Relax.

So much is familiar, and of course it is — things don’t change that much, even if it has been years since you graduated. The same oak tree everyone used to fight over in the summer stands tall. Same hedges, same brick walls, and cobblestones. Same mascots and crests plastered on banners and plaques. 

But, as you’d expected, things are different too. New faces, naturally. A wing was added to the Psychology building after the department received greater funding for their contribution to mental health research. The old noticeboards have gone digital, glowing screens cycling through events you can’t decipher. You don’t see many older professors; you wouldn’t be able to tell who’s a professor and who’s not anymore when professors and students have grown closer in age.

“Time really does fly, huh?” 

In spite of any changes, however, you still feel right at home here. The steps you took from building to building are embedded in the soil. The phantom of your laughter echo in the halls, overlapping with generations before and after you. Even if you graduated a while back, you’ll always be a child of academia.

Although you’re elated to be back, you can’t help but feel melancholy.

A trip down memory lane doesn’t feel right without one of the people that took prime real estate, after all. 

It just isn’t the same. 

“Stop ignoring me.”

Shuddering, you sigh wistfully. “It’s like I can still hear him.”

“You can kill me in your mind all you like,” the voice begins, dryly, “it doesn’t change the fact that you know I’m right; Kindles cannot ever be superior to a good, old, physical book.”

You scowl, and turn to look back at the man trailing behind you. “They say wisdom comes with age but you’re proving them all wrong, aren’t you, babe?”

Kento’s rubbing his glasses clean from the slight fog that’s made the lenses difficult to see through. His cheeks are ever so slightly pink from the cold, and they’re the only markers that he’s bothered by the weather. Unlike you, who’s missing the warmth of Malaysia. He barely even tanned.

He reminds you, “We’re the same age, my love.”

“Yeah, well, I wear it better,” you respond haughtily. 

Sliding his glasses back on, he blinks a couple times before hastening his steps to reach your side. He holds your hand in his and tucks it into his pocket, where a handwarmer lies waiting. A thumb rubs your knuckles. Kento smiles to himself. “I’m inclined to agree on that front.”

“Okay, so you can also agree with me about how Kindles are a fine alternative to physical books. I really don’t know why you look down on them so much — they’re so practical. You can have multiple books all in one place, they’re smaller and more portable than a book, they weigh much less, and you can adjust the font and page colours. They’re more accessible, Ken. You need to get with the times.”

He nods. “I see your points, and I’m not saying Kindles are to be scoffed at. I simply mean that, if given the choice and you have no accessibility needs, one ought to choose physical copies, and support the ever-dying paper industry.”

“You mean the paper industry that’s killing trees?”

Kento glances down at you. “Are you arguing that the manufacturing of Kindles has zero environmental impact?”

It’s a trap, you recognise it. He’s trying to bait you. It’s not going to work.

Squeezing his hand, you tug him to the direction you want to take him: down the scenic route as opposed to the shorter path to your destination. He doesn’t put up a fight. 

Casually, you say, “No, of course not. Everything has a carbon footprint. But it’s all about minimising your impact, and decreasing the number of books, and pages, that have to be printed in favour of having them digitally available, supports that. I don’t think you can argue against the point that Kindles are more environmentally friendly than physical copies.”

“So being environmentally conscious and friendly is the goal. That’s your main point? It’s the underlying reason for any decision you make regarding what you read and in what medium you read it in?” 

Without waiting for a response, Kento continues, “Would you say owning three Kindles, two more than you really need, is environmentally friendly? And if so, what would your response be to me pointing out that since you bought your first Kindle, barring the fact that you bought two more, the rate at which you purchase physical copies hasn’t decreased.”

In a flash, you yank him inside a random building. It’s in the process of renovation. The alumni newsletter said it’s going to be a ‘Wellness Centre’, whatever that means. 

There’s no one here. The lights aren’t even on. Only the natural light from the gloomy sky lights the hall full of caution tapes and unemptied boxes. 

You shove Kento against the wall and kiss him.

His hands fall upon your waist reflexively. 

Lips move together so easily, so comfortably that you grow dizzy already. There’s nothing careful about the way he kisses you. No measured distance, no polite hesitation. Just heat, and the sharp edge of something that could be likened to deep satisfaction.

Kento exhales against you, fingers tightening at your waist to anchor himself. Your hands curl into his coat, tugging him closer and closer still, until there’s no space left between you at all.

Every breath, every shift, every small sound echoes back at you.

A thigh of his parts yours. The apex of yours meets it unhesitatingly. You’re wearing jeans, and despite the layers between you, you can feel the hardness of his muscular thigh. Your hips grind down on him with a gasp. 

