oli!

superman!gojo who saves your city block specifically

whole city in danger? he’s everywhere. but your block? the danger is neutralized before you even realize it was there. windows intact. power still on. later, he shrugs. “i like this street.”

superman!gojo who always makes sure to be in the shot when you’re taking pictures for your article.

you line up the camera. adjust the focus. perfect framing. empty sky behind you.

CLICK

there he is.

floating directly over your shoulder, cape angled just right, sunlight hitting him like he planned it. you sigh. “you know this article is about disaster relief, right?” he grins. “exactly. I relieved the disaster and improved the composition.”

you try again. different angle.

this time he’s leaning casually against a building that was not there five minutes ago, arms crossed like a statue commissioned just for the photo.

“superman,” you warn.

“what?” he says, completely innocent. “heroes should be visible.” by the time the article is published, every photo has him somewhere in it— i guess he just wants to make sure your articles are always on the front page.

superman!gojo who’s way too awkward around you when he’s just gojo satoru and not superman

superman's effortlessly confident. he knows exactly how to pose, what to say, when to speak.

SATORU GOJO?

he nearly trips over a chair just because you asked him what day it was. he's constantly slouching to try and make himself look smaller (he's not very successful) —no cape, no hovering, just glasses and civilian clothes. he keeps pushing them up his nose even though they aren’t slipping.

this man can stop meteors. he cannot decide what to do with his hands. when you laugh at one of his jokes, he freezes for half a second like his brain needs to reboot. “oh. that—uh—yeah. that was supposed to be funny. on purpose. absolutely...”

superman!gojo who fantasizes about bending you over in your shared office at the daily planet.

superman!gojo who can punch through reality but still handles you like you're the most precious thing in earth.

superman!gojo who's suddenly grateful for those kryptonian genes when you're in bed with him.

superman!gojo who keeps pretending your recorder is broken

you hit record. the little red light is very clearly on. he squints at it. taps it once with one finger. “…are you sure it’s working?” you deadpan, “yes.” he exhales in relief anyway. “cool. coolcoolcool. just checking. hypothetically.”

superman!gojo who laughs a beat too late

you make a joke. he blinks. processes. then laughs. loud. exactly one second after everyone else. “…yeah,” he adds, nodding seriously. “that one got me.”

When that happens, you either turn away fast enough that you don’t get to see his smile drop or see him wear whatever expression you think he’ll have, or you can’t tear your eyes away quickly enough to miss the half hearted wave he gives you. 

It’s better when he doesn’t see you, you think. That wave is more crushing than anything he’d say. 

Naturally, you’ve blocked him. 

You always block guys you’re done with. It gives you peace of mind. Except this guy doesn’t; you wonder all the time if he’s tried contacting you, and what he’s said. Maybe he changed his mind and begged for you to give him another chance, maybe he declared his undying love for you, maybe he’ll vow to dedicate himself to you for the rest of time. 

None of those are likely though, because he would have chased after you the first couple times he spotted you on campus. But he hasn’t. Not even once. And you walk away slowly on purpose to give him the opportunity.

He’s never taken it.

“So, it’s over?” Brittany asks, plucking her eyebrows in her vanity, and occasionally looking at you through the mirror. “You ended it with him?”

You’re in her apartment, spread eagle on her bed and staring up at the ceiling wondering why she doesn’t have glow-in-the-dark stickers of stars. Her place smells like vanilla candles and expensive setting spray. Usually you’d fawn over the delicate scent, now you’re left feeling more suffocated.

It’s tradition for you to go crying to her after every heartbreak, but you’re not crying right now. You’re just taking shallow breaths. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Careful not to inhale too deeply in case something inside you splinters.

“Sure,” you say. 

She sighs and puts her plucker down. “Babes, you don’t have to pretend you’re okay — I’m not going to gossip to those bitches, or any bitches, you know that.”

Through your lashes, you stare at her. Brittany’s been your friend since you were children. Two girls meant for more than the provincial life you were born in, destined to wear hot pink mini skirts and tight dresses in a conservative town. You’ve followed each other your entire lives — sleepovers, first kisses, college applications half-finished at her kitchen table — and you know her loyalty is to you before any man. You can tell her anything.

Despite that, you still say, “I am okay. He’s just some nerd, I’m gonna be fine, trust me.”

Her pursed lips suggest she won’t be trusting you. 

Which is fine. 

You’re not exactly trying very hard to convince her — you’re wearing a hoodie and sweatpants for Prada sake. Sure, it’s a sexy pink hoodie and Juicy Couture sweatpants, but the outfit tells the whole story. This is your version of waving a white flag. Hair unstyled. Makeup smudged into yesterday. No armor. She knows you’re devastated, and highkey suicidal, and you can’t bring yourself to pretend otherwise. 

You just can’t say it. You can’t say the words, say that for the first time in your life you’re actually experiencing real heartbreak, and it’s robbing you of the ability to breathe. 

It hurts.

It hurts a lot. 

All the other times don’t even compare. The other times had you moping for a bit, stalking socials until your eyes burned, comparing yourself to whoever the bastard cheated on you with, buying curses from Etsy witches at 2 a.m., and eventually getting over them by getting under someone else. You’d call it empowerment. Reinvention. A glow-up.

This time, however, you don’t do any of those things. You don’t even think about getting revenge. You don’t want to hurt him. It’s not like he said anything wrong to begin with. He was probably right actually; you’re not in love with him. He was just nice and you liked it. 

This time you’re just tired. 

Bone-deep tired. The kind sleep doesn’t fix. And you so desperately want to sleep the day away, you want to let the paint on your toes crack and peel off, for your acrylics to grow out, lashes to fall off, and for your body to wither away. 

“Is there a cute bridge nearby I can jump off?”

Brittany fixes you a blank look. “Not funny.” Then she groans, coming to stand over you and smacks you with a pillow. “Get up. I’m tired of your bad vibes ruining my Me Time. Why don’t you do some retail therapy? That always made you feel better, didn’t it?”

Releasing a heavy breath, you tell her, “I already did. I have boxes upon boxes in my room still unopened. I tried to find happiness at the bottom of a shopping cart, and I’ve dug myself into further debt. It didn’t even make me feel better.”

None of the cute thongs or super high high heels you’ve gotten numbed the pain for even a second. You did look really cute in everything you bought though. 

A ping goes off on her phone. She checks it. 

Then she slams her hands on the bed, making you bounce. Brittany squeals. You wince.

“Okay, you better wax that hairy, depressed vaj of yours because we’ve got a frat party to sleep our way through tonight.”

“No,” you groan, already feeling the hangover clouding your mind. “I’m not in a partying mood.”

“That’s too damn bad because you’re coming with me and that’s that.”

Surprisingly strong hands roll you off the bed and drag you into the bathroom, and you know you’re going to walk out of here sore and bruised and in tears. 

Terrific.

.

.

.

It’s been a while since you’ve been at a party, and you have missed it — the fun songs that get your hips swaying without permission, the sting of alcohol that burns a clean line down your throat and washes any doubts and stress away, and not to mention the hypnotic gyration of bodies that mutes insecurities and self-consciousness for a moment. 

The air is thick with sweat, cheap cologne, something sickly sweet, and it feels like slipping back into a skin you used to live in. This is a damn good party, courtesy of Alpha Alpha Alpha and its president, Sukuna Ryomen — the kind of party people talk about all semester, the kind that makes freshmen reckless and seniors nostalgic for the rest of their lives.

Since you left him on read, he hasn’t texted you; he’s not the type to chase. The fact that he reached out at all to begin with would have won you over if you weren’t so in love with—

“Where have you been, doll?”

You grimace at the term of endearment.

You know, without looking back, that the captain of the hockey team has crept up behind you, whispering loudly in your ear so you can hear him over the blaring bass of the music. His firm hands grip your hips, hauling your ass to his front where he grinds his semi unashamedly.

“Around,” you reply, sipping on your cranberry vodka whilst you feel the music course through your veins, a synthetic courage buzzing under your skin.

Scarred lips graze the shell of your ear. “Yeah? Well, I missed ya. Missed this sexy ass and tight pussy. Wanna let me have my fill upstairs, like old times?”

Elbowing him off with a scowl, you say, “No, Fushiguro. Not after you slept with Jeanette before making me suck your dick the same night — that was freaking disgusting, by the way.”

“It was hot for me.”

His annoying laugh catches the attention of people around. Guys give him a nod of recognition and girls bite their lips, and both look him up and down with desire and envy. When they see the hand he has making its way to grope your tit through your thin shirt, the ones who want him and only him snarl before turning away, and the ones that want you too grin knowingly.

This was your life before…him.

Hated for being pretty and popular, and lusted for exactly the same reasons. A month or two ago, you would’ve been high from the attention, dizzy on it, collecting glances everywhere you go. Now you’re just exhausted. 

Despite that, you feel some dull thrill growing from where he touches you — a familiar, shallow spark that promises distraction if nothing else.

Lips murmur kisses up and down your neck, hands squeeze your hip and breast, his body presses insistently against yours. Toji has always been a fun time; he knows exactly what he’s doing and has never left you unsatisfied. He’s easy. Predictable. Safe in the way a bad habit is safe.

But you shouldn’t.

You didn’t even want to be at this party, didn’t want to be freshly waxed all over, all shiny and glittery, didn’t want to be dancing or drinking, or groped by some horny asshole who has no sense of loyalty, and you suspect actually likes causing girl drama.

All you wanted was hi— to be alone.

As you’re about to shove him off for good, you catch a flash of white in the corner of your eyes. Your head snaps in the direction, heart lurching stupidly in your chest. Shoulders slump in disappointment soon after.

It’s just someone taking their shirt off.

Of course he’s not here. This isn’t his scene. Plus, it’s Friday night — he’ll be at the games café with his friends, probably laughing about you and your pathetic confession, or building Lego sets and inside jokes, or making new memories in the toilet stall with his working dick. 

And even if he was here, what were you going to do? Beg? Apologise? Roll over and flash him your pussy like it was going to convince him you’re good enough to be loved? 

“Come on, ma,” Toji mutters. “Lemme make you feel good. I’ll make you forget all about that guy you’ve been with.”

“What guy?” you weakly ask, suddenly feeling lightheaded, like the room has tilted on its axis.

Toji spins you around, gripping the back of your neck to keep you in place as he grins down at you. “The nerd, doll. The rich one. Nora was telling me all about how smitten you were.”

“You mean when she was bouncing on your dick?” you scoff. Who told him he could call Eleanor by a nickname?

He smacks a wet kiss on your glossy lips, leaving behind the wheaty taste of beer. “Nah, ain’t nobody having full conversations when they’re on my dick — she was on my face, which you could be in ten seconds if you follow me upstairs.”

A harsh smack warms your ass cheek. 

“Don’t make me wait long.”

With that, he leaves you.

Coldness wafts over your body that not even the warm bodies around you can fill.

Then, you’re having a moment of clarity — you’re standing in the middle of the room with a drink you didn’t ask for, bass rattling your bones, sweat and cheap perfume clinging to the air in a sickly way. Strobe lights slice everyone into fragments. Laughter sounds warped, metallic.

This was your scene, your thing, your routine. Not Lego’s and fantasy movies, gameboards, Mariokart, and good fucking sex that ends in cuddles and kisses. Not slow mornings and shared blankets and someone looking at you like you were more than a spectacle.

Yet, tonight it all feels wrong, like you’re wearing someone else’s skin. Brittany’s off blowing someone’s brains out, you’re sure, and you know she won’t mind if you leave as long as you let her know, and so you keep thinking you’ll leave after one song, after one sip, after one more person tells you how good you look.

You don’t.

Because the moment the beat drops, the ache in your chest dulls just a little. The thoughts that circle his name — his voice, his hands, the way he used to look at you when you laughed like you weren’t performing — get shoved to the back of your skull by flashing lights and bodies pressed too close.

It’s addictive, this numbness. The way strangers’ smiles demand nothing of you. The way dancing lets you pretend you’re still the girl who came here for fun instead of survival. You hate that it works. You hate that you’re already planning the next party, even as you swear this one will be your last.

Because you can pretend as much as you like that you’re no longer the same girl, that you’ve learnt, grown, evolved, but deep down, you know, as much as everyone else does, you will never be more than a cheap thrill.

So, you push your way through the crowd, dumping your drink in some plant that’s probably fake, heading for the wide open door which leads into the night and back home, where it’s safe, where it’s quiet, where he won’t be, and turn right to the stairs.

“Took you long enough,” someone says, smirking and palming his hard-on through his jeans. 

