you turn to leave, you nearly collide with someone coming out of the bathroom.

“oh, sorry, i—” you start, then stop dead in your tracks.

because it’s satoru. of course it’s satoru. but this isn’t the satoru you’ve been staring at for two months, the one who sits hunched over his textbooks in oversized sweaters and cardigans that hide every line of his body. this is satoru with his sweater off, standing there in just a fitted white t-shirt that clings to his frame in ways that make your brain completely shut down.

the sweater is draped over his arm, and you can see a small coffee stain on the sleeve that must have happened when you weren’t looking. but that’s not what your brain is focusing on. your brain is entirely occupied with the fact that satoru gojo has been hiding an absolutely devastating physique under all those carefully chosen baggy clothes.

he’s not bulky. he’s not some muscle-bound gym rat with biceps the size of your head. but he’s solid. broad shoulders that you never would have guessed at under all those loose sweaters, arms that look like they could pick you up without breaking a sweat, a chest that’s definitely more defined than it has any right to be.

you can see the lean muscle in his forearms, the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders, the subtle definition of his abs through the thin fabric. he’s what people call a sleeper build—looking deceptively slight in clothes but surprisingly strong underneath. and it’s your worst nightmare and your most shameful fantasy rolled into one.

“you forgot your—” he starts to say, then stops when he sees your expression. his eyebrows furrow slightly, and you can see the way his head tilts in confusion. “are you okay?”

you’re not okay. you’re the opposite of okay. you’re spiraling, free-falling into a panic because your body is betraying you in the worst possible way. your carefully constructed preferences are crumbling like a house of cards, and you can feel your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape.

“fine,” you squeak, but your voice comes out strangled and about three octaves higher than normal. you take a step back, then another, until you’re pressed against the wall with nowhere to go.

satoru follows, not aggressively, but with that same calculated precision he applies to everything else. you can see the concern in his eyes, the way his eyebrows draw together, the way his mouth turns down at the corners. he stops just close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, can smell his cologne mixed with something else—something that’s just him.

“you sure?” he asks, and his voice is soft, concerned, but there’s something else in his eyes. something that suggests he’s very aware of the effect he’s having on you. you can see the way his gaze darts down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, the way his breathing has gone slightly uneven.

“fine,” you repeat, but you’re not fine. you’re the opposite of fine. you’re having a complete existential crisis because your stupid body is responding to the sight of his shoulders, the way his shirt clings to his chest, the subtle line of muscle that disappears beneath his collar.

“you don’t look fine,” he says, and now his hand is reaching up to touch your forehead like he’s checking for a fever. the movement makes his shirt ride up slightly, revealing a strip of pale skin and the hint of muscle definition that makes your mouth go dry. “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

his palm is warm against your forehead, and you can feel the slight roughness of calluses on his fingertips. you’re close enough to see the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones, close enough to count the barely visible freckles scattered across his nose.

“i have to go,” you say, but you don’t move. you can’t move. you’re trapped between the wall and satoru’s unexpected solidity, and your brain is completely offline.

“hey,” he says softly, and his other hand comes up to frame your face. his touch is gentle, careful, like he’s afraid you might break if he applies too much pressure. “talk to me. what’s wrong?”

you want to tell him it’s nothing, want to laugh it off and pretend you’re not having a complete mental breakdown over the fact that he has shoulders. but you’re looking up at him—when did he get so tall?—and his eyes are so concerned and so impossibly beautiful, like storm clouds with lightning behind them.

“you’re—” you start, then stop, because how do you explain that you’re having an existential crisis over someone’s biceps?

“i’m what?” he asks, and his voice is gentle, patient, like he has all the time in the world to wait for you to figure out how to form sentences. his thumbs brush across your cheekbones, and you can feel the slight calluses on his skin.

“you’re stronger than you look,” you finally manage, and it comes out like an accusation.

satoru blinks, clearly not expecting that particular confession. his eyebrows lift slightly, and you can see the way his mouth parts in surprise. “i... yes? i work out sometimes. is that... bad?”

“yes,” you say immediately, then realize how that sounds and scramble to backtrack. “i mean, no. i mean—” you’re spiraling again, because he’s looking at you like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to solve, and his hands are still on your face, and you can see the way his muscles move under his shirt when he breathes.

“you don’t like that i work out?” he asks, and there’s something almost hurt in his voice, the way his eyebrows draw together, the way his mouth turns down at the corners.

“it’s not that,” you say quickly, because you can’t bear the thought of hurting his feelings, even in your current state of panic. “it’s just... i don’t usually... i mean, i’ve never been attracted to...”

you trail off, realizing what you’re about to admit, but satoru’s eyes light up with understanding. his mouth curves into a slow smile, and you can see the way his pupils dilate slightly.

“you’ve never been attracted to guys with muscle,” he says, and it’s not a question. his voice has gone soft, almost wondering, and you can see the way his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip.

you nod miserably, feeling your face burn with embarrassment.

“but you’re attracted to me,” he continues, and there’s something almost smug in his voice now, the way his smile widens, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“unfortunately,” you mutter, but you can’t look away from him, can’t stop cataloging every detail of his face.

“unfortunately,” he repeats, and his smile is absolutely wicked now. you can see the way his canine teeth are just slightly sharper than the rest, the way his eyes are practically glowing with mischief. “so what you’re saying is that i’m irresistible enough to overcome your very reasonable preferences.”

“i’m saying you’re a problem,” you say, but there’s no heat in it. your hands have somehow found their way to his chest, fisting in the fabric of his shirt, and you can feel the warmth of his skin through the thin material.

“a problem you want to solve?” he asks, and he’s leaning closer now, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips. you can see the way his eyes dart down to your mouth, then back up to meet your gaze.

“a problem i want to avoid,” you lie, but your hands are pulling him closer even as you say it, and you can see the way his smile turns fond at the contradiction.

“liar,” he says, and then he’s kissing you, soft and sweet and completely devastating.

the kiss is everything you’ve been imagining for months and nothing like you expected all at once. his lips are soft, gentle, but there’s something sure and confident in the way he moves against you. you can taste coffee and something indefinably sweet, can feel the way his hands tighten slightly on your face like he’s afraid you might disappear.

when he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard, your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. you can see the way his eyes have gone dark, the way his hair is slightly mussed from where your fingers found their way into it.

“still think i’m a problem?” he asks, and his voice is rough, affected, like the kiss hit him just as hard as it hit you.

“the biggest problem,” you say, but you’re smiling now, because maybe some problems are worth having. especially when they come with shoulders like that and eyes like storm clouds and the kind of smile that makes you forget why you ever thought muscles were a bad thing.

“good,” he says, and he kisses you again, deeper this time, with more confidence. his hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel the strength in his arms, the way his body is solid and warm against yours.

it should terrify you. it should make you want to run. instead, it makes you want to map every line of muscle with your fingertips, want to figure out exactly how strong he is, want to lose yourself in this impossible contradiction of a boy who looks like he’d break if you handled him too roughly but feels like he could hold you together if you fell apart.

“you’re trouble,” you murmur against his lips, and you can feel the way he smiles at the words.

“the best kind,” he agrees, and his voice is pure sin, rough and low and absolutely devastating.

you’re so screwed. but as satoru kisses you again, his arms solid and sure around you, you decide that maybe being screwed isn’t such a bad thing after all.

especially when it comes with the promise of more friday afternoon study sessions and the chance to figure out exactly what other surprises satoru gojo has been hiding under those oversized sweaters.

even if he is still, fundamentally, a complete and utter show-off who somehow makes that quality devastatingly attractive.

and if his hidden muscles are just another thing to add to your growing list of reasons why you’re completely gone for him, well, that’s a problem you’ll deal with later.

right now, you’re too busy kissing the most insufferable, brilliant, surprisingly strong boy you’ve ever met to care about anything else.

You were flat on your back, coughing and sputtering after Aoi’s energy forced you back, knocking you off your feet.

Infinity? Perhaps. Maybe it was something more though.

It took Satoru taking one step forward. One step for you to sit up and quickly defend your son. He was just a boy. He didn’t understand.

Satoru’s eyes were wide, pupils the size of pinpoints. One more step forward and you were dragging your body in front of your son’s to protect him.

“Satoru, he didn’t mean to.”

But it wasn’t your voice of reason that made Satoru stop to think for a second. It was the perfect copy of your eyes that you had passed down to your son that made him take pause.

“Dad?” his voice wobbled, reaching up to wipe the guilty tears from his eyes.

His son was not him. He wouldn’t meet the same fate. He’d learn how to control it, but he wouldn’t be forced to use it.

A shudder shot through Satoru’s body, and he crouched down until he was eye level with both of you. “That was pretty intense, huh?” he asked, giving a halfhearted smile. “We’ll work on it.”

“I’m sorry,” his son replied while his lower lip quivered. You wrapped your child up in a hug, assuring him that it was okay.

“I’m sorry too,” was all your husband could manage to say as he pulled both of you into a tight embrace. He was sorry for losing himself to his fear and temper, but more importantly, he was sorry for the “gift” he had passed down to his child.

SUGURU

The twins were too young to know better. They were just playing around, snapping photos on a cellphone, using funny filters to distort images and make them look funny.

“Mama, smile!” Mimiko cheerfully shouted. You couldn’t even get your back turned towards your daughter before Suguru’s body collided with yours, tackling you down to the ground.

He shielded you, deciding that he’d rather take the risk than for you. “Girls!” His voice sounded.. unfamiliar. His anger rarely came out in a raised tone, especially towards your two young children.

The twins froze in place. Nanako’s eyes filled with tears almost immediately while Mimiko curled into her sister. They looked almost as frightened as the day Suguru found them.

The phone fell, clattering against the floor. After a moment of silence where Suguru looked over your body carefully ensuring you were okay, he slowly rose from the ground.

“How many times have I told you two to not play around with that thing?” he asked, his voice taking on a more parental one rather than seething anger.

“We’re sorry! We were just having fun!” Both of them spoke in sync, cowering from their father as they knew they were in big trouble.

Suguru pinched the bridge of his nose, and a frustrated sigh escaped his lips. The parenting books didn’t prepare him for his daughters potentially killing his wife.

“Would it be fun when we’d have to bury your mom? Would it be fun when you two would have to bear the weight of taking a life? Would it be fun when I’d—“

“Suguru,” you interrupted, getting up to hold his arm. “They’re just kids. They don’t understand the weight of their actions. This is a teaching moment. Do not frighten them.”

He knew you were right. You were always the voice of reason. What would he do without you? What kind of parent would he be if his own daughters ripped you away from him?

The mere thought made his head pound. He nodded slowly. “Okay,” he whispered, conceding from his anger. “Okay.” He turned towards your daughters, ready to be a teacher instead of a husband.

NANAMI

Hana had a nasty habit, and it had started when she was just a chubby toddler. Perhaps, it came from playing with Yuji too much, or maybe it was something she had somehow witnessed during the times Nanami and Ino would spar.

She’d swing her open palm, slapping her nearest victim.

Nanami had done everything he could think to discourage her from doing so. He never rewarded her misbehavior, never gave her any positive attention when she would hit someone.

His voice would be taut — strained. “We do not hit. That is not okay.”

She had gotten better — never slapping anyone with a smile on her face. When she was four, she even began to chastise Suguru’s girls when they would get into cat fights and slap each other. “We do not hit!” her tiny voice would hold so much confidence, enough to make Nanami proud.

However, she would lose her temper sometimes. She really was a good kid, hardly ever getting into trouble, but when she was tired… that sort of cranky behavior definitely came from you.

She hadn’t napped at all that day, refusing to close her eyes even for a second. All day, she had kept you on your toes, like she had decided that today was meant for pushing boundaries.

“One more!” she screamed, her tiny eyebrows furrowing in anger.

“Hana, I’ve already allowed you to watch more than your allotted screen time. It’s time to stop watching Bluey and get to bed.” You walked up to where she was standing with her arms crossed over her chest. Her lips were curled into a pout.

Nanami was seated at the dining room table, his glasses hanging low on his nose as he was trying to help Yuji with his homework, but he kept an ear out for what was taking place in the living room.

“I want more Bluey!” She stomped her foot, her voice shaking through the house. How could someone so small have such a powerful tone?

You reached out to pat her on the back — to gently guide her towards her bedroom. You knew as soon as her head touched the pillow, she would fall fast asleep. It was just a chore getting her there.

Hana’s hand swatted out, slapping against your arm with enough force to cause you to stumble. The outline of her handprint had welted up on your skin almost immediately. She had hit a 7:3 ratio without meaning to, without knowing she had.

You heard the sound of chairs scraping against the hardwood floor and pairs of footsteps rushed into the living room from all the ruckus. Gritting your teeth through the pain, each pore on your arm pinpricked in blood.

Nanami got down onto his knees, looking at your arm carefully. His body was rigid, leaking in anger and concern. He leaned into you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t think— I should’ve known it’d happen eventually. I know it hurts. Are you okay?”

It was his power that Hana had inherited; therefore it was his responsibility.

Before you could answer him, he turned his attention towards Hana. His stare held enough heat to scorch her alive. His anger and disappointment were barely contained.

But it was Yuji who was crouched in front of Hana, holding her arms so she’d look at him in the eyes. Yuji was Hana’s role model. He was the cool older brother — the one who never showed any ounce of disapproval towards her.

So, when he looked at her with the most serious of expressions, she froze. “That wasn’t nice, Hana. Look at how you hurt mom. I get you were frustrated, but this hitting thing you do has to stop right here — right now.”

Hana’s big hazel eyes welled up in tears. The amount of embarrassment she felt while being scolded by her older brother was insurmountable. She turned her head towards you and Nanami, seeing the outcome of her outburst.

“I’m so sorry, mama…”

So many conflicting emotions surged through Nanami. He didn’t even think he had the words to say. Perhaps nothing needed to be said after Yuji’s calm words. “Come here, you two,” he said, opening his arms to invite your kids into an embrace with all of you.

TOJI

Megumi’s disrespectful teen years definitely resembled Toji’s rebellious streak. Of course, Toji had a completely different childhood, and his rebellion from the Zenin clan had been definitely justified.

So, when Megumi started to talk back and give apathetic responses to you, Toji saw him as an ungrateful little shit.

You had been nothing but patient and kind. You never let your emotions take over your parenting. You were firm and empathetic at the same time. You were the best mom he could’ve chosen to have his kid, and here Megumi was blatantly disrespecting you in his house.

“Why should I listen to you?” Toji raised his eyes to see his son, still a scrawny teenager standing in the hallway with his arms crossed. You were standing in front of him, trying to get him to do his laundry. “I have things I need to be working on school, cursed techniques, domain expansions. I know you two can’t understand…”

Toji clenched his jaw so hard that his ears began to ring. Could this kid not hear himself? Was this another prank to get himself riled up?

“‘Gumi, I won’t be around to do your laundry forever, you know. You need to learn responsibility.” You were being too nice in Toji’s opinion. You should’ve already smacked some sense into Megumi.

“Responsibility? You can’t even begin to comprehend the level of responsibility I have.” Megumi’s hands twitched at his sides. He was still in the process of learning all ten shadows, and he felt like neither you nor Toji could see how much pressure he was under.

His fingers bent into shape, deciding he’d just show you the level of responsibility he has. When two wolves seemingly materialized from shadows in front of you, Toji had enough.

Your husband was on him in an instant. “You don’t even understand the level of responsibility you have, you twat—“ He had Megumi down to the floor before anyone could say or do anything. “Recall them or I’ll break every goddamn bone in your hand.”

“Who’s a good boy~?” Your voice gave Toji pause. He craned his neck to look over his shoulder. Megumi’s vicious beasts were currently being placated by your love and affection.

His white wolf rolled over on his back, preening for belly rubs as the darker one nuzzled into your arm. Both of them had been practically tamed within a matter of seconds by your hand.

Toji slowly looked back towards Megumi, who was staring up at him with wide frightened eyes. “If those two mutts would’ve hurt your mama, I would’ve brought the inverted spear of heaven out of retirement. Next time you want a fight. You come fight me like a man.” He shoved his son back against the floor and got up to click his tongue at how you loved on the two dogs as if they weren’t bred for destruction.

Perhaps, it stemmed from the same love you gave to Toji as if he wasn’t bred for destruction.

SUKUNA

“Dismantle.”

Silence. Nothing.

“Again,” Sukuna ordered.

“Dismantle,” Ryu said with more energy this time, pulling from his very being to try and make literally anything happen.

Crickets.

Sukuna’s eyes observed his son’s posture. He had his stance right. Sukuna could feel the energy that resembled his own, but Ryu lacked the confidence to wield it. The king of curse’s inherited energy didn’t bow to someone who was unsure about it.

“You’ll get it eventually, sweetheart,” you said lovingly as you placed your hand on Ryu’s shoulder, giving him a small squeeze.

Ryu swiftly jerked away, feeling his frustration bubble over. You were just too doting, and his dad was too cold.

“What are you doing here, woman? I told you to stay inside while I taught him.”

“You two need to take a break. It’s lunch time.”

Ryu fisted at his hair angrily. If he could just get this right, then there wouldn’t be a problem. He wouldn’t have to sit out here with his dad and feel like a complete failure day in and day out.

His energy cracked to life, and he closed his eyes tightly, calling to his energy. “Dismantle.”

Sukuna went still as he watched the slice of energy soar through the air. He gripped your arms tightly. “Cursed wicker basket.”

It was the only counter he could think of on a split second notice. A weaved protection wrapped around you and Sukuna… protecting you two from the “must-hit” nature of dismantle.

Once your husband was certain of your safety, the basket withered away, and he was face-to-face with his petrified son.

“Dad, I didn’t mean…”

“Silence.” The king of curses ordered as he stalked forward, seeping rage from every pore. Ryu staggered back, eyes wide with a fear he has never known. “Do not cower from me, boy.”

Sukuna practically lifted your son up by the collar of his t-shirt before you ran up and pawed at his arms, trying to get him to release him. “Kuna— put him down. He clearly wasn’t thinking. He didn’t mean to cause any harm.”

Your husband only continued to eye his son with enough fury to make the devil himself quake. “You wish to slaughter the only one who begs for your salvation?”

That’s when the tears started. Ryu wasn’t quite old enough to understand the consequences of his actions, but he was old enough to understand that he didn’t want to hurt his mom. “No!” he choked out in a sob.

“Put my son down. Now.” You no longer begged. You commanded.

Sukuna slid his gaze to you, and a ghost of a smile swept across his face. He loved the way you were daring enough to stand up to him.

He dropped Ryu with cold callousness. “You only get one true mother in this life. It’d be wise if you didn’t slice her in half, or else I will do the same to you… slowly.”

Taglist: @theuniversesnepobaby @airandyeah

Sukuna had been home earlier than expected, sighing tired and soft as he was already thinking about melting into your arms… until he heard moaning. And he knew damn well those moans weren’t coming from you. I mean— he did have a flicker of a thought pass by his brain about you cheating, but then remembered how you had waited an entire week to gather up the courage to hold his hand and the thought was quickly disregarded.

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

Sukuna found the room empty except for the flustered, blushing woman he loved more than anything. His brows furrowed in confusion when his eyes trailed across the room to notice the laptop shut, and your glittery pen and notepad laid out hazardously on the floor near a potted plant. His eyes narrowed further, a long sigh passing through his nostrils when his pupils trailed back to you, and watched your cheeks stained a deep, dusky pink that only served to make you look even more adorable in his eyes.

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

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

You were never a good liar, were you?

“Working on your assignment, huh?” he drawled, his deep voice tinged with a hint of skepticism as he crossed his arms over his muscular chest. “Funny, I could've sworn I heard some pretty fucking loud moans coming from in here… sounded like wayyy more than just you workin’ on some bio shit.”

He took another step closer to you, his tall frame looming over her smaller one as he bent over his hips slightly. He could feel the way your breathing had quickened, the way your cute chest was heaving slightly beneath her shirt. Fuck, she looks so fucking cute when she was nervous like this… like a little kitten caught with its paw in the cookie jar, sukuna thought to himself.

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

Last time that had happened you found yourself sleeping alone at the couch, with a pouty sukuna sleeping in your bedroom.

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

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

You whined before making him sit on the couch right next to you, plopping him down comfortably on the soft futon, before you got up and picked up your note pad with the neatly written notes from the floor. Walking back to him with trembling steps you plopped comfortably down on his lap, sighing softly and showing him what you had been doing. Your handwriting was cute and neat as always, with the cute little drawing on the side, despite how lewd the words were. ‘The video showed the wife teasing her husband before sex with something called a strip tease? I don’t know what that is but I’ll try it for Sukuna! >_<‘ one of the dot points read before you sighed wearily and defeated, coughing embarrassed. You opened your laptop, about to explain to him what you had been watching before the loud lewd sounds of moaning bursted out from your laptop. You quickly jumped out of sukuna’s lap to shut down the porn video that you were ‘learning’ from.

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

Sukuna's eyes had widened in surprise as he scanned over the notes scribbled in your neat, feminine handwriting. He couldn't help but let out a low, rumbling chuckle as he took in the lewd words and the cute little doodle of a woman draped seductively over a man's lap, her lucious curves on full display. Fuck, the way you had written out your little to-do list, complete with hearts and silly faces next to each point… as if all the words weren’t the most pornographic descriptions ever.

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

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

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

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

“And hey, there's nothing wrong with watching a little porn every now and then,” he said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and he gazed into you blushing face. “Fuck, if it means I get to see you trying out new things in the bedroom, I say go for it, baby,” he breathed out a little hazy, already imagining all the filthy things you’d discover on your own and try with him for the first time.

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

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

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

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

I mean, you were already doing such a good job already! Squeezing him… squirting everywhere… drooling into the pillow.

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

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

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

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

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

He could feel your thighs trembling beneath him, could sense that you were getting close. He knew all the signs, knew every little sound and shiver that meant you were teetering on the edge of an orgasm. He wanted to push you over, wanted to make you fucking scream his name until you were hoarse and spent.

With his cum glazed alllll over you.