“Distracting me with your body?” he breathes out. “This must be an admittance of defeat.”

Your hand finds the bulge you knew would be there. When you grip him, he sucks in a sharp breath and throws his head. A light thud resounds. “You wish, Kennypie,” you whisper, rubbing his already-hard clothed cock in time with how you rub your clothed clit on his leg. 

Truth is, you believe physical copies are superior to digital. Always. You were a Classical Lit student, and forever a snob, you’ll happily admit. 

What you won’t ever admit is that Kento is right.

You’ll take any camp opposite his just to feel the thrill of debate.

Faster than you had snatched him to the dark, he spins the both of you around and pins you to the wall. He sucks your bottom lip, then your neck where your pulse is. Kento untangles your scarf, pulls down the zip of your coat along with his descent, and comes to kneel before you. 

“No, darling,” he exhales. Your thighs squeeze together. “My wish is to taste you.”

Threading your fingers through his hair, you let him unbutton your jeans and pull them down. Goosebumps rise. He soothes warmth into your skin with his palms. With a giggle, you ask, “Again? You just ate me out this morning, Ken.”

Rare mornings where you could sleep in are usually spent with him settled between your thighs, or you between his. Why wouldn’t they be?

As he guides one foot out of the jeans, he nuzzles your thigh. The tip of his nose grazes the frilly hem of your panties. “Who said I’m limited to only once per day?”

The both of you really shouldn’t be doing this. If you get caught, you won’t be expelled; that’s not the punishment non-students face. It’s jail time. But there’s no one here, and there are no cameras. The campus is near empty because of the gloomy weather, and the way he’s started mouthing at your pussy through your panties feels too good to stop. 

“Fine, but be quick, okay?” you tell him. “Our friends’ll be waiting, and after we scolded Sho for being late at the last dinner party, it’ll be a bad look if we’re late now.”

Kento hooks his finger on the gusset and pulls it aside. He makes a dreamy sigh at the sight of your puffy lips, glistening with your juices. A thumb of his parts the lips so he can see your clit and press a kiss to it. 

You jolt.

“I’ll be quick,” he mutters, sounding wholly unconvincing. “She’ll get over it if we’re late just this once.”

Then, he’s licking a stripe up your slit, collecting your wetness on his tongue. “So sweet,” he says. “Always so sweet for me, for Kento, aren’t you, sweetheart?”He’s burying his face deeper between your thighs, desperate to get as close to you as possible.

 You squirm against the wall, panting. “We’re not going to be late,” you insist. 

The end of your scarf tickles his forehead. You move it away, wanting to have an unobstructed view of his face as his tongue flicks the sensitive bundle of nerves over and over again. 

Nodding absentmindedly, he agrees, “No, we won’t be late…but it won’t be so bad if we are.”

Groaning, both in frustration and in pleasure, you repeat, “We’re not going to be late, Kento. I swear to God, you better not mess around.”

Two fingers worm their way inside your entrance, stretching the tight ring of muscle out. You feel the long digits reaching deep. They force your gummy walls to expand around them. You’re flushed, pulse racing. If anyone were to catch you now, there’d be no explaining your way out of this. 

His glasses have fogged up again. It irritates him. He takes the thing off with a hasty hand and pockets it. You like him with his glasses, but you like him with his eyes drinking you up more.

Kento curls his fingers over that spot he knows well. You moan, hips stuttering onto his face. His words come out muffled when he says, “That’s up to you, sweetheart. Admit I’m right, and you’ll get your orgasm and your high horse.”

Tempting, you think. 

He knows you so well. 

But not well enough.

Throwing your leg over his shoulder, you fully commit to getting your orgasm one way or the other. “I would rather be late to every event we have for the rest of our lives than admit you’re right in any capacity, Kento,” you announce resolutely. 

He chuckles. “Of course you would. My stubborn, stubborn girl.”

That’s the last you hear from him before he’s wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard. The pressure inside builds and builds. You can’t deny his skilled tongue and years of knowing your body in and out, perhaps even better than he knows his own. 

You cum with a slap of your palm over your mouth, stifling the scream. “Fuck, Ken,” you groan.

Through it, he keeps sucking and curling his fingers. He’s elongating your pleasure, making sure you can ride your high, and his tongue, to your heart’s desire. 

And just when it starts to get too much, you shove him away from your pussy. He doesn’t let you create too much distance — greedy hands grip your hips. He presses himself close, covering your body with his body heat. 

Movement heavy with the remnants of your orgasm, you fight to release his cock from the tight confines of his tailored pants. It lands heavy in your palm, tip flushed and leaking. You feel the rush of his blood, the way it makes the length pulse and his veins prominent. You stroke him a couple times just to hear him murmur your name in that slutty voice of his. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he rasps. His hips are rutting into your hold. 