Toji’s waiting by the door, wrapping a heavy arm around your shoulders and mouthing at your neck as someone else eyes you up and down.

“Ryomen,” you say. “Did you have to set a trap for me?”

He pushes off the bed, strolling over to you. Tattooed hands grope your ass, pulling you flush to his front. The frat president of Alpha3 licks the seam of your lips, tickling the surface with his tongue piercing. He rasps, “You’re a flighty thing, sue me.”

The other guy slides his hand up your skirt, squeezing your ass and letting a finger push in under your thong, where you’re still not very wet at all. He curses and spits on his fingers, then rubs it on your pussy. Toji huffs and notes, “She’s been distracted by that Gojo kid, too busy to suck our dicks.”

Sukuna tuts. “Bad girl. You know this pussy likes to be passed around.”

“Quit it with the talking,” you drawl, grabbing both of their dicks to hear them groan and shut the fuck up. “Put your honey where your mouth is.”

They laugh. 

“God, you’re fucking stupid. It’s almost a turn off.”

“What do I always say? Let your cunt do all the talking, doll, remember? It’s smarter than you, that’s for sure.”

You roll your eyes. “Is someone gonna eat my pussy or what?”

Toji grunts. “We’re gonna get to that, don’t you worry.”

Falling back on the bed, one holds you by your waist as you come to straddle his lap like you’ve done many times before, and the other settles behind, pinning you between them.

Clothes fall to the floor, and the party downstairs becomes a mere hum through the moans and groans of three bodies joining.

And for the night, you do forget all about him.

.

.

.

“Do you believe in love?”

The blond man slides his gaze back to you as though he’d forgotten you’re lying naked on his bed, messy hair creating a halo around your head on his pillow. He’s tucking himself back in his slacks, zipping it, before buckling the belt he hadn’t even fully removed before he thrusted inside you.

He’s a professor of History. A father. Widowed. 

You’ve had a sexual relationship with him since first year, when he met you at a bar and you made up some story about being a working woman at some law firm. He’d taken you back to his place, fucked you in a way not many of the boys from your hometown had ever, and was surprised, to say the least, when he saw you at orientation. 

Professor Nanami was kinda disgusted with you, and with himself. He refused to see you for weeks, shrugging you off when you’d cozy up to him in the hallways. But he couldn’t resist you for very long. 

Of course not. 

How could he when you wore the tightest, shortest skirts around him? When you had foregone bras under your basically see-through tops, batting your lashes and bending over his desk ‘to pick something up on the other side?’

Maybe it was because his wife had just died, or was dying —you didn’t think to ask for the details — or maybe he just really liked you, but you’ve had a consistent relationship ever since he caved and ate you out on his desk. Every Monday evening, his least favourite day of the week, you’d pop by his place and get your back blown out.

Always the same position — prone bone. Your face buried in the pillows, ass hiked up, head occasionally banging against the headboard. 

First he eats you out, you blow him, and then he’s inside you. 

Like clockwork.

No kissing, not much talking, no staying over. 

There used to be a time when you’d push it. When you’d pretend he’d fucked you to exhaustion and you couldn’t lift a single muscle, hoping he’d let you stay just this once, but he was insistent; he’d rustle you awake, a stern look on his face, and with painkillers and a glass of water by the bedside table.

He wouldn’t even let you leave a toothbrush at his place. 

It was easy to start things back up with him. You showed up at his office, knocking and with a sultry grin. He pushed his chair back, beckoned you over with two fingers, and you thought he might say something like he missed you or ask where you’ve been. He didn’t. He just guided you down to kneel between his legs.

The rest was history, as they say, which is funny because he’s a History professor!

Nanami runs a hand through his hair.

“Yes.”

You roll onto your side, propping your head up on your palm, watching him button his shirt with the kind of care one would reserve for defusing bombs: each button fastened with intention, each cuff aligned, crisp, controlled, contained. It’s almost military. Or maybe militant. What would S—

Nope. Don’t go there.

Happy to get an answer from him, you enquire, “Did you love your wife?”

He stills at that, but recovers quickly. Clasping his watch on his wrist, he wonders, “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, you know,” you reply as casually as you can, prodding the wet spots left on the bedsheets, “just curious. You never really talk about her.”

“Because the dead should be left where they are.”

There’s no bite in it. Just fact.

You sit up, the sheet slipping to your waist. He doesn’t look. Not out of disgust. Not out of desire. Simply discipline. As if you’re another detail in the room to catalogue and move past. Whereas other guys would have greedily drank up your figure to get fired up for another round. You don’t mind it.

Getting to your feet, you tug on your underwear. You remark, “You’re a History prof — isn’t it your whole thing to not let the dead rest?”

That gets a slight quirk of his lips. “I’m a contrarian.”

“Figures.” You huff. Then, you insist. “So? Did ya?”

Nanami meets your eyes through the reflection of the mirror. He doesn’t smile when he answers, “With all my heart.”

That doesn’t make you jealous, doesn’t make you sad or angry. It’s just what it is. But it does make you think. Voice quieter, you ask, “How do you know if you love someone? Like, really love them, and not like just be horny for them?”

“Did you meet someone?”

At surface level, it’s conversational. Polite. However, you know from years of office sex and Monday fuckings that Nanami’s not the kind of person to pry; he’s being cautious, worried that you mean him. It almost makes you laugh. 

“No, I was just wondering,” you say, trying to comb through your hair. 

He hums, handing you your phone.

So predictable. 

Men are always so frightened by the prospect of you falling in love with them, as if you’re so fucking terriblem, as if it means you’ll be baby trapping them. And yeah, maybe you are terrible. You’re shallow, dumb, and mean. Maybe he saw that and that’s why he didn’t want you for more than a wet pussy. 

But you can’t change who you are at the very rotten core…

Can you?

Soon, you’re being taken to the door, and just as you’re about to leave you look back at him, watching him already closing the door.

“You never answered my question.”

Nanami doesn’t need to ask for clarification to know what question you’re talking about. He pauses for a second, and it’s a rare moment of hesitation you don’t see him take very often at all. The man’s knowledgeable, wise, older. Whatever’s crossing his mind you probably couldn’t ever hope to understand. Perhaps he won’t answer. Perhaps he’ll even scold you for prying. 

But he doesn’t.

Staring down at you, he says, “When every minute of every day without them is like dying a thousand deaths without any of the relief, and you can only hope to forget them for a second.”

And the door’s shut in your face.

.

.

.

“Thank you for meeting me again!”

Yuji sits across from you at a cafe on the top floor of the student union building. He’d asked to meet, to treat you to coffee and cake after helping him get a date with a girl.

You wanted to say no. The idea of hanging out with his friend was weird. And you’d been wondering how much he had told them about everything, if he’d told them you were some psycho, and that he never wants to see you again. You thought that Yuji might cuss you out, might call you a dirty whore or something. But he insisted. Pleaded. And you’re not against free things. 

“It’s whatever. I’m just glad she said yes after all the work we put in.”

“No, seriously,” he says, pushing the slice of strawberry shortcake toward you like an offering. “You saved my life.”

“That’s dramatic.” You take a bite, thinking about how a certain someone loves sweet things more than you do and he’d devour this in seconds. 

“It’s not! Do you know how many times I almost texted her ‘hey’ with four y’s?” He shudders. “You stopped me from ruining everything.”

You snort despite yourself. “You’re welcome for protecting you from yourself.”

He grins, then softens a little. “She said I seemed…thoughtful. That I actually listened to her.”

“Well,” you shrug, stirring your iced latte a little too hard, “you did. Eventually.”

He laughs. “After you made me rewrite that message six times.”

“Seven, actually.”

“Seven,” he concedes easily. Yuji pipes up, eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’m taking her to an arcade this weekend, then we’ll get some boba, walk around for a bit.”

No one’s ever taken you to an arcade or gotten you boba. Is this how nerds date? Is that what he’s doing with some girl right now? Did he ever think about taking you on a date like that? What kind of boba does he like? Probably something insanely sweet and elaborate, he’d convince you to try it despite your complaining, and it’d turn out to be your most favourite thing in the world.

The third floor is busy — cutlery clinking, espresso machines hissing, students drifting past with backpacks and too-loud laughter. You keep your eyes on the condensation sliding down your cup.  

A barista calls out a complicated order. A group of girls squeal over something on a phone screen. A tall figure in white passes near the railing and your spine stiffens before you can stop it.

Not him.

Different build. Different posture.

You take a sip of your drink even though it’s gone watery.

Yuji softly says, “He does that too.”

Your eyes dart to him. He hadn’t said his name, and yet your heart’s pounding as if he had. So fucking pathetic. Shuffling in your seat, you say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“He’s always looking around every room, looking at whoever walks in through the door, eyeing the crowds. He even smiles when he thinks he sees you, then frowns when it’s someone else,” Yuji elaborates. There’s a bittersweet expression on his face, and you wonder if he wears one too. You pretend your heart doesn’t skip a beat at the thought that he might be searching for you in every face that passes by. “I think he really misses you.”

“No, he doesn’t,” you reply immediately, before your brain could even process the words. Then you sit up, meeting his eyes for the first time since sitting across from the pink-haired guy, who looks so much like some other guy you know. “Yuji, we were never in a real relationship, did he tell you that?”

That furrows his brows. “What do you mean?”

So he didn’t.

“It was a deal we made. I won’t go into the specifics,” you say, waving a hand. “But we weren’t actually dating. It was just pretend.”

Yuji shakes his head, leaning forward. “But he was always talking about you, about the things you like, the things you don’t. He’d see clothes in stores and say, oh she’d hate that, or that would suit her. He’d text you all the time and well, I’ve never seen him smile at his phone like that before. Even movies we’d rewatch, he’d talk on and on about what you thought about it or how he thinks you’d hate it, and so he can’t wait to watch it with you. None of that seemed like pretend to me.”

Every word builds the pit in your stomach, growing it bigger and bigger until you feel so heavy you think you could create your own gravitational pull, like someone had once explained the Sun does. 

Voice trembling more than you want it to, you deny all of that. “It was pretend. He’s just really good at playing his part. But it’s not like we didn’t get along. He just didn’t lo—” Love me, you wanted to say. Instead, you gulp, and continue, “He just didn’t like me like that.”

The guy shakes his head again. He looks so deeply troubled by the news, and wholly unconvinced. 

“I think you’re wrong,” he says, then quickly adds, “respectfully. He’s quieter these days, always wanting to go out, stay at our place, and go to every event possible. He’s always super tired now. I thought it was because you two had an argument; I didn’t know it was because you broke up.”

“We didn’t break up,” you tell him, firmer than you intended it to come out. “We just ended our deal. It’s different.”

“Not to him,” Yuji argues. “He’s clearly miserable. I’ve never seen him so down.”

You sip your drink, gaze flitting away so you won’t see the flashes of memories of a man you can’t see right now in his eyes. Numbly, you say, “He’s just missing the routine we had. He’ll get over it.”

 “Can’t you two just make up?”

“No, Yuji. It’s not that simple.”

“It can be.”

Tired of where the conversation headed, you stand up, fixing your skirt. “Thanks for the coffee, and you’re welcome for helping you bag your girl. Good luck, and whatever.”

Then you leave before he can say anything else about him.

Inside the elevator, you slump against the mirror. Your face is reflected back all around you. It’s unnerving to see the dark circles under your eyes and the slight shake in your eyeliner. You snatch your gaze away. Can everyone tell you’re grieving something that was never alive? 

A ping warns that the elevator is stopping. Someone gets in, but you’re only looking at the buttons. 

“Diapers?”

You freeze. 

Beat up converse, blue jeans, white shirt under a blue sweater, full lips, glasses, and white hair. 

Your heart drops to the ground floor. 

He’s really here. 

And it’s just the two of you. 

The air feels thinner somehow. The elevator suddenly feels too small. The mirrored walls reflect you from every angle — your stiff posture, his towering frame, the space between you that somehow feels charged.

The doors slide shut with a soft, definitive ding.

You’re trapped.

“What are you doing here?” Satoru asks, smiling widely. He takes a step towards you reflexively, arms rising. You step back. His smile falters, but doesn’t disappear altogether. 

Steeling your spine, you reply coldly, “Meeting a friend.”

“Oh.” He leans back against the mirror too, arms crossed. “I was studying. Got a big exam to prepare for. It’s gonna be killer.”

“Cool.”

Your voice comes out flat, but your pulse is screaming. The hum of the lights grows louder. The faint scent of his cologne — clean, annoyingly familiar — threads into your lungs and drags memories behind it.

