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He proposed to you the day he got back from his last mission. Maybe he should make it a tradition and marry you the day he returned this time. 

Skip the whole big wedding he talked you into the past few months in favor of a courthouse ceremony. Maybe drag Suguru back after the landing to be the witness. 

You made a face, nose scrunching up and lips parting like there was something you wanted to say, but you stopped yourself. 

“This is my last mission,” he reminded you, a weak attempt at reassurance as his thick cock rubbed against your clit. Your breath hitched, getting caught in your throat as he dragged it over the sensitive bud. 

“You said that about the last one,” you reminded him, and he didn’t have an argument to counter it. 

“Well, I mean it this time,” he muttered softly. He wasn’t particularly good at being soothing. Spectacularly bad, sometimes, actually. But you still stayed. 

Still smiled at him when he sucked at being what you needed. 

The moon hung heavy outside the window, a thick crack running across the glass pane as the night sky filtered through it and bathed the room in soft light. The apartment you shared wasn’t much, pretty shitty honestly, but it was just a stepping stone. A way to save money for when you’d really need it. 

Soon, you’d have the best. 

“Besides, I can’t leave again once you start having my babies,” he teased, moving a hand down to your stomach, feeling your soft skin. Dreaming of a future where you’d be waddling around his kitchen pregnant, trying to decide if he’d prefer a boy or a girl – only to land on wanting both. 

“So you’ll be here for them and not for me?” You huffed. 

“I just want to make sure I make a good life for all of you,” he replied, struggling to sound confident when you were looking at him with a faint hint of hurt shining in your eyes. 

You wanted to believe him. 

“Uh-huh,” you exhaled. 

He supposed he’d just have to remind you another way that you had his heart. That even if he left the planet for a few months, he’d always have to return back to you. 

His home. 

Your thighs opened up for him, letting him shut up all those awful thoughts with a kiss as he pushed the first few inches inside your pretty pussy. Felt you sucking him in, losing himself in your warmth as he pushed past that first ring of resistance. Filling you up until you were stuffed full, your head tilting back, lips parting in his favorite moan — his name falling from them in broken little gasps.

“Satoru,” you whined, wiggling under his weight as he leaned down to start trailing kisses across your jaw. Down the delicate skin of your throat, sucking greedily just to see what other sounds he could draw from you. 

“Mhm, sweetheart?” He hummed, pausing to drag his tongue over all the sore spots he’d left, tempted to sink his teeth back over them, to leave little bruises just so you’d have to keep thinking about him even when he was planets away.

“I don’t want you to go,” you huffed, forcing the words out between little whimpers, your body shivering as his cock slowly thrusted in and out, deliberately taking his time to stretch you out. He hesitated mid-pump, lips still pressed just above your collarbone as he tried to come up with something that would make it better.

“I don’t want to either,” Gojo softly admitted, kissing you again as if it would cure the ache in his heart or the one in yours. 

There was a moment of silence, seconds slipping by with tension that wouldn’t dissolve, and he wasn’t sure if he should keep thrusting or pull out.

But then your hips shifted, and his cock twitched, and he was already readjusting, palms moving to push your soft thighs against your chest with his cock still keeping you plugged up. 

And really, you couldn’t blame him for how pretty you looked in a mating press. 

Fucking you faster, the wooden bed frame creaking and bumping into the wall with every rough thrust, each harsh snap of his hips against your skin as he plunged his cock in and out, in and out.

Watching your face screw up in pleasure, lashes fluttering and nails scrambling for purchase in the sheets as his thumbs dug into your thighs. Holding onto you, keeping you firmly pinned between him and the bed, like he could imprint every ridge and vein inside you, supposing he’d just have to be satisfied with leaving the shape of both of you on the mattress. 

“I love you so goddamn much,” he murmured, chest constricting, heart racing as the pressure built and mounted in the pit of his stomach. Some invisible thread being pulled tighter, or maybe it was just himself, wrapped around your finger without you even realizing it. 

Ready to break just thinking about not getting to hear your voice every day, not getting to touch your skin, like he wasn’t still buried inside you.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, your voice quivering as you looked up at him with glossy eyes. 

He kissed you hard, teeth nearly bumping into each other as his tongue slipped past your lips. Tracing over your canines, tasting the hint of toothpaste on your tongue. The remnants of the candy-flavored lip gloss you’d been wearing earlier too. 

You were returning his fervor, squeezing down on his cock like you were trying to suck him dry like he wasn’t already struggling not to cum. 

He had to hurry to shift his hand, fingers rushing to find your clit, rubbing rough circles over it just to swallow every cute moan of yours that tried to escape. Cock twitching and aching for relief that he refused to give it, keeping an iron grip on his restraint as he waited for that familiar tremble, for you to really clamp down on him as shudders wracked through your body. 

Until you were crying his name in his mouth, whimpers muffled as he soothed you through your climax, rolling that sensitive bud between his thick fingers, only breaking the kiss to purr in your ears that it was all going to be okay. 

“That’s it, baby. Just cum for me, okay? It’s gonna be fine,” he promised, his voice cracking on the final word as he came with you. Finishing with warm spurts of cum filling you up, each thrust pumping more into you as he groaned your name, head collapsing into the crook of your collarbone. 