“Are you gonna fuck me, Ken?” you purr. “Are you going to christen this building before it’s even been built?”

Kento nods. He kisses you, as though unable to bear being apart from you for too long. The taste of you lingers on his tongue, and you don’t mind it. He pulls away enough to reply, “Yes, darling. I want to feel you, want to make you feel good.”

You kiss him again, smiling. “You always do, Kento. Go on, I permit you to put it inside.”

He lets out a low laugh. “How kind.”

Kento hikes your leg up on his hip, allowing his cock glide through your swollen, slick lips first. He coats the length with your juices. Lewd noises squelch, and upon the initial contact, you both gasp into each other’s mouths. 

Soon, he can’t wait any longer, and the fat cockhead is prodding your pussy as though knocking politely. It enters you slowly. Inch by inch. Being careful of the fact that he hasn’t been able to give you as much foreplay as he would have wanted. 

The stretch is so familiar, so good that your back arches off the wall. “Oh, fuck, Ken.”

“I know, my love,” he murmurs. “Me too.”

Under the layers, you sweat. You’re aware of the fibres of his sweater you borrowed brushing your skin, of the hairs sticking to the back of your neck, of how his clothes and yours makes the closeness feel dull. It’s not like being in the comforts of your own home, of being naked and in bed, and feeling skin on skin. 

Restless, you whine, “Ken, put it all in.”

A kiss to your forehead and he’s doing as you asked. 

The two of you moan when his pelvis meets yours. You’re flushed together, and it’s glorious. There’s a slight sting but nothing that doesn’t make your eyes roll back.

Kento croaks, “You feel so warm, so tight, so -hngh- soft. God, sweetheart, you’re perfect. So, so perfect.”

Your hips rock together. It’s not like the purposeful, drawn out lovemaking you do at home. You’re not teasing, playing games, or rutting against each other knowing there’ll be more rounds after this. 

This is quick. It’s fast, it’s uninhibited, it’s animalistic. You’re merely racing towards your peaks, humping each other like dogs, and grunting and moaning like so. There’s nothing sophisticated or elegant about the slapping of skin, about the clash of lips with teeth, or of the way your fingers dig in whatever body parts you can latch onto. 

“Is it nice to be back, Ken?”

Panting, he flexes his jaw as he tries to ground himself enough to think. “Y-yes, darling. It’s nice to see what’s changed and what hasn't.”

In between kisses, you respond, “Right? I mean, things have changed, but being here makes me feel like I’m a student running late for class. It’s lovely.”

He grinds his pelvis into yours, rubbing your clit till you’re almost drooling. “Yes. It is. It reminds me of the old times with you, and our -ah fuck- friends. It gets h-harder and harder to see them every year.”

“I know,” you say, hips working down on his cock. “Thank you for arranging this reunion, Ken. It’s so desperately needed after all the travelling.”

Kento cups a tit through your clothes. He kneads the fat and you jut your chest out for him. “They’d all been wanting to see you after all your success, sweetheart. It was pretty easy to organise when they want to see the award winning star in our circle.”

You grin and clench down on him. He hisses. “Oh, stop you. It’s not like you’re hiding in my shadows.”

“Someone h-has to keep these big-ego writers in place,” he responds playfully.

“My place is sitting on your face or riding your -ngh! keep going- c-cock, right, Ken?” you ask, batting your lashes up at him.

He kisses your forehead. “Whatever you say, my love.”

Something about the fact that he’s more dressed than you are has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. It’s the way he looks composed, but you know better: his cock pulses every time your walls clench down on him, and he throws his head back, Adam’s apple bobbing. It’s how you lick up the sweat beading on his neck when he does, and he grips you harder. 

The rate at which he’s fucking inside you is increasing. You’re being jostled against the wall, feeling every bump and grind as if your senses are heightened. You no longer feel cold or conscious of being caught. All you can think and feel and taste and hear and see is him.

“I’m close,” you grit out. “I’m so close, Ken!”

“I’ve got you, my love,” he promises. He grabs the back of your other thigh. You’re held up in the air by his hands, boots dangling and jeans dragging on the floor. Like this, he reaches even deeper.

Your tits bounce with every rutting, and you wish he could be sucking on one. You wish you could rub yourself all over him. You wish there weren’t layers keeping you from him. That you could be as loud and wild as you want. 

Combing your fingers through his hair, you yank his head back and command, “Yield, Kento. Submit to the -hah- love of your life and tell her she wins.”

His eyes narrow. “Or what?”