There’s a tremble in your voice you hadn’t shaken off. Can he hear it? Can he tell you’ve been miserable? Is he rejoicing in it? Does he feel victorious? Validated?

Does he look at you and think, See? You were just confused.

Satoru wonders, “How have you been then? What have you been up to?”

Who the hell does he think he is? How can he possibly talk to you so casually, like you’re long time friends passing each other by? 

Inhaling deeply, you let out a tense breath. “Look, we don’t have to do this. We don’t have to be all good with each other. We were strangers to each other before and we’re strangers to each other now. No more and less.”

“No more or less,” he corrects automatically.

“Fuck off.”

You can hear the sheepish smile in his voice when he mutters, “Sorry.”

The elevator shudders lightly as it passes another floor. Then his expression shifts. The brightness dims.

“I was genuinely asking,” he says, softer now. “I really am wondering how you’ve been…” Then, even softer, he adds, “I missed you.”

No no no no no.

He can’t talk to you like that, he can’t say shit like that, he can’t weaken your resolve, he can’t pretend he fucking cares. He doesn’t get to miss you after telling you you mistook gratitude for love. After implying you only wanted him because he was the first man who treated you like you mattered.

Hands shaking, you clench them into fists so he won’t see. “Don’t.”

“I do,” he whispers, insistent. “I haven’t been sleeping much since ‘cause I keep thinking about all the things I said.” 

You don’t want to hear this. 

You can’t. 

You’re supposed to be moving on, accepting that what you had wasn’t real, that it was all just some game. He wasn’t supposed to be here; it’s too soon. You wanted to face him properly, completely unaffected so that he’d never know just how hurt you were.

Satoru steps closer. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I was flustered, y’know, like you caught me off guard, and—”

“Stop it, Satoru,” you hiss, whipping around. 

Your breath gets caught in your throat.

Fuck he really does look terrible, or as terrible as he can possible look — he has dark circles under his eyes too, his hair looks like he’s been running his hands through them, pulling hard, and he looks even paler than usual. His sweater is fluffier than usual, Converse more scuffed, and there’s a quake in his hands as they twitch.

When your eyes meet, through his glasses his gaze softens. “Oh, baby.”

He’s so close all it takes is one step to cross the distance, to hug him tightly, to yank him down for a kiss and wash everything away. Satoru smells the same as you remember, all clean and fresh, and it’s comforting, reassuring. 

The door opens.

“There you are,” a voice says. “Did you bring my clothes back from your place?”

Satoru breaks eye contact first, looking at the newcomer. He releases a breath, combing his hair back. “Hey, Sho. Yeah, I’ve got them.”

It’s her again. 

She’s sucking on a lollipop, raising a brow at you. A smile plays on her lips. It’s mocking, like she knows something you don’t.

It’s so easy for them to talk like that, isn’t it? So casual, so natural, like they’ve been dating for years. Did you ever sound like that with him to others? Did people feel jealousy ripping them apart from the inside, threatening to bring them to their knees? 

“Good for you, Gojo,” you snark. The words taste acidic. Petty. Beneath even you. But you can’t stop them. “You’re finally using your fixed dick to its fullest.”

“What? No, wait, baby—”

You leave, heels clacking on the polished floor. 

Someone calls your name, panicked, but you don’t turn around. Not even when the elevator doors slide shut behind you. Not even when the first tear slips down your cheek. Not even when the sob you’ve been choking back finally breaks free in the empty corridor.

That’s really fucking good for him.

Just perfect.

Peachy.

.

.

.

He’s been trying to contact you. 

A TheSmartest_1 had followed you on Insta. It had no profile picture, no other friends, no posts, but you knew who it was immediately. He sent a message. It plainly read: I didn’t sleep with her, her washing machine broke. Pls unblock me.

It no longer matters to you if he did or didn’t; you’ve cried over it enough. Plus, it’s not like you’re some blushing virgin. But still, the thought of it didn’t settle right, and even if he denies it, the damage to your heart has been done.

You set your account to private and removed him. 

Then you received an email from one of your professors, talking about how someone had interrupted a lecture shouting your name, and that he had to inform this individual you don’t attend your lectures, which was the cue for him to lecture you about the importance of good attendance and full investment in your education. 

It confused you. 

Not the scolding. Whatever Satoru’s up to. 

A lot. 

Why was he looking for you? Why was he trying to reach out? What else did he want? Was his dick broken and he wanted you to slap him back to health? Or did you leave something behind in his apartment?

The old you would have confronted him, asked him what the fuck he wanted, maybe blown him as a parting gift. The you now could only curl up in your bed, staring at the message and feeling tempted to hear him out.

You’re curious, that’s all.

Since the elevator, you’d been crying on and off. You ignored Brittany’s attempts to see you, claiming to have mono, and definitely ignored Eleanor and Jeanette’s accusations of you being pregnant. 

You wish you were pregnant. At least then he’d have a reason to stick by you. 

It’s not too late to fake it, you suppose. 

No, that’s stupid.

No one would believe you’re pregnant with your impeccable figure. 

Eventually, everyone’s messages stopped, like they had accepted you’re a shut-in now. You didn’t go to see Nanami on Monday, didn’t seek out Choso for some weed and cunnilingus in the backseat, or Geto for an orgy with his groupies. And it was good. 

There’s peace and quiet now. 

You can do the bare minimum for your studies, don’t have to do your makeup or shave or even wear anything other than some ratty T-shirt from home you never threw out. 

But it also means listening to the voices in your head telling you you’re not good enough for anyone. It means having to bask in the dull clenches of your heart every time you’re reminded of him. It means rolling over in bed and reaching out for a warm body that pulls you in and mutters about how good you smell, and being jolted awake when your arm falls through air. 

You can’t even doomscroll anymore; your feed’s been corrupted by videos of people building Lego sets, of film analysis, of all the work the Gojo Foundation has been doing. It’s like everywhere you look he’s there, and you can’t bring yourself to look away. Once, you replayed the same video of him attending some event in a suit, with his hair slicked back, and his glasses swapped out for sunglasses, for hours. 

When you shut your eyes, the video still played in your mind, like it’d been burnt into your retina.

A ping goes off on your phone. 

Lazily, you pick it up and blink through the blur of your eyes, which had gotten used to the darkness of your room. Jeanette sent you a picture, and captioned it: I want the next turn when she’s done with him.

You sit up.

It’s a picture of two people. A man.

Him.

He’s on campus, standing under a veranda as rain pours heavily, holding designer shopping bags — Tiffany, Chanel, Prada — and laughing with a girl.

“No fucking way.”

The covers are thrown on the floor with the speed you jump out of bed, fighting through the sudden lightheadedness that threatens to send you falling, and hurriedly gathering your lipgloss and mini skirt off the floor. The curtains are torn open and the grey sky glares back at you. It’s pouring. 

It must have been taken recently, if not just now.

Sheets of rain slam against the windows, blurring the campus into watercolour streaks.

You move fast. Faster than you have in like a month. Shower on. Teeth brushed. Concealer under your eyes to hide the proof that your heart’s been shattered into a million pieces and not even nail glue could fix it back up.

You pick the tightest top you own. The shortest skirt. Something that says you are not the pathetic thing you’ve been rotting into.  Lip gloss swiped on. Hair brushed until it shines. Mascara layered thick. You’d rather die than be seen all ugly and disgusting by anyone, least of all him and that skank.

The cold hits instantly when you step outside.

Rain soaks through your clothes within seconds, clinging the fabric to your skin. The mini skirt rides up as wind whips through campus, biting at your thighs. Your shoes splash through puddles with every march you make across the quad.

Students stare, point, laugh. You don’t care.

Your phone is still open to the picture Jeanette sent. You zoom in as you walk. It’s by the Quad, just a little away from the Physics building, where he liked to hang back in his free time to chat to professors in their offices. 

The environment starts matching the background of the picture.

You’re here.

And there he is.

Satoru fucking Gojo.

Under the stone veranda outside the humanities building, dry and sheltered, laughing like the world is light. He looks exactly like how he did in the picture, except now that you can see him in all of his glory, you can see there’s even more designer bags hanging off his arms. 

You can also see the girl beside him.

It’s Brittany.

Your Brittany.

The girl who held your hair back when you threw up. Who listened to you cry about him. Who promised time will heal all wounds, who said she liked him for you. 

It’s really her.

What you’re seeing in front of you, the abomination that it is, is exactly what you expected, yet in your frantic hurry to be near perfect, you’d manage to convince yourself you saw wrong or it looked like her but it wasn’t, or that Jeanette had done something to the picture. 

But no, she’s with him. She’s the one he was laughing with, the one that had stopped him from seeking you out. And he’s the reason she stopped texting you to ask if she could see you today or the next day.  

The rain pounds down harder, plastering your hair to your face, your mascara threatening to bleed.

He sees you first. 

His smile drops instantly. The bags go still in his hand. Brittany follows his gaze, confused. And when she sees you, her eyes widen in panic, in fucking guilt.

“Babe…” she began, but you cut her off.

“What the fuck is this?” you demand. Your hands are shaking. Your entire body’s trembling, whether from the cold or from the delirious fury crackling inside of you, you couldn’t tell.

“Hey—” he starts.

“Shut up.” You don’t even look at him. Your eyes are on her. On your best fucking friend. “How could you?” you scream.

Jeanette, you expected. Eleanor too. But Brittany? Your Brittany, making a man who was never really yours hers?

Were you so unloveable that no one would consider your feelings for even one fucking minute? Was there something genuinely wrong with you? Did you have a corrupting force inside that makes everyone stab their daggers in your back?

Brittany steps forward. “It’s not what you think.”

“Not what I think?” You laugh, hysterical, gesturing wildly at the shopping bags and their general closeness. “You’re on a date. With him. You’re telling me I’m mistaken?”

“It’s not a date,” she insists, exasperated.

Gojo cuts in, “It isn’t.”

“Oh my God, don’t.” Your voice is almost hoarse from how loud you’re shouting over the pounding of the rain, which threatens to send your legs buckling under you from its sheer force. “Do not stand there and pretend like you didn’t ruin me and then move on to her.”

Water drips off your lashes. You’re freezing now, teeth almost chattering, but adrenaline keeps you upright.

Brittany’s hands reach for you. Your glare pins her to where she stands. In spite of that, she sighs and says, “You need to calm down.”

“You listened to me cry about him,” you say, voice cracking completely now. “You told me he was bad for me. You said I deserved better, that I just need therapy. Is this your version of therapy? Sleeping with him?”

Gojo steps forward. “Okay, that’s enough—”

“Stay out of it!” you snap at him. Even now, he’s defending her, choosing to protect her from you, because you’re some big monster in their eyes. You’re the one trampling all over their Happy Ever After. 

His jaw tightens.

You’re soaked to the bone. Your fingers are numb. Your arms are goosebumped and aching, legs itchy from the cold. You must look insane — mascara’s running down your face, stinging your eyes.

But you don’t care.

Because they’re dry. Sheltered. Together. And they look so fucking good together, so happy, and it’s you who wiped the smiles off their faces, it’s you who’s disturbing them, ruining their day.

“You’re dead to me,” you say to both of them. 

Gojo’s expression shifts at that. Something almost pained flickers there.

But you don’t stay to analyse it. You turn and walk away. No umbrella. No coat. Just the cold and the humiliation and the sound of your own ragged breathing as the sky roars above you.

Marching back the way you came, you pant, rain water dripping inside your mouth. It tastes salty. You don’t see the people looking at you, the phones held up recording everything, and you don’t know if Jeanette had seen everything. 

You can’t pretend you don’t care about that, about any of this, because in all the years you’d spent debasing yourself over and over again for a shed of attention from some asshole, you’d never been more hurt, never been more devastated. Whatever was left of your heart has been set on fire, leaving behind ashes. And there were witnesses, videos that’ll remind you of the worst moment of your life.

Who are you going to turn to now?

Who was going to hug you, give you a pep talk, who was going to make you feel like a real person? 

Who do you have?

“Wait!”

You turn around, arms tightly hugging yourself. “What the hell do you want?”

Gojo bends over, hands on his knees and gasping for air. His clothes and hair are soaked. He’s not wearing his glasses, yet he peers up at you like he’s never seen you more clearly. Your spine stiffens. “I want to talk, to explain.”

Disgust deepening on your face, you sneer at him. “Spare me. I don’t want to hear every sorry detail.”

“Sordid,” he says, then shakes his head. “Sorry, sorry. Habit.” 

Straightening, he musters a weak smile, trying to look friendly, reassuring. His bright eyes scan your face, then your body, and his smile drops. “You’re cold,” he notes, then grimaces. “I don’t have a jacket on me; my sweater’s soaked. But you can have it, if you want.”