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

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

the thing is, he’s tried. god, has he tried. not in any obvious way—satoru has exactly zero experience with genuine feelings, the kind that make his chest cavity feel like it’s slowly collapsing in on itself every time you walk into a room. his expertise lies in performance, in being the guy who makes everyone laugh until they forget he might be a real person underneath all the noise.  

but with you, every carefully rehearsed joke dies in his throat. every casual conversation starter sounds forced and desperate in his head before he can voice it. so instead, he’s become a scholar of your existence, studying the minutiae of your daily routine with the dedication of someone trying to decode an ancient language.  

he knows you arrive at school at exactly 7:47 every morning, clutching a travel mug that steams in the cold air—coffee or tea, he still doesn’t know, but the ceramic is pale blue with tiny white flowers around the rim. he knows because he’s memorized the pattern during the countless mornings he’s stationed himself by the window in the empty hallway, pretending to study while tracking your approach across the courtyard.  

he knows you always choose the third row from the back, two seats from the window, and that you spend the first five minutes of every class organizing your supplies with methodical precision. blue pen, yellow highlighter, a small ruler you use as a bookmark. everything arranged just so, like the order of things matters in a way that makes his chest tight with wanting to understand why.  

he knows you eat lunch in careful, measured bites and always save your fruit for last. knows you smell faintly of something floral—lavender, maybe, or something equally soft that makes him lean closer when you pass in the hallways, chasing that subtle scent like a man starving.  

what he doesn’t know is how to bridge the gap between observer and participant. how to become someone worthy of knowing these details because you chose to share them, not because he’s catalogued them from a distance like some lovesick detective.  

“you’re staring again,” suguru says, sliding into the seat next to him during lunch. his dark hair falls across his forehead as he unwraps his sandwich, giving satoru a look that’s equal parts amused and concerned.  

“i’m not staring.” satoru’s fingers drum against the cafeteria table, restless energy vibrating through him like a live wire. his hair catches the fluorescent light in ways that seem almost unnatural—strands of winter morning frost that refuse to lay flat no matter how many times he runs his hands through them. “i’m... observing.”  

“creepily.”  

“strategically.”  

across the cafeteria, you’re sitting with a small group of girls from your class, picking at your lunch with those same careful, measured bites. today you’re wearing that soft lavender cardigan—the same gentle purple as twilight sky before rain—and satoru has spent an embarrassing amount of time wondering if lavender might be your favorite color. your fingers wrap around your water bottle with gentle precision, and the simple gesture makes his chest cavity feel like it’s caving in on itself.  

or maybe it’s yellow, like the hair tie you always wear on your wrist but never actually use. he’s watched you reach for it countless times when your hair falls in your face, fingers closing around the elastic before you seem to remember something and choose to tuck the strands behind your ear instead. the hair tie stays on your wrist like a safety net you never quite need to deploy.  

or blue, like the pen you always choose first from your pencil case, like the corner of sky visible through the third-row window where you always sit, like the flowers on your coffee mug and the notebook you write in during literature class.  

he’s catalogued these details like a desperate scholar, hoarding every tiny piece of you he can observe from a distance. but the collection feels hollow, incomplete. he wants to know the stories behind your choices—why blue pens, why that specific seat, why you save fruit for last and never use the yellow hair tie. he wants to know what you think about during those moments when you stare out the window, expression distant and contemplative.  

he wants to know what you taste like and what makes you cry and whether you’d let him hold your hand if he was brave enough to ask.  

“just talk to her,” shoko says, appearing with her lunch tray and the perpetual smell of cigarettes that follows her around. she slides in across from them, lighter hair catching the fluorescent lights as she fixes satoru with that deadpan stare of hers. “like a normal person.”  

“what if she thinks i’m annoying?” satoru whines, actually whines, his voice climbing higher as he gestures dramatically. his eyes—those impossible cerulean pools that seem to hold entire skies captive—dart frantically between his friends. the panic is genuine, raw in a way that makes his chest constrict. “what if she’s been trying to avoid me this whole time and i just haven’t noticed because i’m too busy being pathetic?”  

because that’s the thing that keeps him awake at night—the possibility that you’ve already made up your mind about him. that you’ve categorized him as the loud, obnoxious guy who turns everything into a performance, and nothing he could say or do would change that assessment.  

“what if she already thinks i’m weird because of that time i tried to make her laugh by doing that stupid voice during chemistry?” his voice gets higher, more frantic. “she just stared at me like i was having a breakdown which, let’s be honest, i probably was—”  

“satoru,” suguru interrupts, but there’s fondness threading through his exasperation.  

“—and now she probably tells her friends about the weird white-haired guy who won’t shut up and makes stupid jokes and thinks he’s the main character in everyone else’s story when really he’s just—”  

“you’re spiraling,” shoko says flatly.  

satoru slumps forward, burying his face in his crossed arms on the table. his hair falls like silk curtains around his face, hiding the flush creeping up his neck. “i’m dying, shoko. literally wasting away. look at me—i’m becoming a husk of my former self.”  

“you literally ate three lunch portions yesterday.”  

“emotional eating!” satoru lifts his head just enough to fix her with those devastating eyes, now gleaming with theatrical despair. “i’m pining. this is what pining looks like. i’m like... like a victorian maiden wasting away from unrequited love, except instead of consumption it’s chronic stupidity and instead of writing tragic poetry i just stare at her like a creep and hope she doesn’t notice.”  

if only it were that simple.  

the thing is, satoru knows how to talk to people. he’s built his entire high school reputation on it—the guy who can make anyone laugh, who turns every moment into a performance, who fills up all the empty spaces with noise and movement and carefully calculated chaos. teachers love him because he makes their classes entertaining. classmates love him because he’s never met a silence he couldn’t fill or a tension he couldn’t defuse with a well-timed joke.  

but with you? every word feels too big for his mouth, every gesture too clumsy, too desperate. the performance skills that have served him so well with everyone else feel hollow and wrong when he imagines directing them at you. you deserve something real, something genuine, and satoru has no idea how to be genuine when being genuine means risking the possibility that the real him isn’t enough.  

it wasn’t always like this. for the first few weeks after you transferred, you were just another face in the classroom, quietly pretty in that understated way that doesn’t demand attention. satoru barely noticed you, too busy maintaining his role as class entertainer, turning every lesson into an opportunity for comedy.  

but then came that tuesday in october.  

the memory is burned into his brain with perfect clarity—the way the afternoon light was slanting through the classroom windows, turning everything golden and hazy. he’d been showing off again, naturally. their physics teacher had been explaining momentum, and satoru had seen an opportunity for physical comedy, volunteering to demonstrate some ridiculous interpretation complete with exaggerated gestures and sound effects.  

he’d been in his element, commanding the room’s attention with the kind of practiced ease that made it look effortless. the class was laughing, sensei was trying not to smile, and satoru was riding that familiar high of successful performance. except he’d gotten carried away, as he always did, and miscalculated the space between himself and the desk behind him.  

the tumble was spectacular—a full-scale collision that sent papers and textbooks flying in every direction, his long limbs tangled awkwardly as he went down in a cascade of his own hubris. the crash echoed through the classroom, followed immediately by that particular silence that comes right before everyone starts laughing.  

except this time, as satoru started to push himself up from the floor, already forming his next joke to cover the embarrassment and turn his failure into another moment of entertainment, he noticed something that made him freeze mid-motion.  

you weren’t laughing.  

while everyone else was caught up in the spectacle of his pratfall, you had quietly gotten up from your seat and were crouched beside the scattered papers, gathering them with careful, methodical movements. no performative kindness, no dramatic gestures to match the energy of the moment—just simple, genuine help offered to someone who needed it.  

your fingers were gentle as you collected each worksheet and handout, straightening bent corners and smoothing wrinkles with the kind of automatic care that spoke to something fundamental in your character. you weren’t doing it for applause or recognition; most of the class was still too busy laughing to notice what you were doing.  

you were doing it because it was the right thing to do. because he needed help, and you were someone who helped.  

“you okay?” you’d asked softly, offering him the stack of rescued papers. your voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through all the noise of the still-giggling classroom like sunlight through glass.  

satoru had looked up at you—really looked—and felt something fundamental shift in his chest. something that rearranged his understanding of what mattered, what was worth paying attention to, what kind of person he wanted to be worthy of knowing.  

your eyes weren’t bright with amusement at his expense or calculating how this moment might benefit you socially. they were simply kind, offering genuine concern for his wellbeing without any expectation of return. when was the last time someone had looked at him and seen past the performance to the person underneath? when had anyone ever cared enough to ask if he was okay instead of just waiting for the next joke?  

“yeah,” he’d managed to say, accepting the papers with fingers that trembled slightly at the brief contact with yours. “yeah, i’m... thanks.”  

you’d smiled then—not the polite, distant expression you gave everyone else, but something smaller and more real. something just for him. “good catch on the momentum demonstration though. very authentic.”  

the joke was gentle, warm, delivered with a straight face that made it even funnier. satoru had found himself laughing, really laughing, not the practiced showman’s laugh he used for effect but something genuine and surprised and utterly delighted.  

“i aim for realism in all my educational presentations,” he’d replied, and your smile had widened just a fraction, like you were pleased he’d played along.  

that was it. thirty seconds of interaction, maybe less, but it rewired something essential in satoru’s understanding of connection. for the first time in his life, someone had seen past the noise and performance to offer him something real—not because it benefited them, not because they wanted something in return, but simply because they were the kind of person who helped when help was needed.  

that’s when the watching started. the noticing.  

how you always sit in the third row from the back, two seats from the window where afternoon light streams in like liquid gold. how you take notes in blue ink but highlight in yellow, creating little bursts of sunshine across your notebooks. how you eat lunch in small, careful bites and always save your fruit for last, like you’re extending the pleasure of something sweet.  

how you smell faintly of lavender—your shampoo, maybe, or that soft cardigan you wear when the weather turns grey and uncertain. how you smile at everyone but it never quite reaches your eyes except for rare moments when you think no one is looking, when something genuinely amuses or delights you and your whole face transforms.  

satoru has become an expert in those unguarded moments, collecting them like a dragon hoards gold. the way you duck your head to hide a smile when someone makes an unexpectedly clever joke. the little furrow that appears between your eyebrows when you’re working through a difficult problem. the unconscious way you hum under your breath when you think no one can hear, usually something soft and melodic that gets stuck in his head for hours afterward.  

he’s also become an expert in finding ways to help without you noticing, ways to orbit your world without disrupting it. it started small—making sure there were extra handouts available when you forgot yours, strategically leaving his notes where you might find them when you’d missed a day of class due to a cold.  

but as his feelings deepened from admiration to something more desperate and consuming, so did his efforts to make your life easier in invisible ways.  

when he overheard you mentioning to a friend that you’d forgotten your lunch money again, he’d started carrying extra cash, slipping a few bills into your bag when you stepped away from your desk. it had to be done carefully, casually, when everyone was distracted and you wouldn’t notice the movement. he’d perfected the art of misdirection, using his natural tendency toward dramatic gestures to cover the smaller, more significant action of taking care of you.  

the first time he’d done it, his heart had hammered so hard he was sure someone would notice. but you’d simply returned to find the money in your bag, looked puzzled for a moment, then shrugged and headed to lunch. no dramatic gratitude, no investigation into the source—just quiet acceptance of a small kindness.  

it became addictive, that ability to ease your day in ways you’d never know about. when you were struggling with calculus, he’d convinced sensei to pair you with him for study sessions—except he’d pretended to need help instead, asking you to explain concepts he already understood perfectly. watching you work through problems aloud, seeing the way your confidence grew as you talked yourself through the steps, was worth every minute of pretending to be confused by equations he’d mastered years ago.  

“i don’t get this part,” he’d say, pointing to something perfectly straightforward, and you’d lean closer, your hair falling forward as you focused on his notebook.  

“okay, so think about it this way,” you’d begin, your voice taking on that patient, careful tone you used when explaining things. and satoru would nod seriously, asking follow-up questions designed not to get answers but to keep you talking, to keep you engaged, to help you realize how brilliant you actually were.  

the study sessions became a weekly tradition, and though you never said so directly, he could see the way your test scores improved, the way you sat a little straighter in math class, more confident in raising your hand when sensei asked questions.  

when the weather turned cold and rainy, he started timing his route home to coincide with yours, always carrying an oversized umbrella that could easily fit two people. you’d politely decline his offers to share it every time, your fingers fidgeting with the strap of your bag as you looked anywhere but at his face—up at the grey sky threatening more rain, down at puddles reflecting fragments of blue between the clouds.  

but he’d walk slower anyway, close enough that you stayed mostly dry under the protection of his umbrella’s generous span. close enough to catch hints of your lavender scent when the wind shifted. close enough to imagine what it might feel like if you decided to close that last bit of distance between you.  

those walks were torture and bliss in equal measure. you never spoke much, both of you listening to the rhythm of rain against fabric, your footsteps synchronizing without conscious effort. sometimes you’d hum softly, those same melodic fragments that haunted his dreams, and satoru would match his breathing to the music, trying to memorize each note.  

he told himself he was being helpful. told himself these small kindnesses were just what any decent person would do for a classmate. but late at night, lying in his bed and replaying every moment of proximity, every accidental brush of fingers when you’d handed back his notes, every time you’d looked at him with something that might have been gratitude or affection, he knew the truth.  

he wasn’t just helping. he was courting you in the most pathetic way possible, too afraid of rejection to make his intentions clear but too desperate to stop trying.  

because the thing about loving someone from a distance is that it creates its own gravity. every small interaction becomes magnified, every smile or laugh or moment of eye contact takes on massive significance. he was building a relationship in his head based on fragments and assumptions, falling deeper in love with someone he barely knew but desperately wanted to understand.  

he wanted to know what you thought about during those moments when you stared out the window, expression distant and contemplative. wanted to know what books made you cry and what songs you hummed when you thought no one was listening. wanted to know what you were afraid of and what you dreamed about and whether you’d ever, even for a moment, wondered about him the way he wondered about you.  

but more than that—and this was the part that made his chest feel like it was caving in—he wanted to know the worst parts of you too. the things that frustrated you, the ways you were petty or unreasonable or human. he wanted to love your flaws and bad moods and the face you made when you were genuinely angry about something.  

because that’s what real love was supposed to be, wasn’t it? not putting someone on a pedestal but wanting to know every facet of who they were, the light and shadow both. he’d spent so long performing the best version of himself for everyone else’s entertainment that the idea of being known completely—flaws and fears and desperate longing included—felt both terrifying and essential.  

the problem was that wanting something and knowing how to get it were entirely different skills, and satoru had always been better at wanting than achieving when it came to things that actually mattered.  

“she smiled at me yesterday,” satoru says now, watching you laugh at something one of your friends said. that real laugh, the one that transforms your whole face, makes your eyes crinkle at the corners in a way that sends electricity shooting through his nervous system. his chest feels like it’s being compressed by invisible hands, ribs contracting around a heart that’s beating too fast and too hard. “like, really really smiled. not the polite one she gives sensei when he asks if she understood the lesson.”  

it had happened during chemistry class, when their teacher had made an unexpectedly clever pun about molecular bonds. the whole class had groaned in that exaggerated way that meant everyone was secretly amused, but you’d actually laughed—a surprised, delighted sound that had made satoru’s entire world shift on its axis.  

and then, as if sensing his attention, you’d glanced over at him, still smiling, and for one perfect moment it felt like you were sharing the joke with him specifically. like you’d looked for his reaction because it mattered to you what he thought.  

it had lasted maybe three seconds, but satoru had been riding the high of it ever since, replaying those few moments of connection until they’d taken on an almost sacred significance in his memory.  

“revolutionary,” shoko says dryly, but her expression is softer than her tone. “what’s next? eye contact?”  

“don’t mock my pain,” satoru whines, dramatically flopping back in his chair. his hair falls away from his face like spilled moonlight, revealing the flush painting his cheekbones. “this is serious emotional turmoil. i think i’m developing an ulcer from the stress. or maybe it’s lovesickness—do people still get lovesickness? because i’m pretty sure that’s what this is.”  

“you’re being dramatic,” suguru says, but there’s fondness in it.  

“i’m being accurate,” satoru corrects, gesturing wildly with hands that catch the light, his rings glinting like small stars. “this is what unrequited love looks like. this is what it does to a person. i’m wasting away from the sheer intensity of my feelings, becoming a shadow of my former self, a cautionary tale about the dangers of—”  

“just ask her out,” suguru interrupts, exasperated affection clear in his voice.  

“i can’t just—” satoru gestures vaguely, his hands moving through the air like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra of anxiety. “what if she says no? what if she stops smiling at me altogether? what if she realizes i’ve been basically stalking her daily routine for months and decides i’m a creep? what if she transfers schools to get away from me? what if—”  

“what if she says yes?”  

the possibility feels too fragile to touch, like spun glass that might shatter if he breathes on it wrong. because hope is dangerous when you’ve built your entire emotional equilibrium around the safety of distance, around loving someone who can’t reject you because you’ve never actually offered yourself up for rejection.  

what if you say yes, and then get to know the real him and decides you were wrong? what if the person he is underneath all the performance and desperate trying isn’t someone worth knowing after all?  

after lunch, satoru finds himself in his usual predicament: wanting to talk to you but having absolutely no idea what to say. you’re at your desk, reading something for literature class, and he’s hovering three desks away like an idiot, pretending to look for something in his bag while his brain cycles through and discards potential conversation starters.  

hey, how’s the book? too generic.  

nice weather, huh? it’s literally grey and threatening rain.  

did you understand the homework? he’d sound like he was fishing for study session time, which he was, but he didn’t want to make it obvious.  

outside, clouds are gathering in that particular way that promises rain later, and the grey light filtering through the windows makes everything feel hushed and expectant. you’re completely absorbed in whatever you’re reading, occasionally tucking your hair behind your ear in that gesture that makes his chest cavity feel like it’s slowly collapsing.  

this is ridiculous. he’s satoru gojo. he can talk to anyone about anything. he once convinced their principal to let him dj the school dance by spending twenty minutes explaining why classical music was “totally outdated for modern youth expression.” he talked their chemistry teacher into letting the class have a pizza party instead of taking a quiz by arguing that “hands-on learning about the chemical composition of processed foods” was educational.  

but ask you about your weekend plans? impossible.  

“just do something,” suguru hisses from behind him, having clearly grown tired of watching satoru’s internal breakdown. “anything. you’re being weird.”  

panic does funny things to decision-making. instead of the casual conversation satoru had been planning, instead of asking about homework or commenting on the weather or literally any normal human interaction, his brain short-circuits into what he later realizes was the stupidest possible plan.  

if he can’t talk to you normally, maybe he can create a situation where you have to talk to him.  

it starts innocent enough—or at least, that’s what he tells himself. while you’re distracted, helping another classmate with a question about the reading assignment, satoru quietly moves your bag from beside your desk to behind the filing cabinet in the back corner of the room.  

not hiding it, exactly. just... relocating it. temporarily.  

he watches you help your classmate, your voice soft and patient as you explain some concept about symbolism in the text, your finger tracing gentle lines across the page to illustrate your point. there’s something about the way you teach—generous and careful, like you genuinely want the other person to understand rather than just proving how smart you are—that makes his throat feel tight with longing.  

the plan is simple: you’ll realize your bag is missing, he’ll “help” you look for it, and in the process of gratefully thanking him for his assistance, you’ll finally see him as more than just the class clown who occasionally shares his umbrella. maybe you’ll even smile at him again, that real smile that makes his knees forget how to support his weight.  

foolproof, right?  

except when you return to your desk and notice your bag is gone, you don’t ask for help. you don’t announce it to the class or look around frantically or do any of the things satoru had assumed you would do.  

instead, you just... freeze.  

your hand goes to your chest, fingers splaying across your collarbone like you’re trying to hold something in place. satoru watches your breathing shift from calm and even to something more deliberate, more controlled, like you’re having to think about each inhale and exhale.  

you’re trying to stay composed, he realizes, trying not to draw attention to your rising anxiety. but he can see it in the tight line around your eyes, the way your free hand grips the edge of your desk, the careful way you’re scanning the room without making it obvious that you’re looking for something.  

this isn’t what he wanted. this quiet distress, this carefully controlled panic—this isn’t the scenario he’d imagined at all.  

“hey,” he says, abandoning all pretense and moving to your desk. up close, he can see the tight line of your mouth, the way your fingers are trembling slightly where they press against your throat. “everything okay? you look like you’re missing something.”  

“my bag,” you say quietly, and your voice is steady but there’s something strained underneath it, something that makes alarm bells start ringing in the back of his head. “i can’t find my bag.”  

“oh no,” satoru says, and he’s a good enough actor that the concern in his voice sounds genuine instead of manufactured. “when did you last see it?”  

“i—” you start to answer, but then he’s leaning closer, ostensibly to help you look around your desk area. he’d sprayed too much cologne this morning in his nervousness, some expensive thing suguru had recommended that had seemed like a good idea at the time. now the scent feels overwhelming in the small space between you.  

you take a small step back, your hand fluttering briefly to your chest before you catch yourself. he follows without thinking, still scanning your desk area with theatrical concern, completely missing the way you press your lips together and take another careful step away.  

your breathing shifts again, becoming more deliberate. your fingers find the edge of your desk, gripping it slightly as you try to maintain control, but satoru is too focused on executing his stupid plan to notice the signs.  

“maybe it fell behind something?” he suggests, moving closer still. the cologne seems to intensify in the smaller space, and you take another step back, your shoulders bumping against the wall.  

you’re trapped now, between his presence and the wall, and your breathing is becoming more labored by the second. your fingers press against the base of your neck, and there’s real distress in your eyes now, not just the mild anxiety he’d been expecting.  

“satoru,” you say quietly, and there’s something urgent in your voice that finally, finally makes him stop talking and actually look at you.  

really look at you.  

color is draining from your face like water from a broken glass. your hand is pressed against your throat, fingers splayed wide, and your chest is rising and falling in careful, measured movements that are clearly taking enormous effort. your eyes are wide, not with gratitude or the beginnings of romantic connection, but with genuine fear.  

something is very, very wrong.  

“hey,” he says, and all his manufactured concern transforms into something real and terrifying. “hey, what’s wrong?”  

you look at him for a moment, and he can see you trying to decide whether to trust him with whatever is happening. your lips are slightly parted as you focus on breathing, and there’s a grayish tinge around your mouth that makes his stomach drop toward his feet.  

then your eyes dart around the room, searching, and the pieces click together with horrible clarity.  

