your heart aches with the tenderness of it, the sweet, bumbling sincerity of him.

"you’re not messing it up, yuuta," you manage to say, your voice a little thicker than you intended. "just . . . just take your time. i’ll tell you if i like it, okay?"

yuuta nods against your skin, a tiny, determined movement, and lifts his head again. there’s a new light in his eye, a focused intensity that makes your stomach flip.

this time, when the boy leans in, he parts his lips, his tongue darting out tentatively to trace a wet, uncertain line along your slit. it’s a fleeting sensation, more exploratory than anything, and he makes a small, surprised noise in the back of his throat — a noise that sounds almost like wonder.

yuuta does it again, a little bolder now, his balmy tongue flattening against you to taste more of you. his hands, which have been resting nervously on your outer thighs, slide up a little, his palms pressing into the soft flesh of your hips as he shifts closer. the third time, his tongue finds your entrance, dipping in just a fraction, and you feel the slight, hesitant probe of his muscle entering you.

the sound that escapes you is a sharp, keening moan, your hips bucking up into yuuta’s face involuntarily. yuuta’s fingers dig into your hips at the reaction, a startled groan vibrating against your core.

"that— that was good?" he asks, his voice muffled by the very source of his current obsession.

"yes," you gasp, your back arching off the bed. "yuuta, yes, please, keep—"

you don’t get to finish the sentence.

it’s as if your confirmation is the only permission he needed; yuuta’s previous shyness evaporates, replaced by a consuming, single-minded hunger. his mouth presses against you, harder this time, his tongue a slick, warm intrusion that delves deeper, licks broader strokes up your folds. he’s still not quite finding the right rhythm, his movements a little too erratic, too forceful in some places and too shy in others. but the sheer enthusiasm of it, the feeling of his hot, wet mouth exploring you with such desperate awe, is electric.

yuuta is learning you, you realize with a dizzying jolt.

his tongue is mapping every single ridge and fold, cataloging every tiny noise you make.

a broad lick up your center makes you whimper. a slight, clumsy suction on your clit makes your whole body tense and a sob of pleasure tear from your throat; yuuta files that information away immediately, his mouth homing in on that bundle of nerves with an unerring, newly-discovered focus.

"s'good," he murmurs, the words slurred and wet against your flesh, and you can feel his own breath coming in ragged, uneven pants. "you taste . . . fuck, you taste so good."

yuuta sounds drunk, drugged, completely lost in the act. his nose is pressed firmly against you now, smearing himself in your slick, and he doesn't seem to care in the slightest.

his tongue flicks rapidly over your sensitive clit, the tip of it tracing tight, rapid circles that have you seeing stars. it’s too much and not enough, all at once. your fingers are twisted so tightly in his hair it must hurt, but yuuta doesn’t flinch, he only moans against you, the vibration of it sending a fresh wave of pleasure cascading through your system.

"yuuta, i—"

you try to warn him, but the words are lost in a broken cry as his mouth descends on your clit with renewed fervor.

he’s sucking now, gently at first, then with more pressure, his summery tongue working in tandem, laving and flicking. your hips are grinding against yuuta’s face, chasing the feeling, and he lets you, his strong hands gripping your thighs to hold you open, to press you closer.

your orgasm is a sharp, sudden thing that rips a shocked cry from your lungs.

pleasure explodes behind your eyes, white-hot and blinding, and your whole body arches off the bed, a bowstring pulled taut. you vaguely hear yuuta gasp, feel his fingers dig into your skin, and then his mouth is still there, his tongue lapping at you, drinking down everything you give him.

but yuuta doesn’t stop.

the oversensitivity hits you like a freight train. you try to push his head away, a breathless;

"yuuta, wait—"

but your strength is gone, your limbs like jelly. he hums, a low, pleased sound, and just keeps going. his tongue is slower now, but no less insistent, tracing soft, wet patterns around your clit, dipping into your entrance to gather more of your taste.

"one more," yuuta mutters against your slick skin, his voice utterly wrecked. you can feel his own body trembling against the mattress, the fine tremor running through his shoulders, but his focus never wavers. "please, baby, just one more. you taste— i need more."

and god, you can't deny him.

you’re so sensitive, every tiny flick of his tongue sends a new spark of sensation through your overstimulated nerves, a mix of pleasure and something so intense it’s almost unbearable. you're crying, you realize, hot tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as he relentlessly works you towards a second peak.

one of yuuta’s hands leaves your hip, and you feel a finger, slick and hesitant, probe at your entrance. he doesn’t push in, just circles the rim, and the feeling is too much, making you whine and squirm. but he’s persistent, mumbling apologies and encouragements against your clit.