“Stop!” you screech, stomping your foot and sending puddles around your splattering. “Stop pretending you give a shit. Go back to that fucking bitch and die.”

He leaps forward as you make a move to walk away. Gojo cages you in his arms, keeping you there with him. His heat envelopes you.

You gasp, outraged. “How dare you!”

With a grimace, he says, “I know, I know. Sorry. I just need you to listen to me.”

“I don’t want to,” you grit out. 

This is the closest to him you’ve been in a long time. You can feel the familiar hardness of his body, the strength in his arms, the pounding of his heart which matches yours in a perfect rhythm and tempo. 

Gojo’s brows are furrowed so hard he forms a deep wrinkle that threatens to become a permanent fixture on his face. “I’m not sleeping with her.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, it’s true,” he insists, body a wall against your resistance. “I ran into her on campus this morning, and I saw an opportunity to reach you, to talk to you — I asked her to help me get you back.”

That stops your squirming. 

“I asked her what to do, how I can win you back, make you accept my apology. And she said you’re materialistic; you like gifts. Well, she didn’t want to help me at first. In fact, she screamed some pretty horrible things at me when I first asked, which I deserved. But she eventually quietened down when I said I’d do whatever, no matter the cost.”

It’s true. You do like gifts, but who doesn’t? 

And you’re not very happy to hear how she’d been talking about you, like liking gifts was some kind of character flaw. Although…a massive part of you has been calmed upon hearing that they’re not sleeping together. Of course, he could be lying, but Gojo’s not the type. He’s honest, a trait he displayed so brutally you’ve been left picking up the pieces in the wake of his truth.

Regardless, you’re on edge.

He continues, speaking quite fast as though he knows your wrath will resurface and he might lose his chance for good if he doesn’t hurry up, “So we went shopping.”

“All those gifts…they were for me?” you ask, blinking.

A small smile graces his lips. “Yeah,” he replies. “I’m not good at girl shopping, or shopping for anything that’s not a toy, so I really appreciated her expertise.”

“Those are expensive brands,” you note like an idiot, not really knowing what to say. Slowly, your body succumbs to his embrace, unable to help itself.

“I can afford it,” Gojo says simply. 

Sighing, you pat his chest. He gets the memo and carefully places you down on your feet. The rain’s still pouring, not as heavy as it was before, but certainly heavy enough that there’s no one out in the park other than you two.

You mutter, “If this is because of what I said in the closet, then I’m sorry — your whole family thing doesn’t actually interest me very much, no offence. It just came out, because I realised you’d never properly invested in me, in our relationship. I’m not trying to use you for your money.”

“I know,” he replies, cradling your face in his soft, wet hands. “I know. I just wanted to do whatever I could to make you give me a chance, at least to apologise properly and explain myself.”

Gojo wipes the water droplets hanging off your fake lashes, and the mascara dirtying your face. 

In spite of the weather, his hands are warm. They almost make you forget about everything. 

“You don’t have to explain anything. You’re right. About everything,” you say, avoiding those piercing eyes that felt like they could see everything in the limitless void of yours. “We had an agreement: experimental sex, pretending, and absolutely no falling in love. I ruined all of it. I’m sorry I blew it all up. You must have felt so uncomfortable.”

“I was,” he agrees, sadness lacing his voice. “But not because I was mad ‘you blew it up,’ or whatever you’re thinking. I was uncomfortable because you sprung something on me that I hadn’t been thinking about on purpose.”

“What?”

“I love you,” he says. 

You shake your head, breath growing shallower and shallower by the second. You try to pry his hands off you. “No, no, stop it.”

“Yes,” Gojo promises, holding your face still and forcing you to look into his eyes, unobscured. “I love you, but I forced myself not to. I abandoned that idea and squashed it down, wayyy down, because it was wrong, because it would make you uncomfortable, because it would push you away. I mean, I didn’t know it then, that it was love, but I knew what I felt for you far exceeded friendship.”

Blood rushes through your head, threatening to drown his voice out. You gulp a sob building in your throat, fighting the urge to run, to deny this is happening. In all the time you’d spent wallowing, replaying everything and imagining all sorts of future scenarios, this never occurred to you.

You never thought he could actually love you.

“That night, in the diner, I sat across from you, watched you drum your pretty nails, bat your long lashes, scowl at every other patron, and I knew I was in trouble,” Gojo says, thumb brushing your cheek absentmindedly. “And when you begrudgingly admitted that you liked fries with the milkshake, all cute and wanting to pretend you didn’t, my heart was basically yours, and it’s stayed yours throughout this whole thing. And it’s still yours now, even if you don’t want it, even if you have someone else’s, even if you’ll just throw it away. Because I don’t care what you do with it — it’s no good to me if it’s not beating for you.”

He opens his mouth to say more, but you’ve heard enough.

Grabbing him by his sweater, you yank him towards you, smashing your lips against his. As lightning flashes above you and thunder soon follows, you lose yourself in his taste, a taste you’d forgotten. 

Satoru melts, hands falling from your face to your waist, clutching you closer until your front’s flushed with his, until not an atom separated you from him.

“I do want your heart,” you tell him. “I want to squeeze it, dig my nails into it, stomp on it, and make you feel everything I felt. And I will do what I want with it, because you’re right, Satoru; your heart’s mine, and I’ll scalp every bitch that tries to take it.”

A great, big smile brightens his entire face. The brightest smile you’ve ever seen, the most genuine, most stunning smile. He pecks your lips, once and twice and again, and says, “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever had anyone tell me.”

“I can be sweet,” you reply, shrugging.

He nods. “The sweetest.”

Then he laughs, combing his drenched hair back. Satoru parts from you, spinning under the rain with his arms wide open, and eyes shut, basking in the darkness of the clouds. Droplets fly off him, some landing on you.

“I feel like screaming Eureka!” he yells so loud the trees rustle.

You laugh, uncaring of the strange looks people give you two, and actually giving an elderly couple a middle finger whilst he isn’t looking.

When he moves to adjust something on his face and then frown, you finally ask the question you’d been wondering since you saw the picture: “Where are your glasses?”

“Oh, um,” he stammers, sheepish. A pink hue grows on his cheeks. “I left it in one of the bags today, after I went to the opticians to get, um, contacts.”

“Contacts?”

“I don’t know. I thought you’d like me better if I didn’t look so…nerdy. It’s stupid, I know. I was just desperate, I guess.” Then he pauses, peering at you through his white flashes. “Do you like it? It’s kinda itchy on my eyes; I can get used to it though.”

Your thumb brushes over his eyelids. “I like you better with your glasses actually. It’s always fun when they get foggy and you just throw them off so you can eat me out better.”

A grin pulls at his lips. He kisses you again, and mumbles a simple, “Noted.”

“Speaking of bags,” you start, looking around and behind him, “what about my gifts? Where did you put them?”

Satoru blinks, then scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. He confesses, “I left them back with Brittany, but I don’t think I actually asked her to wait for me, so there’s a good chance they’ve been taken. I’ll buy it all again. Oh! Wait!”

He fishes in his pocket, fumbling against the soaked and shrunken pockets of his jeans. Metal clings and colourful keychains dangle in the air. 

The pink tinting his cheeks darken, as do the tips of his ears. He avoids your eyes. “I had these made when I was out with the guys a while back; I don’t know why I didn’t give it to you sooner — maybe I was just worried you’ll think it’s cringe or something. You can take it as a placeholder in the meantime.”

Snatching it from his hand, you marvel at it with wide eyes.

It’s you two.

No, it’s Toru and his little wife. 

Tears well up again.

“No, no,” he says, cradling your face again with a worried expression. “No, baby, I’m sorry. You hate it, don’t you? Of course you do. I mean after what I said, about how they’re just toys—”

You shake your head. “No, Satoru. I love it. I love Toru and his scary wife.”

He smiles, relieved, and whispers against your forehead, “I love them too. I love them so much. And now,” he says, hooking the Lego man on his belt loop and, with your suggestion, hooks the woman on your bra strap because that’s the only place you have to keep her, “they’ll be with us forever.”

“Definitely longer than the end of the school year, right?” you ask, looking up at him through your lashes.

Satoru kisses you.

“To infinity and beyond, if I can help it.”

Giggling, you point out, “That sounds like a really long time.”

More kisses are peppered on your face, lips, and neck, and basically anywhere he can reach. He mutters on your wet skin, sounding much more serious and solemn, “Not long enough, if you ask me actually.” He whispers. “Never long enough. No amount of time could make up for what we lost, but I’ll try. By Merlin, I’ll try.”

You brush hair away from his face, realising that the rain had basically disappeared as the sun begins warming your skin some time during your conversation. 

“Let’s just start with forever, shall we?”

“Good idea, Diapers.”

.

.

.

“Pastel pink or hot pink, Toru?”

His glossy eyes lazily flit up through his foggy glasses. Tongue completely flat against your puffy clit, his words come out muffled when he answers, “What about something blue?”

You pout, brushing his hair back just so you can bunch it in a tight fist, yanking to get a wince out of him and so he’ll bury his face even deeper into your pussy. “But I wanted a pink set.”

Satoru pets your thigh, lapping up your juices. He says, “Get whatever you want, wifey, just get something in blue too.”

Beaming, you gleefully check out the La Perla lingerie sets you’ve picked out, too excited to wait till they arrived. Ahh, you’re going to look so good in the lace. He definitely won’t be allowed to cum on them, which means he’ll have to cum inside. 

Sure, you already have loads of fancy clothes and shoes and bags from him, but what you really like are the lingerie sets. You have finer tastes. Scandalous tastes. Which he appreciates, and is always happy to indulge in. His place and yours are packed full of things he’d bought for you on a whim, and you’re running out of space and occasions to wear any of them. You really should tell him to stop spending money on you, but alas, it brings him joy so you shouldn’t rob him of the pleasure of spoiling you.

It’s a Saturday morning, and he’d woken up first. He couldn’t handle being the only one up, so he woke you up with his lips sucking your clit hard. If he was anyone else, you’d have been pissed to miss on valuable beauty sleep, but he’s your Satoru so whatever.

When you cum, he shoves a pillow under your hips and lines his leaking cock to your pulsing hole, far too impatient to wait for the last waves to subside. Mewling, you chastise him, “You’re in too much of a hurry; a pussy like mine needs to be appreciated in all its glory, Toru.”

“You’re right, baby,” he mutters, kissing your neck. “Always right.”

Every inch he pushes in robs you of more and more air, until you’re completely breathless as he fills you up. It’s always so fucking good. Your legs clamp around his hips, ankles hooking behind his ass and pulling him deeper and deeper. Satoru bottoms out with a groan, whole body trembling. 

He leisurely thrusts inside, taking his sweet time to reacquaint himself with your gummy walls. 

Humming, you wonder, “Did you dust my orchid?”

Satoru nods, rocking his hips inside in short, shallow thrusts, prodding your g-spot over and over again with his flushed cockhead. “Yeah. Lego sets tend to collect dust quite quickly. I -hah- made sure to be careful of any loose pieces, don’t worry.”

“Thank you. You know that took me ages to build, and I chipped one of my nails too.

A grin forms on his swollen lips. He replies, “Don’t have to thank me for anything; I’m always careful with your sets.”

“Oh, that’s right,” you coo, pinching his cheeks. “My boyfriend likes to make himself useful, doesn’t he?”

“He does indeed. He loves making his girlfriend happy.”

“As he should.”

You’re gushing around his fat cock, clinging to him tightly. The morning sunlight’s warming your skin, reminding you that there’s a whole day ahead, and as much as you’d love to, you can’t spend it in bed, or in the shower, against the window, on the kitchen island, the sofa, the coffee table, the—

The point’s clear.

Sharp nails run down his back, no doubt leaving marks on his pale skin. “Mm, Satoru, we might be late for the meeting if we don’t hurry up.”

“Can’t we just skip?” he asks, whining on your chest, and licking the beads of sweat forming down the valley of your breasts. 

In a blink of an eye, you have him pinned beneath you, cock still lodged firmly inside your cunt. “Now, now, that’s not very good of you.”

“Punish me then,” he retorts quickly. He had that locked and loaded. 

You lightly tap his cheek, moaning in satisfaction when he pulses inside of you. “It’s not a punishment if you like it.”

“Hmm, you’re so smart, baby.”

“Thank you,” you say, giggling.

Satoru smiles up at you through his glasses, eyes full of adoration. Your heart beats so loud you think he might hear it. Grinding in circles, you pick his glasses off his face and slide it on your nose bridge. 