“my inhaler,” you manage to whisper, voice tight and strained like each word costs you. “need my bag.”  

the words slam into him with the force of a physical blow—not the cliché kind, but like the way truth hits when you’re not ready for it, sudden and breathtaking and completely devastating.  

inhaler. asthma. and he—  

god, what has he done?  

satoru has never moved faster in his life. he practically flies to the back corner, his hands shaking as he grabs your bag from behind the filing cabinet, and when he turns back toward you with it, he sees the exact moment you realize what this means.  

your eyes widen as you see him returning with your bag from that specific location, and the look that crosses your face—the terrible understanding, the betrayal, the quiet devastation of realizing that the person trying to help you is the same one who caused this—it carves itself into his memory with surgical precision.  

it’s worse than anger. worse than yelling. it’s disappointment, quiet and profound, and it makes him feel like he’s shrinking into himself, becoming smaller and smaller until there’s nothing left but guilt and the lingering scent of his too-strong cologne.  

you don’t say anything about the betrayal. you just dig through your bag with trembling fingers, pulling out a small blue inhaler, and the sound you make as you press it to your lips—desperate and rattling and absolutely terrifying—will haunt his dreams for weeks afterward.  

the medication works, but slowly. satoru stands frozen beside your desk, watching color gradually seep back into your face like watercolor bleeding across wet paper, and there’s something clawing at the inside of his chest that feels suspiciously like panic.  

he did this. he did this to you. he moved your bag, he invaded your space with his overwhelming presence, he created the exact situation that triggered your asthma attack, and he did it all because he was too much of a coward to just say hello like a normal person.  

his hands are shaking—when did they start shaking?—and his eyes, usually so bright they seem to glow, are wide with horror and guilt, reflecting every shade of remorse that exists in the spectrum of human emotion. his perfectly tousled hair is disheveled from running his hands through it, white strands sticking up at odd angles that would be endearing in any other context.  

“are you—” he starts, his voice cracking on the words. “do you need—should i get the nurse? or water? i can get you water, or—”  

“i’m fine,” you say quietly, but your voice is still rough around the edges, and the word ‘fine’ has never sounded less convincing.  

satoru hovers uselessly, his hands fluttering between reaching for you and pulling back, like he can’t decide if his touch would help or make everything worse. probably worse. definitely worse. everything he touches turns to disaster, apparently.  

“i didn’t know,” he says desperately, the words tumbling out in a rush of genuine panic. “i swear i didn’t know about the asthma, i would never have—if i’d known—”  

but that’s not really true, is it? because he did know something was wrong. he saw your distress, saw the way you were struggling to breathe, and his first instinct wasn’t to help but to continue with his stupid plan. he was so focused on manufacturing a romantic moment that he ignored your actual needs, your actual safety.  

you look at him then, really look at him, and he braces himself for anger. he’s prepared for yelling, for tears, for the kind of dramatic confrontation that would at least give him something concrete to apologize for, some clear path toward redemption.  

instead, you just look tired. disappointed in a way that reaches your bones, settles in your posture like a weight you’ll carry for a long time.  

“don’t touch my stuff again,” you say quietly, your voice hoarse from the attack. you won’t meet his eyes as you tuck the inhaler back into your bag, your movements careful and deliberate.  

the words are soft but they land like stones dropped into still water, sending ripples of realization through his chest. not anger, not dramatics—just a simple boundary drawn in the sand, quiet and final.  

then you get up and walk away, your soft lavender cardigan trailing behind you like smoke, leaving satoru standing there with the weight of what he’s done settling around him like lead.  

he watches you go, memorizing the set of your shoulders, the way your hair catches the grey light from the windows, the careful steadiness of your steps. some part of him already knows this might be the last time you let him see you at all, and the thought makes his knees feel unreliable.  

something fundamental has shifted in his chest, something that can’t be undone. not the fluttery, hopeful feeling he’s carried for months, but something heavier and more permanent. the realization that he’s lost something he never actually had, but somehow that makes it worse, not better.  

he’d spent months building a fantasy relationship based on observations and assumptions, convinced himself that his feelings were pure and romantic when really they were selfish and invasive. he’d put his own desires above your comfort and safety, and now he has to live with the consequences of that choice.  

someone should probably tell him to sit down. his legs feel unreliable, like they might give out without warning. but instead he just stands there, staring at the door you disappeared through, breathing in the lingering scent of his cologne and understanding for the first time what it means to be genuinely ashamed of yourself.  

the worst part isn’t even the guilt, though that’s crushing enough. it’s the knowledge that he’s proven himself to be exactly the kind of person who doesn’t deserve to be in your world. selfish, thoughtless, willing to risk your safety for his own gratification.  

you asked for one thing: don’t touch my stuff again.  

such a simple boundary. such a reasonable request.  

and satoru knows, with crystalline clarity, that he’ll spend the rest of his life honoring it, even if it means loving you from a distance so great it feels like another planet entirely.  

the next few days pass in a haze of guilt so thick satoru feels like he’s moving underwater. every breath takes effort, every step feels deliberate. he, who has never been quiet a day in his life, finds himself subdued in ways that make suguru and shoko exchange increasingly worried glances.  

the silence isn’t natural on him. normally, satoru fills every available space with noise—commentary about their teachers, complaints about homework, observations about classmates, elaborate theories about why the cafeteria curry tastes like cardboard. but now he sits through lunch picking at his food, his usual animated gestures replaced by restless fidgeting. his fingers drum against the table in anxious rhythms, his leg bounces under the table, and his hair falls across his forehead in dejected waves that he doesn’t bother to fix.  

the worst part is how you’ve become a ghost in his periphery. before, you were a presence he sought out, a warmth he gravitated toward without quite realizing it. now you’re a careful absence, a space deliberately carved out of his world. he catches glimpses—the edge of your lavender cardigan disappearing around corners, your voice soft and distant in the hallway, the particular way sunlight catches in your hair through the classroom windows—but they feel like echoes of something lost.  

you don’t look at him anymore. not even the polite smiles, not even the careful acknowledgments when he holds doors or offers his umbrella. you’ve effectively erased him from your world, and the space he used to occupy—however small—now feels enormous in its emptiness.  

but it’s more than just the absence of your attention. it’s watching you actively reshape your entire routine around avoiding him. you take different routes to class now, ones that don’t pass his locker or the spots where he usually lingered. you sit farther away during lunch, choosing tables with clear sightlines to exits. your study spots in the library have shifted to the far corner by the poetry section, somewhere he’d never think to look.  

satoru finds himself memorizing these new patterns with the same obsessive attention he once devoted to learning your preferences. except now he’s cataloguing all the ways you don’t want to see him, mapping the geography of your avoidance like a scholar of his own rejection. every adjusted route, every changed habit, every carefully calculated distance feels like evidence of how thoroughly he’s ruined whatever fragile connection existed between you.  

the guilt sits in his chest like a physical weight, making his ribs feel too tight and his lungs too small. sometimes he catches himself holding his breath without realizing it, as if his body is trying to remind him what it felt like for you in that moment when your inhaler was out of reach and panic was closing your throat.  

“this is getting ridiculous,” shoko says on thursday, cornering him after their last class. she’s got that look—the one that means she’s been watching him deteriorate all week and has reached her limit. her lighter hair is tucked behind her ears, and there’s genuine concern threading through her usual deadpan expression. “you look like someone ran over your dog.”  

“worse,” satoru mumbles, slumped against the lockers. the metal is cool against his spine, but it does nothing to ease the heat of shame that’s been burning in his chest for days. his hair falls across his forehead in dejected waves, no longer catching light like spun silver but hanging limp with the weight of his misery. “someone should run over me.”  

“dramatic much?” but there’s no real bite in shoko’s words. she’s studying his face with the clinical attention she usually reserves for her first aid training, cataloguing the dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders hunch inward like he’s trying to protect himself from invisible blows.  

“she doesn’t want to talk to me,” satoru continues, his voice taking on that whiny quality that means he’s really, truly upset. it’s the same tone he used as a kid when he scraped his knees or lost his favorite toy, except now there’s something hollow underneath it that makes shoko’s chest tighten. “and she’s right not to. i’m an idiot. i’m worse than an idiot—i’m the kind of person who gives someone an asthma attack because i wanted her to notice me.”  

the words taste bitter in his mouth, and he runs both hands through his hair until it’s sticking up at impossible angles. his eyes—usually so vibrant they seem to glow with internal light—look dulled, like someone turned down their brightness settings. the effect is unsettling on someone who’s made a career of being the center of attention.  

“that’s like... that’s supervillain levels of terrible,” he continues, his voice dropping to a whisper. “who does that? who puts someone in actual physical danger just for a chance to play hero?”  

“you’re an idiot who made a mistake,” suguru corrects, joining their little intervention. he’s been listening from a few feet away, probably giving satoru space to spiral before stepping in. his dark eyes are serious but kind, the way they get when he’s trying to talk one of his friends down from an emotional ledge. “there’s a difference.”  

“is there?” satoru laughs, but there’s no humor in it. the sound is flat and hollow, like stones dropping into an empty well. “i literally made it so she couldn’t breathe, suguru. because i was too much of a coward to just say hi like a normal person.”  

he slides down the lockers until he’s sitting on the floor, his uniform rumpled and his posture defeated. from this angle, with his knees pulled up and his head tilted back against the metal, he looks younger somehow. less like the confident class clown everyone expects him to be, more like the anxious seventeen-year-old boy he actually is.  

“and you know what the worst part is?” his voice cracks slightly, and he has to clear his throat to continue. “it wasn’t even a prank or whatever she probably thinks. it was worse than that. it was me being so desperate for her attention that i was willing to manufacture a crisis just to have an excuse to talk to her.”  

shoko crouches down beside him, her expression softer than usual. “satoru—”  

“i’ve been in love with her for months,” he continues, the words spilling out like he can’t stop them. they’ve been building pressure in his chest for so long that saying them aloud feels like puncturing a balloon. “months of watching her and learning her schedule and finding excuses to be near her, and the one time i actually try to do something about it, i nearly send her to the hospital.”  

the confession hangs in the air between them, raw and vulnerable in a way that makes both his friends exchange glances. satoru doesn’t usually talk about his feelings this directly, doesn’t usually let them see past the performative confidence to the uncertainty underneath.  

“you’re being dramatic,” shoko says, but her tone is gentler now, like she’s talking to something wounded. “it was an asthma attack, not attempted murder.”  

“am i? because it sure felt pretty serious when she couldn’t breathe.” satoru’s voice drops to a whisper, and when he looks up at them, there’s something haunted in his expression. “what if something had happened? what if her inhaler wasn’t in her bag, or what if it was empty, or what if—”  

“stop,” suguru says firmly, dropping down to sit beside him. “you’re spiraling again.”  

“good! i should spiral.” satoru’s hands clench into fists in his lap, his knuckles white with tension. “i should feel terrible about this forever because what i did was—”  

“fixable,” shoko interrupts, settling on his other side. “if you stop wallowing and actually do something about it.”  

but what is there to do? how do you apologize for something like that? how do you take back the moment when your selfishness literally made someone unable to breathe? satoru has never been good with genuine apologies—he’s always been able to charm his way out of trouble with jokes and dramatic gestures—but this feels too important for his usual repertoire.  

the weekend stretches ahead of him like a prison sentence. normally, satoru would spend saturday sleeping in and sunday doing homework at the last minute, maybe hanging out with suguru and shoko if they could tolerate his energy levels. but the thought of two whole days without even the possibility of seeing you, even from a distance, makes his chest feel hollow.  

instead, he finds himself at his desk with a blank piece of paper and a pen that feels impossibly heavy in his hand.  

the first draft is a disaster. too casual, too formal, too joking, too serious. he writes and crumples and writes again until his wastebasket overflows with failed attempts. his desk is littered with torn pages, each one a different approach to the impossible task of explaining the inexplicable.  

hey, so about the other day... crumple.  

i know you’re probably mad at me... crumple.  

please don’t hate me forever... crumple.  

by sunday night, he’s surrounded by the carnage of his literary failures, his hair disheveled from running his hands through it, his eyes strained from staring at blank pages. the collar of his sleep shirt is wrinkled from nervous tugging, and there are ink stains on his fingers from gripping his pen too tightly.  

finally, sometime around midnight, he stops trying to be clever or charming or anything other than honest. the words that come then are raw and unfiltered, written in his messy handwriting with all its imperfect loops and hurried slashes:  

i don’t know how to start this, so i’m just going to say it: i’m sorry. i’m sorry for moving your bag, i’m sorry for what happened because of it, and i’m sorry for being too much of a coward to say this to your face.  

i know you probably think i did it as some kind of prank, but it wasn’t that. it was worse than that. i did it because i wanted you to talk to me, and i was too scared to just ask you to. i’ve been watching you for months, trying to figure out how to be part of your world without disrupting it, but all i did was prove that i don’t deserve to be in it at all.  

i don’t know what your favorite color is, or what kind of music you listen to, or if you prefer tea or coffee. i don’t know anything real about you, but somehow you’ve become the most important part of my day. seeing you smile—even those careful, polite ones—made everything else bearable. and now i’ve ruined even that.  

i’m not asking you to forgive me. i’m not asking you to talk to me again. i just needed you to know that what happened wasn’t because i don’t care. it was because i care too much, and i’m terrible at showing it.  

i’m sorry for being the kind of person who would risk your safety just for a chance at your attention. you deserve so much better than that. you deserve so much better than me.  

-satoru  

ps: i’ve been leaving you extra snacks in your locker on the days when you forget lunch money. and i convinced sensei to pair us for calculus study sessions because you’re actually brilliant at it and i thought if you explained it out loud, you’d realize that too. and i always walk slow when it rains because i hoped you’d stay a little drier, even if you never took the umbrella. i’m sorry if any of that was unwelcome. i just wanted to help.  

he folds the letter with trembling fingers, creasing it carefully like it’s something precious instead of a confession of his worst impulses. on monday morning, he arrives at school early, the hallways still empty and echoing with the hollow sound of his footsteps. your locker is in the sophomore wing, and he knows the combination because he’s watched you enter it enough times to memorize the sequence—another violation of your privacy that makes him feel sick with shame.  

slipping the letter through the vents takes exactly three seconds, but he stands there for another minute afterward, staring at the metal door like he can will it to grant him forgiveness. the letter disappears into the darkness beyond the vents, carrying all his hope and terror with it.  

the next few days pass in a special kind of agony. every time he sees you in the hallway, his heart does something acrobatic in his chest, searching your face for any sign that you’ve read his words. but your expression remains carefully neutral, your routine unchanged. you still avoid his usual haunts, still choose paths that don’t intersect with his, still treat him like furniture that happens to be shaped like a person.  

by wednesday, satoru is convinced you threw the letter away without reading it. the possibility shouldn’t hurt as much as it does—after all, you have every right to ignore his desperate rambling—but it settles in his chest like lead anyway. maybe it’s better this way. maybe some mistakes are too big for apologies to bridge.  

but then thursday happens.  

he’s walking to english with suguru, trailing behind because his legs feel heavy and his uniform feels too tight and everything feels like it requires more energy than he can muster. you’re ahead of them, walking with that careful, measured pace you’ve adopted since the incident, your bag slung over your shoulder and your hair catching the afternoon light streaming through the hallway windows.  

that’s when you drop your pencil case.  

the sound of it hitting the floor echoes in the hallway—a sharp crack followed by the scatter of pens and pencils rolling in different directions. satoru’s instinct is immediate and overwhelming: help. fix it. make it better. his feet are already moving before his brain catches up, muscle memory overriding conscious thought.  

but then he remembers. don’t touch my stuff again.  

he stops so abruptly that suguru nearly runs into him, his hands clenched into fists at his sides to keep from reaching out. it’s physical torture, watching you kneel to collect your scattered supplies while he stands frozen three feet away. his whole body is screaming at him to move, to help, to do something, but your words echo in his memory like a prohibition.  

other students walk around you, some offering to help, others simply stepping over the scattered pens. you accept assistance from a girl in your chemistry class, your voice soft and grateful as she hands you a runaway highlighter. satoru watches it all from his enforced distance, cataloguing the careful way you check each pen to make sure the tips aren’t broken, the methodical way you organize them back into their designated spots.  

that’s when he sees it.  

his letter. folded small and tucked into the clear pocket on the front of your pencil case, visible enough that he knows you’ve kept it, hidden enough that it’s private. the paper is slightly wrinkled now, like it’s been handled, unfolded and refolded multiple times. like it’s been read.  

you kept it.  

the realization hits him like lightning, electric and overwhelming. his vision goes a little fuzzy around the edges, and he has to lean against the wall to keep his knees from giving out. you kept his letter. you didn’t throw it away, didn’t dismiss it, didn’t pretend it never existed. you folded it up and tucked it somewhere safe, somewhere you’d see it every time you reached for a pen or pencil.  

“dude,” suguru says quietly, following his gaze. “holy shit.”  

satoru can’t respond. can’t breathe properly. can’t process the magnitude of what this means. it doesn’t necessarily mean forgiveness—you might have kept it as evidence of his stupidity, or as a reminder to stay away from him. but it means you read it. you absorbed his words, his apology, his confession, and decided they were worth preserving.  

it’s the first spark of hope he’s felt in days, fragile and tentative but real.  

friday brings rain, heavy and insistent against the classroom windows. satoru finds himself distracted all day, watching water streak down glass and thinking about umbrellas, about careful distances, about the way you always walk a little faster when the sky opens up. by the time school ends, the downpour has settled into a steady rhythm that promises to last through the evening.  

he has his umbrella, of course. the same oversized black one he’s carried for months, the one he’s used as an excuse to walk near you on dozens of rainy days. today, he doesn’t plan to use it as an excuse for anything. today, he just wants to get home without drowning in the deluge or the weight of his own thoughts.  

but when he reaches the corner where your paths usually diverge—the place where you normally turn toward your neighborhood while he continues straight toward his—you’re there.  

waiting.  

satoru stops so abruptly that rain immediately begins soaking through his uniform. you’re standing under the overhang of a convenience store, protected from the worst of the downpour but still catching spray from the wind. your hair is damp, sticking to your cheeks and neck, and that soft lavender cardigan is dark with moisture. your fingers are twisted in the fabric of your sleeves, and you’re looking at the ground like you’re gathering courage from the wet pavement.  

for a moment, he thinks he might be hallucinating. stress-induced visions brought on by too much guilt and not enough sleep. but then you look up, and your eyes meet his across the rain-soaked distance, and the reality of your presence hits him like a physical force.  

“hi,” you say quietly, and your voice is barely audible over the sound of rain hitting concrete and car tires splashing through puddles. but satoru hears it anyway, because he’s been waiting to hear your voice directed at him for so long that his ears are tuned to the frequency of your words.  

satoru’s heart forgets how to beat properly. it stutters and lurches and then tries to compensate by racing so fast he can feel his pulse in his temples. his umbrella slips slightly in his suddenly nerveless grip, and when he speaks, his voice comes out rougher than intended—like he’s forgotten how to use it for anything other than internal recrimination.  

“hi.”  

for a long moment, you just look at each other across the rain-dark afternoon. the silence stretches between you, not comfortable but not entirely uncomfortable either. it’s the silence of two people who have too much to say and no idea where to start. cars pass by, their headlights cutting through the grey gloom, and somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles like the sky is clearing its throat.  

your eyes are the same color they’ve always been, but there’s something different in them now—some decision made, some wall cautiously lowered. satoru can see the careful set of your shoulders, the way you’re holding yourself like you’re ready to run if this goes badly. but you’re here. you’re here and you’re talking to him and that has to mean something.  

“i read your letter,” you say finally, water droplets clinging to your lashes like tiny prisms. when you blink, they scatter, and satoru thinks absurdly that you look like something from a painting—ethereal and beautiful and far too good for someone like him.  

he nods, not trusting his voice. his throat feels thick, like all his words are crowding together and canceling each other out. the rain is cold against his neck, seeping through his collar, but he barely notices. all his attention is focused on you, on the careful way you’re watching his face, on the slight tremble in your voice that suggests you’re as nervous as he is.  

“you’ve been... helping me?” there’s something careful in the way you ask it, like you’re afraid of the answer. your hands fidget with the hem of your wet cardigan, a gesture so familiar it makes his chest ache with longing. how many times has he watched you do exactly that when you’re thinking through a difficult problem in class?  

“yeah.” the word comes out rougher than he intends, and he has to clear his throat before continuing. “i’m sorry if that was—i mean, i know you didn’t ask for—”  

“why?”  

the question stops him short, cutting through his rambling apology like a knife through silk. why? how is he supposed to explain that you’ve become essential to his existence? that your quiet kindness in october rewrote something fundamental in his understanding of what matters? that he’s spent months learning the rhythm of your routine because being in sync with your world feels like the closest thing to belonging he’s ever experienced?  

“because,” he says lamely, then forces himself to try again. his hair is getting plastered to his forehead now, silver strands dark with rain, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. “because you helped me pick up my papers that day. and you didn’t laugh.”  

you blink raindrops from your lashes, considering this. “you help people all the time. you make everyone laugh.”  

“that’s different.”  

“how?”  

satoru runs his free hand through his hair, the wet strands slipping between his fingers like silk. how can he explain that making people laugh is performance, but what you gave him was recognition? that every joke he tells is just noise designed to fill up the empty spaces, but your quiet “you okay?” was the first time someone had seen past the entertainment to ask about the person underneath?  

the rain continues to fall around you both, creating a curtain of grey that makes the rest of the world feel distant and unreal. streetlights are beginning to flicker on, casting pools of yellow light that reflect in puddles and make everything look like an impressionist painting.  

“because when you helped me, it wasn’t for show,” he says finally, his voice barely carrying over the rain. “it was just... kind. and i’d never had someone be kind to me without expecting something back.”  

something shifts in your expression at his words. the careful guardedness doesn’t disappear entirely, but it softens around the edges, like morning frost beginning to melt under weak sunlight. you step closer, close enough that he can smell your shampoo even over the rain—something soft and floral that makes his head spin with possibility.  

your proximity sends electricity racing along his nerve endings, every cell in his body suddenly hyperaware of the space between you. he can see the way rain has made your eyelashes clump together, can count the droplets of water clinging to your skin, can track the rapid pulse at the base of your throat that suggests you’re as affected by this moment as he is.  

“the pencil case,” you say suddenly, your voice soft but clear.  

“what?”  

“you said you didn’t know what my favorite color was. but you do.” you touch the clear pocket where his letter is tucked away, and satoru realizes that everything scattered from your pencil case was blue. blue pens, blue highlighter, blue sticky notes, blue paper clips. “you’ve always known. you bought me blue snacks when you left them in my locker. you convinced sensei to let me use the blue markers for our presentation. you’ve been paying attention.”  

he has been paying attention. obsessively, desperately, cataloguing every detail like his life depends on it. the way you always choose the blue pen first from your pencil case. the way you gravitate toward blue sticky notes in the library. the way your eyes light up—just slightly, but enough for someone who’s watching carefully—when you see the blue wildflowers that grow by the school’s front gate in spring.  

“blue,” he says softly, and finally—finally—you smile. not the polite, careful smile you give teachers and acquaintances, but that real smile, the one that transforms your whole face and makes his knees forget how to support his weight. it’s like watching the sun break through storm clouds, sudden and brilliant and warming everything it touches.  