"let me in," yuuta breathes, the words hot against your most sensitive spot. "please? i want to feel you on the inside too."

you manage a shaky nod, and yuuta’s finger slides in, slow and careful. it’s a new sensation, the fullness paired with the relentless stimulation of his tongue. he moves it in and out in a clumsy, uncoordinated rhythm, but it’s enough. combined with the feeling of his mouth, the wet, frantic sounds he’s making, it pushes you over the edge again.

this second orgasm is less sharp, a wave of deep, rolling pleasure that washes through you, making your toes curl and your hips twitch. you sob yuuta’s name, a broken sound, and feel him moan in response, his finger stilling inside you as his tongue continues its worship.

yuuta is the one who finally breaks.

you feel the shudder wrack his entire body, a violent, full-body tremor. a choked, muffled groan is torn from yuuta’s throat, and the boy presses his face so hard against you it’s almost painful, his hips jerking desperately against the mattress. you feel the wet, hot warmth of yuuta’s release soaking through his own pants, the fabric damp against the skin of your feet where he’s pressed so close.

his movements stutter to a halt. his tongue goes lax, his finger slowly withdrawing; he just stays there, breathing heavily, his mouth still resting on your soaked, sensitive skin. you can feel yuuta own breath hitch, a tiny, embarrassed whimper escaping him as he realizes what just happened.

slowly, he lifts his head.

his face is a mess — his lips are swollen and pink, his chin glistening with your slick, his cheeks flushed a deep, telling red. there’s a smear of his own release on his pant leg, and his eyes, when they meet yours, are wide and dazed, completely blissed out and adorably sheepish all at once.

"i . . . " yuuta starts, his voice hoarse. he swallows, his adam's apple bobbing. "i think . . . i think i’m addicted to you."

a breathless laugh bubbles up from your chest, and you reach out, tugging him up your body until he’s cradled against you. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his own orgasm.

"i came in my pants," yuuta mumbles into your skin, the words laced with a horrified, bashful wonder. "like a teenager. i just . . . you just tasted so good, and i couldn't—"

you shush him softly, your fingers stroking through his hair.

it's the most honest, vulnerable, and utterly fucking sexy thing you've ever witnessed. you press a kiss to the top of his head, tasting salt and sweat and a hint of yourself on his skin.

"it's okay," you whisper, your body still humming with a deep, bone-melting satisfaction. "i think that was the highest compliment you could have ever given me, yuuta."

yuuta groans in embarrassment against your neck, but his arm tightens around you, pulling you impossibly closer. you can feel the rapid thump of his heart against your ribs, a frantic, perfect rhythm that echoes your own.

satoru was also, you noted with a warmth that bloomed low in your stomach, incredibly, incredibly hot.

it was a strange dichotomy he embodied perfectly; the ridiculous glasses, the messy hair, the oversized hoodie — all of it screamed 'cute, loveable nerd!'. but then there was the sharp line of his jaw, the way his adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, the sheer, overwhelming masculine grace in the way he held himself even while hunched over a textbook. that bone-deep beauty that he seemed so unaware of in these moments, which only made it all the more potent.

you slowly pushed off from the doorframe, your footsteps soft on the wooden floor.

you didn’t want to startle satoru completely, but a small part of you, the part that was currently being consumed by a huge wave of adoration, wanted to see the exact moment his focus shattered. you crept up behind your boyfriend, your shadow falling over his work. he didn’t react, not even a flinch, so lost in his own world he was. you leaned down, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, and whispered;

"you’re doing the thing."

“hmm?" satoru mumbled, not looking up, his pen still scratching a note in the margin. "what thing?"

"the thing where you look like you’re trying to solve world hunger and global warming at the same time," you murmured slowly, your lips now ghosting along satoru’s jawline. "it’s very . . . strenuous."

satoru paused then, his hand stilling. a slow, pleased shiver ran through him, so subtle you wouldn’t have noticed it if you weren’t pressed so close.

"it’s just a paper on quantu—mmph . . . !"

you cut him off, but not with a kiss on the lips, no.

you placed a soft, deliberate peck right on the corner of his mouth. a simple, chaste little thing, but it was enough to finally pull satoru’s attention away from the page.

your boyfriend blinked, his head turning slightly to look at you, his glasses still crooked. his eyes, a brilliant, captivating shade of cerulean, were a little unfocused, like he was dragging himself back from the theoretical realm of quantum entanglement to the very real, very immediate you.

"b-baby . . . " he said, a soft, dopey smile spreading across his face, the tension in his shoulders easing.