“Jeez, how do you even live without these?” The prescription’s high. It’s blurry, already giving you a headache. “You’re sure you’re not actually blind?”

His cock throbs, and his hips buck up, cockhead kissing your cervix. You gasp, steadying yourself on his chest.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he grits out. 

A sly smile creeps up on your lips. Cooing, you draw a line down his chest, watching the red mark form, staking your claim. “Aw, do you think I’m pretty wearing your glasses, Satoru? Does it make you want to cum inside of my pretty pussy so soon?”

“Yes, yes,” Satoru gasps out. His hands clutch your hips, fingers digging into the slippery skin. “You’re so pretty, so fucking pretty.”

“Well of course I—”

A Marina song blares. Your attention darts to the phone on the bedside table. Rolling your eyes, you lean over to pick it up, dropping back down on his cock with an extra force so he’ll whimper and call out your name. You shush him with a glare, which has no real heat to it.

“Hello?”

“The nerve to be late when you’re the one who invited me here,” a snarky voice says, bored and irritated. 

Your hips are still circling on his pelvis, wringing out obscene squeeeeelches! that you hope Brittany doesn’t hear, but you don’t really care either way. You replace the glasses back on his face, finding the thick lenses doing more damage to your eyes than the hours you spend looking at your phone.

Satoru’s panicked eyes meet yours. He whispers, “W-we should stop.”

“Shush,” you mouth at him. Then, louder, you say to her, “Relax, we’re on our way. It’s just traffic-y.”

“Right,” she replies, dragging the word. “You really think I’m gonna buy that when I can literally hear your boyfriend straining not to bust a nut in the background.”

Ah, well, that’s fair — Satoru’s not being very quiet even though he’s trying his best; panting to get some air in his brain so he can think clearly, squirming so he won’t start violently thrusting upwards, and biting his lip as his eyes flit about your body, finding any bit of visual stimulation is killing him. 

Not the least bit apologetic, you say, “Whoops.”

“Whatever, whore. Just get over here already. Some greasy loser is eyeing me up, and I’m so bored I’m actually considering it.”

You laugh. “Oh, that’s just Ian. Don’t mind him. Although, I think you’d really like Dave, the barista.” 

“Ew, he’s ugly,” she screeches.

Desperate to cum already, you hurriedly say, “We’ll talk more later. Byeee.”

Grinning down at your boyfriend, you throw your phone somewhere. The malevolent glint in your eyes makes him gulp, and throb. “You’ve got ten minutes to make me cum two more times. You got it in you, Six Eyes?”

Satoru chuckles, cheeks flushed and hands pulling you down so he can reach your lips. “Hell yeah, baby.”

The ten minutes become thirty, and you end up a whole hour late to the meeting. 

The bustle of the cafe on a Saturday morning slams into you in full force. A table full of people sit up straighter when they see you both. Some of them wave, one gives you a finger you reflect right back to her.

“Hey guys!”

Your boyfriend pulls a chair back for you, and you thank him with a kiss to his cheeks that some gush at, and another gags at. That makes you kiss him on his lips to pull another gag out before sitting down and giving them all a fake, apologetic smile. 

You pop a gum in your mouth to wash the taste of cum from your mouth lest Brit smells it and gives you hell. “So sorry we’re late. We just had car troubles.”

Satoru nods, arm thrown over the back of your chair, hand resting on your shoulder. “Yeah, was a very bumpy ride. Sorry guys.” You squeeze his thigh, fighting the urge to laugh with him.

Opposite you, Brittany gives a disbelieving look. “You guys are disgusting, I hate you both.”

“Tuna mayo.” 

“Why, what happened?” Haibara asks, blinking. 

Beside him, Ijichi adjusts his glasses and mumbles, “I believe they’re lying about being late because of traffic.”

“We were having sex and lost track of time,” you confess with no shred of guilt.“Sue us.”

Some of the guys blush.

This isn’t the first time you’ve been late to a meeting with your friends; it happens so often they’ve actually started giving you the wrong time so you’d show up on time, and yet it almost never works. You’ve become one of those repulsive couples in movies that you roll your eyes at, and it’s the greatest thing ever. Because if there’s anything you like more than orgasms, it’s making other people jealous.

Yuji, awkwardly wanting to move on, claps his hands, scanning the big table with a growing glimmer in his competitive eyes. He announces, “Everything’s set up, we’re all here — I think we’re ready to go.”

Unsure, your bestie inspects the little pieces and the board in front of her. She asks, “None of this makes sense to me. What exactly am I supposed to do?” 

Satoru proudly boasts, “Since my wifey here won the last game, I think she should do the honours of breaking your virginity.”

“Gross,” the two of you say in unison, fighting back smiles when your eyes meet. 

As everyone’s eyes land on you, you pick up your piece, twirling it between manicured fingers. When you sense everyone growing tiresome with the wait, you finally say, “It’s simple. I roll. I pick a card and make a move based on what it says. And then I inevitably get targeted because apparently I’m ‘too strategic’.”

“You are too strategic,” Yuji argues, already narrowing his eyes at you as though he’ll be able to see into your mind and anticipate your next underhanded move. “Last time you built an entire alliance just to wipe me out for no reason.”

“It’s called foresight,” you reply primly.

“It’s called manipulation,” Haibara corrects — not as an insult, on the contrary, it seems like a compliment. “But you’re right, Itadori! We need to stop her reign of terror.”

“I concur.”

“Bonito flakes.”

Jaw dropping, you scoff. “Oh so now it’s okay to gang up on people? Real honourable, you guys.”

“Don’t worry, wifey. I’ll protect you,” the man beside you promises.

“You’re the first one I’m eliminating,” you say, matter-of-factly. Since you learnt the rules of the game, he’s stopped going easy on you, stopped setting things up so you could win. Now, he’s an enemy. “I’d rather lose than let you win.”

Under your hand, something grows. His eyes sparkle when he realises you know, but he’s not ashamed at all. He never is; he’s just happy his dick is working.

Satoru can’t help himself; he pinches your chin and drags you over to give a kiss on your lips. He deepens it despite the playful complaints the whole table gives about ‘not rubbing it in’ and ‘getting a room’. When he parts, he’s chewing and leaning back in his chair like nothing happened. 

That sly bastard…

Waving a hand in your face to grab your attention, Brittany asks with a lot of attitude, “Cool, but how do I win?”

You smile, leaning back in your chair too. Head resting on his shoulder and playing with the keychain on his belt, you tell her, “It’s not about winning, Brit, you silly goose.”

Satoru presses a kiss to the top of your head, a smile growing in your hair.

“It’s all about good storytelling.”

Sitting on the marble of the campus fountain, it’s clear you made the wrong choice of complaining to your no-shit-taking bestie one too many times about the recent asshole who’s broken your heart. You should have brushed it under the rug, like a healthy person. 

Whatever it is that you wanted on a random Tuesday — a shoulder to bitch on, validation, a pat on the back — it sure wasn’t a rude awakening.

“They weren’t that bad, don’t be ridiculous,” you say, scoffing.

“Are you serious?” Her sudden rise in volume catches the attention of passing students, who either glare at her impoliteness or ogle her spilling cleavage. If she notices, she doesn’t say.

You, on the other hand, don’t even flinch; you’ve long been desensitised. Or deafened. Hard to tell.

“Babes, you’ve been cheated on, belittled, psychologically fucked with, neglected, and gaslit like a motherfucking stove. How many times have you come crying to me? How many times have I had to dye your hair or bankrupt myself so you could reinvent yourself?” 

“Only a couple times…” you grumble under your breath, pouting a little.

With a sigh, she adds, “I love you, like so freaking much. And I’m not blaming you — those guys were genuine assholes, and no one deserves the shit they put you through. But, let’s not pretend you have the best taste in men. Let’s not pretend you didn’t get pretty fucking crazy with them too, and liked it. The others know it too.”

“Jeanette and Eleanor don’t know shit,” you spit out. Those skanks have been talking shit about you behind your back, commenting on your relationships, when they themselves don’t have healthy ones? The fucking nerve. 

They’re half the reason why you’ve had bad experiences with guys!

Sighing, she adds, “Look, all I’m saying is, why don’t you try something new? Maybe go for the opposite of what you usually like. Go for a… a nice guy! Yeah, go for the complete opposite of you.”

“Wow,” you say, unoffended by the insult but registering it regardless. “And what would you have me go for? A nerd? As if.”

Specks of invisible dirt brushed off her skirt, she smiles, in the creepy way you hate. “Ah, you’re right. Forget it.” Brittany stands up, and you have to crane up to glare at her. “Even if you set your mind on it, no one with an actual working brain would go for girls who are all tits and lipgloss.”

“What makes you think that a nerd will treat me right? You actually think a virgin could fuck me half as good as jock who literally trains to maximise their stamina? Do nerds even know what a clit is?”

She shrugs, adjusting her bag over her shoulder and eyeing her reflection in her handheld mirror. “Who knows? No guy’s perfect — I guess I’m just curious to see if you’re simply super unlucky, or if you have some kind of quality that makes you turn decent men into psychos.”

Rising to your full height, you meet her amused stare with a determined one. “You’re on, bitch.”

And so begins your search for a nerd to prove her wrong. 

You part ways — one girl totally smug and overjoyed at having baited the other, and one stomping her Prada heels like she could make the ground hurt.

There’s no time to waste; the sooner you can find a man that fits the criteria, the sooner you can make her eat her words. There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s men. They just suck.

Nerds included.

Naturally, you march inside the number one place to find a smartypants: the library. 

You haven’t been inside here since, well, ever. It’s a wonder you even found the place at all. Granted, you did have to ask three people on the way for directions, but you’ve arrived regardless.

The air in here smells like paper, dust, and a distinct nerdy odour. The ceiling feels too high, the lights too soft, everything hushed and reverent. There’s a stifling silence that everyone’s basking in, and you’ve just clomped in wearing shoes that were absolutely not designed for their sacred ground. 

Whispers begin making waves around the hall. Eyes follow you as your heels click tip tap tip tap. You’re used to having people stop and stare — you’re gorgeous, so of course people will gawk. Men, women, husbands, wives, teens, old men, parents, teachers, pastors. It comes with the territory of having a tight miniskirt that’s barely the size of a belt and a shirt that shows the outline of your nipples if someone stares long enough, and people do. 

But it’s different this time. Most of the stares are still out of attraction and desire, you can tell, just lined with a fat drop of moral judgment. 

Whatever.

You pause inside, hands on hips, eyes narrowing as you begin your search. 

Okay. Criteria: you are here on a mission. This is not recreational. You are not here to ‘broaden your horizons.’ You’re here to find a nerd. A good one. A safe one. One you can parade in front of your best friends like a laminated receipt that says, see, I can pick decent men. 

Your brain flips open the checklist automatically. 

Too loud? No. 

Too greasy-looking? Absolutely not. 

Weird smell? Immediate disqualification. 

The guy with glasses typing away on his laptop is kind of cute, but he has a long ponytail. No, thank you. There’s another with broad shoulders you can cry on, but he’s basically your height and who actually wants a short king. 

“Are there no hot nerds?” you mutter under your breath. Must you sacrifice physical attraction for intelligence? Is this your version of Sophie’s Choice?

Someone asleep over a textbook gets a maybe until you get closer and hear the faintest snore. Off the list.

You wander deeper, past the obvious study zones and into the back, where the shelves grow narrower and the lighting dims. And then you hear it. 

Dice. 

The soft clatter of them, unmistakable, followed by muted but intense arguing. You round the end of a shelf and there it is: a table tucked away, littered with notebooks, graph paper, little figurines, snacks that definitely violate several library rules, and a screen propped up with a digital map glowing faintly.

At the centre of it all sits a guy with pristine white hair. Is that natural?

Wearing thick-framed glasses, he leans back in his chair like he owns the place, long legs stretched out, one hand idly spinning a die whilst the other gestures animatedly as he talks. He’s wearing that look of total focus mixed with complete unseriousness, arguing using terms you don’t recognise with the confidence of someone who has never once doubted himself. 

His friends are clustered around him, equally absorbed, throwing numbers and terminology back and forth. This is life or death for them, instead of a fantasy campaign involving dragons and emotional backstories.

You stop dead.

This is…interesting.

You peer at him from behind the shelf, checklist already reshuffling itself. Clearly a nerd with a geeky hobby to pair with it. Social circle that doesn’t involve club promoters or mysterious men who ‘can’t text right now.’ He laughs, loud and bright, and a few heads from nearby tables snap up again, scandalised. A librarian looks over sharply. The guy lowers his voice by exactly half a notch and keeps going anyway.