“blue,” you confirm, taking another step closer. you’re close enough now that he can see the flecks of gold in your eyes, can see the way your pupils dilate slightly as you look up at him. the rain has made your skin luminous, like you’re lit from within. “like your eyes.”  

satoru’s umbrella slips from suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering to the wet pavement with a sound that seems impossibly loud in the intimate space between you. but neither of you move to pick it up. you’re both getting drenched now, rain soaking through your clothes and dripping from your hair, but you step closer instead of away.  

his eyes—those impossible cerulean pools that seem to hold entire skies captive—are wide with wonder and disbelief. up close, they’re even more extraordinary than you’ve ever allowed yourself to notice. they’re not just blue, but dozens of blues: the deep navy of midnight sky, the bright cerulean of tropical waters, the pale frost-blue of winter mornings. silver threads through them like captured lightning, and there are darker rings around the irises that make them look infinite, like looking into them might mean falling forever.  

“i have a confession too,” you say, and your voice is so quiet he has to lean down to hear you. your breath is warm against his ear when he does, sending shivers down his spine that have nothing to do with the rain. the proximity makes his pulse thunder so loudly he’s sure you can hear it. “i’ve been avoiding you.”  

“i know,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. this close, he can see every detail of your face—the way your lashes frame your eyes, the soft curve of your mouth, the small scar on your chin that he’s wondered about for months. “i don’t blame you.”  

“not because of the bag thing.” you pull back just enough to look at him, and there’s color in your cheeks now that wasn’t there before—a soft flush that makes his breath catch. “before that. since october.”  

satoru’s brain struggles to process this information. rain drips from his hair, and he has to blink water from his lashes to focus on your face. the world feels like it’s tilting on its axis, realigning around this new understanding. “but... why?”  

you look down, your fingers playing with the hem of your wet cardigan. when you speak, your voice is so soft he has to strain to hear it over the rain.  

“because you make my heart race. and when my heart races too much, sometimes i can’t breathe properly.”  

oh.

oh.  

the pieces click together so suddenly satoru feels dizzy with it. the careful distance you’ve maintained, the polite smiles that never quite reached your eyes, the way you’d declined his umbrella even when you were clearly getting soaked. not because you disliked his attention, but because you liked it too much. because proximity to him triggered something in your cardiovascular system that your compromised respiratory system couldn’t handle.  

you’ve been managing your feelings for him the same way you manage your asthma—with careful avoidance, strategic distance, measured exposure.  

“so when you moved my bag,” you continue, your words coming faster now like you need to get them out before you lose courage, “and i couldn’t find my inhaler, it wasn’t just the missing medication. it was also... you were so close, and worried about me, and your cologne was so strong, and i couldn’t handle both the asthma and the way you were looking at me.”  

the confession hits him like a physical force, rewriting everything he thought he understood about the last few months. all those times you’d walked away when he offered help, all those carefully maintained distances, all those polite deflections—you hadn’t been rejecting him. you’d been protecting yourself. protecting both of you, maybe, from the complications of feelings that felt too big for your bodies to contain.  

satoru stares at you, this impossible girl who’s just turned his entire understanding of the last few months upside down. his heart is beating so hard it feels like it might crack his ribs, and there’s something building in his chest—something too big for his body to contain. it’s relief and amazement and crushing tenderness all mixed together into something that might be love but feels too enormous to name.  

“you...” his voice cracks slightly, and he has to clear his throat to continue. “you were avoiding me because you liked me?”  

“you were helping me in secret because you liked me,” you counter, and that’s fair. your eyes meet his, and there’s something brave and vulnerable in your expression that makes his knees weak. “we’re both idiots.”  

“complete disasters,” he agrees, and then you’re both laughing. it starts as nervous giggles but builds into something brighter, more genuine. the sound echoes in the rain-soaked space between you, mixing with the steady patter of water on pavement and the distant hum of traffic.  

the laughter fades into something quieter, more intense. rain continues to fall around you both, but it feels less like a barrier now and more like a cocoon, insulating you from the rest of the world. satoru reaches up with trembling fingers to touch your face, his thumb brushing water from your cheek. your skin is soft and cold from the rain, but it warms under his touch like you’re coming alive beneath his hands.  

when you don’t pull away, when you actually lean into his palm like a flower seeking sunlight, his heart does something acrobatic in his chest. the simple trust of that gesture—letting him touch you, letting him close, letting him offer comfort instead of maintaining the careful distance you’ve worked so hard to preserve—undoes something fundamental in his chest.  

“for the record,” he says, voice softer than the rainfall, “blue is my favorite color too now.”  

“now?”  

his thumb traces across your cheekbone, following the path raindrops have taken down your face. the way you shiver at his touch has nothing to do with the cold rain and everything to do with the electric current that seems to run between your skin and his. “since october. since you.”  

you make a sound that’s half laugh, half sigh, and when you rise up on your toes to kiss him, satoru thinks every stupid decision he’s ever made was worth it if it led to this moment.  

your lips are soft and taste like rain and promises. the kiss is gentle at first, hesitant—a question more than a statement. but when satoru responds, when he kisses you back with months of pent-up longing carefully restrained into something tender, you make a small sound in the back of your throat that goes straight to his soul.  

the rain continues to fall around you, but it becomes background noise to the sensation of your mouth against his, your hands fisting in the front of his soaked uniform shirt, the way you fit against him like you were made for this exact moment. he can taste the salt of rainwater on your lips, can feel the rapid flutter of your pulse where his thumb rests against your neck.  

when you break apart, both of you are breathing hard. satoru rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, lashes dark with rain. his expression is one of pure reverence, like he can’t quite believe this is real, like he’s afraid that opening his eyes might make you disappear.  

“your heart’s racing,” he murmurs, because he can feel it against his chest—a rapid flutter that matches his own.  

“yeah,” you say, your fingers still tangled in his shirt, tugging slightly in a way that makes his breath hitch. “but it’s the good kind.”  

you’re both soaked through, shivering in the rain, but neither of you seems inclined to move. satoru’s hands frame your face like you’re something precious, his thumbs stroking across your cheekbones with infinite tenderness. water drips from his hair onto your upturned face, but you don’t seem to mind.  

“we should probably get you home,” he says after a long moment, though his voice lacks conviction. “you’re soaking wet. you’ll catch cold.”  

“so are you,” you point out, but you’re already bending to retrieve his fallen umbrella, your movements reluctant. when you hand it to him, your fingers brush his, sending sparks up his arm that have nothing to do with static electricity.  

the walk to your house passes in a dream-like haze. you’re tucked under his umbrella, close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm with every step, close enough that he can hear the way your breathing has settled into something calmer but still elevated. you don’t talk much, but the silence is comfortable now, charged with possibility instead of tension.  

satoru finds himself hyper-aware of everything: the way raindrops cling to your hair, the soft sound of your footsteps on wet pavement, the warmth radiating from your body despite the cool rain. he wants to memorize every second of this, wants to catalogue every detail so that later, when he’s lying in bed staring at the ceiling in disbelief, he’ll have proof that this actually happened.  

“this is me,” you say when you reach a small house with a covered front porch and flower boxes under the windows. the flowers are wilted from the rain, but satoru can see that they were once blue—cornflowers, maybe, or some kind of morning glory.  

you turn to face him under the porch light, and the yellow glow makes your rain-dampened skin look golden. there’s a moment of hesitation, like you’re not sure how to end this, how to transition from the intimacy of shared confessions back to the reality of separate lives.  

“thank you,” you say finally. “for walking me home. and for... everything else.”  

“thank you for reading my letter,” he says, then feels heat rise in his cheeks. “and for not throwing it away. and for giving me a chance to apologize properly.”  

you reach up to touch his face, your fingers cool against his flushed skin. “thank you for apologizing. and for all those months of help i didn’t know i was getting.”  

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering closed. “thank you for keeping my letter where i could see it.”  

“thank you for noticing that i kept it.”  

you’re both quiet for a moment, reluctant to break this fragile new thing between you. finally, you rise up on your toes again, and this time the kiss is softer, sweeter—a promise instead of a question.  

“i’ll see you monday?” you ask when you pull away, and there’s something shy in your voice that makes his chest tight with affection.  

“couldn’t keep me away,” he says, and means it completely.  

he waits on your porch until you’re safely inside, watching the warm light spill from your windows into the rainy night. only when he sees you appear briefly in what must be an upstairs window—changed into dry clothes and looking impossibly beautiful even from a distance—does he finally turn to walk home.  

the rain has gentled to a drizzle by the time he reaches his own house, but he’s still soaked through. his mother takes one look at him standing in the entryway, dripping on the hardwood and grinning like an idiot, and wordlessly hands him a towel.  

“good day at school?” she asks dryly.  

“the best,” satoru says, and disappears upstairs to change, humming under his breath for the first time in days.  

later, much later, after he’s showered and changed into dry clothes and attempted to do homework that he can’t concentrate on because his brain keeps replaying the feeling of your lips against his, satoru lies in bed staring at the ceiling with the biggest smile he’s ever worn.  

he finally knows something real about you: you taste like coming home, like the answer to every question he’s never known how to ask.  

but even later than that, after weeks of shy hand-holding and shared umbrellas and study sessions that actually involve studying, after you’ve let him into your world for real instead of just hovering at the edges, he’ll learn something even more important:  

your favorite color isn’t just blue.  

it’s the specific shade of blue that lives in his eyes when he looks at you like you’re the answer to every prayer he’s never known how to pray.  

and satoru thinks that might be the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever told him.  

“Um— about a year.” You smile and nod at him. Satoru hums happily before pressing a kiss to your cheek. Suguru can tell you’re a shy, sweet little thing, putting a weak hand to Satoru’s chest and resisting futilely as he peppers your face with kisses in front of all of these people.

“Yo, Gojo!”

Satoru is suddenly pulled away by one of his old friends to compete and see how many shots they can take back to back, and since he hasn’t seen these people in a bit, you smile and push him to go have fun.

You’re left with Suguru. You sip your drink and shift your stance a bit as he subtly takes in your overall appearance.

You clear your throat. “So, did Satoru date around a lot back in college? I wouldn’t be surprised.” You’re jesting, cutely, trying to break the ice and the nervous tension between you and Satoru’s friend.

Suguru chuckles. “Ahh, not really.”

You eye him from over your cup as you take a drink. “Is that why you seemed so surprised that he’s with me?” It’s said in a lighthearted tone but you’re clearly curious.

“Oh, I’m sorry— I didn’t mean to offend you or anything.” Suguru is being nothing but genuine and you can tell.

“But.. ?” You’re leading him into the rest of what he isn’t saying.

“There’s no but,” Suguru denies softly and then shrugs, “You’re just not the type I was expecting.”

You’re clearly offended, a bit hurt right off the bat and Suguru can immediately see that.

“Oh god, no, no,” Suguru quickly backtracks with a sympathetic look, “I didn’t mean that you aren’t attractive, you are. In fact, you’re more my type than what I expected his to be.”

You blink at him owlishly and brush your hair behind your ear. “Oh. What kind of girl was Satoru into during college?” You chuckle, airily, but you can’t fool him or yourself. You’re invested.

Suguru huffs into his drink, a jump to his brows as if you’ve said something ironic.

“The type with balls.”

Your eyes widen and you’re almost in disbelief of what he’s claiming. “You— oh. You’re saying Satoru was with men?”

He nods and watches you with slight amusement. Satoru must have kept this from you for some reason.

You blink down at the ground, a slight pang of jealousy slides through your chest. Satoru never mentioned this. You were under the impression that he had told you every past partner and relationship he’s had, like you’ve told him. It’s not a good feeling to feel as though this man you’ve never met before knows more about your boyfriend than you do.

“Ah— I’m sorry,” Suguru says, clearly feeling bad that he said anything at all since it seems you’re feeling hurt, “I really didn’t mean to bother you or mess with your relationship—”

You brush off his concerns and interrupt him. “No, no. It’s okay. Um—” you clear your throat, “like a lot of men?”

Bless your heart, Suguru can tell why Satoru is enthralled by you. You’re a sweet thing, clearly committed to the guy, even when he has obviously been keeping things from you.

Suguru grimaces a bit, not because of you, but because of what he’s about to say.

“I,” he laughs and scratches the back of his head, “I think I’m the only one. I could be wrong.”

Your jaw just drops but before you can ask the millions of questions you are itching to ask Satoru’s apparent ex something, intoxicated Satoru comes bursting back with a wide smile, shoving a shot into your hands while he slams his lips into yours.

“Hey baby, take this shot,” he preens into your lips, “You need to catch up.”

You chuckle awkwardly and take down the shot with a sweet smile for your boyfriend who has no idea you’ve been told that he’s been keeping something from you.

The next day. 4:07pm.

You’re pouting. Satoru can tell something is wrong. You’ve been giving him that sad cat look since this morning that screams, ‘my owner hit me and I can’t decide whether I’m mad or sad.’

“You wanna get take out? That mochi place is open,” Satoru offers, rolling on his side to grab at you and pull you into his arms to spoon.

The book you’re reading doesn’t leave the space right in front of your face as he cuddles your backside.

You shrug and hum briefly, as if you don’t care.

Satoru wraps his arms deeply around your middle, squeezes, and shoves his face into the side of yours while his brows furrow. “And then we can make love all night with a belly full of mochi, hmm?”

You don’t even spare a glance. Another shrug. Now he knows for sure, something happened.

His head raises and he looks down at you. “Hey, c’mon, what’s going on?”

You mumble incoherently but he can make out that you’ve said, ‘nothing.’

“Did I go too hard last night? Did I do something?” He asks with concern, thumbs rubbing into the skin of your sides where he’s wrapped around your midsection. He has blips of blanks in his memory from last night, mixing alcohol is never a good idea.

You exhale a puff of air and drop your book down, a small pout permanently taking home on your face.

“Suguru was nice,” you mumble as your eyes stare forward at nothing in particular.

You’re speaking in riddles, not a good sign. He squints and maneuvers your body so you’re on your back and he’s leaning on his forearm beside you so he can eye you properly.

“Suguru? Did he hit on you?”

You cross your arms stubbornly. “He did say I was his type.”

Satoru’s face turns into a look of discontent. “I knew he’d try something on you. I’m sorry, baby. Did he make you uncomfortable?”

You basically ignore his words, watching him suspiciously. “Matter of fact, he said I’m more his type than I am yours.”

He looks taken aback and confused. “He’s just being stupid, trying to see if he can get with you.” He pauses and blinks at your expression and overall aura. “Wait— Are you mad at me, right now?

“I don’t know, am I?”

“Baby,” Satoru grabs onto the side of your head to hold your attention, “Talk to me.”

You sigh and sit up, criss crossed. He slowly meets you there, sitting across from you, carefully.

“Did you and Suguru used to date?”

Satoru’s brows jolt up and he blinks in genuine surprise.

“Me and Suguru? No, are you serious? That’s what he told you?” He huffs in disbelief.

“Okay, then, you guys used to fuck? In college?”

Satoru blinks for a beat with his lips parted. “I— Okay, yeah, yes. But we never dated, that’s ridiculous.”

Your face explodes into disbelief and you abruptly stand up, pushing his hand away when he tried to grab at you.

“Oh my god, I knew it. Why did you keep that from me?” You’re clearly upset and Satoru moves his way to the edge of the bed on his knees to face you as you stand.

“Keep it from y— Wait, wait that’s a bit of an exaggeration—”

You shake your head and start pacing, ignoring him.

“Do you know how stupid I felt? Asking your ex— or fuck buddy or— whatever— about you? About my own boyfriend? Things that I should already know after a whole year of dating?”

Satoru cringes in sympathy. “Fuck, I didn’t think—”

“No, you didnt,” you confirm, interrupting him. Your steps come to a stop in front of him. “I mean, god! You introduced me and let me talk to him all nice and polite like he hasn’t fucked my boyfriend!”

“What, you would’ve treated him differently if you knew?” He huffs, unable to hold back some amusement, despite knowing he’s done something wrong.

You shoot him a deep glare. “Yes! I would have— I don’t know— asserted dominance or something— grabbed your dick— I don’t know!”

Satoru lets a self indulgent smirk sneak out and you poke his chest with a mean, stern look. “Hey! Stop enjoying this so much.”

He immediately grabs onto your hand and lays it flat on his naked chest like he’s trying to keep you close and with him. “I’m not, I’m not!— I just— you can’t blame me for thinking it’s sexy when you get all jealous,” he purrs towards the end, leaning in and snaking a kiss to your jaw. You grumble and almost flinch away from it but then he lays an open mouthed, slow, warm kiss lower down, on your neck, and you melt.

He hums, feeling your body relax into him, and that’s what jolts you out of the haze. You pull away and point at him with squinted eyes. “No. You’re not allowed to do that. I’m actually hurt, Satoru.”

A pleading look grows on his face and he stands quickly to get close to you. “Okay, okay, I know. I’m sorry, baby. I should have told you. It slipped my mind, genuinely. What can I do to make it better?”

You humpf as you cross your arms, pouting as he softly brushes some hair from your face.

“Hmm?” He goads on, tilting his head down to eye your pretty face. “What can this horrible, mean boyfriend do to make it up to his sexy, amazing girlfriend?”

“Were you on top or bottom?”

Satoru pauses, thinking he has to have heard you wrong because you kind of mumbled it quietly.

“What?”

You look up at him. “Did you fuck him or did he fuck you?”

Satoru’s jaw drops, shocked by your question as you move to sit on the edge of the bed behind him, waiting.

He turns slowly to face you, this has to be a trap. “Why do you want to know that, baby? That’s just gonna upset you.”

You ‘Aha!’ like he’s been caught. “I knew it! You’re hiding this from me deliberately!”

“What? No,” he immediately shakes his head, hands moving quickly as to dispel what you’ve said, “A question like that is— I wouldn’t want to know all the ways you’ve fucked Toji in the past, it would upset me! I just don’t want to upset you.”

“Ohh, now you’re bringing up Toji.” You cross your arms. Toji was a bit of an issue for your relationship at the beginning. You used to date, and let’s just say Toji has a bad habit of fucking with people— they used to get into fist fights despite being friends. Honestly, Toji was usually asking for it: smacking your ass casually when you’d hug in greetings, a hand rubbing your thigh a little too far up when you’d laugh in conversation, etc. all with the excuse that he was just so used to doing it when you were dating that he forgets not to.

Satoru shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

You sigh. “I want to know, Satoru. If you’re not trying to keep things from me, then tell me.”

Satoru rubs his eyes and then runs a hand through his hair. He has a feeling this isn’t going to be resolved by tonight. “I have nothing to hide, okay? I was on bottom, I guess.”

You hum and nod, like you know something he doesn’t and you just caught him.

“So he used to fuck you in the ass?”

Satoru’s growing more and more confused. “So what? Does it upset you that I was with a dude?”

Your jaw drops and you stand, a hurt pinch to your brows. “Of fucking course not, Satoru.”

“Then, what? I get that it was fucked to let you talk to Suguru without knowing. But, you’re mad because I happened not to tell you one person I’ve had sex with?”

“It just makes me feel like,” you exhale, avoiding his gaze, “you didn’t tell me because I can’t give you what he could.”

Satoru’s face expands in shock. He grabs onto your face with both hands and holds it up to look you in the eye. “What do you mean, baby? I fucking love you, you give me everything I could ever want.”

“I can’t give you dick,” you mumble.

“That’s,” he hesitates, searching your face, “That’s what’s bothering you? You think I kept it from you on purpose because I didn’t want you to feel bad for not having a penis?”

The corners of your lips and the pinch in your brows deepens within your pout.

“Oh baby,” he coos deeply, pulling you in to hold you close, unable to let out an airy laugh.

You whine, “Stop laughing at me, Toru!”

He squeezes you harder with a grin and you grumble into his chest.

He exhales, deeply and in content, having you in his arms. “You don’t need to worry about that. I’ve never once wished you had a dick and balls. I would have told you about Suguru, I didn’t mean to keep it from you. I’m sorry I made you feel stupid when he told you.”

You mumble something into him and he hums in question, not hearing you.

You pull back to look up at him as he continues to hold you into his front.

“I said,” you sniffle, eyes gleaming widely, “But I heard guys have their g-spot in their ass. So, that means I’ve never made you feel as good as he can or did.”

Satoru shakes his head. “That’s ridiculous, I’ve never had better sex than with you. C’mon, let’s order food and lay back down.”

Your pout stubbornly gets deeper, like he’s lying to you to protect your feelings.

“Up we go.” He decides for you, picking your body up easily and softly tossing you onto the bed before climbing in behind you.

“Come here baby.” He’s holding you the same way he was before, arms around your tummy. He creeps his hand up your shirt and the second it brushes your breast, you shake your head and nudge it away.

“No, I don’t have the right parts. I just have a stupid hole.”

Satoru whines in frustration, sliding his arms up until he’s holding you just under the swell of your tits so he’s not crossing the line but still able to touch you.

“But I love that hole,” he chirps woefully into your ear, sliding his right hand down to curl inward until it covers your clothed pussy entirely. “My favorite hole.” You can hear a deep frown on his lips.

“This hole is closed for business forever and ever.”

Chills race down Satoru’s spine. “You don’t mean that.”

“Maybe I do,” you shrug, but you’re not making any move to take his cold hand away from your cunt. “Maybe you should call Suguru.”

“Oh baby, please. This is ridiculous.” He groans into your neck, hard cock pressing into the lower part of your asscheek.

You suddenly turn to face him, forcing his hands to retreat so you can comfortably turn.

You look up at him. “Is that what you want? For me to buy a strap?”

He sighs. “Not really,” he mumbles.

“Oh okay. So, just him. Fine.” You’re about to turn your back to him again but he doesn’t let you, grabbing a strong hold of your sides.

“Listen to me.” He looks into your eyes, intensely. “When I push inside of your sweet little pussy, I feel a level of pleasure that exceeds reality. I love fucking your beautiful cunt, made just for me to push into. Do you understand me? I want to dominate your insides over and over and over until you forget what it feels like to be empty— all day, everyday. I don’t need you inside me. I want to fucking live inside you.”

You blink at him owlishly and dumbly chirp out, “Oh.”

“I don’t want you to— you don’t need to buy a fake cock because you think I need it to feel satisfied. If anything, I should buy you a fake fucking cock with how much you wear mine out.” He huffs, rubbing his nose into yours affectionately. “Okay?”

You exhale deeply, body relaxing into his. “Okay.”

He brushes his fingertips down your tummy until he slides his whole hand between your thighs, once again claiming your entire clothed pussy to his palm and long fingers.

“My sweet girl,” he coos as his other hand reaches over you and takes a handful of your asscheek. “My horny, horny girl. You wanna satisfy me so bad, huh?”