You grin. “Or I won’t cum.”

And he knows you mean it — you’re far too stubborn to succumb to pleasure, especially when there’s victory on the line. So he shakes out of your grip and rushes to dive his face forward. “You’re right,” he whispers to your ear, breathing warmth to the heated skin. “You’re always right. Kento’s wrong, about whatever we were arguing about this time, about everything.”

A breathless laugh carries into the humid air. “Damn right.”

One particularly perfect thrust against your g-spot has your vision spotting, your legs shaking, and toes curling. You cum with a silent moan. Kento groans into your neck, grip bruising as your clenching milks him to his own orgasm. 

This will be somewhere between your sixth and eight orgasm of the day and it’s just as strong as the first. 

Sex with Kento — wherever, however, whenever — is always mindblowing and mindmelting, a fact you rejoice in after concerns of age getting in the way. Of course neither of you are objectively old; your backs and joints are just fine. But you’ve been together for years now, and people often talk about how the chemistry fizzles. 

Thankfully that has yet to happen.

“Oh, s-sweetheart,” he murmurs.

“Mm, Ken,” you say when the pleasure begins to subside. “We didn’t wear a condom again. Now your cum’s gonna be dripping out of me and onto my panties.”

He throbs. You laugh again. 

“I’ll clean you up, darling,” he replies. 

Kento presses a kiss to your cheek and pulls out. The shift is abrupt enough that you both suck in a breath, the cold air rushing back in where there had only been heat a second ago. An emptiness fills you. Your cunt clenches around nothing.

You land a little unsteadily when he sets you back on your feet. 

He’s about to get onto his knees. You stop him. “No, Ken, we’re going to be late.”

He looks conflicted for a second before he checks his wristwatch and reluctantly nods. “Yes, you’re right. Again.”

“Naturally.”

Like trained criminals, you quickly fix your clothes back up and get rid of any evidence. He tugs your jeans back up, giving you some time to replace your panties with a wince at the coldness. His hands zip your coat back up, then tucks your scarf inside. He fixes your hair, and you his. Kento slides his glasses back onto his nosebridge and blinks furiously to adjust his sight.

With last checks, you two give the other satisfied nods and head on out, though not without him sneaking a kiss and you smacking his ass.

“I can’t believe we’ve been on campus not even half an hour and we’ve already desecrated a building. We haven’t matured at all,” Kento mutters under his breath when you get back on the right path and near your destination. 

Looping an arm through his, you reply, “I know. Isn’t it great?”

Amused, he glances down at you and holds your hand. He brings it up to his lips and presses a kiss on your knuckles. “The greatest.”

You laugh. 

Then stop.

Up ahead stands a woman you could never forget. And when Kento stills too, you know he’s thinking the same thing. 

Mrs. Collins doesn’t look like she’s aged a day — there’s sprinklings of colour in a head of greys, in spite of the wrinkles she bears her skin is still tight, and there’s a sharpness in her eyes that hasn’t faded away. 

She’s wrapping her scarf around herself. Without needing to ask, you know where she just came from. It oddly brings you some peace to know she hasn’t left.

You don’t know if she remembers; it’s been some years and you only worked for her for a couple months. Or if she does remember, would she say anything? Would she pretend she doesn’t know you, never did anything, and you’re just another passing figure?

“Well, hello, my dears.”

So she does.

It’s impossible to tell if that brings you comfort or not. 

“Hi, Mrs. Collins,” you say. Nanami cuts you a look but you give him a reassuring squeeze. “It’s been a while.”

“Has it?” she asks, not sarcastically, but rather genuinely, as though she finds it hard to keep time and it was just this morning that she stepped inside the library with the intent of setting you up, and she’d now stepped outside. 

A part of you is surprised she’s talking to you, that she’s entertaining this conversation, when she could walk away and go about her day. There’s no obligation to talk to you at all. You’re no longer students, no longer employed by her, no longer young and naive.

Her eyes slide over to Kento. “Mr. Nanami, are you not going to greet me?”

You’ve never spoken to him about her since before you graduated; neither of you bring it up. And you never found that fact odd — there were almost much more interesting and pressing things to talk about. 

“Good afternoon. We don’t wish to keep you. Please don’t mind us,” he replies, coldly. Well, it would seem warm enough to anyone who didn’t know him well. To you, however, you might as well be standing next to a glacier. 

She hums. “Still haven’t forgiven me, I take it.”

No, Kento doesn’t seem to have; he’s as rigid as can be, as distant as possible, and paler than ever. You squeeze his hand. He doesn’t squeeze back.  

It must haunt him more than it haunts you.