"mhhh. you’re very pretty when you’re concentrating, you know that?"

a faint blush, the barest hint of pink, dusted his cheeks.

"i’m not pretty," satoru mumbled, a knee-jerk protest, his eyes already drifting back to his notes. "i’m . . . i’m a force of nature. a towering intellect. pretty is a—hey!"

you had done it again, this time placing a kiss on his forehead, right on the smooth skin just above his eyebrow. you felt his muscles relax under your lips, the tension melting away from his brow. you pulled back just enough to see his expression, a mix of surprised pleasure and growing bewilderment.

"what was that for?" satoru asked, and his voice was a little higher than usual.

"you had a wrinkle right there," you said, your voice taking on a matter-of-fact tone. "from frowning. very bad for your skin. i’m just doing my duty as a concerned partner."

"my skin is flawless, thank you very much," he retorted, a familiar, defensive sass creeping into his voice.

but satoru’s blush was deepening, spreading from his cheeks down to his neck. he was trying to look affronted, but his eyes, still a little wide and glassy, were betraying him. he liked this. he liked the attention, the interruption.

you took a step closer, now standing directly beside his chair. you didn’t give satoru a chance to recover, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to the bridge of his nose, right where his glasses sat. satoru’s skin was so warm.

"you’re getting sunspots," you murmured against satoru’s skin. "or . . . lamp-spots. from all this studying."

"i don’t get sunspots," satoru whispered, his voice cracking just a little.

his hands had come up, hovering uselessly in the air between you, like he wasn't sure whether to push you away or pull you closer. he settled on gently gripping your hips, his thumbs stroking the fabric of your shirt. it was a grounding gesture, his way of trying to maintain some semblance of control.

you hummed, a non-committal sound, and moved to press a kiss to his cheek. the skin there was impossibly soft, and you stayed there for a moment, feeling the warmth of his face, the slight stutter of his breath. he smelled like old books, coffee, and something uniquely, comfortingly satoru.

"you smell like a library," you whispered, your lips brushing against his cheekbone.

"is that a good thing?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

satoru’s long lashes were fluttering, his eyes closing on their own accord.

"the best thing," you confirmed, and then you were kissing his temple, the hinge of his jaw, a spot just below his ear that you knew was a hidden treasure trove of nerve endings.

your sweet boyfriend gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound, and his hips jerked in his chair. his fingers tightened on your hips, a silent plea for mercy you weren’t ready to give.

“y/n . . . " he breathed, a world of meaning in your name. it was a plea, a warning, an invitation.

you pulled back just enough to look at satoru, to take in the magnificent, messy picture he made — his glasses were now truly a catastrophe, hanging off one ear and precariously balanced on the other, the bridge resting on the very tip of his nose. satoru’s hair was even more of a mess, courtesy of his own restless fingers. his face was a symphony of reds and pinks, the blush spreading down his neck and disappearing into the collar of his hoodie. his lips were slightly parted, his breath coming in shallow, rapid pants.

satoru looked utterly, deliciously undone, and all from a few chaste kisses from you.

but the most potent detail was his eyes. that brilliant blue, usually so sharp, so full of clever mischief, was now dark, hazy, and completely, utterly focused on you.

there was a vulnerability there, a raw, unguarded longing that made your heart clench. he looked beautiful. he looked perfect. he looked like he was about to combust if you didn't kiss him properly, and the sight of him like this — this brilliant, beautiful boy, brought to such a tender, wanton state just by you — ignited a primal, possessive heat deep inside you.

"you’re so cute," you said, your voice dropping to a husky whisper. "and so, so fucking hot, you know that? you have no idea what you do to me, sitting here looking like a wet dream in your nerdy glasses."

satoru’s adam’s apple bobbed again.

"not a wet dream," he managed to choke out, a last-ditch effort at his usual bravado. he sounded so small, so out of his depth. so perfectly, wonderfully him. "just . . . a very tired student who really wants to—mmph!"

you had had enough of his adorable, pathetic protests.

you shut him up properly this time, cupping your boyfriend’s face in your hands and leaning in to press your lips to his. it was a soft, gentle kiss at first, a simple meeting of mouths, but the moment your lips touched, it was like a spark to tinder.

satoru made a small, desperate sound against your mouth, his hands relinquishing their grip on your hips to come up and bury themselves in your hair, pulling you closer. the kiss deepened, his lips parting under yours, and you obliged him, your tongue brushing against his lower lip. he tasted like coffee and the faint, sweet residue of the cherry chapstick the young boy always used.

you broke the kiss, but only to tilt satoru’s head back, giving you better access to his neck.

you trailed a line of open-mouthed kisses down the column of his throat, feeling his pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against your lips. you found his pulse point, that spot that was always so sensitive, and you sucked, gently, just enough to leave a faint, pink mark. satoru whimpered, a sound of pure pleasure, his hips bucking up against your thigh.