You grumble a little, soft hands pushing into his chest futilely as he chuckles.

Satoru hums some random tune soothingly as he kneads your back and ass for a long while, keeping the other hand snug against his favorite hole.

A week later. 10:35pm.

Seeing Suguru again wasn’t on your radar, but here he is, at some a party most of your own friends are at.

You and Satoru enter the party together and walk up to some of your friends crowded in the kitchen around a cooler full of an assortment of canned alcohol and ice.

You hug some of them in hello, starting with Shoko and ending with Toji. Satoru greets everyone with a loud, playful, drawn out, “Hello party people!” before wrapping his arm around cheery Haibara.

You lean down and grab some random fizzy drink from the cooler as everyone greets Satoru in their own unique ways.

“Hey again,” Suguru’s familiarly soft voice greets you with a smile as you stand back up.

“Oh, hey.” You pop open your can. You’re not upset with Suguru, it’s not his fault Satoru left a few bits of information out. Suguru didn’t mean any harm, you know that. He still fucked your boyfriend, though.

He gestures for you to come stand by him so you can chat. You smile and nod before stepping over. Satoru pats your ass sweetly as you leave, not taking his attention off of his idiotic conversation with Nanami, bothering and teasing him like he loves to do.

Suguru nods at your drink. “You like that fizzy sweet shit like him, huh?”

You turn the can to eye the name of it and shrug. “It does the job. How about you? You one of those -dry whiskey with no straw- types?”

He hums a soft laugh with a smile. “Like you said, whatever does the job. But no, not always. I dabble.”

You take a swig of your drink. “I respect that.”

“Hey,” he begins with a sympathetic scratch to the back of his head, “I really hope I didn’t mess things up for you after that conversation we had.”

You chuckle and glance over at Satoru with a loving, affectionate look, watching as Nanami holds him in a headlock that you have no doubt he could get out of if he really wanted to. “No, no. Don’t worry about it, we’re good.”

Suguru hums with a smile on his lips, glad you’re not upset with him for telling you something he figured you’d know.

You turn towards him with a playful smile on your lips. “Anything else you wanna tell me about you and Satoru before the night goes on, though?” you joke, making Suguru throw his head back and laugh.

He comes back down to earth and takes a step towards you, leaning his hip against the counter casually as he eyes your face with a tilt of a smile.

“You’re sexy,” he all but coos down at you, voice soft and deep.

Your brows raise and you huff. “Are you hitting on me right now?” While your boyfriend, who he used to fuck in the ass, is standing a few feet away?

He shrugs and swigs his drink. “I see why Satoru is into you.” An answer that isn’t an answer at all.

“And why is he into me?” You entertain his sillies with amusement.

He exhales deeply, in thought. “Sweet, compassionate, caring, beautiful, loving, funny, a good listener, knows how to cook a warm meal. Am I close?”

He’s playing with you, naming all of the generic compliments one could find on a hallmark card. He doesn’t know you well enough to actually answer, but he knows that he likes to make you laugh. You can’t help but do just that, shaking your head in amusement, and fidgeting with the lip of your can with the same hand that holds it.

“Oh, you’re right on the money. You know me so well,” you say with playful surprise.

He huffs out a few laughs and tilts his drink in dismissal. He licks his lips of the wetness of his beverage.

“So, he mad at me for telling you about our dorm life?”

You inhale and exhale an airy laugh. “He might be.”

“Ohh,” he hums drawn out, amused, but still as soft toned as ever. His brow quirks down at you, “So, you were upset.”

You look away and take a drink with a soft scoff. He wormed that insinuated information right out of you.

He continues, despite your silence. “Because your boyfriend was with a guy?”

You roll your eyes, a ghost of a smile on your lips. “No.”

He hums, head rocking back. “Then..?”

“You should go ask your old dorm mate if you really wanna know,” you land on, like you’d be interested in seeing how that would go.

He hums in contemplation, casually glancing at Satoru. “I’m betting that wouldn’t end well for me.”

You shrug, casually. “Never know until you try.”

“Eh,” he brushes it off, “Why would I do that when my new friend is so fun to talk to?” He might as well have said ‘fun to play with’ instead.

“Oh, friends, huh?” You tilt your head.

“Oh come on,” he smiles back down at you, looming over you a bit so you can smell his nice scent, “We have so much in common. We both like drinking, we’ve fucked the same person, we’re both wearing black clothing, I think you’re sexy, you think I’m sexy— we’re best friends already.”

You make a little expression of surprise, laughing.

“I think you’re sexy? Oh I didn’t know that.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that, my bad. Yeah, you think I’m sexy.” He speaks definitively, clinking his drink into yours in a soft cheers.

You hum dramatically, continuing to go along with whatever he throws out. “Right. Must have slipped my mind.”

He prods once again. “So, new friend, what was it that bothered you about the fact that I’ve had sex with your boyfriend?”

You let out a deep exhale as a thunderbolt of jealousy shoots through your chest, ignoring that wildly observant gaze he’s had locked on you since you came into view.

“Well, how big is your dick?”

Suguru almost chokes on his own spit, not expecting such blunt words. “Oh?” He laughs, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

You’re relaxed as you face the others, watching Nanami’s forehead vein bulge while he grabs hold of Satoru’s collar. Haibara’s laughing and trying to calm him down, though Satoru looks content where he’s at.

“You could go ask Satoru.” Suguru smiles with utmost entertainment, close enough to your side that your arm is brushing his abdomen. He reaches to brush some hair behind your ear and then trails his fingertips down the edge of your ear briefly. “I’m sure he remembers, if you really wanna know, pretty girl.”

Suguru is fucking with you, you’re not stupid. But you think he’s likely doing it for shits and giggles, like he’s testing if you can handle some teasing or if you’ll actually get upset. He might actually be into you too, maybe seeing if you’d fuck him as well, and then he could confidently say he’s been with both you and Satoru.

You take a deep breath and take your eyes off of your friends to face his anticipation.

“Why would I do that when my new friend is so fun to talk to?” You use his own words, making Suguru’s soft smile grow.

“Besides, you know Satoru,” you lean towards him on the tips of your toes and he slouches to meet you halfway, waiting for you to speak into his ear. “His memory is all messed up. He can just never seem to remember not to cum inside me before we go out to a party with all of our friends.”

You can almost hear Suguru’s eyes flicker in surprise.

Suguru exhales slowly as you lean away. You watch him stand up straight as his tongue swipes against his lips. He adjusts his crotch area. “He does have a horrible memory, doesn’t he?”

He’s pleased with your response, clearly, as his eyes flick down to the in between of your legs where you have no doubt, he’s imagining the cum pooling in your panties.

You aren’t sure if you won that conversation or if it was even a competition in the first place. You gesture to the side. “I’ll see you later,” you say politely and he nods with a smile that’s anything but appropriate.

You make your way over to Satoru, Nanami, and Haibara and you can still feel Suguru’s eyes.

“Hey, baby.” Satoru notices your approach immediately, slithering his hand lightly onto your ass like it’s muscle memory.

“You guys mind if I steal him?” You ask a very fed-up Nanami and an energetic Haibara.

“No, we do not.” Nanami confirms deeply, adjusting his glasses with a permanent glare.

Haibara swings his arm to rest on Nanami’s shoulder and gives you a thumbs up. “Go for it!”

You’re already yanking Satoru’s wrist to follow you as you walk. He should be stumbling over those long legs since you’re moving so fast but he’s still keeping up.

“Where are we going?” Genuine curiosity laced with that natural playful air of his.

You don’t answer as you lead the two of you through sweaty, drunk people.

He dramatically puts on a show of stumbling to a stop when you let go of his wrist in some empty hallway upstairs. “Jeez, what’s—”

He ‘hmph’s when you suddenly push him up against the wall— more like when he allowed you to— and you start fumbling with his belt.

“Why do you wear these stupid belts? They’re made out of fucking steel.”

“What’d he say, baby?” His eyes are on your concentrated face while your frantic hands are at work.

You already know who he’s talking about. “He didn’t say anything.” You unlock his belt.

He tilts his head down to eye you better while he tilts your face up. “He bother you again?”

You exhale, looking up into his beautiful eyes and blindly unzipping his pants. “Honestly, I can’t tell if he wants to fuck me or fight me.”

Satoru huffs at your words as you focus back onto his crotch, popping his button open to reveal his pink heart littered boxers. He’s not surprised Suguru is toying with you.

“This is just how he is, he can probably tell he’s getting a reaction out of you.” He caresses the side of your face sweetly as you shove your hand into his boxers. “Want me to do something?”

You shake your head in brief denial as you pull his cock out.

“Want to fuck,” you mumble with most of your focus on jerking his dick to full mast while you maneuver your leg up so your knee and calf is pressing into the wall beside his hip.

“Right here?” he coos with amusement, though he’s actually not even slightly worried getting caught. His large palm aids in holding your leg up without you having to ask. “Didn’t I just fill this hole up? She’s gonna get overwhelmed, baby.”

You give him a scornful pout, pausing. “You don’t want to be inside me?”

He can immediately tell what you’re worried about. You just spoke to Suguru, who has a dick that used to be used on him, and Satoru knows the idea of not having a dick now bothers you. It’s ridiculous, really, but he knows it’s coming from a place of yearning to please him so he leans into you.

“Fuck to the yes I do. If I ever say no to that, shoot me in the head. You hear me?” When your expression gives into a hint of acceptance, he licks the side of your face like a cat and then kisses it. “Gimme that pussy baby,” he mumbles into your skin in a purposefully demanding, playful tone.

The second those words leave his lips, your movements grow desperate and fast again.

You yank your panties to the side and all but shove him into your creamy pussy. He wasn’t even sure this position was possible, it can’t be comfortable for you; not to mention, no foreplay, but you seem to be more than okay with it. His sweet girl is on a mission and he’s more than happy to be collateral.

He groans, head falling back onto the wall with a ‘thunk.’ “Oh man. You’re so slimy.” His previous load surrounds his throbbing cock, your walls are just drenched in it.

You’re breathing sharply as your head spins in your own little world, drunk on the odd interaction with Suguru and your jealous desire to be everything Satoru needs. You somehow start humping his cock to the best of your ability in such a position while your legs shake.

“Fuck,” he groans at the squelch, softly meeting your sloppy thrusts halfway with his hips. His free hand grabs onto the back of your skull and lowers it down till the top of your heads are touching, forcing the both of you to watch your sloppy connection move in and out. “Look at thaaat.”

You whimper as your lips stick to his skin every time his cock fully mounts you and then breaks away with a string of slick and cum each time it withdraws.

“He said,” you pause to take choppy breaths, moving your head up to search for eye contact, “you remember how big his dick is.”

Satoru rolls his eyes but it quickly transforms into an eye roll of ultimate pleasure when your pace quickens with your growing jealousy.

“He— oh fuck— he’s just trying to,” his voice breaks into a moan, hips stuttering, “get under your skin, baby.”

“How big is it?” you persist passionately, slamming your hips down as hard as they can go, resisting your own muscles screaming at you to change positions.

Satoru sputters with parted lips and whited out eyes, hands spasming in utter euphoria that just won’t allow him the ability focus on your important questions.

“Fine,” you stutter, pausing to drop your forehead onto his shoulder to moan, “I’ll just find out for myself.”

Satoru’s eyes snap open. The next thing you know, he’s walking you backward while fucking you the entire way over until your back is slamming against the opposite wall. It’s an utterly awkward stumbling, hopping on one leg situation, but Satoru basically carries you the whole way anyways.

You gasp as your back collides with the wall, urgently grabbing onto his broad shoulders for balance. “Oh fuck! Satoru— wait—”

He shakes his head frantically, hips snapping into yours at an electric pace that’s making the picture frames on the wall desperately hold onto their hinges as they rock aggressively. “You want to ‘find out about his cock?’ Hm? And how are you gonna do that?”

You whine as he playfully and yet aggressively, spat the words into your open mouth, harshly recycling sharp breaths with you between words. “I’m not— I don’t know—”

“Yeah,” he breathes in a cocky tone, interrupting you. You squeal when he slams his entire body weight into a thrust, basically hammering you into the wall behind you, “You don’t know. Your sweet little pussy is not going any where near his cock. Do you understand me?”

You nod eagerly, drooling down your chin as he makes harsh, possessive love to you.

“That’s my good girl,” he purrs into yours neck, nodding at your skin before slurping it into his mouth to suck on, meanly.

But then, you’re slipping, legs finally giving out, and Satoru is letting you— in fact he’s going down with you. He just can’t afford to slip out of your cunt, so his one track mind just fucks you all the way down until you’re in deep missionary on the cold, hard floor. You hiss and your back arches at the discomfort of it.

“Don’t tell me to pull out,” he pleads, roughly, shoving your legs down to your chest so he can lean over you and get a deeper angle. “Please, I can’t stop.”

You shake your head and whimper loudly, grabbing onto his frantic hips with shaky hands, feeling his muscles contract and tremble. “Don’t stop, it’s okay— mmfh!— get yourself off.”

He groans loudly and shoves his tongue into your mouth while he takes hold of your skull, large palms encasing it possessively. “Ohh you want that, don’t you? Naughty girl. You know how much I love you and this pussy? I’m about to show you just how much.”

Your hand extends and slams down onto the floorboards, nails digging into the wood, creating marks as you cope with his heavy hips punching into your insides over and over and over. You’re starting to forget why you took his cock out in the first place.

He’s close, you can tell by the way his legs gradually spread out and how he drops a bit too much body weight onto you to get deeper, stretching out the muscles running along the back of your thighs, painfully.

“Ah-ah-ah— shit! Gonna fucking breed all of my load— love into you.”

And then he’s doing just that, chopped up exhales fanning directly into your mouth that sound like an old man finally feeling the relief of taking a piss in the middle of the night. He slobbers all over your face as he cums, smearing his drooling lips against your skin deliberately and you just lay there, whining and basking in it, cunt twisting around the pulsing, invading shaft.

Satoru groans loudly into your ear as he comes down, grinding his hips into yours like he’s churning butter for good measure, making you gasp and groan out a sound full of submissive coping.

“You didn’t cum,” he voices in a relaxed slur, moving up on his forearms beside your head so he can look at your face. You shake your head and bring your hands up to caress his cheeks.

“People might come,” you say shyly, glancing up to look at the exit of the upside down hallway behind you.

“Ha!” he shouts dramatically right into your face, “that’s funny, really. Like I’d fuck your gushy pussy and then just leave you all needy and horny.”

He suddenly pops his cock out of your sensitive, crying, stuffed-full cunt and you both hiss. He quickly crawls his way down to shove his face between your legs.

You jut your chin down to your chest shyly and he shakes his head with an amused chuckle, breath fanning your throbbing clit.

“No way you’re getting all shy now. If someone walks by, it’s on you my little exhibitionist.” Before you can respond, he’s opening his mouth wide with his wide tongue stuck out and obnoxiously encases your pussy within it. He’s not afraid to look ‘ugly’ to give you the stimulation needed to blow your mind.

Your fingers curl into his soft white hair and you moan pathetically as he sloppily makes out with your leaky, nicely bred, sore core. You might be hallucinating, but was that footsteps?

You anxiously glance back at the exit. “B-Baby— I think someone’s coming. Maybe we— ngh!— should go to a room or something.” You tap his head anxiously.

“Yeah, someone is cumming,” he murmurs quickly into your cunt, “you.”

You groan and yank his hair, knowing you’re unable to successfully pull him off even if you wanted to. Satoru has always been firm on the idea: you don’t interrupt a man eating a nice, warm meal. You just don’t.

It’s not long before an orgasm approaches, I mean, obviously. He’s focusing beautifully on the edges of your clit where he knows it’s not too sensitive and actually allows ecstasy to form. Let’s not forget, the adrenaline and pressure to ‘hurry up’ and get an orgasm in before the time is up and someone catches you only hurdles you closer.

Satoru purrs aloud as he eats, always has. It sounds like a cat that’s biting ridiculously large mouthfuls of their food possessively while they warn potential predators around that this is theirs and only theirs. It’s ridiculous and it makes your toes curl and your legs shake.

“I’m so close, don’t— don’t stop.” Your plea makes Satoru’s brows twitch in satisfaction as he works your clit, hands kneading your soft inner thighs.

You nervously glance back at the exit to the hallway and let out a blood curdling gasp when you see none other than Suguru Geto leaning against the wall, watching the scene like it’s some television show as he sips his drink. You’re about to scramble, snap your legs together, and hide yourself, shout, do something, because the delicious idea of getting caught is never as alluring as the brutal reality— but then, Satoru worms two fingers inside to assault your g-spot way past speed limit without changing a thing about the pace he’s licking your clit at, and you just fucking burst with a pathetically drawn out, choppy moan. Your eyes roll and your back arches completely off of the hard floor, it feels as though you had no choice but to fall off the steep cliff and that only makes it more intense.

Oh, bless your heart. Suguru huffs an airy laugh as you spasm, ignoring the incessant throb in his painfully hard cock.

As you finally come down, you blink your bleary eyes at the exit, focusing on it until you can see clearly. You lazily smack at Satoru’s head. “Satoru— get off— someone is—”

Your vision clears and Suguru’s not there anymore, no where to be seen. Satoru lifts his head and licks his lips obnoxiously, climbing up over you and looking over at the area you’re focused on. He laughs and leans in to the side of your face. “I made you cum so hard you’re seeing shit.”

“Wha—What? No, he was— he was right there.” Your brows knit, eyes locked on the exit as Satoru hums noncommittally and peppers kisses onto your neck.

Later, re-joining the party after you cleaned up (Satoru licked your panties and then slid them onto your sore pussy with a pat and a direct order to ‘hold in all of his babies’), you can’t help but steal peeks at Suguru who’s acting completely normal. Satoru’s ego is too large to entertain your claim because apparently his ‘magical tongue’ isn’t called magical for nothing and you fear it would actually crush his big heart if you persisted that it wasn’t actually the orgasm he gave you that made you see Suguru.

Satoru scoops his arms around your body, holding you close. “You okay?”

You nod and exhale deeply, letting your arms wrap loosely around his neck. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not still worried that I want dick in my ass, are you?”

You can’t help but laugh, making Satoru smile, having accomplished his mission to put some warmth on your distant face.

You give him a nice, sweet peck. “No, I can still feel your ‘love’ dripping out of me.” You nuzzle his nose with yours and he chuckles, squeezing your ass affectionately.

“Good. If I knew keeping you stuffed would stop you from pouting, I woulda set up a breeding schedule way sooner,” he hums.

“Hush,” you laugh, shaking your head.

He glances to the side where Suguru is chatting with Nanami, “And anyways, if he actually saw us like you said, he’d be all over you right now, teasing you and getting under your skin.. under your panties too. Trust me, I know him.”

You sigh and nod softly. “Right, yeah. I’m probably just tired, paranoid, I don’t know. Talking to him earlier got me all— bleh.”

He hums an affirmation and softly, adoringly pats at your ass. “I know just the thing. I’m gonna get us something to drink.”

You nod and he skips his way over to the cooler, not missing the chance to flick Nanami’s head and act as though it wasn’t him that did it as he interrogates him.

You huff and shake your head at the sight of your silly boyfriend.

“I hope there’s not anymore trouble in paradise?”

Suguru’s soft voice, much closer than you could have expected, makes you jump and gasp, slapping a hand onto your heart as you face him. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”

He chuckles and rocks back on his heels, hands stuffed in his pockets. He leans towards you on the way back to balance on his soles, in that alluring way he seems to do with women— or just you. “Ah— my fault, I didn’t peg you for the jumpy type.”

You exhale deeply as you catch your breath. “I’m usually not.”

He hums with a smile and you clear your throat, looking back towards Satoru as Suguru stands beside you.

“You come over here to chat about your dick size again?”

Suguru snickers with the upmost amusement before exhaling deeply on his last chuckle.

“No, no.” He leans down to your ear and brushes a few fingers down your spine, making you stiffen up, “I wanted to tell you that you might wanna change your pretty little dress.”

You blink, brows furrowing and focus waning from your boyfriend over to his presence engulfing you. “Uh— why?”

The warm hand that isn’t on your lower back reaches down and slides up your inner thigh, making you gasp. A smile crawls on his face and you can hear it as he purrs into your ear.

You pass pictures hung along the walls as you make your way down the hall, some portraying Satoru’s little family along the years, a few of your mothers, and too many of you and Satoru as children.

Satoru’s door. The ‘No boys allowed’ sign that 15 year old Satoru deemed hilarious and profoundly clever still hangs crooked on his door. The idea of a girl other than yourself and his mother ever crossing this threshold voluntarily is a stretch, considering his less than subtle lack of hygiene and messy tendencies.

You don’t knock before opening his door since he’s —more often than not— slouched over his bright monitor and keyboard with bulky headphones on full blast.

The stuffy, unventilated air of his room fans your face as you swing the door open and begin your automated message, “Your mom wants—”

You stall immediately, your bored eyes widen drastically when you catch sight of Satoru, who’s not in his usual spot at his desk.

He’s attempting to suck his own dick, to put it bluntly. The incredibly tall man is curled in on himself atop his messy Pokémon sheets like an armadillo, ass up. His deeply hued pink, lengthy dick is hanging over his own open mouth while his lanky hands push into his mid back in attempt to stretch it enough to get his tip past his lips.

He’s immediately and visibly panicked at your sudden presence. His reaction plays in less than half a second: His desperate tongue snaps back into his mouth, retreating from its endeavor at uniting with his sensitive tip. Owlish blue eyes lock on you, fast, as his brows knit together to show off utter embarrassment. You gasp sharply, surprise still stuck on your face, when he falls off of his bed and onto the floor awkwardly.

“Y-You— knock! You have to—you have to knock!” He’s shouting at you as he poorly recovers from his tumble, making sure to shove his sweatpants back up before standing up with a stumble.

His panicked, confrontational voice directed at you makes you feel defensive and just as frenzied.

“Sorry! Sor— I never knock— I never— sorry!” you defensively squawk, yanking the door shut mid yap as if giving him privacy now will do anything.

The sign on his door topples to the ground with the strength behind your swing. Your face burns dangerously hot as you scramble to pick it up and fumble it back onto the hook before racing away from his room.

You almost trip hurrying down the stairs and sink into the couch, seeking solace in a throw blanket you pull up to your nose with your knees to your chest.

“He coming?”

You almost choke. Your eyes snap away from the tv screen that feels much further away than before, over to Satoru’s mother who’s looking at you in question, casually.

“W-What?”

She cooly repeats her question, “is Toru coming down?”

“Oh— yeah, he’s— I think so,” you nod aimlessly before turning back to stare blankly at the tv. You honestly aren’t sure if he’s coming down or not, considering.