You don’t think about her and what happened very much, to be frank. You’re too busy to do so. It would be a lie, though, to say you don’t sporadically recall how you were used. Sometimes when you’re staring out the window and drinking coffee. Sometimes when you’re getting in a car. You’ve thought about what you would do and say if you saw her again, if she would ask for an apology, if you would cuss her out, blackmail her. 

Right now, when the opportunity has risen and there’s no better time, you can’t seem to do any of that.

Because the person you see in front of you isn’t this cruel, callous monster of cosmic proportions who deserves to be dragged by the hair. She isn’t going to turn you to stone or tip your boat over. She’s not the devil, the mother of all demons, the shadow under your bed.

She’s just a woman who loves books. 

And you’d do anything for the things and people you love too.

“I forgive you,” you tell her suddenly. The words leave your lips without you realising it.

Mrs. Collins purses her lips. If she’s surprised by your words, she doesn’t show it. “I never asked for forgiveness for what I did.”

“I know,” you say. “I know, and I forgive you. What you did, what happened, didn’t stunt my growth, didn’t stop me from graduating, from entering the real world with pride and confidence, and didn’t stop me and Kento from being together. What you did made me stronger. I forgive you.”

Maybe you were never even really mad at her. Maybe you’d forgiven her a long time ago, around the same time that Kento asked you to be his girlfriend and you never looked back.

The older lady processes your words for a second or two. She even looks you up and down. Then she looks at Kento, and asks, “And you?”

“I can’t.” 

Does disappointment flicker in her eyes or mere acknowledgement? Does either in yours?

Whatever the case may be, that’s all there is left to be said here. At least that’s what you think until she opens her mouth again as though the act is an afterthought.

“I read your book, dear. It’s a rather popular stock in the library.”

“Thank you,” you say automatically, a reflex you’d picked up on the book tour. 

“It’s not a compliment,” she replies. “It’s just a fact.”

It lands like a compliment, and you take it as such.

“I’ll be looking forward to the sequel,” she says. With a final, acknowledging nod, she turns. Mrs. Collins doesn’t strut off immediately though; she pauses and adds casually, “Best of luck, Mr. Nanami.” Then she goes and disappears around the corner, leaving behind a mist of warm air. 

For a moment, the two of you just stand there under the dark clouds. As far as interactions with someone you once knew and who fucked you over goes, that wasn’t so bad, right?

You rub Kento’s arm and lean your head on his shoulder. “Are you okay, Ken?”

“I’m sorry.” You look up at him. His shoulders are still tense. His gaze fixed ahead. “I know it’s unfair to resent her, especially when you’ve graciously forgiven her and I have no right to hold any moral high ground, but I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

You figured as much — he can’t forgive himself, and so he can’t forgive her, because forgiving her means forgiving himself. It’s too soon and he’s as stubborn as you so your reassurances will only go in one ear and out the other.

“No, Ken. It’s okay. Really. Process things however you need to.”

Kento replies with some heaviness, “I’ll forever be grateful you forgave me, when you shouldn’t have.”

Sighing, you grab his face and force him to meet your eyes. “Kento, it was so long ago. You’ve apologised a millions times back then, and couldn’t even get it up for the first month or so when we started dating out of guilt, remember? I know you’re sorry, hon, and I know you’d never do anything like that again. We’re not going to spiral over something that happened eons ago.”

He leans into your touch and sighs too. “You’re right, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bring down the mood.”

“Better now than later, at lunch,” you say, shrugging. “Remember not to let Shoko’s teasing yet the best of you, ‘kay, Kenny Benny Bear.”

At the old nickname, he grimaces but otherwise says nothing. 

Looping your arm back through his and marching on, you add, “Plus, I can’t say I didn’t deserve it even just a little bit. Remember when I swapped your copy of The Iliad before the exam and your average went down by a couple points?”

Kento smiles at the memory. “You only did that because I changed the time zone on your laptop in the study room when you weren’t looking and made you late for the guest lecture with Phicshonal Lehjendaree Dyrektore.” 

You throw your head back and chortle. “Oh my god, yeah! I was so mad. I’d been looking forward to that for weeks.”

“It was a good lecture too,” he notes fondly. “You really missed out.”

A smack on his chest does nothing but make him smile harder. 

“Ugh, whatever, asshole,” you say though you’re smiling too. “We were both stupidly childish, weren’t we?”

“Very,” he agrees.

The two of you cuddle close together, one could say for warmth or for comfort. In spite of the weather, of the dip in the mood, you walk on feeling light. Campus is really quite beautiful in Autumn, with the vibrant reds and oranges and browns of the leaves, and the emptiness of the streets between buildings.

It’s a good day to be with friends, you think. 