"y/n, please . . . " satoru gasped, his head falling back further, completely surrendering to your onslaught.

you nibbled on his collarbone, which was peeking out from the neckline of his hoodie. you kissed the hollow of satoru’s throat, the slope of his shoulder. you kissed satoru’s eyelids, his eyebrows, the tip of his nose again. you were everywhere, dotting satoru’s face and neck with a constellation of affection. you kissed the spot behind his ear, and he shivered violently. you pressed a kiss to his chin, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, teasing him, drawing it out, savouring every minute tremor and low moan you could coax from him.

satoru’s glasses had finally fallen off completely, landing with a soft clatter on the book he’d been reading.

he didn’t even notice. his world had narrowed to you, to the sensation of your lips on his skin. his hands were tangled in your hair, clutching at you, his fingers flexing and uncurling, a sign of his absolute, hopeless surrender.

satoru’s face was a mess of colour, his skin completely flushed, his lips swollen and slick, his eyes completely dazed. he was a masterpiece of flustered desire, a picture of devastating vulnerability that he only ever showed you. the smart, sharp-tongued genius was completely and utterly putty in your hands. it was a heady feeling, a powerful intoxication; satoru loved you, and you loved him, and in this moment, that was the only truth in the universe.

finally, you couldn't take the teasing anymore.

the sight of him, the taste of his skin, the sound of his desperate little gasps — it was all too much. you needed more. you needed to devour him completely.

you captured satoru’s mouth again, but this time, there was no gentleness; it was a hungry, possessive kiss, your tongue tangling with his, claiming him, tasting him. you poured all your pent-up adoration and want into that kiss, and he met you with equal fervour, his own tongue dancing with yours, his hands tightening in your hair. he kissed you back like you were the air he needed to breathe, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered; and to satoru, you were.

you broke the kiss only when you were both gasping for air, your foreheads resting together, your breath mingling in the small space between you.

satoru’s eyes were closed, his long, white lashes fanned out against his flushed cheeks. a single, soft, shaky moan escaped his lips, the sound of a man completely and utterly conquered.

"your face is sooo red," you whispered, a teasing lilt in your voice, though you were just as breathless as he was. "like a very pretty tomato."

he managed to crack one eye open, peering at you through his lashes. a weak, crooked grin spread across his face.

"you’re very mean," satoru mumbled, his voice hoarse. "and i love you."

you smiled, a genuine, heart-stopping smile that crinkled the corners of your pretty eyes. you leaned in, kissing the red tip of satoru’s nose again.

"i love you too, my nerdy, beautiful boy. now," you said, pulling back and looking pointedly at the scattered papers. "what was that paper on again? quantum . . . something?"

satoru groaned, dropping his head to rest on your shoulder, his body completely slumping against yours in a heap of exhausted, contented defeat.

"i think i forgot," he mumbled into your shirt.

you laughed, a soft, happy sound, and pressed a kiss to the crown of satoru’s messy white hair.

"good," you whispered, wrapping your arms around him. "then take a break. study later."

you felt the smile spread against your shoulder as his arms tightened around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

yeah . . . this was your favourite version of satoru, and you were never, ever going to get tired of it.

as for feeling like you’ll never write 'well enough' . . . well i can promise you that every single writer has already looked at someone else’s work and thought, i’ll never be that good. the only reason those very writers sound effortless now is simply because they’ve written thousands of imperfect sentences that nobody ever saw

you mentioned deleting your fics and that honestly made me a little sad :/ not because every story has to stay online forever, but because it sounds like you simply aren’t giving yourself the chance to grow. every single fic you finish ( even if you don’t love it! ) is practice for the next one. if people follow you, then it’s because they sincerely enjoy something about what you create. you don’t owe them constant uploads. real life comes first, and writing isn’t a race. i can also promise you that your account doesn’t lose its value just because you’re slower than someone else

instead of trying to write like your favorite authors, you should try writing one scene exactly the way you would tell it, as i think that style isn’t something you decide to have but rather something that you naturally develops over time by writing, reading & rewriting again & again

& for what it’s worth, the fact that you’re worried about description, pacing, sentences and word choice tells me you wholeheartedly care about your craft & that’s not a sign that you’re a bad writer but it’s a sign that you’re still learning