Satoru’s mother nods and returns her attention to plating dinner with your mother.

A few minutes later, you gulp as you hear muffled footsteps coming down the stairs.

You don’t dare to openly glance at him as Satoru’s mom acknowledges his arrival.

“Look who finally decided to bless us with his presence,” you hear her tease him rhetorically, followed by your mother asking Mrs. Gojo what serving utensils she wants to use.

Satoru doesn’t say anything as your moms chatter on, but you can assume based on the noise that he’s grabbing some glasses for drinks to help out.

You’re just so distracted with the movie you absolutely are watching, that you definitely don’t notice when Satoru’s heavy gaze focuses in on the side of your head. That’s what you’re pretending anyways. You don’t even have to look to feel it, but it’s brief, like he’s hoping you don’t notice his peek. It’s half of a second of observation that affirms to him that you are just going to ignore and ‘forget’ what you saw.

Dinner is filled with your mothers cackling to each other about some reality romance tv show while you avidly avoid any possible eye contact with Satoru. There’s a clear, awkward tension in the air as you sit beside him and poke at your food, but your moms aren’t perceptive enough of your dynamic to notice.

You help out after dinner, picking up plates to take to the sink and Satoru’s already making an obvious move to go back upstairs.

“No, no, no you don’t mister,” Mrs Gojo chides, making him pause and slowly turn his head to look at his mother with the lenses of his bulky glasses gleaming, blocking the sight of his eyes. “Help out and then you two can watch your little movie.”

She says it as though Satoru was just trying to skip cleaning so he can watch a movie with you sooner, when that can’t be further from the truth and you both know it. You haven’t held up that- movie after dinner- tradition since you were twelve. Satoru grumbles to himself, but inevitably starts helping.

Eventually, one thing leads to another and you’re washing dishes while Satoru dries beside you. Other than the running water, you can distantly hear your mother’s boisterous laughing and loud chatter coming from upstairs in Mrs. Gojo’s room where they drink wine and girl talk every Friday after dinner.

As you wash a plate, you notice the suds are growing less and less. You need more soap. You glance over at the bottle that’s closer to Satoru than yourself.

“Could you—”

He almost drops the bowl in his hand. “I wasn’t doing anything— ! I just— I just had a scratch on my back and— and I know what it looked like but it wasn’t anything weird or something.” Satoru interrupts you, nervously like the defense has been waiting at the tip of his tongue. His hands are shaking where they grip the drying cloth, an incessant squeak can be heard throughout his speech from drying the bowl that’s already much too dry, frantically.

You pause washing to blink up at him.

“Uh—” you clear your throat and point to the bottle, “I was gonna ask if you could hand me the soap.”

A beat of silence. His cheeks are flaming pink and his lanky torso is tight, straighter than his usual slouch.

“Oh.”

He awkwardly wraps his long fingers around the bottle and squeezes some soap onto your sponge.

You gulp at the silence and continue washing, eyeing the few dishes you have left.

“I—” you begin, eyes locked onto the sudsy dish, “I’m sorry for just—for just coming in without knocking. —Whatever you were doing.”

You continue.

“It’s just, I never knock. I just thought— I never knock and— fuck I don’t know— sorry.” You’re not trying to make an excuse but you feel the need to defend yourself after seeing what you did, like it’s your fault.

In the many years you’ve known Satoru, it was never a problem when you’d barge into his room without warning. He didn’t seem to care, until now. Clearly you lost the silent memo that privacy was necessary now.

He clears his throat and uses an awkward hand to shove his glasses up, instinctively. “I know. I accept your apology, but you don’t— you don’t really need to say sorry. I was just scratching my back anyways.”

You hum a quick, high-pitched affirmation, side eye flicking at him briefly. Right.

You finally finish up. Satoru awkwardly stands in place, watching you dry your hands as if he’s not sure when or how he should make his leave.

You glance at him and speak hesitantly, “Wanna— um, watch a movie?”

You’re almost expecting socially stunted Satoru to bluntly tell you no and leave. Instead, he nods in one harsh affirmation— like a soldier formally addressing their colonel.

“Sure. Yes. I wanna.”

You huff in amusement when he doesn’t make any move to lead in his own house.

His socked feet shuffle behind you until you’re plopping down onto the living room couch.

Satoru throws in the DVD that’s worn from your past uses without having to ask you what you want to watch as you adjust to get comfortable on the sofa.

Then, he scratches the back of his head lazily as he moves towards the light switches and turns them off so the large TV is the only source of dim light fluttering over the living room. It’s like he’s on autopilot because when you were young, you’d always beg Satoru to get up and turn the lights off as you watch your movie together so you didn’t have to.

The couch dips as he sits beside you, he likely didn’t even think twice about it because he’s not leaving too much space between you— not that you mind.

You’ve practically had this movie memorized by now, and your thoughts drift to more interesting things as it drones on.

You tilt your head towards him and part your lips, just to hesitate and brush it off. You think it was subtle enough to slide past Satoru’s perception but you’re wrong.

Satoru blinks repeatedly, his gaze flickering from you to the screen and back.

“What?”

“What?” You repeat, feigning ignorance.

“You were gonna say something,” he points out. Anyone else would get the hint and give up, but not Satoru.

You shrug, “Just thinking, I don’t know.”

He angles his body to face you a bit more, his leg bending and the couch adjusts with his weight.

“About what?”

You exhale and glance at his obvious focus that’s alternated completely from the movie, to you. Satoru has seen you go through your aggressive side part phase, the time you got grounded for a month at fifteen and ugly cried while you screamed for an hour, and the entire year you truly believed you were a vampire and would scream in agony any time the sun touched your skin. He’s seen some shit, and vise versa.

It’s not too difficult to abandon the movie and turn your body and attention towards him with intent to indulge your curiosities.

“Have—,” you glance at the opening of the living room that leads to the stairs where your mothers are and lower your voice a bit, “Have you actually done it before?”

“Done.. what?” He blinks at you, confused.

“You know,” you murmur shyly, whispering the next part, “sucked your own dick.”

Satoru eyes widen and he freezes. “I- I don’t— I don’t—what are you— I’d never—”

You shove his oddly sturdy shoulder and your cheeks warm. “Come on, Satoru. I saw you.”

His hands protectively slap over his flustered face, glasses and all like it’s his last defensive measure. He’s murmuring to himself, but it comes out as muffled noises. You wouldn’t be surprised if he was calling you stupid defensively.

“Hey.” You poke his hand but he doesn’t budge.

You huff, slightly amused, and after a beat of stillness, you gently pry two of his fingers away until it uncovers an eye.

“Look, I’m not judging you, okay?” you explain, and then shrug, “I’m just curious. It’s not like I’ll tell anyone.”

His adams apple bobs. He slowly places his long hands into his lap.

“Curious— um— about what, exactly?” His white lashes flutter as his eyes travel from his fidgeting hands to your face.

You chew on your bottom lip as your eyes flick to the side, thinking briefly.

“Have you ever succeeded?” You question eagerly and in a hushed tone.

“Like— it looked like,” you clear your throat, “you couldn’t reach.”

He glances over his shoulder at the entryway to the stairs to confirm you’re alone before pushing his glasses up.

“You won’t tell anyone?”

You shake your head and pull his hand up to force his long pinky to curl around yours. He can already tell you’re trying to pinky swear the way you used to when you were kids, with kisses.

“Swear,” you say definitively before twisting your interlocked hands until his fist is in front of you. You press your soft lips against it. He stops breathing.

Satoru’s in shock until you gesture dramatically for him to hurry, snapping him out of it enough to awkwardly press his puckered lips to your hand.

You smile into his fist at the sight of your locked-in promise, noses close to brushing, and pull your hand away.

You adjust in your seat enthusiastically, scooting closer to him until your knees are brushing his as you both sit with criss crossed legs.

“Now spill.”

He nods with a swallow, scratching the side of his head.

“It reaches,” he confirms with pink tinting his cheeks, “not all the way, but— enough.”

You inhale deeply while blinking, amusement and intrigue sitting on your chest as you process.

“Like your— uh— tip goes in?”

His eyes flick to the left briefly. “Just about.”

“Woah,” you exhale, “you’re flexable.”

He shrugs, “I think it’s because I’m so— long?”

Your brows raise and your eyes can’t help but trail languidly down to his lap.

He immediately shakes his head. “No, no, no I meant my body— my back, my stomach. Not my penis.”

“Oh.” You press your lips together to poorly hide your amusement and his face drops into a deeper red.

“We’re missing the movie—”

“So you suck on the tip or lick it?” You interrupt him curiously as if he didn’t even say anything.

“Uh— sucking hurts my neck so only for half a second,” he rubs the back of his neck, “so— so mostly licking.”

“Does it actually feel good?” You’re analyzing his every facial expression, intrigue hiding a splash of arousal. Every question feels more extensive than the last, and his heart is thrashing.

Satoru abruptly drops his face into the head rest cushion beside him and groans into it. His system is going into overdrive.

You huff a laugh. You’re not used to seeing him in this position, genuinely embarrassed having been caught in such a vulnerable state. Satoru is usually mean before he’s ever embarrassed or shy.

“I’m waiting,” you prod in a sing song voice and he slightly whines before sitting back up— slouching— but still.

“Do I have to answer that?” Despite his glasses, you can tell his gaze is down and off to the side.

“Absolutely.” You nod definitively with a proud tight- lipped smile, as if what you say, goes. Suddenly, he feels like his younger self being bossed around by you everywhere you two went.

“I don’t want to,” he mutters stubbornly under his breath.

“Come on,” you whine annoyingly, pushing even closer to him until your knees are slightly overlapping his shins, “I wanna know. It’s just me.”

“Yeah, it’s just you. And you’re a girl.”

You squint at him and lean back a bit. “What does that mean?”

“That this feels— wrong— weird—I don’t want to be talking to you about this,” he mumbles with a hint of irritation.

“Just because I don’t have a dick, doesn’t mean—”

He shakes his head, immediately and cuts you off with an authoritative ‘nuh uh,’ and you let out an amused scoff.

“What?” You urge him to explain, curiously. “Come on, why is it any different with me?”

“Because you’re hot. Seriously?” He grumbles and rolls his eyes at you. “And you saw me trying to suck on my own penis and your face when you walked in—” he ends the sentence with a groan, face falling right into his hands.

Honestly, you already thought he was a little weird before you caught him self sucking, but you’d never admit that and potentially hurt the smelly, awkward boy for no reason. You certainly didn’t know he cared what you thought of him, considering he’s usually unapologetically himself. Apparently, he does care what his childhood friend thinks.

“We all do weird things sometimes, that doesn’t make you weird.”

He shakes his head, face still shoved into his hands. “Not you.”

You huff through your nose, “I didn’t know you had so many opinions about me, Satoru.”

“I don’t. It’s a logical analysis from a scientific perspective. I have eyes.” His tone is more nasally than normal due to his face in his palms.

“You don’t know what I do when I’m alone. Me being weird or not is irrelevant,” you say looking down at his fluffy head that’s a bit greasy, “I get horny too.”

In a split second, his head shoot’s up desperately, almost knocking the back of it into your face on the way.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen Satoru sit up so straight in his life. You’re forced to look up at him now, reminding you of how tall he really is. His glasses were left behind when he jolted up, and you can suddenly see the full intensity of his wide crystal blue eyes piercing into you with full focus.

You slightly adjust in your seat, borderline uncomfortable under that sharp gaze that’s roaming your entire persona as if he’s a computer collecting every piece of data in your soul at a high speed. Those eyes used to scare you straight out of bed with a scream when you were small and having little sleepovers with him— they still give you chills.

“You do?”

You cower a bit, not expecting such a reaction to what you thought was an obvious fact. “Um— yeah? Of course I do,” you murmur, brows furrowing.

He swallows and slides a pillow into his lap, gripping it.

You glance down at it. You blink at it. You glance back up at him.

“Did that make you hard..?” you slowly ask, voicing the obvious in hesitancy.

“A little.”

“Okay,” you pause, “why?”

He pushes up his glasses. “Because I thought about your vagina being wet. And then I started speculating about what your vagina looks like. And then how it tastes, because online—”

“Satoru,” you quickly interrupt him, flustered, pushing a palm to his lips, “shut up.”

He blinks and nods, making you take your hand off of his lips hesitantly. He reaches under the pillow and, you assume, adjusts his boner.

“Okay,” you change the subject, shaking your head of the imaginary vision of his hardening cock, “We’re getting off track. Don’t avoid the question.”

He rubs an eye, like it’s sore from having been using his glasses for so long before they fell off.

“It feels good enough,” he mumbles, spine already returning to his natural slouch, “but I have to kinda— like— focus.”

“On what?”

“On anything but the fact that I’m sucking dick, what do you think?”

You accidentally let a snort pass, and he sighs deeply to himself.

“Sorry sorry,” you shake your head, holding back a laugh.

“Are you done yet?” He murmurs in a whiny tone, eager to stop answering questions.

“Has it ever made you cum? And do you like— bust in your mouth? Or all over your face?”

Satoru suddenly bursts into a coughing fit, choking on his own spit and your brows furrow in concern.

“You okay?”

He nods as he coughs, brushing off your concern as you rub his back soothingly and briefly. He gasps for air as the fit calms.

“I’m fine,” he massages his throat and glances back at the opening to the stairs, “why do you want to know that?”

“I’m curious.” You shrug, although you’re ignoring the subtle throb in your clit.

“Curious about my cum.” He says it like it’s more of a statement than a question.

“What? No,” you defend yourself quickly, “No, I mean— kinda but— No, stop it. Don’t twist my words.”

Now, he snickers, wiping his nose against his sleeve.

“Shut up,” you shake your head with a small smile, pushing his shoulder. “Answer, freak.”

He chews on the inside of his cheek, “It’s not like I mean to cum on my face. It just happens.”

You can’t help but drop your jaw in astonishment, unable to ignore the tingle in your lower abdomen.

He whines, “stop,” as he grabs your jaw with warm, shaky fingers and manually closes your mouth.

You gulp, subconsciously grabbing a few of his fingers from your face and pulling them down to your lap to hold onto like you need it to ground you. You’re not holding his hand, you’re more so awkwardly grabbing parts of it. Satoru glances at the connection, but you don’t seem to notice that you’re even holding it because you’re so focused on his words.

“So you’ve,” you blink rapidly, “tasted your own cum?”

He chews off a chunk of his inner lip and grumbles under his breath, “Yeah, I wish I didn’t— tastes nasty.”

“Like what?”

“You know wha—” Satoru almost slipped and confessed that you’ve tasted his cum before. On that fucking strawberry donut. You tilt your head at him, wondering why he stopped talking.

He clears his throat. “Skip.”

You blink. “Skip?”

He nods, definitively. “Skip.”

You squint at him for a beat, he doesn’t budge. You move on.

“Okay, How many times have you done it?”

He exhales in thought and shrugs. He holds up two fingers.

“Why did you do it in the first place? Like what was going through your mind?”

“Uh— That my hand doesn’t feel that good anymore.” He scratches his chest with the hand you’re not keeping prisoner in your lap.

You hum a short confirmation, huffing at his reasoning, and adjust his hand so it’s palm up. You silently ponder as you begin to trace his skin absently, the lines and ridges. Goosebumps race up his veiny, pale arm.

“You know, when a guy gets tired of their hand,” you smile in amusement, “I don’t think their first thought is their own mouth.”

He shakes his head. “Every guy has done it or tried to do it at least once,” he defends, “and if they say they haven’t, they’re lying.”

You giggle and he can’t help but breathe a little laugh with you.

“Still, why not just ask a girl out from class or something?” You continue to trace down his long fingers.

He snorts loudly and wipes his nose against his sleeve again. “Yeah, right.”

You glance up at him with furrowed brows, “Huh? I’m serious. Why not?”

He sniffs and shrugs, “I dunno. Whenever I’m around, they just..” he trails off.

You blink. “They just what?”

He looks down at your fingers trialing his palm. “Go away from wherever I am.” He doesn’t seem bothered, just stating facts.

You hum, tongue prodding your teeth in thought for a beat. You imagine it has something to do with his smell, his unkempt appearance, and honest-to-a-fault demeanor— he’s unapproachable. Even you’re guilty of this too, and you know it.

He continues in the face of your silence. “I’m not stupid, okay? I can tell girls don’t like me, I just— I don’t know why.”

An opportunity arises.

“Maybe,” you place his hand back down and coincidentally into your lap. He tries not to react to the fact that his palm happened to land on top of your clothed, warm inner thigh, “Maybe, I could help you with that— I mean, if you want.”

He blinks at you. “Help me with— help me with girls?”

You shrug. “Yeah, why not. Girls.”

He’s silent for once with his eyes trained down to your lap, and you tilt your head at his hesitancy.

“If you’re so desperate that you literally shove your own dick in your throat then what do u have to lose, huh?” You’re teasing him, clearly getting off on this new advancement in your ‘friendship.’ His face jolts into the human embodiment of an exclamation point.

He explodes, “It doesn’t even reach my throat, stupid— I don’t shove anything down my throat. I knew I shouldn’t have told you!”

You can’t hold back the laughter that bursts out of you before he even finishes speaking. You clasp your hand over your mouth but it continues to spill out. Satoru refuses to take his hand off of your inner thigh, even despite the embarrassing topic of conversation, because game is game, but he does use the other to cover his one of his hot ears because he just knows they’re probably the deepest shade of red.

“How exactly are you going to help me?”

Just as Satoru grumbles the question, both of your fathers waltz in. “Hey kids.”

Satoru jumps in place like he’s been caught, ripping his hand away from your thigh so dramatically that it makes each of your father’s brows quirk. You hadn’t even heard them open the front door.

You hide an amused smile at Satoru’s reaction and rise to your feet.

“You ready to go?” Your father asks, and you nod as Satoru’s father ruffles his son’s hair briefly in greetings. Though you just live next door, you still like to walk back with your dad.

As your father walks over to the front door, knowing your mother will likely stay longer, Satoru’s father walks upstairs to greet his wife. You bend down to whisper into Satoru’s ear.

“I’ll come over next Friday when my classes end.” You flick his forehead with a teasing grin and he rubs the injury with a grimace as you walk away. “Bye!” you shout just before his front door slams shut behind you.

Friday. 3:05 pm.

You let yourself into the Gojo front door with the key copy you received years ago.

Mrs. Gojo chirps, “Oh hi honey! Toru and the others are upstairs,” as you pass her to get to the stairs.

You pause at the bottom of the stairs and blink at her. “Others?”

She hums and nods her head with a smile before continuing to sort through her documents at the kitchen table.

You curiously climb the stairs and the closer you get to Satoru’s door, the sounds under it grow louder. Definitely more voices than just Satoru’s, as well as the loud music of a video game playing.

You stop yourself before you just barge in, again, and choose to knock instead.

Satoru’s voice answers your knock. “We don’t need anymore snacks, mom! We have chips and—”

You push open the door and the sight of you, instead of his mother, makes him shut his mouth.

Satoru and two other fellow college boys sit on the carpeted floor, facing his flatscreen hanging on the wall, playing some kind of mortal kombat style game with their sides to you. Bags of chips, drinks, video game cd cases, and controllers litter the floor around them.

Satoru is the only one looking at you while the other boys mash their controllers with focus on the game as their characters fight against one another.

Satoru pushes his glasses up instinctively as he says your name, even though they’re already pressing deeply against his face. “What are you doing here?”

Your name in Satoru’s mouth makes the boys turn their heads to look at you. Their jaws drop at the sight of a girl.

You give the- blunt as ever- Satoru a look and sigh. “I told you last Friday that I’d be coming over next Friday. It’s next Friday.”

“Oh yeah,” he scratches the back of his head. “Okay, come in then.”

You step inside before closing the door behind you.

“You gonna introduce me or what?” you ask as you drop your bag onto the floor and sit. They’re in a half circle; Satoru faces you while the other two are half turned towards you and half on the tv.

“Yeah— okay,” he says awkwardly. He gestures at the long, jet black haired one sporting a very uncoordinated, greasy bun on his head. “This is Suguru.”

Suguru peeks at you while continuing to expertly mash buttons on the controller. “Hi,” he says in a tone that seems naturally soft.

Satoru gestures at the blonde one with a long side part covering half of his face next. “That’s Kento.”

Kento looks at you and stops playing to raise his hand briefly in greetings.

You give them a polite smile. “Nice to meet you.”

They both seem a bit geeky, exactly the type you expected Satoru to be friends with. They probably met playing an online game or something. There’s a very specific musky smell in this room.

“So,” Suguru begins teasingly as he concentrates on the game, “she your girlfriend, Gojo?”

Kento scoffs lowly at the idea.

“Nope,” Satoru says freely, throwing a chip into his mouth to rudely chew while he speaks, “she’s lived next door since we were like two and our moms are friends.”

“Have you guys kissed?” Suguru easily questions before taking a sip of his soda while his other hand continues to operate his controller.

“No way in hell,” Kento answers the question meant for Satoru in a matter of fact way, “Gojo kissing a girl like that is ridiculous.” Kento glances at you briefly.

Your brows raise and you huff to yourself. You almost expected them to be shy and quiet but they’re talking about you like you’re not right in front of them. You can tell they don’t have bad intentions, they’re just a bit socially unorthodox.

“Actually,” you butt in casually, reaching over to snatch a chip from the bag in front of Satoru, “we kissed when we were six.”

Suguru and Kento ‘oo’ simultaneously without taking focus from their game, slightly monotoned and unfazed.

“Hey, you’re a girl,” Suguru murmurs, “What's it like being able to see boobs any time you want? Does it ever get old?”

The chip making its way into Satoru’s mouth delays and falls to the floor as his eyes lock on you.

“You can’t just ask a girl about her boobs five seconds after meeting her.” Kento’s tone is judgmental but you can tell he’s just as curious if you’ll answer as the others are, just better at hiding it.

You take a deep breath. “It’s okay. Umm— the boring answer is I’m pretty used to them, they’re just part of my body. But, I won’t deny that half the time I pass a mirror in my house I lift my shirt and look at them. I think every girl does.”

“Really? You flash yourself?” Satoru questions, flabbergasted at this information. The other boys completely desert their controllers and tilt their bodies to face you with criss crossed legs and a matching ring of Cheeto-type dust around their mouths.

You shrug.

“What’s it like seeing a dick all the time?” you counter and pop a chip into your mouth.

“Gross, probably.” Suguru says, making you chuckle.

All of their eyes comically trail down to your chest at the same time— as if you can’t literally see them do it.

“You’re so lucky,” Satoru murmurs.