Sweat making your skin stick to his, your breathing mixing together as you both came back down to earth from your high. 

“Fuck,” you murmured, trying to shift underneath him, roll out from his heavy body. 

But he refused to budge, burying his face deeper into your neck just to smell your soap and shampoo, nuzzling his nose against your neck. 

He didn’t want to let go. 

And for a second, part of him considered cancelling. Backing out of the mission, coming up with an excuse or calling out sick. They had back up astronauts. 

They had a few people, perhaps not as qualified as him, but still acceptable, on standby that could take his spot. 

He might get fired. Shoved back to some bottom-tier desk position. 

But he’d get to stay with you. 

Would get to spend the next six months sleeping like this instead of alone in a spaceship compartment. 

“Satoru,” you softly said his name, shifting as he finally released your thighs, letting you lay them back down more comfortably – but still kept you caged in. 

“Can’t I just lay here for a while longer?” He groaned, jaw tightening at the idea that this was the last night he’d get this. You.

Cock still twitching as the last of his cum leaked out, some of it starting to spill down your thighs as he refused to take it out. 

You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching a spot behind his ears, sifting through the silky strands with a long sigh. “Sure.” 

That was just who you were. 

What you’d do. 

You gave him what he wanted. 

Even when you didn’t like what he asked for. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t be sorry,” you replied gently. “Just be sure you’re coming home.” 

“The stars can’t keep me from you,” he promised, moving to leave another kiss on the tip of your nose as you rolled your eyes at him. 

But you giggled, and that was good enough.

“Let’s get married when I get back,” he suggested. 

“We already-” 

“Like, the same day, sweetheart,” he insisted, lips curling up in a smile as he snagged your left hand, bringing it to his lips so he could press a kiss to your engagement ring. The big diamond glittering in the moonlight, accented with small gemstones that same shade as his eyes set in a white-gold band. One you picked out with him once upon a time. 

“You’re ridiculous,” you laughed, shaking your head like you weren’t grinning at the idea too. “Didn’t you want, like, the whole huge wedding?” 

“I just want you.” 

Gojo could make it six months if it meant you’d be waiting there for him when he got back.  

He just didn’t think everything would go to fucking shit in sixteen weeks.

Clinging to the same dream of you, the same memory his brain had chosen for comfort as he opened his eyes for another difficult day in a long line of them. 

Waking up to a window that only overlooked the cold, dark expanse of space instead of the familiar city. Missing your warmth in bed – trading it for a sleeping bag and a stiff compartment that they somehow still hadn’t figured out a better alternative for despite how advanced their rocketships had become. 

Sure, they could figure out how to simulate gravity inside the living areas now. But no, getting a good night’s rest was still impossible. 

They were only supposed to be running a supply drop off. Sending equipment to a planet a few other astronauts were previously sent to, one they’d recently started establishing a settlement on. Shoko was planning on staying behind there to be their medic – but he was supposed to return with Suguru.

It wasn’t the only habitable planet that had been discovered. There were a few, all being explored, data being collected and catalogued by various astronauts like themselves, sent back periodically and retrieved by relief missions like the one they were on. 

All just a galaxy away. 

It meant going through a wormhole to get to them, but according to all the calculations and the previous voyages, it was safe. 

Risky, sure, but it’d been done before. 

And to be fair, getting through it hadn’t been the problem. 

The problem was they were just outside the orbit of the wrong fucking planet. 

Whether one of them had bumped into the navigation system, inputted the wrong thing at the wrong time, or maybe some internal error was to blame, it didn’t matter. 

No, a more pressing issue had presented itself. 

A distress signal was being sent up. 

Someone was below – and begging to be rescued. 

“I have a bad feeling about it,” Suguru murmured, scowling at the screen as if he could make the message go away just by glaring at it. 

“You always have a bad feeling,” Shoko hummed, dark circles under his eyes as she scanned the data on her screen. 

“I think we should just continue to the correct planet. It’ll be a waste of fuel and time,” Suguru scoffed, ignoring her as his fingers flew across the keyboard, inputting either calculations or coordinates.

Satoru reclined back in his seat, fiddling with a pencil as his friend glanced up at him like he was looking for support here.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the one who wants to save people?” He asked, cocking his head to the side just to get a scoff. He’d known Suguru most of his life. Went to school together, graduated from the same program just to end up colleagues too. Between both of them, Suguru was always the altruistic one. The guy who thought of everyone else before himself – even if he was looking down at them from his moral high ground half the time. 

“Not if it means putting our mission at risk,” he argued, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Or us.”

“The last reported conditions there seem fine,” Shoko shrugged as she directed their attention back to what little data had been collected so far. 

Most of the planet was made of water, a massive sea dotted with a handful of islands, some mountain ranges that rivaled the highest peaks back on Earth. Two fellow astronauts were supposed to have been there for the last nine months. 

“Yeah, that’s why they’re sending a distress signal,” Suguru sarcastically grimaced. 

“You really want to just leave them?” Gojo asked, not sure how exactly to feel about it himself. Not wanting to totally throw away Suguru’s hesitation – but reluctant to just leave another astronaut stranded. 