Soon, the library comes into view. 

Whereas many buildings have had some tweaks done to them, the library remains just as you remember it. Marble pillars, tall doors, golden lettering, stone stairs, and a welcoming glow to it that you’re sure only you and other nerds can see.

You were a little surprised that the meet up point would be here, especially when Kento was in charge of making the plans, but now that you’re at the foot of the stairs, you’re glad it’s here. Now it really feels like coming home.

A ping alerts you both. Kento checks his phone, and clears his throat. He stiffens again. “We’re going to be late. Let’s head inside.”

You nod and follow him up. He grips your hand tight to make sure you don’t slip on the stairs.

The doors open with a soft push.

For a second, you don’t understand what you’re looking at.

Then— faces.

Familiar ones. 

Needa and Frend, grinning too wide. Shoko beside them wriggling her brows at you as Haibara jumps excitedly behind her. Your parents, his, family and friends scattered in little clusters, all turned toward you with that same unmistakable look. Expectant. Bright. Soft in a way that makes your chest tighten before your mind can catch up.

You blink.

The library — the same one you spent years in, arguing and studying and fighting — has been transformed. The harsh overhead lights are gone, replaced by a gentler glow. Lamps lit up. The dreary, old curtains have been swapped for lush velvet. There are no students. No quiet shuffling, no turning pages, no whispered conversations.

Just melodic music.

A string quartet is tucked near the far end where the reading tables used to be. Bows glide over strings, slow and aching and beautiful threading through the air and tickling your skin, which is growing warmer from both the attention, the shock, and the protective temperature of the indoors.

There’s bouquets of flowers on mahogany tables. Petals littering the floor, thickest where you come to stand in the centre of the huddle under a chandelier of twinkling lights. Soft whites, pale pinks, a few deeper hues woven in. They curl around the ends of shelves, rest along tables, and climb just slightly where they shouldn’t.

Your heart starts to pound, hard enough that it drowns out everything for a moment. 

Slowly, you turn.

Kento is there.

On one knee.

The music, the light, the people — everything fades at the edges until it’s just him, steady and sure despite the way his hands shake just slightly around the small box. 

The ring catches the light. 

Your breath leaves you in a quiet, startled exhale.

“I’d ask if you would do me the honour of making me the happiest man in the world,” he starts, staring only at you, “but you already have, so I suppose the better question is…”

Tears well up in your eyes and you already have the answer at the tip of your tongue pleading to be screamed. 

“Do you hate me enough to marry me?”

you roll your hips harder, grinding your clit against him on every downstroke. your thighs burn, but you don’t slow down. “satoru... feels so good.” he sits up suddenly, chest pressing to yours, one arm locking around your lower back. the shift drives him deeper, punching a sharp cry out of you.

“yeah? you want it harder, baby?” he growls against your ear, then bites the lobe—hard. his other hand slides up to fist your hair, yanking your head back so your throat’s exposed. he drags his mouth down it, teeth scraping, sucking bruises that’ll show tomorrow.

he knows it’s not forever. you’re young, full of energy, could have any guy your age. but he spoils you rotten anyway. buys you pretty things—lingerie that hugs your curves, dresses that show off your legs, anything you want really.

he takes you shopping, arm around your waist, pulling you close when younger boys stare. they do, all the time. eyes lingering on your ass, your smile. it pisses him off. he wants to blast them into nothing for even looking. but he just tightens his grip, kisses your temple, whispers, “you’re so pretty.” you lean into him, and it eases the jealousy a bit.

at home he’d eat you out like a man starved, making you forget about all the other boys you’ve seen that day, staring at you. satoru’s hands slide up your thighs, pushing them wider apart as he settles between, grey in his hair catching the low light when he glances up at you.

he never thought he’d love this so much. back in his twenties, eating a girl out was just something you did to get her ready, polite foreplay before the main event. but now, in his forties, with you—he’s obsessed. can’t get enough of the way you taste, the way you shake when his tongue finds the right spot.

“look at you.” he drags his mouth up slow, lips brushing slick skin, teasing. “soaked already. this all for me?”

you nod, breath hitching. he smirks, then licks a long, flat stripe up your center, groaning low in his chest like he’s the one getting pleasured. your hips jerk. he pins them down with one forearm across your stomach, the other hand spreading you open.