“Do you—” Kento clears his throat, “nevermind.”

Suguru’s mouth opens and closes, like he’s hesitating to say something.

You sigh. “Get it over with. Come on.”

Satoru blinks up at you, finally breaking his eye contact with your tits. “What?”

“Ask your questions, it’s fine. Hurry up.”

Their eyes light up like dominos.

“We can’t just—” Kento begins, as the voice of reason, but is cut off by Suguru who doesn’t give a fuck.

“Do your nipples get hard when you’re horny?” Suguru asks eagerly, not wasting a moment.

“They usually just react to cold temperatures, but sometimes when I get a tingle or something, they get hard, sure.”

Satoru’s mouth hangs open, mouth-breathing. Kento gulps and Suguru breathes out a ‘sick.’

“Does— um— does it feel good when they get sucked on?” Kento timidly asks, a pink tint to his cheeks. He keeps his head tilted down a bit, a shy habit, but he’s still staring at your chest with the eye that’s not covered by his bang.

You can’t help but slightly grin in amusement. “Depends on the girl and her sensitivity. But yeah, I’d say it does. It’s kind of comforting.”

You wouldn’t be surprised if they were to drool. There are obvious tents in each of their pants.

You’re playing the ‘bored, pretty girl casually answering horny, ridiculous questions like an angel’ part well but your abdomen tingles seeing Satoru use a long, veiny hand to pull at the uncomfortably tight fabric over his hard cock to adjust.

“Do you ever,” the skin between Satoru’s brows slightly pinch and his eyes flick up at you while his friends ogle your breasts, “play with them?”

“Jesus,” you snicker with amusement and tease, “you guys are so horny.”

“Yeah, do you pinch your nipples or flick them?” Suguru adds on to Satoru’s inquiry, as if he didn’t even hear your remark.

“Is it possible to suck on your own nipples?” Kento’s question follows Suguru’s quickly. Their eyes are practically swirling and you swear you can see their heads spinning.

It doesn’t end there. They don’t even wait for an answer between slurred questions. You’ve had to have already missed more than ten of them. You can’t help but tune it out eventually, lidded eyes blinking at the ceiling as they ask every diabolical thing you could think of back to back without leaving room for a reply.

You sigh.

In one fell swoop, you yank your shirt up to your collarbones, successfully shutting them up.

Their eyes turn into large, bulging hearts that boing like a spring and their tongues roll out onto the floor while steam comes from the top of their heads.

Things like, ‘holy shit,’ ‘oh fuck,’ and even, ‘holy bazingas,” bounce through the air as your bare tits glow within their perspective.

“No more questions,” you decide, making all of them nod eagerly. They’d probably agree to anything you say right now.

“Woah. They’re so— they’re so beautiful,” Satoru whines, glasses wildly crooked on his face as they all subconsciously start crawling towards you.

“I think I’m dying,” Kento breathes before slurping a bit of drool that threatened to escape his lips. “Is this heaven?”

“My mouth is so empty,” Suguru groans, licking and smacking his lips.

Thankfully, they stop crawling when they’re close enough to get a better look but not so close that you can feel their breath on your skin. It’s not hard to conclude that this is the first time they’re seeing tits in real life.

Your lips press together as you hold back a laugh, but when your eyes meet Satoru’s face, your expression falters. He looks wrecked, pinched brows, cheeks and ears a deep red, messy glasses, wet swollen lips, and glazed eyes— he looks sexy. You’re apparently finding out many interesting things about yourself, ever since you saw him in armadillo mode.

“Okay, shows over.” You lower your shirt, and their heads comically tilt lower and lower until the material is covering your entire torso once again and the sides of their faces are smooshed on the floor.

Just then, a knock at Satoru’s door comes, followed by his mother asking if you guys want more snacks.

She opens the door and the two boys hop up to their feet, scrambling.

“I— I gotta go home,” Kento says frantically before grabbing his bag and placing it over his crotch. “It was really nice to meet you. Thank you— um— for— yeah. Okay bye,” he stutters to you on his way out.

“Oh yeah, me too. My mom is expecting me for dinner.” Suguru nods quickly and scrambles to follow Kento out, pulling the hem of his baggy shirt down until it covers his boner. “Thanks— you’re cool— yeah thank you,” he says to you on his way.

Satoru’s mom looks a bit confused with a plate of apples in hand as she let them pass her to leave. “Okay, bye boys! Be safe driving home!” she shouts after them.

The front door slams behind them and she turns to you. “You want some apples, honey?”

“Oh, sure. Thanks, Mrs. Gojo,” you say politely and she smiles as she places the plate down on Satoru’s desk.

She brushes her hands together and rests them onto her hips as she stands in the doorway. “I have to say, it’s so nice to see you two together again. Just shout if you need me.”

“Okay, thanks.” Satoru has always been polite to his mother.

“Of course.” She smiles at her son before leaving, shutting the door behind herself.

You take a beat to look around his room as Satoru fixes his crooked glasses with a balled up blanket in his lap he must have grabbed when his friends were leaving. Action figures, comics, video games, the usual. It looks eerily similar to when you used to hangout with him everyday after school when you were younger.

You glance at him, you can’t see his eyes clearly from this angle due to a gleam on his lenses.

“Are you thinking about how badly you want me to go so you can put your dick in your mouth again?”

“Wow, that was fast,” he says bluntly and flicks something in the carpet absentmindedly, “I thought for sure it’d take a full sixty seconds before you made the first penis joke.”

“Was debating between that and a Where’s Waldo one. Sorry, I’ll be quicker next time.”

“Oh thank god,” he sarcastically says.

You obnoxiously lay back on his carpet, eyeing the ceiling as if there’s something interesting up there.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” he sniffles loudly, telling the whole room that he has mucus. You sit up just as quickly as you laid down.

“Yeah, well,” you sigh deeply and lean back on your palms, “couldn’t abandon a friend in need, could I?”

He deadpans at you. “And.. why am I in need again?”

“Wahh— I’m horny and girls hate me,” you mock his deep, blunt tone as you bring your fists to your eyes to dramatically act like you’re crying, “I have to fuck my own face to cum because my hand sucks— wahh.”

Satoru is not amused. “So, you came here to flash my friends and bully me.”

“Woah woah, just giving you a little recap, Satoru, don’t get your Pokémon panties in a twist.” You point at him dramatically with a squint in your eye, “and hello? I flashed you too, you’re very welcome.”

He pushes up his glasses. “I see your point. I’ve come to the conclusion that I can agree that what you did was very generous. Carry on.”

“Oh, good.” Your sarcasm is laced with amusement. “Anyways, back to what I was saying.”

You lean over and pop another chip into your mouth.

“I’ll let you fuck me.”

For a second, all that can be heard is the muffled munch of the snack in your mouth and the background music from the abandoned video game.

“What?” Satoru enunciates each letter in the word drastically. “What— What did you just say?”

“Oh sorry, when two people love each other very much—”

“Shut up,” Satoru interrupts your obvious teasing by throwing one of his plushies at you.

You catch it with a laugh and hold it in your lap like you’d asked him for it in the first place.

“Are you being serious?” He questions you hesitantly, aware of how poorly he is at speaking with and understanding women.

“Mhm,” you affirm, casually with a nod.

His brows furrow and he almost looks around his own room for cameras like he must be getting punked right now.

Slowly he asks, “Why?”

You chew on your lower lip as you hum in thought, eyes trailing the ceiling, briefly.

You land on, “I want to help you.”

He looks at you with skeptical, squinted eyes.

You sigh.

“Look,” you regard him genuinely, “all jokes aside, when I saw you doing what you were doing, and then when you were telling me why you do it in the first place, I just felt like, I don’t know, I wanted to help you.”

“So, I’m a charity case?” He questions insinuatingly, making you sigh in slight frustration with yourself for not expressing your feelings correctly.

“No. It’s more like—” you chew on your lip as you gather your thoughts, “I wanna be useful to you. Remember when we were younger and my ice cream fell on the floor because that annoying kid kept pinching me and you gave me yours? And then when I asked you why, you said that you have to take care of the people you love?”

Satoru’s eyes bulge and his lips part. “You’re in love with me?”

You deadpan at him. “Really? Thats what you got from that?”

“You literally just said you love me and that’s why you want to let me have intercourse with you,” he passionately defends his conclusion, like he’s trying to show you logic.

“Oh my god you’re gonna make me say it,” you sigh to yourself, “Fine. Of course I love you Satoru, I’ve loved you since I was like five. I’m not confessing my love for you, okay? It’s like a childhood friend love, like—”

Satoru interrupts you quickly with a long pointed, accusing finger. “Don’t you dare say family after you just said you want me to put my penis in you.”

You rub your eyes briefly in frustration with your pointer finger and thumb. “My point is, I care about you and I don’t want you to suffer with a hard dick. I have your solution between my legs, so, here.”

“No,” Satoru immediately denies, “Intercourse is a two person activity where both parties have a desire for it. I don’t want you to just give me your vagina to use like a fricken fleshlight because you feel bad for me.” —No matter how much he might want to.

Your brows raise and your speak slowly. “You’re worried that I don’t want it?”

“Obviously?” He looks at you like you’re stupid.

“Satoru, there’s a reason I’m not just offering you a handjob,” you huff and shake your head, amused that he’s worried about you, “I want it.”

“You do?” He asks you like you’re crazy and not even aware of what you’re saying, loudly and enunciated dramatically.

“I do,” You confirm, definitively.

“Like, you’re attracted to me?”

You squint at his overall appearance for a beat and then crawl up to him until your nose is brushing his sweaty neck, making him jerk back hesitantly, but ultimately allowing you to get way too close.

“What are you—”

You take a big sniff of his skin and he shuts his mouth with an alarmed expression. You take a few more inhales of different patches of skin on his neck and then sit back down, criss crossing your legs in front of him with your knees overlapping his shins like last Friday.

“Yeah,” you nod absolutely, as if you’re speaking to yourself, eagerly, “I definitely want you inside of me.” What you aren’t saying is that his musky smell, the one you usually avoid getting a whiff of, is now triggering a primal response within your reproductive system.

“Holy shit,” he breathes under his breath, chills racing down his spine. “You want me inside of you.”

“Are you attracted to me, Satoru?” You repeat his question back at him, a little smile and tilt to your head.

“Um,” he picks up your hand, “do you want to feel it?”

He tosses the blanket in his lap to the side, exposing his hard on.

“Your dick?”

“My attraction for you,” he corrects.

You nod.

He lays your palm flat on his warm, beating chest, making your brows raise in surprise.

His heart is thumping at a steady pace, a little fast, but it’s to be expected with you so close to him.

“This is,” you blink, “your heart.”

He nods. His heart picks up pace and you can feel the rise and fall of his breath.

“The blood that it’s circulating,” he uses a large hand to guide yours on a slow journey down his hard chest, “is reacting to the ventral tegmental area of my brain.”

Your eyes are locked onto his hand on top of yours, silently gasping when it reaches his tent. You don’t miss the deep ridges of yummy abs on the way down either.

“And it sends that blood,” he lets out a barely noticeable grunt, ‘guh,’ under his breath when your hand caresses his bulge, “here.”

My attraction for you starts within my heart.

You can’t help but let out a sharp breath, an airy, amused scoff, despite the little tingle in your own heart. “Oh, wow, you’re good. I underestimated you, you little geek.”

He doesn’t answer you, just gives you proud twitch at the corner of his lips. He’s breathing heavy, hazy eyes already lidded in pleasure, simply due to your warm hand on his clothed cock.

“You’re so hard,” you breathe as you gently squeeze around the stiff base, making him grip the carpet beside him, “You already thinking about how it’ll feel to be inside me?”

He groans, tossing his head back. “Of course I am. Can we do it now?” He looks at you with impatience and then down at your lap, “Are you lubricated?”

You grin at him, “Am I lubricated?”

“Yeah, it’s a word in the dictionary, stupid.” His grumble is a little too breathy to be cruel. The insult makes you nostalgic, it was practically your assigned nickname when you were kids.

“Maybe you should try Urban Dictionary,” you tease, hand still resting casually on his bulge like its normal, “because wet is what us regular earthlings use.”

“Okay,” he speaks bluntly, “Are you wet?”

You shrug. “I might be.”

He squints at you. “What do you mean might? You have to be properly prepared before we can do this.”

“You know what? Yeah, you’re right. And now that you mention it,” you say like a performance, “I know exactly what will ‘properly prepare’ me.”

“Okay,” he says expectantly and slightly suspicious, “What?”

Satoru almost throws a fit when you take your hand away from his cock and lean back on your hands.

“I want you to self suck again and I want to watch.”

You must have learned that phrase online in the time you’ve been apart since last Friday, but that’s not why his face scrunches up in judgmental confusion.

“What? No fucking way,” he immediately denies passionately, “Are you serious?”

“I barely got to see it before,” you whine, leaning towards him with your hands up in prayer and an exaggerated pout on your face, “Please?”

“That’s what’s gonna make you wet?” He’s in disbelief.

You shrug, dropping your hands. “Something about it is hot. Don’t judge, self sucker.”

Is this what girls are into?

“You think putting my own penis in my mouth is hot?” he asks you judgmentally, overly enunciating as to get his point across, “Why??”

You sigh, glancing up at the ceiling in thought.

“I don’t know. Something about the desperation you have to feel to do something like that,” you bite your lip and flick your gaze down at his bulging tent, “Like you’d do anything to feel the pleasure of a blowjob.”

Oh. Okay, no. It’s just you that’s this weird.

“I don’t even know what to say right n—” he cuts his own astonished remark off, “You’re a freak, you know that? Like you’re weird.”

You huff and shove his shoulder. “You’re the dick sucker.”

“Getting off on watching it is worse,” he shakes his head at you, but he’s unable to hold back a flicker of a smile.

“Oh c’mon,” you tilt your head at him, “seeing you feel good makes me horny, doesn’t that do anything to you?”

He knows you know the answer to that, if his cock jumping at your words says anything.

“Then why can’t it be in your mouth and not mine?” He grumbles, trying to avoid your powerful stare— the one where you make your eyes all big and gleamy; you’ve been manipulating him with that look since you were young.

You light up seeing his resistance breaking down by the second, your words coming out quicker now.

“You don’t have to do it for a long time, I just wanna see you actually lick the tip,” you gush, as if begging at a fast pace will make him more likely to agree.

He rubs his nose against his sleeve and glances at the closed door with a sigh. “Okay.”

“Yes,” you say to yourself in victory as you thrust your elbow downward with your hand in a fist. Satoru deadpans.

You stare at him expectantly with a smiling bite to your lower lip.

Satoru sniffs and nudges your knee that’s on top of his leg. “You have to back up a little.”

“Oh,” you chirp, scooting back a tad so that your knees aren’t touching.

Satoru’s awkwardly maneuvers his lanky body to lie on his back, and you’re facing his side. You stop him.

“Wait, you have to actually walk me through how you’re doing this.”

He turns his head to blink at you. “You’re such a freak. How do I know you’re not just messing with me and I’m doing this for nothing? I’m not—”

You sigh, sharply, and with determination, you lean down and shove your face onto his.

Your lips connect abruptly, and Satoru gasps as his hands twitch, mid air. A peck. Your lips stick together as they part, making a ‘chu’ sound before you begin to lay multiple dense pecks onto his. He’s fighting to return the kisses with panicked hums, not understanding why you’re doing it but too enthralled to care.

You finish it off with one long, pressurized kiss, even shaking your head back and forth a few times to really imprint the feeling onto his nerves before pulling away just enough.

“You kissed me,” Satoru breathes, clearly trying to process what just happened. He doesn’t get far though, because you start laying wet, open mouthed kisses onto his jaw and down to his neck where you start suckling on it. Satoru’s making all kinds of hisses and gasps. His desperate hips jerk into the air instinctively in one harsh movement.

You slide your lips off after one final self indulgent lick to his protruding Adam’s apple and he’s exhaling audibly in euphoria.

“It’s not for nothing. Please show me how you do it,” you beg him in a soft tone, brows pinched. You nudge your nose into his like a cat yearning to bond, and he just melts.

He nods and lets out a shaky ‘okay’ as you lean back to watch with an excited smile.

He gently takes his glasses off and folds them, eyes blinking and squinting to adjust briefly.

“Why are you taking your glasses off?”

He glances at you as he places them aside. “I don’t want to get them dirty,” he explains and clears his throat.

You lick your lips and nod, enjoying the topic of conversation too much.

“It’s kinda hard to,” he grunts as he kicks off of the ground with one leg to push both over his head, “do this part.”

You’re sort of astonished at how he’s able to put such a long body into this position.

“Uh— I’m gonna take my penis out now,” he glances at you awkwardly but you just nod encouragingly.

He pulls his sweatpants down enough to let his cock hang out and keep his balls and ass within the confines of the material. He places his focus on the act itself so he doesn’t psyche himself out of this ridiculous situation. His true eyes are on the prize, he’d do anything to fuck your pussy.

Seeing his cock this close up is a whole nother experience compared to the panic of barging into his room and happening upon it. It’s a light pink color, and it’s quite lengthy as it bobs over his face. It gets thicker towards the middle and up to the tip, sort of flared— as if it’s begging to be encased inside something. It feels as though it’s already anticipating his warm mouth.

“Just— just a lick, right?” He asks you, face a deeper pink than his dick is.

You hum an eager confirmation and he sighs to himself in slight preparation.

He uses two hands to nudge at his back and his tip slowly reaches down to brush his lips.

He drops his jaw and hesitates to let his tongue out. But ultimately, he slowly slides it out and you can see the muscles in his tongue twitch as he gives the top side of his tip a nice, wet lap— incidentally collecting a small dribble of pre.

“Did that feel good?” You quickly question, biting your lower lip with observant eyes.

He swallows. “A little. Can I stop now?”

“Does sucking feel better?” You ask instead, and he releases the pressure he’s pushing into his back just a bit so he can answer you more comfortably.

“I guess, but not really, I can tell it’s my own mouth.”

“I have an idea,” you scooch in closer, “try sucking.”

Despite this being kind of lame compared to the idea of you stimulating him instead or the promise of sex, it’s clearly entertaining you so he pushes into his straining spine again until his desperate tip greets his mouth again. Satoru has stuck his dick inside of crazier things in weirder situations just to get off, this is nothing.

He opens his mouth wide enough to allow his cock inside and sucks his lips closed around half of the tip. His white lashes softly flutter shut at the dull tingle growing through his dick.

His eyes shoot right back open when he feels a long, warm, wet sensation run across his mid shaft. You start licking at his reactive cock like an eager kitten, making that dull tingle erupt into much more as bitter pre oozes into his mouth in reaction. His wide eyes roll in pleasure once he realizes you aren’t stopping and he uses his tongue to suck a little better at his cock head, unable to resist the need for more stimulation.

When your tongue starts wetly tracing the edge of his tip where it enters his mouth, even licking at his lips a little, he can feel his balls tighten up. He thinks he can handle it, hold back his orgasm, but then you latch onto the side of his upper dick and suckle.

He doesn’t want to cum in his own mouth so he eases the tension his hands are putting on his back to let the tip slide out but not enough to pull his legs back and lay flat because he doesn’t want to lose the pleasure your mouth is giving him. “Wait— hng!— I’m gonna cum!”

You hum happily and, faster than he can blink, your warm mouth is enveloping his entire throbbing tip. His abs clench and his eyebrows shoot up with tension, moaning loudly with parted lips as you slide your tongue all around his sensitive skin. He’s never felt anything like this, it’s not even comparable.

You’re coaxing his cum to build and build, and Satoru swears with a burst of excitement within his chest that he’s finally going to ejaculate inside of a woman’s mouth. That is, until you suddenly let his cock go with a pop and the next thing he knows, cum is shooting all over his face. His cock spasms and pleasure bursts all the way into his toes, he’s overwhelmed by it for a long blissful moment.

Pure bliss until he comes down enough to realize that warm splooge is streaking down his cheeks, forehead, nose, and chin. He slowly maneuvers himself to lay flat and blinks at the ceiling for a beat. He’s about to sit up and do the whole irritated-at-you thing, but then your thighs are suddenly on either side of his hips with only your shirt and panties on, sweatpants no where to be found, only soft bare legs. He gasps.

“That was so fucking hot,” you groan as you quickly shove your panties to the side and ease down enough to rest your warm, wet labia against the bottom of his soft, twitching dick.

He hisses in sensitivity, hands shooting to grip your thighs to cope as he tilt his head up to look at you. You’re a little blurry without his glasses but he can still see how flustered you look.

“Think you can get hard again?” You ask, out of breath as you begin to slowly grind your pussy against him with eager hands on his chest.

He groans in overstimulation, “Oh god— wha—? I don’t know— oh fuuuck.” His fingers tighten around the flesh of your flexing thighs.

“I have cum all over my face,” he groans, refusing to make you get off of him because he’d rather die, but still complaining about it.

“It’s okay,” you say quickly and lean down and begin to lick the cum off of his face casually, making him slightly grimace.

“Just grab a shirt,” he basically slurs when your licking abruptly stops and you pull back enough to look him in the face.

Your hands are on either side of his head now, hips unfortunately stopping all movement, and you’re suddenly blinking at him like you’re realizing something.

“Oh my god,” you slowly express, a disbelieving smile on your lips, “you came all over that fucking donut! I knew you were acting weird, you sick freak.”

His eyes widen and he doesn’t even know what to say, you clearly recognize the taste enough to place it, so he just blurts, “What are you talking about?”

“Why didn’t you stop me?” You still question him with furrowed brows, not buying his feigned ignorance, “Your mom was right there!”

“I don’t— but, you said it tasted good! And you only took one bite.”

You huff and shake your head. And then you lean down to lick a long lap up his cheek, gathering a bit of very bitter cum on your taste buds. You swallow it and press your lips to his ear, “You’re lucky I’m throbbing because otherwise, there’s no way I’d fuck you knowing that, you pervert.”

Whether that’s a lie or not, doesn’t matter, all Satoru can hear is the subtle squelch of your pussy lips rubbing against his hardening cock as you begin to grind again.

His toes curl and twitch. He breathes, “You made me cum— agh!— on my face, we’re— we’re even.”

You huff and sit back up while your hips work. “Fine. We’re even.”

He brings a shaky hand over to his discarded glasses and throws them back on before yanking the hem of your shirt up enough to see your pussy.

“Ohhh my goodness gracious,” his voice shakes but he’s very sturdy in his words, astounded by the sight of pretty pussy in real life— especially those folds against his own penis, the folds connected to his beautiful childhood friend.

He can’t help but eagerly buck his hips once, making you gasp at the direct hit to your clit and grip onto his shirt over his chest.