“There are other people counting on us,” Suguru insisted, and Satoru knew he was right. Knew that you were counting on him to come back in one piece. “We can just send a message back to Earth and let them decide.”

Suguru knew as well as he did that doing that would most likely mean death to whoever was sending the distress signal.

It would probably be months before they sent another ship up.

And given that they didn’t have the data to know how fast or slow time passed below. No way to know when the signal they were receiving had started.

There was a heavy pause, all three of them weighing whether or not to take the gamble — and imagining what it’d feel like to be the one stuck on the planet praying for someone to come save them.

“I think we should check it out,” Satoru eventually spoke up, although he wasn’t exactly excited about it. 

He just wasn’t sure he could stomach the alternative. If he could handle coming back home to you and telling you the truth.

Risk you leaving him like they were about to leave the stranded astronauts.

“The extra data they have would be useful,” Shoko pointed out, tilting her head appraisingly. “If we needed to, we could bring them back to the other settlement.” 

“Two minutes,” Suguru begrudgingly gave in, irritation pricking in his voice as he stood up, rubbing his temple. “We shouldn’t spend more than ten on the surface when we don’t know how much time we could lose. Get there, see what’s salvage, get the fuck out.” 

Whether it was data or people, they’d just take what they could and leave. 

There was a chance that the relative time on the planet was off. That even just an hour on the planet could be the equivalent to a year back on Earth. 

“Yeah, agreed,” Satoru waved him off, watching him walk off, probably to start preparations for landing. 

He told himself it was the right thing to do. 

That it was what you would expect from him. 

He stood up too, walking around to one of the communication terminals they set up – where they could send and receive messages. 

You’d sent a couple videos, unofficial ones, of course, something he arranged in advance when he agreed to join the mission – that he’d be able to contact you and you’d be able to do the same. They were short, just a few minutes of you updating him on life back on Earth. How you were doing, how wedding planning was going, murmuring that you missed him in a soft voice before leaning in to kiss the camera. 

But a new one was waiting for him as he popped his headphones in to listen, leg bouncing nervously as it loaded, automatically smiling when your face popped up. 

“Hi, Satoru,” you greeted, but then you awkwardly looked down, fiddling with your fingers out of frame like you were shy all of a sudden. Biting your bottom lip, the skin there already broken like you’d been busy chewing it. 

He wanted to touch the screen. 

Caress your cheek and ask you what was wrong. 

“I, um, was gonna wait until you came back. But, uh, I don’t think I can keep it a secret that long,” you breathed, eyes glancing up at the camera like you were imagining him on the other side of it. 

And then you were picking something up, holding it out in front of you as the camera refocused and- 

Holy shit. 

“Surprise,” you excitedly called out from behind the tiny onesie in your hand. “You’re going to be a father.” 

A baby. 

He was going to be a father.

His brain stopped working. Shock freezing him in place as you peeked out from behind the onesie like you could see his reaction. Pride glimmered in your eyes as you grinned, his entire world sitting in front of him a galaxy away. His future wife and child just waiting for him to return.

“I wanted it to be a surprise, but it’s been so hard holding it in,” you continued, and he craved you even more than he had in the past few months combined. Dying to pick you up and press kiss after kiss to your lips, your cheeks, your stomach.

Aching to wrap his arms around you and start talking about baby names and nurseries, to take you out shopping for baby furniture and be there for your appointments. 

“There’s something else,” you said, reluctance creeping in. Glancing down at your lap again before pulling up a second onesie. 

No. You surely didn’t mean…? 

“I’m having twins,” you announced, a little awkward like you started second guessing how he’d take it. “Are you surprised?” 

It didn’t take his brain long to calculate the fucking odds of that, but his mind had a hard time accepting it, discomfort coiling in and mixing with the exhilaration in his stomach at the idea of you back in bed, carrying his babies, while he was up in fucking space. 

Unable to be there for you. To rub the lotion on your stomach, to sing terrible impressions of lullabies to them, to drive you to the doctor and hold your hand throughout all of it. 

You didn’t seem too bothered, or maybe just too excited to show it, holding up the ultrasounds next, proudly showing him baby A and baby B, talking about how you should find out their genders in just a couple weeks. 

“You better be back before I have these two,” you murmured into the camera, fixing him in a serious stare, your eyes shining in the fading daylight drifting in through your window. “Don’t make me go to the hospital alone.” 

Never. 

He’d fucking be there. 

“I love you, Toru,” you spoke softer, hesitating over actually hitting the button to stop recording. “Please don’t do anything stupid.” 

He’d already done something stupid by saying yes to coming here, hadn’t he? 

Still, he plastered on his best smile, sitting awkwardly in front of his own camera, recording you a message back. Making you a million promises, telling you how proud he was of you, how thrilled he was to be a dad. Selling you dreams of a life he was desperately trying to buy for your future family of four. 

“We’re, uh, about to go down to a planet to check out a distress signal, but, it’ll be fine, baby,” he informed you, hearing how stiff the words came out as he forced his palm to press down on his thigh to stop his leg from bouncing. “It’ll just be a quick pitstop before the supply drop, promise.” 