He’s super cute. Like, hot — if you’re into men who probably cry after sex because he thinks he just insulted feminism. 

From a couple metres away, you don’t smell an immediate bubble of B.O, which is a good sign. There’s no body pillow of a thirteen year old ‘waifu’ full of suspicious stains sitting in the empty next chair to him. Stretching your neck out closer, you look for toes poking out of leather sandals.

None.

Just a beat up Converse.

You smile to yourself.

Found you.

With the clock nearing 2pm, they start packing up, getting ready for their next classes. You rush out of the library, careful not to be seen by your target, and hastily lay your trap. First, by snatching some random book off a shelf.

Standing by the doors, you wait impatiently for that white hair to exit. When he does, laughing with his nerd friend, you make your move.

“Oh— I’m so sorry.”

Your forehead bumps into a hard chest, much harder and filled out than you expected. The book clatters to the floor. You stumble back a couple steps, he grabs you by your elbow. 

Sparkling blue eyes meet yours. You stop breathing for a second.

He says something. You don’t hear it. Blinking, you say, “Huh?”

“Are you okay?” he asks again, brows furrowed in concern.

“Oh, yes, thank you.”

The stranger smiles widely. You flinch with its brightness. Politely, he says, “Good. Sorry I didn’t see you there. I can be a bit careless when I walk. Here, lemme grab that for you.”

He picks up your book, stepping to the side to let people walk past. He glances at it and makes a face of surprise. “Adult Diapers and Their History, huh? Was it any good?”

Fuck. 

You really should have looked at the book and judged it by its cover first. Plastering a glossy smile, you lean close and purr, “I’d love to tell you all about it over a cup of coffee. Are you free anytime today?”

Sucking in a breath, he runs a hand through his hair. “Ooof, no, sorry. I’ll be sure to check it out after you though. See ya!”

And then he’s leaving, doing a half-jog to catch up to his friends who wait at the bottom of the stairs, staring at you. They ask him a question. He looks back at you, and shrugs. 

Jaw hanging, you stand there, holding a book no one would ever want to be caught reading, and wondering what the fuck just happened.

Did you just get rejected?

You stay there for a full three seconds, smile still frozen on your face, before it slowly cracks. 

Fine. Whatever. 

One encounter means nothing.

 You’re playing the long game now.

Over the next few days, you become a regular.

You ‘accidentally’ wander back into the library at the exact times his D&D group tends to meet, hovering near enough to be seen but far enough to look coincidental. You pretend to browse shelves you clearly don’t recognise, pulling books at random and flipping them upside down, occasionally knocking something over just to create noise. Each time, you catch flashes of him laughing, leaning back in his chair, gesturing wildly. Once, your eyes meet across the aisle. Your heart jumps.

He squints at you.

Then he looks away.

The next time, you make it much more obvious. You pass right by his table, smile sweet, slow, practiced. “Heyyy…”

He glances up. “Sorry,” he says automatically, scooting his chair in. “We’re kinda in the middle of something.”

You blink. “It’s me. From the stairs. The book?”

His brows knit together. You can practically see the wheel spinning behind his eyes. Then, “Ohhh,” he says, stretching the word out. “Right. Diapers.”

Your smile twitches.

“Anyway,” he adds cheerfully, already turning back to his friends, “good luck with… whatever you’re looking for.”

Strike two.

By day four, you’re irritated enough to escalate.

That’s how you end up in the physics department, a place you definitely do not belong in, holding a student ID between two manicured fingers like it might bite you. You’d stolen it from the floor when he’d accidentally swiped his arm out in anger at his friend’s retaliation to something or the other and knocked it off the table. You snatched that shit up faster than birth control. 

Satoru Gojo. Physics Dept. Third Year. 

“Nice to meet you, Satoru,” you said.

Inside, the department feels even stranger than the library. Less quiet and more intense. There are whirring machines, exposed wiring, half-built robots sitting on tables with exposed wires. Whiteboards covered in incomprehensible equations are everywhere. It’s horrifying. Where are the pictures? The motivational posters all over the walls? The frat guys handing out condoms?

You drift past projects that blink, beep, and move on their own, marveling like you’ve wandered into a sci-fi movie. 

Nerd heaven. 

Absolute jackpot.

Still, not a single nerd hottie around. You’ve been hoping you’d find another. At least then you could stop humiliating yourself with Satoru Gojo. No such luck though. 

You spot him near the back, sleeves rolled up, talking to someone while gesturing at a mechanical arm. You straighten instantly, smoothing your expression into Nice Girl Mode. Steps soft. Smile gentle. Non-threatening. The epitome of grace and kindness, the kind of girl that would be approachable to him.

Hell, you’ve even dressed down in jeans and a pink cardigan. 

Approaching, you cordially cut into his conversation. “Hey, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Satoru jolts when he hears your voice, like you’re a robot he didn’t turn on. His eyes fall not to your great tits or amazing smile but to the ID you hold in your hand. “Hey! That’s mine.”

“Yep!” you chirp, handing it over to him. “I was looking for you. Wanted to return it to its rightful owner personally. How would you get around without it, right?” 

“I didn’t even notice I dropped it.” He pauses. Looks at you. Really looks this time. “Wait, do I…know you?”

Your eye twitches. “The library? We’ve bumped into each other a few times…” When that doesn’t seem to spark anything, you grit out, “Diapers?”

Satoru laughs suddenly, scratching the back of his neck. “Ohhhh, heyyy. Thanks for coming all this way. That’s super cool of you.”

You nod, gracious, forgiving, absolutely seething. “Of course, what are friends over? Actually, I was thinking, maybe we could get coffee while I’m here?”

Glancing over your shoulder at the robot arm, which immediately drops a bolt and sparks, he says, “Ah. Rain check? I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

Then he zooms past you without another glance.

Strike three.

After that, it becomes a pattern. You run into him in hallways, outside lecture theatres, near vending machines. Each time, you light up, sweet as sugar, voice gentle, eyes doe-like. Each time, he hesitates just a beat too long before recognition dawns, and sometimes it doesn’t dawn at all.

“Hey,” he says once, smiling apologetically. “Remind me where we met again?”

Something inside you snaps.

You start counting his rejections like capital crimes. Library. Stairs. Physics lab. Courtyard. Café. Always polite. Always friendly. Always fucking unavailable. And every time he forgets you, it feels personal, like he’s rejecting not just you but the concept of you. 

His eyes never run down your body, you never feel it linger on your ass when you walk away, he doesn’t ask for your number, or even your fucking name. It’s always, hey, hey, hey, and never fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

By the end of the week, your Nice Girl smile is starting to hurt.

You watch him laugh with his friends, easy and unbothered, and think, with mounting irritation, that you are going to get this man if it kills you. Not because you want him specifically anymore. But because you have to. You don’t even remember why.

Perched on the edge of the water fountain in the courtyard — the very same one you were sitting on a week ago — legs crossed, phone face-down beside you, you replay Brittany’s voice in your head like a curse you can’t shake: “no one with an actual working brain would go for girls who are all tits and lipgloss.”

Yeah?

Well, maybe this Satoru Gojo doesn’t have a working brain, maybe he’s just visually impaired and looks like a nerd. Maybe he’s failing Physics and he’s the laughing stock of his entire nerd department. 

The water laps and sparkles in front of you, sunlight catching on the surface, and you stare at it as if answers might rise up from the stone basin if you glare hard enough. What did the Disney princesses you used to be obsessed with do? Throw money and make a wish? Do you have a coin to throw in? Does the fountain take Apple Pay?

“Why is he so fucking annoying?” you groan aloud, and sneering at cunts who look at you. 

So far, the strategy of being sweet, approachable, and vaguely mysterious has achieved absolutely nothing. He forgets you every single time, like you’re a ‘MILF 5 miles from you’ pop-up his brain automatically closes without reading. You run through the past week in your head with growing irritation, every almost-moment, every polite smile that went nowhere, every rejection wrapped so gently it barely counted as one. 

Clearly, escalation is required.

Being nice is overrated anyway.

Your gaze flicks down your outfit as you start mentally workshopping new plans, jaw tightening as ideas pile up — maybe tighter skirts, higher heels, more lipgloss. Maybe an engineered accident where you both fall and somehow gravity does the flirting for you, your body positioned just right so he has no choice but to notice your tits.

The fact that you’re thinking this hard at all makes you scowl; men are usually easy. Half a smile, a little attention, and they fold. Why is this one immune?

Sighing, you resort to calling your friend. She picks up after a couple rings. 

Breathless, Brittany asks, “What the hell do you want— nope. That’s rude. Sorry, I’m with my boyfriend right now. Hey, bae, you good?”

“You’re having sex, aren’t you?” 

Which boyfriend’s this one now? The barista at her favourite coffee shop? The pizza delivery boy? Her neighbour’s son? 

You can hear her sheepish smile through the screen. “Yeah, whoops. You’d understand if I cut this call short though, right?”

Lucky her. 

“Wait, wait,” you hurriedly say. “I need your help. With the nerd boyfriend search, I think I’ve found a good one. Do you know anything about a Satoru Gojo?”

A moment of silence passes. Then immediate laughter. No, chortling. With a couple snorts dotted along. Rolling your eyes, you check your nails, seeing they’ve grown out quite a bit. Finally, she comes back to the phone, amusement still lingering in her voice. “Babe, you’re so fucking funny, I can’t even.”

“Do you or do you not know him?” Your heels tap on the floor impatiently. What was so fucking funny?

“Wait. You’re serious.” She takes your momentary silence as the answer. “Oh, um, I know of him. Mostly rumours.” Shuffling on the other side suggests she’s swapped ears. “I think you’re better off setting your sights on someone else. Someone more…accessible.”

Offended, you say, “Excuse me?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. What I was trying to say is that the rumours say he’s like the hottest ticket in the nerd department. All the girls have the hots for him. But he doesn’t entertain any of them. No one really knows why. I thought it was ‘cause he’s gay, but my cousin, who’s super gay, tried to hit on him last month and got rejected hard.”

“Maybe your cousin isn’t his type.” 

“That’s what I thought too! But then I heard something else super interesting: word on the streets is, he’s got…erectile dysfunction, and that’s why he isn’t with anyone.”

Fed up, you groan. “That’s obviously bullshit — he’s our age. Guys our age don’t get erectile dysfunction. The problem is getting them to stop being hard.”

She snorts. “Look, I’m just sharing what I’ve heard. It’s up to you to decide what to do with the information.” Suddenly her voice becomes more serious, more determined. “Just…just be careful, okay? Our little experiment is mostly a joke. Don’t put yourself in a position you don’t want to be in just to prove a point, alright? I know you, and I know you always have to be right.”

“I do not!”

“Uhuh.” Her voice becomes distant from the speaker, likely talking to her boyfriend. She returns, sighing. “Gotta go, babe. His balls aren’t gonna empty themselves. Talk to you later. Love ya!”

Frowning, you say, “Bye.”

Erectile dysfunction. Gay. Doesn’t entertain women. Those possibilities make you feel a lot better about yourself; the chances that the problem is him and not you have increased. But you’re not satisfied. You can’t give up just because of some rumours. You’ll need to find out for yourself if he really is gay, perpetually flaccid, or women-hating. Then, and only then, will you call it quits. Guess you’re going to have to forge another fake ‘meet-cute’ tomorrow.

“Hey,” a voice says right as you pocket your phone away, too confident and too close for comfort. “You look bored.”

A shadow falls across you, cutting through your thoughts. You don’t even bother looking up at first, eyes still on the water. “I’m busy,” you reply flatly. 

When a second guy joins him, grinning like this is some kind of group activity, you finally lift your gaze and assess them properly. Too smug. Too loud. Cologne doing most of the work. Immediate no.

“C’mon,” one of them says, undeterred, “we’re just talking.”

“Talk to someone else,” you say, crisp and unimpressed, already done with this interaction.

“Damn, you’ve got an attitude.”

“Yeah,” you shoot back, eyes narrowing, “and standards. Shocking, I know.” 

“Oh, come on, baby. Don’t be a bitch. Let’s get to know each other.” 

Ugh, you hate the faux confidence, the sleazy way he forces himself to drawl. It’s obvious he’s seen it in a couple Chad movies and thought he could replicate it to maximise pussy grabbing. Disgusting. And pathetic.

They step closer and you inch further away, ass nearly dipping itself into the water. 

“She’s not interested.”

The voice is light, almost lazy, but there’s a firmness under it that makes both guys pause. You look up and there he is again. Satoru. He steps fully between you and them, shoulders broad, stance casual but solid, planting himself to completely cover you from their gaze. 