“You’ve never had sex before, right? You’re a virgin?” You breathe out, humping increasing in speed.

His mouth hangs open. “Never. Mhm, yeah, virgin.” He nods quickly.

You lean in and your lips brush his as you speak. “I’m gonna be your first, baby?” you egg him on.

He whines into your mouth. “I always— I always suspected you would.”

“What?” You breathe in amusement, pressing a kiss to his jawline, “Why?”

“Because,” he moans beautifully as you suck on his earlobe, “You’re the only girl that talks to me.”

You lean back and jut your bottom lip out into a dramatic pout. “Aww, so it’s not because you’ve been in love with me since we were kids? You’re breaking my heart.”

“No,” he hisses when his tip almost gets caught on your entrance that seems to be attempting to suck him in every time it passes by, “I’ve definitely been in love with you since we were kids.”

Your hips stutter to a painful stop and you blink at him, playful expression slightly faltering. You can barely tell when Satoru is joking, the ease and blunt manner of the way he speaks doesn’t help.

“Wait, are you being serious?”

He sits up to lean back on his elbows and nods. “I thought you knew that.”

“How could I know that?” you ask him like he’s an idiot, “The most you say to me in a week is that I have something in my teeth.”

He sniffles his runny nose obnoxiously, like always. “Because you do. And, you don’t talk to me either,” he says factually and defends himself.

“That’s—,” you exhale sharply, reaching down to grip his base, ignoring his little ‘guh!’ as you raise your hips a bit, “because we got older and— I don’t know— grew apart.”

You rub his head against your opening and his eyes lock onto the movement like it’s glowing gold. Drool dribbles out of the corner of his lips. “Holy shit. It’s finally— ngh!— happening. You’re finally going to have sex— oh my god— it’s so soft. It’s so slimy, woah.” He’s talking to himself like a little weirdo, but you don’t mind, it’s actually creating more slick to join the rest.

You bite your lip and slowly push down against his head until it pops in with a painful little stretch.

You hiss out a strained, “Fuck,” and Satoru pushes through his overwhelming desire to just moan and whine and succumb to his own pleasure like a limp fish to ask you, “Are you okay? Does— hahh— does it hurt?”

You nod with a shaky exhale, eyes closed in concentration. “A little, your tip is— mm— almost as big as your head is.”

You’re clearly not in enough pain to ignore an opportunity to tease him, it seems. You take a deep breath and attempt to calm your muscles.

But then, your head snaps down to make sense of the sudden stimulation against your clit to see Satoru’s long lanky fingers rubbing it sloppily. “Oh— mm!” Your abdomen and thighs clench as you grip his shirt harshly, breathing choppy.

“Does that help? Your clitoris should ease the pain,” Satoru bluntly expresses with clear concern, focus flicking from your clit to your expression, “I read it.”

You whine and grab onto his wrist connected to the lanky fingers moving in a ‘dj’ motion against your ultra sensitive skin. “Try— hah— little circles.”

He immediately complies with upmost focus, fingertips and knuckles rotating. “Like that?”

You moan and your cunt answers his question for you, squeezing his tip nicely. Before he knows it, you’re dropping all the way down till he feels your plushy cervix kissing his slit. It feels like you just punched him in the gut with how abrupt the feeling of being enveloped whole is.

“Oh god, holy shit! You’re so wet and tight and,” he’s wailing like an animal in the jaws of a predator and he’s physically unable to stop himself from gripping the carpet harshly to ground himself, “it’s bumpy inside, the perfect— perfect balance between—ngh— stimulation and plushy, soft, gooey— ahh it’s like clouds.”

“Yeah? Keep going Toru.” You’re clearly trying to mock his ramble but your tone is anything but a tease as you sit still, cockwarming him with reactive walls.

He’s lucky that he busted recently because he wouldn’t have been able to last this long otherwise, movement or not. But you’re fighting your own battle too. You’re so full, there’s a pang of radiating pain pinching your cervix that refuses to stretch to make room for Satoru’s lengthy cock and you’re trying your hardest to hold on until your body adjusts the way it’s meant to.

“Fuck!” You blurt after a long moment of trying to push down the feeling overwhelm, “I don’t think I can do it. It’s— It’s too much. It hurts.” You’re speaking in a completely genuine way for once, not even a small teasing comment about why his dick has to be so long; he can tell you’re actually scared.

Satoru immediately sits up and grabs onto your waist, eyes flicking over your expression quickly. “It hurts?” he repeats softly, clearly concerned and attempting to console you, “Okay, breathe. You’re okay, I’m here, I’m with you, I’ve got you. Your body can stretch, it’s made to stretch for this.”

You take a deep breath and nod as he speaks, brows pinched as you attempt to hold your focus on his coos and not the invading, pulsing flesh within you.

“I can feel you twitching,” you whine, head thrown back briefly, “stop it.”

“I can’t control it,” Satoru defends, using his thumbs to gently rub circles into your waist, over your shirt.

“It’s your dick,” you whimper, dropping to rest your forehead onto his shoulder, “Tell it to stop hurting me.”

He hums, entertaining your words and the next thing you know, a lanky hand is snaking under your shirt to lay flat and warm on your lower tummy.

“Stop hurting her,” Satoru scolds his mounted penis, “Or I swear I’m gonna take you out of this amazing, warm little pussy and you’ll go right back into your boxers. You hear me?”

Your pussy involuntarily convulses around him, hearing him indulge your little sillies in such an oddly sexy way. You both breathe out a groan at the delicious feeling.

You lift your head, breathing heavily with lidded, hazy eyes. “That helped,” you mumble as you shove your lips onto his eagerly, nudging his head back slightly at the force and making him hum.

He locks his lightly dry lips onto your soft ones as immediate as possible, not allowing the risk of missing out on your sweet pecks like before when he could barely keep up.

But this isn’t a peck, you’re tilting your head, side to side as your lips smooch, keeping them interlocked between ‘chu’s.’

Your eyes peek open because, your intuition was right, his intensely blue irises are staring at you through his lenses. You unlatch as you push his shoulder, lightly, not keen on accidentally making his hips jolt. “Why are your eyes open? Close them while we kiss,” you scold, feeling a light heat rise within your cheeks.

He licks his lips to taste you instinctively. “What’s wrong with that? I want to look at you, you’re pretty.”

You roll your eyes half heartedly and slide your hands onto his shoulders to hold. “Open your mouth.”

You don’t give him a chance to respond because you’re shoving your wet tongue into his mouth, making him moan directly into yours. His hands tremble around your waist as they tighten their grip, using all of his will power to not listen to instinct and rut up into you.

“Wait wait—” he says between licks and you know he’s scared to accidentally hurt you.

You shake your head and hum a denial. “It’s okay, you won’t,” you breathe before latching back on.

He tastes like lingering traces of sugary soda and a hint of tic-tacs, but mostly like natural saliva. His tongue is sloppy and a bit odd in how it meets yours, but it’s his and you can’t help but desire for more of it as it lathers and lathes yours.

“Okay,” you pull back impatiently, “Let’s fuck.”

“Fuck— fuck,” Satoru grunts frantically, face clenching, “don’t say that, I’m gonna ejaculate too quick.”

“No, you won’t,” you soothe him, almost like you’re speaking it into existence, ignoring the instinct to make fun of his word choice.

He whines, but then gathers his determination and nods. “Okay, okay— mhm— should I move?”

You shake your head. “No, me first.”

You softly raise your hips, using your knees on either side of his body for grounding, until half of him is glistening and exposed. His mouth hangs open and his eyes have glazed over where they lock onto your connection.

You take a deep breath and drop all of your weight down until he’s sliding right back into his little nook within you. “Nngh..!” he moans on impact, brows pinching aggressively into a defensive pout. “Was that okay? Are you okay? Did it hurt? Because I think you stretched a little more—”

You cut him off by rubbing your nose into his with closed eyes, humming in affection as you squeeze his shoulders lightly. “I’m okay,” you dismiss, resting your forehead on his, “How does it feel? Good?”

“You,” he pauses to shakily breathe out deeply and slowly as his hands start massaging your waist in primal instinct, “You feel like heaven. I love you.”

You huff and lean away with an amused look. “Tell me when you’re about to cum,” you warn him suddenly, and you don’t leave any room for him to answer because your hips begin to ride. His thick head is immediately slamming against all of the sensitive parts inside you, nudging your g-spot deliberately with each embrace.

“Oh shiiiit,” his voice undulates with the pace of your thrusts, and his glasses are already lying crooked on his face due to the recoil his body is taking. “Oh my god— nngh! oh!”

“Yeah?” you breathe out with pinched brows, “Does my pussy feel better than— mmh!— your mouth, Satoru?”

His eyes are threatening to roll continuously, but he’s trying so hard to keep them straight and on your blissed out face. “Your pussy is— oh fuck— so much better. I want to live inside of you— please keep going.”

“I’m not stopping, I’m not stopping.” You’re cooing at him, sloppily, and as if you’re desperate for more, you transition to start bouncing. The impact of the change in positioning and the force of gravity aiding in your movement makes Satoru absolutely keen. His toes curl and his abdomen clenches painfully. The squelch of your connection is the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard and felt.

“Oh no, oh no,” Satoru grits pleadingly and his surprisingly strong hold on your waist subconsciously tightens to the point that it’s tough to continue to bounce through it at the velocity you are. “I’m gonna cum— I’m gonna cum— I can’t hold it.”

“Are you sure? Right now?” You question him through moans with hope that he’ll be able to hold it.

“I’m sure! Fuck! Don’t get off, just stop moving.” He’s biting his lower lip so hard that he could very well bite it clean off.

You stop at the next bounce, whining like you’ve been stabbed once you settle. His cock whimpers within you too, like it’s threatening to bust at any moment, begging to make this amazing place inside you it’s new home, decorated with little Toru’s DNA and a welcome mat. His dick doesn’t have to know English for Satoru to know that it won’t be accepting anything less than your pussy from now on; he can say goodbye to the makeshift pocket pussy made out of a Pringles can, gloves, and tissues already dusting in his cabinet.

“What’s wrong? Are you gonna cum?” you question, you were already preparing to hop off and jerk him onto your face or into your mouth.

He gulps between deep breaths, trying to catch it and calm down. He massages your hips and waist and ribs, up and down, affectionately. “I don’t wanna cum until you do,” he explains with a gleam of a heart within his eyes. “How do I do that?”

You smile and exhale deeply at his question. “I don’t think I can cum unless you do something to my clit.”

It’s obvious to the both of you that he won’t be able to maintain that if you start bouncing again.

“Oh!” You grab onto him reactively when he suddenly flips you over onto your back with his large hand protecting the back of your skull and the other wrapped around your back.

You let out a gasping moan at the new angle the second your back hits the carpet when his cock wetly sinks all the way back into you. Gravity. “Oh,” you whimper at how deep he is, socked feet and thighs twitching mid air beside his ribs.

His breath fans your face, hands on either side of your head. He’s holding himself together, brows drawn in. “I’m gonna make you orgasm,” he pledges to you like a knight on his knees, eyes digging their way into yours.

“You are?” Your response shakes out airily as he falls down to rest on his forearms beside your head, face inches from yours and white hair leaning down with gravity. His boxers are showing over the expanse of his covered ass and his sweatpants are halfway down as he lies in between your bloomed legs.

He nods with determination as he shoves his glasses up, but they fall back to the lower part of his bridge just as fast. “Can I start humping?” His intention within that geeky phrasing is so pure that your heart can’t help but flutter into little butterflies.

You lift your head at a snails pace, eyes refusing to stray from his pink lips until you connect in a soft, caress of a kiss. “Go ahead,” you smile into his mouth.

Yearning for the life between your thighs, forced to pull the distance just to regain closeness again, his hips gradually pull back until he’s almost completely gone, and then he’s thrusting back inside, experimentally.

Your lips part with the drive of it in perfect synchronicity, sharing the experience of deriving pleasure from one another with a shiver.

He repeats it, this time brisker, and his eyes roll. “Oh that’s so good,” he expresses, and getting lost in the sauce, his isolated thrusts turn into a sloppy, inexperienced pace of its own, your legs brunting the force with every collision. You’re sucking him in with every draw back and milking him when he’s fully seated.

His soggy cock sadly slips out when his focus flickers and his desperate hips lose direction; pleasure like this is blinding for an eager virgin. He takes the opportunity to breathe and recenter, slouching down to press his forehead to your collarbones as his bobbing cock jumps and pulses in yearning over your sloppy pussy.

You rub the back of his head soothingly while the other kneads his alarmingly muscular back.

He exhales against your skin. “‘M still gonna make you cum,” he mumbles and you hum with a warm smile, eyeing the ceiling as you soothe him. “Just need a second.”

“Take a second,” you hum and lazily rub the inside of your calf against his side. “But I’m so empty,” you whisper against the top of his head like you’re casting a sultry spell, “and so ‘lubricated.’ It would be such a shame if your cock didn’t fill that space inside of my gooey—”

“Jesus fuuck,” he moans and shivers, whining at your words that seem to be just fucking right. He picks his head up to level with yours again, “Okay, okay. I’m good. I’m ready.”

He reaches down without looking, grasping his shaft to lead it back into you. He pokes your lower hole and you squeak, “Wrong hole! Higher— higher, Satoru.”

“Oh,” he breathes a huff into your face, a geeky smile on his lips.

He pokes your clit. “Too high. You need some help, Satoru?” You’re teasing him, but you’d still gladly do it for him if he needed you to.

He shakes his head and you nudge his glasses up for him before they potentially fall all the way off. “I got it, I got it.” He sticks his tongue out of the corner of his lips in concentration as he takes his hand off of his cock to search for your pussy, blindly.

Your abdomen clenches inward in a jolting fashion when he lays his long fingers over the entirety of your pussy. “Just need to see where..” he trails off with focus, eyes locked on nothing in particular over your head.

His bony fingers start pawing, groping, and spreading your folds, probing them like he’s trying to memorize the anatomy. Your hips and abdomen muscles are jerking with his rough touch, letting out a few whines as you writhe. “What are you doing?”

“There it is,” he breathes, ignoring your gasp as his fingers poke at the clenching entrance to your insides, “See, baby? Got it.”

He hurriedly shoves his dick into you to the hilt, while he still remembers where it’s at, with a deep, loud, throaty exhale of relief you’d only hear from a forty year old man. Your hands snap to grip his back, nails pushing into the cloth as your spine arches into him. “Satoru— nngh!” you groan in shock at the sudden impaling of your guts.

“Yeahh,” he sighs, nudging your face to the side with his to nose at your neck, “My name, keep saying that.”

Your jaw drops as he brutally begins to thrust deeper than before, like he’s stabbing you with every hit, he sucks and licks at the side of your neck unsteadily. He reaches between your bodies and finds your beating clit while you squeak on every thrust like you’re a sharp-teethed dog’s stuffed squeaky toy.

You can literally feel the tendons in his forearm undulate against your tummy as he swipes electricity through your clit and into your legs, down to your curling toes. Now that he’s destroying you, it’s clear that previously, inexperienced Satoru was striving to grasp an understanding of holding a steady pace before he could attempt at multitasking his focus onto your clit as well.

He pulls back from your neck to search your expression with upmost curiosity. He can see the clear change in your every expression at the new advancement. “Ohh, oh— that feels good, huh?” He’s almost taunting you and cooing at you simultaneously.

You nod eagerly as your arms scramble to wrap under his arms to hold onto his sweaty shoulder blades from behind for balance; since he’s so tall, you have to reach a bit. The gymnastics your mind would have to go through to tease him back is shut off and being bypassed completely as he manipulates an orgasm to appear within the distance.

“Little magic button,” Satoru huffs as drool seeps out of the corner of your parted lips, moaning like you’re being hurt.

“I’m gonna cum,” you warn him, nodding again like it’s your job, “don’t change pace. Don’t stop— please.” He hisses when your nails start clawing down his back muscles, but he couldn’t care less about pain right now, there’s a wicked, domintating look of euphoria on his face.

“Cum, please, cum— I need you to cum. I’m not stopping,” he confirms into your ear before slobbering all over it. He’s been holding back the need to burst within you for too long already but he’d sooner pull out and continue to rub at you in hope of maintaining the build of your peak and then diving back in when his high dissipates than cum before you.

“Oh my god, it’s happening!” You cum with a shuddering, pathetic whine that turns into a silent cry, overwhelmed by the burst of white love and the piercing of his teeth into your soft neck.

He’s in bliss knowing he’s finally pushing you over the edge, but the feeling of your cunt squeezing in convulsions he’s only read online about happening when a woman experiences an orgasm and her body instinctively goes through the primal motions of milking the penis within of all the sperm it can offer, he falls over the edge. He wouldn’t have been able to cut off his high even if he yanked himself out this very second.

His hips slam one last jack hammer as deep into your cunt as as he can penetrate before he holds still in your guts, making you, ‘guh!’ like you’ve been stabbed.

“Thank you! I’m sorry— fuuck! Thank you!”

He can’t help but abandon your clit as he falls of the cliff, though you don’t even need it anymore. That first spurt of cum travels through his convulsing cock and shoots into your cervix, bullseye. His leg muscles shake as he repeats those slurs of gratitude and apologies into the skin of your cheek with slobbery, drooling lips.

You can feel the violent pulses of his cock, indicating he’s spurting cum into your tummy, but all you can do is hold onto him in a deep embrace as you catch your breath, coming to the conclusion of your orgasm.

You’re spent. He groans as his lips smear down your cheek, over your jaw and then down to tuck his face into your neck, leaving a trail of drool in their wake. Suddenly, his extremely tense body turns to heavy deadweight and drops fully on top of you. He’s now a starfish, arms and legs flailed out while his softening cock is still snug inside your continually massaging, convulsing walls. He’s sweating and you can smell his specific musk more potently, though most of you is instinctively comforted and weirdly domestically affected by it.

“Satoru,” you whine and writhe underneath him, air knocked out of you due to the 300 pound fish on top of you, “you’re heavy.”

Satoru blurts a tired noise, making you groan and squeeze your legs together around his hips.

He noses at your neck and starts kitten licking it, making your insides squeeze and twist around his sensitive cock. His ass clenches. “Oh! Oh! Tight!” he hisses as if he’s touched a hot surface but refuses to pull out.

“It’s your— ngh— fault,” you mewl, hitting his back weakly. “Don’t lick me like that!”

He lethargically pulls his face out of your neck to smirk at you. “I made you cum so hard.” Proud. Cocky. Borderline sexy— and then he ruins it by sniffling with obvious mucus.

You squint at him accusingly. “And you came inside me.”

He huffs nervously and shoves his glasses up. “Yeah.. I’m sorry.”

You sigh. “You know I can’t take plan b, right?”

He blinks at you and his face pales a bit. “W-What? Why? I can buy it— ”

“Because it’s really bad for your body,” you flick his forehead, “I told you to tell me when you were going to cum for a reason, stupid.”

“Fuck.” He drops his forehead down onto the carpet beside yours. His, already half hard, cock twitches against your walls.

A long pause. You’re almost suspecting that he’s turned on by the idea of impregnating you.

He lifts his head, brows pinched. “We’re having a baby?”

“No, Satoru.” You sigh and rub the top of his head comfortingly, “I’m not ovulating so hopefully it just.. doesn’t stick.”

He immediately shakes his head as if that just won’t do. “No, it’s gonna stick. Gojo sperm always makes it home on the first try.”

You blink and your face screws up as you attempt to process his words. “What are you talking about? How could you possibly know that?”

“My dad told me when I hit puberty,” he adjusts his body so he can lean on his forearms and you both emit a soft sound at the incidental movement down below, “Grandpa told him the same thing. He was a first try baby, my dad was too, and so was I. All boys too.”

He grabs onto the sides of your head in a caress, then sniffles causally and smiles down at you like he didn’t just drop a bomb on you— more accurately, inside of you.

“Satoru,” you say his name like it should trigger some kind of common sense in this scenario, “We are not having a child while we’re still in college and live with our parents.”

“Your intentions don’t change the very real science of my sperm traveling within your uterus, right now.. You know that, right?”

You grab onto his biceps and glare at him while his dick is still plugging your cunt that’s filled to the brim with Gojo sperm. “I’m not joking. I am not getting pregnant Satoru— I mean fuck! We just had sex for the very first time ever.”

He leans down and smooshes his arrogant lips to yours, ignoring your fists hitting his arms stubbornly. His tone lowers to a whisper as he speaks against your lips.

“Does that mean we’re gonna have sex again?”

“Oh my god, I need to get out of here,” you start squirming and shoving at his chest futilely, “I can’t believe I let you put your dick in me.”

“Okay, okay. Look, it’s useless to worry about hypotheticals,” Satoru calms you logically and gives you a serious look. “Okay? We’re okay. You’re okay.”

You exhale and nod, minutely, hands stilling against his chest.

He leans in close your lips, breath mingling. “Your insides feel so fucking good. I wanna stay in here forever.” He slides his tongue against the seam of your lips before kissing them like it’s natural.

“Yeah?” you hum into it with hands sliding down to his chest and bumpy abs and then up again. Satoru is weirdly muscular and eerily strong, a sleeper build if you will. You hadn’t realized due to the continuous long sleeves and pants covering him— he also usually wears the same clothes everyday since he barely does laundry unless his mother does it.

You squeak when you feel his cock begin to stretch your insides out as it hardens. “You’re already hard again??”

“I told you,” he muffles into your mouth, refusing to part ways enough to speak coherently, “Gojo anatomy is just different.”

He leans down and starts licking your neck like an affectionate cat, again. “I’m never gonna be able to look your dad in the eyes again.” You cringe at the idea of Satoru’s father being a good cum shot.

“Hey,” he nips at your neck with sharp teeth, making you hiss, “you’re not allowed to think about anyone’s penis but mine right now.”

“Why do you say it like that?” You giggle as his nibbles tickle your skin and you mock his tone dramatically, making it extra nasally, “Penis.”

“That is it’s proper title.” He pulls away to eye you with judgement, like you’re the stupid one.

“I don’t think I’ve heard you say cock once.” You snicker at him, grinning in amusement as you eye his expression. “Say it.”

“Cock.”

You blink.

You giggle.

You mock him, quietly. “Cock.”

“Oh yeah? Okay, how about this,” he hums and his voice drops into a warm, sultry embrace, “I’m gonna fuck my cock into your fucking heavenly cunt. What’s one more load, hmm?”

The tingles that spark in your abdomen suddenly erupt into an explosion and you let out a shuddering gasp when Satoru suddenly starts grinding thoroughly into you again with a fully erect ‘cock.’

Maybe walking in on your childhood friend sucking his own dick was meant to be <3