He paused, having to clear his throat, his tongue suddenly dry as he made himself look directly into the camera. 

“I’ll come back for you.” 

Gojo didn’t want to admit Suguru might be right when he had to sit with the heavy feeling in his stomach after he shut the camera off and sent the message back – knowing it would probably be a couple days before you saw it.

But it would be fine, wouldn’t it?

In a year, he’d be waking up in bed with you, laughing about how worried he’d been while you each held one of your babies. This would just be a memory. 

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there. Staring at the screen long after it shut off, replaying your voice in his head, itching to really hear it, to feel it on his skin, to touch you instead of just clinging to a digital copy of you.

“You ready?” Suguru’s voice called out to him, and he snapped out of his daze. 

Found his mouth opening, about to say no.

Tell him he changed his mind. Say he was wrong and that they should just save their fuel. 

But if you knew, if they knew, that he’d left someone to die just to come home to them sooner, would they look at him the same way? 

Would he be able to look his children in the eyes? 

He swallowed hard as he glanced towards the doorframe Suguru was standing in, slowly nodding instead of saying what he really wanted to. “Yeah.” 

Gojo wanted to believe that between their three-person crew, they’d be able to handle it. 

He just hadn’t realized that only two of them would make it back to the ship. 

𖥔 ݁ ˖

“You should move on.”

It didn’t matter how many people said it. How many times your therapist pleaded with you to put the past behind you.

You couldn’t let go of him.

Six months turned into six years without Satoru.

The one thing you were terrified of had come true.

You lost him.

Didn’t even have the fucking confirmation of his death. Just a gravestone with an empty casket, a plot picked out for you next to it — even if you’d never get to be buried by him. 

Wasn’t that the funny thing about taking risks? 

You always know what could happen. You just never think it will happen to you. 

It’s always someone else. 

Until it’s not. 

Until you’re the one waiting for a phone call you’ll never get or a knock on the door that will never come. 

“It’s not exactly like men are lining up to date me,” you muttered into the phone, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as you frowned at your reflection in the mirror, reaching up to fix a stray hair just for your still-shiny engagement ring to shimmer in the sunlight. Swallowing the lump in your throat before you turned away, nearly tripping on a toy. “With the twins-” 

“Guys like MILFs,” your friend teased in your ear, and you had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes as you bent over to pick up the stuffed bunny and toss it in an overflowing toy basket. 

You doubted they’d like one still in love with their babies’ father. 

Still holding out hope he’d show up with that stupid smile and wrap you in a crushing hug. 

Even if the rest of the world thought he was dead. 

When the government had declared his ship missing and him deceased. Cut you a check for it even though you weren’t technically Satoru’s spouse yet since you had his babies. A little boy that could be his clone and a girl that looked a little too much like you.  

Their check had been enough to get you out of your crummy apartment, to move the three of you in a small house in a quiet neighborhood. 

Suguru’s mother had ended up moving next door, offering to babysit and watch them during the day so you didn’t have to send them to daycare. Helping you raise your children while her child was still out there in space somewhere. 

She didn’t talk about Suguru with you. And you never spoke of Satoru. 

But you knew she understood anyway. Coped with it the same way you did. Skirting around their existence like it would lessen the hurt. 

“I know a guy who-” Your friend started, and your stomach lurched at the thought of being set up with someone who couldn’t come close to the man you were supposed to marry. 

“Look, I’ve, uh, gotta go get the kids. Their teacher wanted to discuss Apollo’s behavior. I guess he bit someone,” you muttered, heels clicking as you slung your purse over your shoulder and snagged your keys. 

She was disappointed, mumbling a goodbye that you tuned out, hitting end and dropping your phone in your bag with a sigh. 

You wondered what Satoru would’ve thought of it. 

If he would’ve laughed at his son picking fights at school or if there was a stern side to him buried somewhere beneath his goofy grins and cheesy jokes. 

You tried to pick out names he’d like. Even if sometimes it stung a little to think about. 

Apollo and Artemis. 

After the space missions. He’d think it was cute. Probably dress them up like little astronauts and kiss their foreheads, promising that he loved them way more than just to the moon and back. Paint stars on their ceiling and hang planets up on strings in their nursery. 

To be fair, you had done it in his place. 

Worn one of his old t-shirts as you bit your lip and bent over your swollen belly to get all the corners, carefully standing on a ladder to hang everything on the ceiling, standing in a nursery full of furniture you built yourself a month after his return date came and went. 

The last thing you heard from him was a video message where he promised he’d come back. If you shut your eyes, you could still see that look on his face, the flicker of nervousness that flashed across it as his mouth curled down into a frown before he admitted that they were about to go check out a distress call. 

And then nothing. 

NASA never told you if they had any additional information on it. But the conclusion they came to was obvious. 

Their mission was a failure. And your husband was forever missing. 

Somewhere you’d never be able to reach. 

You snapped on the twins' first birthday. You hadn’t even managed to bring yourself to throw them a party when Satoru wasn’t there to take the photos, to pick them up and blow out the candles for them. 

Carrying them next door to Suguru’s mom’s place, asking for her to watch them for a few hours just to come back home and rip down every stupid space-themed piece of decor you’d once painstakingly picked out. Throwing them all in a big, black trash bag before running out to the store to grab tarps and more paint. 