When one of the guys scoffs and puffs up, Gojo doesn’t move an inch. He just rolls his shoulders slightly. The fabric of his shirt pulls in a way that makes your brain stutter.

Oh.

Oh.

He’s not just built. He’s built built. The kind of strength that doesn’t come from mirrors and flexing but from actual use, from carrying heavy things and not making a show of it. You almost have to tell your pussy to calm down. 

Your irritation evaporates into something warm and dizzy as you stare, entirely distracted by the sudden, undeniable fact that he could absolutely pick someone up if he wanted to. You almost have to tell your pussy to calm down. 

You barely register the way the guys’ expressions change, bravado leaking out as recognition sets in.

“Wait,” one of them mutters, squinting. “That’s…Gojo.” The other swears under his breath. They straighten instantly, tone shifting from cocky to cautious, muttering apologies that aren’t really meant for you. They back off quickly, suddenly very busy with not being here anymore.

When they disappear completely from sight, entering a building, Gojo turns to you, concern softening his expression again, like he hasn’t just made two guys rethink their life choices. “Hey. Are you okay?”

There it is. That pause. That tiny hitch in his gaze as he searches your face, clearly trying to place you. Your jaw tightens as recognition crawls in late, slow as ever. “Are you fucking with me?”

“Oh,” Satoru adds, a second later. “It’s…you. From earlier this week.”

You stare at him, chest rising, the spark of attraction fizzling dangerously into rage. “Wow,” you say flatly. “You almost remembered me. Gold star.”

He winces, sheepish but still courteous, still distant in that infuriating way. “Sorry. I’m not great with—”

“Faces, names, women throwing themselves at you, yeah, I know,” you cut in, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack your teeth. You inhale, regroup, and try again, sweet as sugar. “Look. You helped me out. Let me thank you. Dinner. My treat.”

Satoru blinks, clearly surprised, then shakes his head with a small apologetic smile. “That’s nice of you, but I’m good. Really.”

Something in you cracks so hard it’s almost audible.

“Are you serious?” you hiss, stepping closer before he can retreat again. You don’t give him time to answer. You grab his wrist, fingers curling around warm skin and muscle, and drag him toward the nearest building, heels clicking sharply against the pavement. He sputters in surprise, but he follows, too polite to yank away, too confused to stop you before you shove open a door marked JANITOR and pull him inside.

The door shuts behind you with a dull thud, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. You spin on him, chest heaving, eyes bright with frustration and something close to mania. “What is your problem?” you demand. “Do you just enjoy rejecting me? Or do you genuinely not see what’s right in front of you?”

Satoru stares at you for a second, clearly taken aback, then exhales slowly, hands raised in a placating gesture. “I’m not trying to mess with you,” he says gently. “I just… don’t want to lead you on.”

“Lead…me…on…”

You can’t process what you just heard. He thinks he’s leading you on? He thinks he’s better than you, that he’s out of your league, and you’re punching hard? The nerve. The delusion. The stupid fucking asshole. 

Poking his chest with a manicured finger, you glare at him. “Listen here, buddy. I’m hot. Like unbelievably so. I’ve had literal politicians chase after me. I’m modern day Hellen of Tron—”

“It’s Troy, pretty sure,” he interjects, backing up with every jab of your sharp nail. “Tron’s the video game world. Super retro, but highly recommend, by the way.”

“—and you’re lucky to even be anywhere near me. So hurry the fuck up and whip your dick out; I know your loser ass is a fucking virgin.”

Satoru pushes his glasses higher up his nose bridge. He stammers, as if he’s trying to push away the urge to laugh, “This is sexual harassment, but forgive me this time and I won’t say a word.”

Screeching, you say, “Ugh, shut up! Just shut up! Date me already. I can’t keep chasing you and humbling myself. It’s bad for the soul and for my skin — I’m getting premature wrinkles because of you.”

Back up against the wall in the tight space, he has no choice but to take your lashings. His eyes flicker to the door, then down at you. His hands keep to his side. “Sorry about the wrinkles. Not so sorry about the not dating part. I really think you’re great, um, whoever you are. I just think I’m not ready for a relationship.”

“Because you can’t get it up?”

His jaw slacks. 

A look passes his dazzling blue eyes. He looks away, stumbling for a response, and finding none. Pink tinges the tips of his ears. 

Your jaw drops too. “Oh, my god! It’s true! You can’t get it up!”

Satoru’s eyes, which look even bigger through his glasses, look at the door again, panicking. His hands scramble to shush you, but you shove them away, laughing hysterically. 

“This is perfect! I thought I was the problem, like you don’t think I’m pretty enough — obviously that’s not the case because I’m a walking wet dream, duh.” You pace back and forth, ecstatic. “Turns out, you’ve got a limp dick and you’re super insecure about it. Amazing!”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair at the same time he adjusts his glasses. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Doesn’t change anything. We still can’t date.”

You shake your head, jumping over to him with a wide smile. Satoru eyes your grin with caution. “No, it changes everything. I won’t tell anyone, I won’t judge. I have plenty of sex toys so we can incorporate that into our future sex life, don’t worry. I’ll help you quit your porn addiction and throw out your hentai mangas or whatever you use.”

His brows furrow. “Porn addiction? Hentai? What are you talking about?”

“Isn’t that why you’re like this? I heard it’s pretty common in our generation, especially shut-ins and nerds like you. The extreme porn’s rewired your brain and makes it so that you can’t cum without seeing tentacle tits.”

Satoru bangs his head against the wall, staring up at the light. “No, that’s not me. Like, at all. I’ve been like this since I was a child, before I knew porn existed, by the way. My parents took me to the doctors and everything. I just can’t get it up. Simple.” He suddenly straightens up with a twitch to his lips. “Tentacle tits? That I’d like to see.”

“Perv.”

“Guilty,” he says with a bigger smile.

This is the longest conversation you’ve ever had with him, or anyone in a closet. Most interactions with guys in janitors’ closets have involved much less talking and much less clothes, so it’s a little weird for you. 

After a moment’s thought, you confess, “I’m surprised you have any kind of interest in sex at all.”

“Hey now, just because I can’t get it up doesn’t mean I don’t want to make it get up.”

Humming, you try something. You wrap your arms around his neck, taking him aback with your tits against his chest. You have to get on your tiptoes to reach his neck, and when you make it, you leave an open-mouthed kiss, huskily whispering, “Is this doing anything for you?”

Satoru chuckles, patting your back. “Appreciate the effort, but I promise you nothing you do can fix me.” 

That’s never failed you before. It’s how you got a Birkin, and a yacht trip around the Maldives for a summer.

He separates from you and makes his way around your body, heading for the door. “Look, sorry again about this whole thing. I’m sure I won’t forget you now, Diapers. Thanks for understanding, and I’ll, uh, see you around.”

You grab his wrist. 

“I don’t fucking think so.”

Whipped around, he’s forced to face you. 

Your face hardens again, humour gone. “Why don’t you want to date me? What’s the problem? And don’t say it’s your penis, because I already said I don’t mind.”

He groans, polite mask cracking. Satoru looks close to tearing his hair out with his impatience. “Are you still on this? Can’t you just take no for an answer?”

“No, obviously not!” you fire back, hands waving around like a crazy person. “I’ve never been rejected by anyone before, and I won’t let some nerd change that.”

“There!” He thrusts a hand out, gesturing to your entire body. “That’s why. Because you think you’re better than me, better than my friends, and, like, literally everyone I know.”

Unable to help yourself, you stomp your foot. “I do not!” You probably do. No, you definitely do, but you have enough tact to know not to tell him that right now. 

Satoru makes a noise of disbelief. “You do, I can tell. It’s probably why my brain keeps wiping you out; you think you’re doing me a favour by giving me some kind of attention. I know I’m not an athlete or a rockstar, but it’s not like I’m a loser, despite what you think. I like things you don’t like, that’s it. Sorry I don’t want to date a vapid, shallow bimbo.”

SMACK!

A strange look overwhelms his eyes, a darkness that you don’t notice. A mark forms on his perfect skin. His head reeled, not from the strength of your slap, but from the shock of it. 

He blinks, processing the feel of your palm colliding with his face.

A tongue pokes his cheek, testing the sting. A small smile grows on his lips, a pleasant surprise you don’t decipher in time, because you’re too busy fuming. 

“How fucking dare you! Yeah, I think I’m better than the people in that library, the people who haven’t showered in days for ‘environmental reasons’, people who exclusively watch anime because it’s ‘superior’ to any other forms of media and who idolises Japan because they think they’re going to be immediately worshipped over them by virtue of being foreigners—”

“Be quiet for second.”

“Don’t tell me to be quiet! I’m not done,” you all but screech at him. “I’m totally better than the people who founded 4chan and stay in their parents’ basement, or people who have blue checkmarks on Twitter—”

“No, I’m serious. Shush.”

You shriek even louder, “You shush!”

Satoru rolls his eyes before slapping a hand over your mouth. He nods with your muffled words, waiting for the fight in your body to die out. It does, but the wrath in your eyes doesn't. 

His hand better be clean. If your skin breaks out tomorrow, you’re going to freak out and stomp on his glasses whilst he’s wearing them.

“All done?” He sends you a pointed look. You huff. Releasing you, he smiles. It’s so much more dazzling than the polite ones he’s been giving you; it’s genuine, as real as your diamond earrings. He could blind you with it. “What I was gonna say is, I think I’m hard.”

“Huh?”

He laughs, staring down at his pants. You follow his gaze. Oh.

A tent has formed under his zipper, stretching the material out like it’s never been stretched before, which is totally the case. Satoru pokes it, watching it bounce, before meeting your eyes with a, did you see that?

“I’m not insane, right? That’s totally a boner, right?”

You bend over to get a closer look, marvelling at the thing. You poke it too. He hisses. It’s 100% a boner, if you’ve ever seen one. Teasing, you say, “Well, it’s not Mount Evernest, that’s for sure.”

“Mount Everest,” he mutters, before wriggling his hips a little to watch it sway. “It feels so weird. Is it supposed to feel so swollen and heavy?”

Thinking for a second, you hum. “I’ve never had one myself, but I think so. That’s how it’s always felt on my end anyway.” Then you blink. “Wow, did I just fix you?”

You said it as a joke, mostly — in truth, you have no idea what you did to make it like that — but he doesn’t correct you, doesn’t dismiss your ego. Wow, maybe you really did fix him. You’re feeling pretty proud of yourself now. Somehow, you played a part in fixing what doctors couldn’t. Or at the very least, witnessed a miracle. 

It’s the new Christmas.

Satoru lifts his glasses up and down, trying to see if he’s seeing right. The thing bobs. He releases an impressed breath, like a damnnn. Absentmindedly, he asks, “What’s that about dinner?”

.

.

.

“So, tell me why you want to date me.”

You purse your shimmery lips, eyeing the interior of the retro diner he brought you to. It’s not so far from campus, a short walk away, which felt much longer in heels when the street turned cobble. The seats, like the booth you’re sitting on, are made up of red leather. The floors are black and white checkmarks. There’s even a jukebox playing a song you don’t recognise. 

Nails tapping on the table, you shrug. “Does it matter?”

Satoru tilts his head, a small smile on his lips appearing at your response. “I think it does — girls like you don’t suddenly appear in guys like me’s life.”

At least he’s self-aware, you dryly think.

He’s eating loaded fries and a well-stacked, greasy burger with a tall, sickly-sweet-looking strawberry milkshake topped with whipped cream and a cherry. When he asked what you wanted, you couldn’t come up with an answer; the menu was packed, but not with anything you could eat. It was full of carbs, things that’ll make you bloat and break out like crazy. Not to mention the fact that you have a rule not to eat anything more than a salad on dates. 

Guys like girls who are demure and low maintenance, after all.

The leather creaks under you, making an embarrassing peeling sound when you cross your legs. This is so not where you wanted to be. First dates are meant for upscale restaurants, not places that probably defrosts their old meat in the microwave. 

“Well, this girl has, so count your blessings.”

Mouth full, he presses on. “No, no, you can’t just leave it at that. I’m asking seriously. You’ve been quite persistent. There must be a reason you want me specifically.”

You grin, batting your fake lashes at him. “Are you fishing for a compliment, Satoru?”

“I’m fishing for the truth,” he corrects you, waving a fry in your face, which washes away your grin. Frowning slightly at your empty side of the table, he adds, “Are you sure you don’t want food? It’s on me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He’s already doing better than half the guys you date, you think wryly. Grimacing at the thought of popping the buttons of your skirt, you shake your head. “No, I’m good.” 