“fuck, you’re pretty,” he mutters, almost to himself. then he dives in. his mouth closes over your clit, sucking gently at first, tongue flicking fast and precise. you cry out, back arching off the bed. he doesn’t let up—just keeps that steady pressure, that perfect rhythm he’s learned from watching you fall apart on his face night after night.

he pulls back just enough to speak. “love this pussy. love how you get so fucking wet for me.” then he’s back, tongue pushing inside you, curling, tasting deep before sliding up to circle your clit again. two fingers slip in easy and he curls them just right, pressing that spot that makes your legs tremble over his shoulders.

your hands fly to his hair, gripping tight, pulling him closer. he growls into you. “satoru—please—”

he knows what you need. speeds up, fingers pumping steady. sucks harder, tongue lashing side to side until your thighs clamp around his head. he doesn’t care if he can’t breathe—just keeps going, lost in it, in you. loves the way your hips grind against his face, desperate, chasing it.

he’s always been careful when he was younger. too aware of cameras, reputations, the weight of being the strongest. sex was good, sure, but it was controlled. in bedrooms, hotel rooms, never anywhere he could get caught. he told himself it was maturity, responsibility. really it was just fear of losing control.

with you, that fear is gone. burned out of him the first time you slid your hand under the table at dinner and squeezed him through his pants while smiling sweetly at the waiter.

later you pull him sideways to a photo booth behind the train station and he knows what you’re doing the second the curtain closes. you’re in his lap before the first flash even goes off, kissing him slow and deep, tongue sliding against his like you’ve got all night. your hands are in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth.

he tries to keep it tame for the first two photos—smiles, bunny ears, whatever—but by the third you’re grinding down on him, feeling him get hard under you, and he snaps. his hands shove your skirt up to your waist, fingers hooking in your panties and yanking them to the side. he frees himself, cock heavy and aching, and pulls you down onto him in one rough motion.

you both choke on the sound you make. it’s tight, cramped, but he doesn’t stop. he grips your hips and fucks up into you hard, fast, desperate. your hands slap against the wall for balance, forehead pressed to his, mouths barely apart so every moan goes straight into each other. the camera keeps flashing—four, five, six—catching your faces twisted in pleasure, his jaw clenched, your eyes rolled back.

the booth spits out the strip of photos a minute later. you’re both flushed, hair messed up, pure lust on both your faces.

he keeps that strip in his wallet. pulls it out sometimes when he’s alone, thumb tracing the edge, remembering how insane you make him. how he never would’ve done that at twenty-five, too paranoid, too careful. now he’ll fuck you anywhere—photo booths, the back of his car in a parking garage, once even in the restroom of a fancy restaurant because you whispered you weren’t wearing anything under your dress and he almost lost his mind.

he’s too old to care about getting caught. all he cares about is you, how you sound when you come, how you look at him.

nanami brings it up every time they meet for drinks. same quiet bar, same corner booth, same tired lecture. “she’s twenty-three, gojo. twenty-three.” nanami’s voice is flat, measured, the way it always is when he’s trying not to judge too hard. “you’re old enough to be her father. find someone your age.”

satoru just smirks into his whiskey. “can’t.” simple as that. he doesn’t explain the way his chest tightens when you laugh at his stupid jokes, or how he wakes up hard just from you shifting in your sleep against him.

he doesn’t say that the thought of you with some college boy—hands on your waist, mouth on your neck, some punk who’d make you split the dinner bill 50/50, expect you to drive yourself home, and wouldn’t spend half the day with his face buried between your thighs—makes him want to hollow purple the entire campus. those boys wouldn’t know how to treat you right, wouldn’t worship you like he does.

wouldn’t spoil you rotten—buy you whatever you want, drive you everywhere, let you be his passenger princess with your feet up on the dash while he handles everything. they’d fumble, selfish and rushed, leaving you wanting. he’d rather burn the world than let you settle for that.

satoru just smirks deeper, swirling the glass. he doesn’t tell nanami about the quiet things. how he pays your rent three months ahead without you knowing, just in case your part-time job ever falls through. how he swapped out your old laptop for a new one while you were in the shower, left it on the desk like it had always been there.

how he noticed the tiny crease between your brows last week when you checked your bank app, and by morning the student loan payment you were stressing over was gone, marked paid in full from some anonymous scholarship fund he set up.

he sees everything. the way you bite your lip when you’re anxious about exams, the way you pretend you’re not cold so you don’t have to ask for his jacket. he fixes it all before you even say a word. books the spa day when you mention your back hurts in passing. fills the fridge with the weird yogurt you like that’s always sold out. drives an hour out of his way to get the dumplings from that one place because you felt sad the other day.

satoru knows. he knows because he watches you closer than anyone ever has. if that little worry line ever shows up on your forehead again, he’d burn the world down to smooth it away. buy whatever you need, cancel whatever’s stressing you, hold you until the crease disappears and you’re soft and warm and laughing against his chest.