You didn’t stop until the entire room was drenched in shades of blue and green, alien toys traded in for sea animals.

At least the ocean was on Earth. 

It wasn’t like they were old enough to understand. 

But you couldn’t fucking stand the idea of losing them too. 

You had kept both their convertible cribs in your room since the day you brought them home from the hospital, unable to sleep without them in the same room. The crippling fear that you’d some intruder would sneak in and snatch them if you weren’t right there to stop it didn’t actually go away until they were big enough to toddle and talk. 

Now they were old enough to be in school, no longer babies, no longer toddlers, big enough to ramble on about what they learned every day, bicker over their toys and pick them back up before they went to bed. 

And Satoru had missed all of it. 

Every first they experienced tainted by the never-ending reminder that he wasn’t fucking here to see a single one. 

And like an idiot, you just kept recording message after message, setting up a camera and trying not to cry as you recorded yourself talking about the twins, showing them off to someone who should’ve been by your side every step of the way. You still had a few contacts with his old colleague, one who promised he’d send them all up anyway. 

Just in case Satoru was still out there in space. Still trying to come home to you.  

There wasn’t a single day that passed yet where you didn’t think about it. 

Him. 

But it appeared your attempts to keep him alive, to teach your kids about their dad, weren’t going so well when you replayed the voicemail you’d been left an hour earlier requesting you come in for a meeting after school was over when you picked up the kids. 

The soft voice on the other end apologetically explaining that Apollo had gotten in an argument with another kid to defend his sister, that no action was being taken, but that he’d still like to speak with you in person over it. 

You stared at the brick building of the elementary school, readjusting your purse as you swiped away another message from your friend sending you contact details of a man you certainly were not going to contact, steeling yourself for an uncomfortable conversation as you walked through the door and went into the office to get a visitor’s pass before you started navigating through the halls to look for the twins’ class. 

Suguru’s mom handled most of the pick ups for you, kept them at her place until you got back home from work in the evenings. 

Your boss had been annoyed that you’d taken off early, but you had to put them first. You were the only parent they had. 

You heard Artemis first. Her soft giggle twinkling as your steps picked up, her brother’s grumpy voice scolding her as you stopped just outside an open classroom door, pausing as you looked inside and saw sitting cross-legged on the floor with another boy who looked a couple years older, a bunch of toys dumped out between them on a carpet with the alphabet on it. 

“Are you their sister? I thought their mom-” A low voice spoke up, your head snapping over to see a dark-haired man stepping out from behind a desk. Warm brown eyes scanning your face as you stiffly shook your head.   

“I’m their mom,” you interrupted him, swallowing hard as you pushed your sunglasses back up in your hair before holding your hand out to shake. 

His hand was surprisingly soft when he took it, gently shaking it a few seconds too long before awkwardly letting go. 

“I’m Choso, their teacher,” he said, and you forced a small smile.

“I, uh, know,” you muttered, averting your stare back to where they were playing. 

“Yuji’s my little brother,” he added, pointing out the boy playing with yours, plucking out a toy from the pile and handing it over. 

You wondered if it would be awful to just ask him to go ahead and skip all the polite niceties, that you didn’t need them. 

“Sorry for making assumptions,” he awkwardly apologized, his dark eyes dragging over you again. “You just looked like you’re around my age, and I guess I forget sometimes that it’s normal for us to have kids of our own now.”

You blinked at him, trying to decide what to make of his slightly nervous rambling just for his mouth to open again.

“I wasn’t trying to comment on your appearance or anything, I mean, you’re beautiful-” His lips abruptly shut, cheek flushing pink in a painfully familiar way.

Your chest hurt.

Ached at the thought that Satoru was no longer the last person to call you beautiful.

“Um, thanks,” you murmured, looking at your outfit a little self-consciously. Wondering if he was just saying that to make you feel better or if he really meant it. You didn’t think you looked terrible. But without Satoru around, you’d sorta forgotten what it felt like to look in the mirror and see something pretty when you were struggling to survive most days. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, glancing down to the ring on your finger. Your throat started to close, palms getting clammy as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t realize you were married.” 

“I’m not,” you answered, a little too quickly as you folded your arms across your chest. Putting your left hand underneath your other arm as if it would make you stop thinking about it. Him. 

“Oh, um-” 

“I was engaged to the twins’ dad,” you explained, watching them giggle and pretend to eat the plastic food with their new pink-haired friend. “But, uh, he passed before they were born.” 

People usually asked too many questions if you told them the whole story. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he apologized, face falling the way everyone else’s always did. Regret etched into the soft lines of his face, nose scrunching up as the tattoo across his nose crinkled. “I had no-”

“It’s fine,” you lied, waving it off like Satoru didn’t still cast shadows across your thoughts. “So, um, what happened with Apollo? Is he in trouble?”

“No, no, one of the other kids tried to take a toy from Artemis, and he stepped in to stop it. I actually wanted to speak to you about him having a hard time making friends outside of her,” Choso spoke softly, obviously trying hard to pick his words carefully. “I was thinking of recommending they get put in different classes next year to help them socialize.” 