“Come on,” he drags the words out petulantly. “At least take some of my fries and dip it in the milkshake. It’s tradition at a diner.”

That brings another grimace to your face. “Ew, why would I do that? That sounds disgusting.”

“It’s the greatest thing ever, actually.” To prove his point, he submerges a fry into the pink liquid, swirling it around nice and good before consuming it all. He moans so loudly and so pornographically people turn to look at you, thinking you did it. 

You sigh, wanting to get back on track. “Isn’t it enough that I just want to date you? Do I have to make up a grand story about love at first sight?”

Satoru takes a big bite of his burger, leaving you to wait for him to swallow it down. Then he groans. “This is so good — you sure you don’t want any?” You shake your head. “Alright, your loss. Where were we?” He thinks for a second. “Oh, right. Okay, look, I’ll be completely upfront with you.”

You lean forward just as he does.

“Earlier, when you slapped me,” he begins, and you nod. “I liked it.” 

Not a hint of shame is on his face or in his voice, only excitement. It makes you draw back from how maniacal he seems. 

“I’ve never been slapped before. I don’t even really know why it gave me a boner. But it did, and it felt good. Made me feel things,” he says ‘things’ with jazz hands. “I mean clearly, since I popped a boner and all. You basically cured my condition.”

There aren’t very many people in the diner, thankfully — no one’s close enough to hear the vulgar things he says. Although, if someone did, you wouldn’t really care. God knows you’ve said and done worse things. “Okay,” you say, unsure of where he’s going with this.

He continues. “This is a huge deal for me! It means I’m not completely doomed, just particular about what I like. I really can’t thank you enough.”

“Yeah, you’re super welcome. I’ll happily slap you again if you like it that much.”

Satoru’s eyes sparkle. “That’s precisely what I was thinking. I think this is a sign.” Sensing you don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, he explains, “I should see this through, should see if the boner incident was a one off or if being with you is the answer.”

This really wasn’t how you expected the conversation to go. Getting him to agree was supposed to come from him being unable to resist your perfect body and gorgeous face. Your target wasn’t supposed to have erectile dysfunction, and he certainly wasn’t supposed to be treating the relationship like a science experiment. He’s supposed to be smitten with your feminine wiles, to bend over backwards wanting to please you, worship the ground you walk on because he knows he’ll never find anyone better.

He’s doing it all wrong.

But does it matter?

The challenge wasn’t to get married to a forgetful nerd; it was to bag a nice guy and prove you can have a happy and healthy relationship, that you’re not solely attracted to guys who’ll break your heart and smoke it. 

“So,” you begin, nails tapping once more, “you want me to slap you around and abuse you?” 

Satoru nods eagerly. “Obviously I won’t force you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. I’m sure an inexperienced guy like me isn’t your thing. And I can’t promise I’ll be very good at sex, or even be a good boyfriend. But in exchange for helping me ‘overcome my condition,’ I’ll try my very best. It’s kinda why I wanted to know why exactly you wanted to date me — if I know what you want to get out of this, I’ll be better placed to serve you, don’t you think?”

That makes enough sense. 

Sighing, you finally admit, “It’s a little bet my friend and I have: find a nerd to date. I’ve had a bad run with boyfriends, you see. It’s just shitty assholes after shitty assholes. I guess she had enough of me complaining because she basically told me the assholes don’t find me, I find them.”

He doesn’t seem to take any offence to finding out he was an unknowing and unwilling participant to a bet, almost as if he expected half as much. Shoving a bunch of fries into his mouth, he asks with his mouth full, “So you want to prove her wrong?”

“Yep,” you say, popping the p.

“Alright! That’s great — I mean, sorry about the bad people you’ve been with.” Satoru scratches the back of his neck, grimacing at his own tactlessness. He clarifies further, “It’s great that we’re on the same page.”

Uncertain, you frown. “We are?”

“Yep!” He pops the p too. “You want to be treated with respect and be cared for, and I want to be used and abused. We’re a match made in heaven.”

You can’t help but laugh. He smiles. 

“Okay, but we gotta set some ground rules.” You’re on board now, feeling energised by his enthusiasm and easy-to-talk-to personality. He doesn’t seem like someone who minces his words or hides behind passive aggression, which makes him better than most people you associate with. “Like, how long are we going to do this for?”

He thinks for a second as he takes another bite of his burger — god, his mouth is massive; one bite for him is like three for a normal person. After his brain gets to work and he’s cleared his mouth with a gulp of his milkshake, he suggests, “Time limit maybe? Our respective goals don’t require our whole life to accomplish. All you need is your friend to believe you, so once she sees how loveydovey we are, she’ll admit defeat, right?” 

You nod. 

“And I only want to see if I can sustain erections through intercourse, and if what I’ve been missing this entire time was the right kind of stimulus. That only requires us having coitus a couple times.”

The nerd’s starting to lose you. The sciency words are entering one ear and exiting through the other. But you get the gist. Satisfied, you sum up, “Okay, so should we say till the end of the school year? We can tell our friends we broke up during summer or something.”

“Sounds good to me. We’ll go all out, make the experience as real as possible. We’ll go on dates, get to know each other, have sex of course, but we’ll probably not want to introduce each other to our families — I think it’ll be counterproductive if we dig a hole too deep. And it goes without saying,” he says, lowering his voice conspiratorially and making his brows dance, “we really, really shouldn’t fall in love.”

That brings a scoff out of you. 

You were never going to introduce him to your family anyway. As far as you’re concerned, you only need to flex how obsessed a nerd is with you to your best friends. And love was never, ever on the table. 

It’s good to be clear though, you suppose. The last thing you need is a clingy stalker, who can’t bear to part with you, ruining your life and future relationships. You just hope you don’t break the poor guy’s heart too badly when it’s all over; you’ll end up being the ex he’ll cry to his friends about, and unlike the dirtbags, you’re not so cruel that you could sleep peacefully at night knowing you ruined someone’s life.

“Perfect,” you conclude. “Apart from that, we’ll be as real a couple as any college ones. Dates, sex, no falling in love, and max two months.” That’s a lot more than you’ve gotten from any of your previous boyfriends so this is already going great. 

Satoru grins, adjusting his glasses to hide the sudden mischievous glint in his eyes. “I think we should seal the deal with a fry dipped in milkshake, don’t you?”

“Oh no, no no no.” You shake your head frantically. “I’m not doing that.”

Burger obliterated, and fries almost depleted, the food stares at you mockingly. You love food like anyone else, but fries dipped in a strawberry milkshake sounds downright repulsive. It’s like putting ketchup on ice cream. It’s weird. You couldn’t do it.

He wipes his hands clean with some tissues, sighing deeply. “Guess you don’t want this bad enough. Sucks. Thought we had something. I’ll see you around then, Diapers. Good luck with proving you’re not mean-boyfriendsexual.

You grab him by the sleeve of his sweater before he can get up and leave. Gritting your teeth, you say, “Fine, I’ll do it. And by the way, I really don’t appreciate you pretending you don’t want this just as bad.”

His grin widens. “You got me.”

Snatching the smallest fry you can find, you dip just the tip into the milkshake. Satoru tuts, giving you a pointed look. You grumble under your breath. Dipping almost the entire thing, you take a tentative bite. 

The flavours hit your tongue. Saltiness and sweetness blending into one. 

“So,” he asks, watching your face intently, “how is it?”

You gulp, anger simmering below the surface. “Actually…really…fucking…good.”

Satoru laughs, throwing his head back. “I told you!”

 Then, he flags down a server and orders more of what he ordered more, for himself and for you, and this time, you don’t fight him on it. 

He sends you a wink that you fight not to smile at. “We’re already improving each other’s lives, Diapers. I think we’re on the right track.”

Your lips curl, resolve to remain stoic failing. “I think you mean, ‘we’re already improving each other’s lives, girlfriend.’”

“Oh, yes. You’re right. As of right here, right now, we’re girlfriend-boyfriend. Lovers. Sweethearts. Better start acting like it, right…” 

His smile reflects your own, sitting across from each other, like two accomplices to the perfect crime. 

“Babe?”

"mhm. just breathe." he murmurs, voice rumbling low against your skin as he nudges deeper with the next roll of his hips—a slow, steady push, feeding you yet another inch. one hand leaves your thighs to slide up to your stomach, pressing in like he's trying to feel for himself there. "yeah...that's it, let me in.." the same hand settles just above where you're taking him to thumb at your arousal slick clit, your own darting to out the grab at his wrist. to no avail of course, since his thumb just keeps on moving in circle after circle.

“tell me if you need me to stop, yeah?” he whispers, hips tilting just a little deeper. new slick from his teasing helps, sliding deeper with ease. “that's right...all the way. you're doing so well."

it's soft, so sweet and encouraging that you're reaching a hand out to bring him closer to you by the back of his neck. "m'good, 'toru. you're fine."

you can't help but wonder how much more he has left to give, what kind of monstrous beast he's been hiding under his briefs. curiosity gets the better of you, eyes dropping to where you've yet to fully connect.

and boy, do you regret it almost instantly.

it's near obscene. inches of him glistening and buried, folds parted against his girth. even with how long he's been easing in (or how long it feels at least), there's still a gap. his gaze follows yours, nosing gently at your ankle, hand squeezing your thigh. "you okay?"

the glisten of his flesh, the taut flex of his abdomen like he's holding back...no, you're not okay in the slightest.

you can feel your core flutter involuntarily at the sight and god, he feels it too.

“oh fuck,” satoru's voice breaks, forehead tipping down to rest against your forehead. “baby, please don’t do that. i'll...this really won't last long.”

"oops, sorry. sorry."

the bits of soft pink that aren't inside inch in-in-in with every second that passing. it's barely anything left to give, yet, he's being so careful. too careful."

"holy fuck, just do—shit!"

you're arching clean off the bed with the way he suddenly, finally hilts himself inside. bare behind flush to his hips, groomed hairs at his base grazing against your skin.

he’s silent for a moment, breathing slow, forehead still dampened and pressed down against yours. "..okay, I have bad news."

you're a little drunk on him, just lucid enough to manage a small hm, nails scraping through the damp hair at his nape.

"there's...there's a high chance that I'll cum if I move."

even in your state, laughter breaks out of you, the heavy man above you flushing a soft pink from the highs of his cheeks up to his ears. murmuring something about it 'not being that funny' and him 'embarrassing himself here'.

"stay still then." you finally breathe when your laughter dies down just enough, smile all gentle up at him, lips brushing against the sharp point of his nose. "we'll just stay like this all night." the pain had properly eased into a dull, barely there ache at that point—more pleasure than any other feeling. with how he'd taken his time, it'd been almost inevitable.

"can't just not move," he replies through gritted teeth, hips shifting just a hair. enough for you both to feel the heavy drag, the way your walls clench instinctively. "god—I can't not move when you feel like that."

it's endearing in a way, very much flattering. your grin only widens, head lifting to angle your mouth against his with a firm kiss. "i'm close too if that makes you feel any better."

words meant to help only make him whine, throbbing inside you, hips beginning to rock slowly. "you are?"

"mhmm. very close." you let out a strangled sound when his hips angle just right and it's enough for him to give up on pacing himself. his weight crushes your thighs against your chest, pace building. "so just keep moving. please."

the sounds leaving you are a mix of 'ahh's' and calls of his name, all broken, all sending his hips into you a little faster. they stutter as he fucks into you with less and less finesse, 0 rhyme or rhythm just the need to see you cum for him like this. hips slapping against the back of your thighs, paced breaths dually filling the room. "you feel so good. taking me so well." and when his thumb finds your clit again with those same, easy circles? you're a goner. "gonna cum--gonna- oh my god, keep doing that—" he finds that spot from before over and over again like there's a target stuck to it, leaky tip wedging itself right where you need it, pleasure mounting far too quickly. you're crying out at this point, hips angling up into his thrusts. so full it hurts in that perfect, dizzying way.

“fuck, you're gonna make me—”

“shut up and cum,” you choke out. “do it inside. pleaseplease—”

his entire body jolts, pace faltering. you feel him twitch deep inside you before it hits, his hips driving in and out hard—once, twice, and then he’s moaning into your mouth as he spills. he drags you down with him, pressure in your abdomen bursting, unfurling outwards with your release—his name still falling from your lips. helpless sounds that only spur the continued movement of his hips to draw out the pleasure.

you're both shaking, sucking in breaths of air greedily for moments after that. you're still folded like a pretzel, still crushed against his weight. "that one doesn't count."

"agreed."

࣪ ִֶָ☾. a/n: ty for reading ⭑.ᐟ