and yeah, sometimes late at night he looks in the mirror and wonders what the hell you’re doing with him. you’re so pretty it hurts—smooth skin, bright eyes, body that makes people stare on the street. and he’s got grey in his hair, lines around his eyes, and that ugly scar slicing across his torso from sukuna, pale and raised and impossible to ignore when he’s shirtless.

but then you crawl into bed and push him onto his back, kissing him slow until he’s breathing hard. you trail your mouth down his neck, over his collarbone, lower. when you reach the scar you trace it with your tongue, pressing kisses along every rough inch of the mark that used to remind him of almost dying. then you keep going, further down, lips brushing his abs, his hips, until you wrap your hand around him and take him in your mouth.

he doesn’t say any of that out loud, of course. just downs the rest of his drink and shrugs. “she’s fine,” he says. “better than fine.”

because you are. he makes sure of it every single day, quietly, obsessively, without you ever having to ask. and if that makes him the villain in nanami’s story, he’ll wear it. he’s not giving you up. not when he can take care of you like this—like no one else ever could or ever will.

one night, after you come hard on his cock, clenching around him until he follows, spilling deep inside you with a grunt, he pulls you into his chest. your head tucked under his chin, one of your legs thrown over his, his cum leaking out between your thighs. his heart is still pounding hard against your ear, sweat cooling on both of you. his fingers trace slow patterns on your back, up and down your spine.

he stares at the ceiling, feeling the weight of you on him, warm and real and here. he’s always told himself this can’t last—too big an age gap, you’ll want someone younger eventually, someone who doesn’t have grey creeping in, who doesn’t wake up with new aches. he’s prepared for it, or he thought he was.

but right now, with you breathing slow against his skin, your fingers curled over his chest like you never want to let go, something shifts. he thinks about waking up to you tomorrow, and the day after, and years of it.

he thinks about how much he fucking loves you—how it’s been sitting in his chest for months, never said out loud because it felt too big, too risky. he loves the way you laugh at his dumb jokes, the way you steal his shirts, the way you fit against him.

maybe it won’t end. maybe this is it. maybe he gets to keep you.

he presses his lips to your hair, holds you a little tighter, and lets himself believe it, just for tonight.

“something wrong?” he grunts, voice strained, hips never faltering as he grinds deep, head nudging your cervix.

you shake your head, hair stuck to your damp forehead. words tangle in your throat, swallowed by the ache climbing toward your climax.

teeth catch your lip a little too hard, sending a sharp jolt to your clit that makes you whimper.

“…could you put me in a headlock?” the words come out quieter than expected, shy and heavy with unspoken need.

for a moment, he doesn’t move. you think he didn’t hear over the obscene sounds of your bodies colliding at first, or maybe he thought you had officially gone crazy, then his eyes lock on yours, dark and intense.

“…pardon?”

a flash of embarrassment hits - you even consider pretending you didn’t say a thing, but your pussy clenches at the anticipation.

“i want you to,” you whisper, softer now, voice breaking on a gasp. “if that’s okay.”

his gaze lingers, not assessing you but the request. you can almost see him imagine the press of his arm against your throat while he fucks you senseless, the way your body would yield under him.

a beat, two.

then he exhales, slow and gravelly. “…all right.”

he doesn’t announce it. he just moves, resuming thrusts with deeper, more deliberate force, jolting your body against the mattress.

his arm slides into your field of awareness. the coarse blonde hair on his forearm brushes your cheek first, rough against your flushed skin, before settling behind your neck - a living brace of unyielding muscle that weakens your knees on instinct.

he doesn’t tighten yet, lets you feel it.

weight syncing with the throb of your clit. your head is framed by him, trapped in the curve of his arm like it’s already his to command - an absolute pornographic scene coming to life.

his other hand stays occupied too: drifting near your shoulder, fingers circling your collarbone before tweaking your nipple, rolling the hard bud until you arch.

“…like this?” he murmurs, voice lower now with restrained hunger.

your answer comes out before thought - a needy whimper vibrating against his chest. he registers it, body tensing, cock swelling thicker inside you.

the space you occupy is his to shape: he could tighten and make you scream, or trail his hand to rub your clit and push you over the edge.

“yes,” you whisper, desperation lacing the word as hips buck, clit grinding against him, chasing release.

his arm tightens another degree - not to restrain you, but to remind you.

then it hits - a hot, shuddering wave that rips through your core, walls clenching greedily around him as your pussy spasms.

the weight of his arm behind your neck presses just enough to heighten every sensation, cutting off a little air so your body feels tighter, more electric.

you cry out, hips jerking, fingers digging into the sheets as your orgasm crashes through you, every thrust driving it higher, every squeeze of his arm amplifying the pleasure.