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Torn between immediately shutting the idea down and trying to argue against it before second guessing whether or not your parenting was actually just fostering codependence. 

Satoru would know what to do.

But he wasn’t here.

And all the decisions were yours to make.

Artemis was the outgoing one, inherited her father’s personality even if she pretty much got your face. Bright and brilliant, easy charisma that shined even at her small size. Apollo was reserved. Serious.

Scowling if he wasn’t with his sister, grumbling at the world like he already realized how it screwed them over.

“They’re just five,” you muttered, glancing over at where they were still distracted with his brother.

“Well, I guess we can see if there are any changes throughout the rest of the school year. I, uh, coach a boys soccer team on the weekends. He’s welcome to join, if you’re interested,” he said, running his fingers through the ends of his hair. 

You guessed if it meant your twins wouldn’t be split up in school, you’d sit on the sidelines to watch little kids try and fail to kick a ball across a field. 

Not that he was that happy about it when you told him he’d have to spend his Saturday morning in a soccer uniform with kids he barely spoke to before instead of playing with his toys at home. 

Choso grinned when you first showed up, one of those crooked ones that gave away his surprise when he saw you setting up fold-out chairs for you and Artemis. Even jogging over to tell you he was happy you came, squatting down to get on Apollo’s level to ask him if he knew how to play. 

He didn’t.

To be fair, after watching a single game, it was clear none of the other kids did either. 

Still, you left it with a schedule of practices and games stuffed in your purse, a couple of them circled and marked for your days to bring snacks and juice boxes for the team.

You told yourself that you were being an active parent. 

Showing up to every single school event. Refusing to miss a single soccer game even when Apollo spent half of it plucking weeds from the field to give to you afterwards. 

Taking him to play dates with his new soccer friends before taking Artemis to sleepover with her school friends, juggling their new social lives with your own work. 

And somewhere along the way, you supposed you’d made a new friend in their teacher too.

He went out of his way to talk to you at every game, greeting you at their school stuff with a shy smile and considerate questions while he updated you on how they were doing. 

The kids loved him, coming home chattering about what he planned and taught them during the day, complaining whenever he was out sick and they got stuck with a substitute. 

Wasn’t it normal to like someone if they made your children happy? 

Smile back when they spoke to you? 

Find your thoughts lingering a little on their dark-haired teacher when your son excitedly exclaimed that Choso promised to be his soccer coach next year too, your stupid heart stalling for a second when Artemis casually dropped that he helped her make a mother’s day card for you as she stuck it to the fridge with a magnet. 

You definitely didn’t pick them up from school yourself more often, swearing to Suguru’s mother that you were just trying to spend more time with them. 

But eventually, the school year wrapped up. 

You couldn’t really comprehend why some sliver of you was disappointed by that. 

Still, you suspected that it wasn’t just because Satoru wasn’t here to see it. 

A strange flutter in your stomach stirring watching Choso pass out printed graduation certificates to the class, plastering on a bright smile as Artemis proudly bounded over to show you hers. Toothily grinning as you sat and clapped for her in a cramped chair, a paper plate with a tiny slice of pizza in front of you as the other parents tried wrangling their own kids. 

Apollo was half-sitting on your lap, sneakily stealing your pizza after he polished off his own plate, enjoying their classroom party just to start bickering over which mini cupcakes they each wanted, eyeing the boxes Choso hadn’t given out. “Are you excited for next year?” You asked, barely able to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at their arguing. 

“No,” Artemis smiled immediately flipped into a frown as she flopped in her seat, folding her arms across her chest. “We’ll have to get a new teacher.” 

“Don’t be a baby,” Apollo huffed at her. 

“S’not fair, he’s still your coach,” she whined back, right in time for him to show up, holding out a plastic container with cupcakes to let them choose. 

They were quick to snatch them, thank yous muffled when they stuffed their mouths the next second, but to your surprise, he held out the box for you to pick too. 

“I, um, got enough for the parents too,” he awkwardly said, eyes hesitantly flicking up to meet yours as you chewed the inside of your cheek before accepting. 

“Thanks,” you murmured softly, selecting one with purple frosting as he smiled softly at you. 

It was nice of him. 

This was nice, actually. 

A classroom of sugar-fueled kids and hastily strung up party streamers wasn’t exactly where you pictured you’d be spending your afternoon a decade ago. Being a single mom had never been a part of your plans. 

But it wasn’t terrible. 

You loved your children. Loved being their mom. 

Maybe you could learn to love your life too. 

You stayed behind once the party wrapped up to help clean the classroom with a few of the other parents, stuffing greasy and frosting splattered plates into trash bags while the twins excitedly caught up with Yuji after his teacher dropped him off after the bell rang. 

“Hey,” a quiet voice startled you, your head snapping back to see Choso stiffly standing next to you, nervously raking his fingers through his hair. 

“Hi,” you breathed back, just as awkward. “The party was great. I think the twins will miss you next year.” 

You didn’t want to consider if you would. 

“They’re great kids. I know they’re gonna succeed some day,” he earnestly said, your mouth curling up as you nodded. 

You didn’t really mind if they succeeded or not. Wouldn’t hold them to the same standards their dad once held himself to. 

