kamobaby

blue light glasses pushed up to the bridge of your nose, big frames that almost seem to be slipping from the curve. head gently swaying to whatever music thats playing in your headphones. maybe pop? you seem like the kinda sweetie to enjoy that sweet shit, he thinks.

you bite and peck at the skin on your thumb as you work, bad habit. too focused to think too much about your manicure. a string of productivity only broken when a few people approach you, to which you slip your headphones off, dragging your hair to swoop around your neck.

but he’s more entranced by the way your smile widens at the sight of them— how one seems to crack a joke and out spills that mesmerizing giggle. and for a second he feels his heartstrings tug. but he bites it back, quickly scoffing to himself about being so nosy before forcing himself to look elsewhere.

megumi fushiguro isn’t the kind of guy that stares.

especially not at some girl.

but ever since that afternoon in the study hall, it seems that the universe just refuses to let him forget. you linger in the halls, parade the cafes and you even manage to show at his hockey games. he tries to convince himself that he doesn’t care— that he’s just surprised to see you this frequently. its just a small college, he thinks. (it absolutely is not.)

its late, and he’s all packed up. still sweaty from the earlier game. he slings a duffle over his shoulder, sore from the weight of the equipment on top of playing for hours. he sighs as he runs a hand through his spiky hair— trying to tame it with no avail. he begins to head out, leaving the locker rooms as he strides down the hall, bringing his wrist up to peek at the time, only around 7:50–

he grunts softly as he collides with somethi—someone. his hands instinctively come out to stabilize himself—or whomever, resting on your shoulders. he’s close to murmur out an apology, before you beat him to it. your voice breaks the silence with an instant and sincere apology. greeting him with that same stupidly captivating smile. his grip almost tightens for a second, but he reminds himself where he is and falters. his arms drop back to his side and one accompanies the strap of his duffle, rubbing at the nylon.

“its fine, that was my bad.” he murmurs. almost too quiet— he curses at himself. he probably came off as rude. his eyes glaze over you. so unapologetically you, so bright and charming in your wake. even without saying much.

“hey, you were playing earlier, right? number 17?” you cock your head, eyeing his black duffle and ruffled up hair.

his eyes widen. you recognize him from the game? and his number?

“uh, yeah. that was me.” he brushes off. even though he can feel the way the fabric of the strap stretches as his nail digs into it.

“you’re crazy fast on ice— its super impressive.” the compliment rolls off your tongue, charming and warm. loud in its genuinity. “keep it up.”

by the grace of a greater god— he manages to fix out a half-assed ‘thank you,’ even if he wasn’t able to keep looking you in the eye. he watches as you wave him a small goodbye, guided with your familiar smile before you turned, disappearing around the corridor.

he hesitates. almost a second too long before he turns, glancing back just fast enough to catch one last glimpse at you. his lips part slightly, like he was gonna call out.

he sighed. hands dropping to his sides with a deep breath he didn’t know he was holding— palms dragging up to cup his face, feeling how embarrassingly warm his cheeks were.

everytime you walked up to him complaining about whatever inconveniences you had to deal with was jumbled into mindless nonsense because all he could concentrate on how hard your smell made him.

having to excuse himself to the bathroom just for a moment, slamming the door behind him with a soft click of the lock. the tent in his pants nearly painful.

lifting his shirt up and gnawing at the hem of the fabric as he slipped his sweats down just enough to free himself— dick slapping up against his stomach with a leaking tip.

he almost has a moment of clarity— thinking of how guilty he feels. being this hard from your smell alone. it stirs up a different kind of embarrassment in his gut.

but all of that guilt absolves once he spots your lotion situated perfectly on the bathroom counter.

in a second he moves to reach for the bottle, sliding it over closer to the edge of the counter as he pumps his hand with the slick liquid.

throwing his head back as the soft fragrance hits him, the fabric in his mouth muffling his moan as he lowers his hand to wrap around the base of his cock. breath hitching in his chest.

he moved slow, wrist working in steady— almost agonizing paces. all whilst wishing it was your hand instead. down on your knees, slapping his dick against your tongue as you tease him.

as his pace quickened so did the scene. from you jerking him off to being bent over the sink as he pulls you back by your hair— moaning incoherently as he forces you to watch him fuck you senseless.

“fuck— take it,” he huffed into his shirt, working his hand faster as his brows furrowed, chest starting to heave as he played it out in his head. watching you in the mirror as you sobbed out for him— for more. his fingers tangled in your hair as he sunk his dick further into you— how tight you’d feel.

the tip of his dick pushes into your gut— a spot that makes you moan out everytime his fat head hits it.

his eyes squeezed shut, now thinking of how dirty this was. with you in the other room. but his wrist didnt slow— the image flashing back to you covered in his cum, all ruined as it spilled down your thighs— ruining your pretty panties.

the mere idea of the sight was enough to draw out a choked moan from him as he came into his fist— warm ropes spurting into his hand as he worked himself through it, the slick ruining his sweats and probably his dignity too.

his chest heaved, taking a second to breathe as the post nut clarity hit him, and his face flushed with red hot shame.

and yet, all he could think about? how delicious you smelled.