All you really wanted was for them to be happy. 

“Thanks, um, seriously,” you swallowed hard, throat constricting as you thought about how much Apollo had started to come out of his shell thanks to him. 

Choso’s intense stare swept over your face, scanning over your features like he was searching for something there.

His eyes were dark. 

Not blue. They didn’t shimmer, didn’t sparkle when the sun hit them. 

But they were deep. Warm. 

“I’m glad I got to meet you,” he started, speaking slowly like he wasn’t sure if he should even say it. “Getting to know you, um, it’s been great.” 

“Yeah, it has,” you agreed, actually meaning it too. 

He stepped a little closer, taking a deep breath as his gaze settled on your face. “You can like, slap me if I’m out of line here-”

“I’m not going to slap you,” you intercut, biting back a laugh as his brows knitted together seriously. 

“Would it be totally inappropriate to ask you on a date?” 

𖥔 ݁ ˖

Their mission was fucked. 

Suguru was dead. 

Body stuck on a planet of water and waves, left behind with the other astronauts that had died long before they even received their distress call. 

Swept under a fucking tsunami, unable to make it back on the ship on time in an attempt to save a stupid fucking data recorder. 

Now they had neither. 

The ship had been damaged in the process too, fuel wasted and plans derailed as they barely managed to get it off the planet before all three of them ended up as corpses. Water corrupting important systems as Gojo slammed his fists against the hard metal frame of a door, throwing off his helmet as Shoko said something his brain refused to process. 

Grabbing his arm to pull it back before he could fuck up his suit. Telling him to just take it off and cool down before he damned both of them too. 

Like his best friend wasn’t gone. 

He’d never get him back. 

No one would. 

Gojo just had to leave his body there for the tides to take. What the hell was he even going to say to his mom? How was he supposed to tell her that her son wasn’t coming home? 

He barely managed to get his suit off, stripping down and throwing it on the ground without giving a shit about proper protocol, storming off to his private compartment to stop himself from losing it in front of the only other person up here now. Shoko said something about getting everything back on course, but he wasn’t listening as he turned his back from her.

God, he felt like he was going to fucking hurl. 

The edges of his vision kept blurring, going in-and-out of darkness as he forced himself to change clothes, sitting hunched over the edge of his bed and burying his face in his hands, replaying the look on Suguru’s face when he realized he wasn’t going to make it. 

Rewinding and searching for some other way to change the past as he screwed his eyes shut. 

But he couldn’t save him then and there was no way to save him now. 

He wished you were here. 

Wished you’d wrap your arms around him and run your fingers through his hair and promise him that it would still be okay. That Suguru wouldn’t blame him. 

That his best friend was somewhere better. 

Even if everything scientific in his body swore that there was no better place waiting for him. 

Gojo pushed himself back up to his feet, jaw locked tight as he walked back over to the one piece of you he still had access too, tapping away at the controls to see if you sent any videos while he was out there making the worse fucking mistake of his life. 

Foot impatiently tapping against the floor as he reclined his head back against the floor, wishing that he’d never even come on this mission in the first place – if he hadn’t, Suguru wouldn’t have even answered the distress call, would he? 

He’d still be alive, and Gojo would be with-

The computer let out a beep, interrupting his thoughts as the screen came to life, loading everything up as he sighed with relief. 

Seeing your smile, hearing your soft words might not heal him, but it was the only thing he could think of to help the raw wound of loss ripping through his chest. 

Until the automated computer voice made an announcement right as he popped his headphones in.   

Loading messages from the past eleven years. 

No. No no no no no.

It was wrong.

It had to be fucking wrong. 

The computer had to be fried. Some water must have somehow gotten in it and fucked with the wiring and-

Before he could even hit a single button, try to troubleshoot, there you were in front of him, your hand on your swollen stomach, scowling in the camera as you asked where the hell he was. Fear creeping in your pretty voice that no one had heard anything from any of them – reminding him that he promised to come back. 

He did. He would. 

The small lump in his throat getting bigger and bigger as the video auto-played into the next one, where you were obviously about to pop, filming in a space-themed nursery, your anger twisted into worry, telling him that you didn’t want to do this alone. 

Begging him to not make you. 

Gojo froze. 

Shoulders stiff as he saw the tears rolling down your cheeks, stunned as his own brain short-circuited, the guilt swimming in his stomach threatening to drown him as you ended the message. 

Part of him wanted to hit stop. 

Like if he paused it now, he would be able to freeze time and somehow make it back to Earth in time to not miss any more of it. 

But his fingers weren’t fast enough. 

And the next frame came with the audio of a baby crying. 

Two babies. One swaddled in blue and the other in pink. Their names on knitted hats he already knew Suguru’s mom must’ve made, a strangled sob escaping him before he even realized he was crying. 

The twins. His twins. 

Sleepily yawning and opening their eyes just a peek, enough for him to see his son had the misfortune of inheriting his looks while his daughter came out like a miniature you. Someone else was recording you in the hospital bed, but you were talking to the camera like it was him, face soft as you giggled that he would probably bawling harder than the babies when he realized he missed this. 

Suguru’s mom laughed behind the camera. 

He was. 

Tears falling freely as the videos just kept playing. One after another. 

His children were growing up without him. 

From tiny and fragile bundles to bumbling toddlers to fuck, full-sized little kids. 

In what? Fifty minutes? 

Five entire years of their life, condensed down to a handful of clips. The first steps he missed, the birthdays and holidays and father’s day he’d never get back. 

They didn’t even look at the camera half the time. Too busy playing and giggling and laughing while you did your best not to cry in front of them. They didn’t know him. 

Their father was barely more than a fucking video camera being pointed at them. 

And you, god, his pretty, perfect you. 

Still sending him these even when you had to think he was fucking dead. 

Dark circles under your eyes and a hollowness to your face that only got worse over the years. Exhaustion in your expressions as you spoke to him like you didn’t think he was listening. 

You mostly updated them on the kids' life. Skimmed over the details of a job you obviously didn’t like. Told him how Suguru’s mom had basically become their grandma. Sometimes Artemis would be on your lap, squinting at a book or playing with a toy while you talked. 

His girls a wormhole away. 

Gojo wanted to scream. Shout at the world to stop fucking spinning for a while so he could make it back to you. 

But five years turned into six, and six turned into seven, and he watched in horror as it started to set in that he was losing you too.

What if it was too late? 

What if you moved on? What if your life had no room left in it for him by the time he made it back to Earth? 

The twins were already in school and playing sports and clearly didn’t miss the man they’d never met. 

Would you stop missing him too? 

He didn’t know how many videos he watched. Guessing the time jump between each one based on how much the twins had grown in the background. 

You looked more mature now too. More put together, hair styled differently, no longer bare-faced when you turned the camera on, in a different room that obviously belonged to a house that wasn’t his home. 

Toys weren’t scattered around everywhere in the background anymore. But sometimes the twins would run through with one of their friends, some pink-haired kid that seemed to come over often judging by the way you barely blinked when they passed behind you. 

Gojo felt like a stranger. 

Some creep looking in the window of a happy family and thinking it should be his. 

“Mom,” Apollo whined, trying to tug on your sleeve as his shaggy white hair hung around his shoulders, attempting to drag you away while you were in mid-sentence. “Me and Cho made a cake. Come try it.” 

“Sure, honey,” you softly said, cringing a little before glancing back at the camera apologetically before signing off. 

Was Cho one of his friends? One of yours? 

He didn’t actually want an answer. 

But the next video seemed to clue him in on one anyway. 

You were wearing a shirt that was too big for you. The collar of it stretched out, your hair mused and down as you softly spoke, like you were trying not to wake someone up. 

It wasn’t Gojo’s shirt. 

An awful feeling settled in his bones. One that etched deeper with every little off detail he noticed. 

A pair of men’s shoes in the background. A watch left on your desk, barely in frame. The Cho the twins occasionally chattered about affectionately. 

Who apparently was taking them to soccer games and science museums like he should be doing right now if he heard them correctly.

Gojo didn’t want to believe that you were dating again. Even if he knew that it would be the normal thing to do. 

Completely reasonable for you to move on after not hearing a word from him in nearly a decade. 

But the idea of you loving another man, letting him into your life, letting him take his space-

He puked. 

Head between his knees as he got sick on the floor, throwing up a mixture of salt water he swallowed earlier and the freeze dried breakfast he had this morning. Funny, wasn’t it? He’d lost over ten years with you and his best friends in just a day.

An hour on that horrible planet had cost him a decade. 

Body wracking with shudders as he coughed and spit, wiping the back of his mouth just in time to look up at you while those pretty lips of yours pressed in a thin line. Sadness shining in your eyes, frustration and disappointment you rarely let show evident in your trembling frame. 

“It’s hard to keep hoping for you,” you admitted, reaching out to shut off the camera, and he desperately wanted to scream for you to not give up, to just fucking wait. 

But then the computer chimed in that there was one video left the second the screen went black after you ended it. 

His hand reached out, desperate to touch you, desperate to stop you, but your world was spinning faster than his was. 

And your face was back on screen, something inside him wilting and withering at the realization that another year had probably passed for you, maybe even two, more that he would never be able to get back. 

A few more faint lines were etched by your eyes, subtle creases left as a sign of all the time he missed with you. But you looked healthier. Happier. 

His beautiful girl sitting there and smiling at him instead of screaming like you should’ve been. Cursing his name for not coming home sooner, scolding him for being a piece of shit that should’ve stayed on Earth.  

“Hi, Satoru,” you spoke softly, fiddling with your hands. “Been a while since I’ve made one of these.” 

He was terrified to know how long.

“The twins are good. They’re gonna be ten next month,” you continued, not looking directly at the camera as you talked. “They’re both smart, like you. Apollo’s been more into soccer than school these days though.” 

He wanted to see him. See both of them. 

Hold them too, know his children outside of the information you would tell some distant relative, even if that was all he felt like right now. 

“Artemis wants to be a scientist when she grows up. She sits on the sidelines of his games with her nose buried in books,” you told him, a little smile reflexively curling up on your lips just from talking about them. “I wish you could see them. Wish you were here.” 

His chest hurt. 

Gojo didn’t know he stopped breathing until his body forced him to suck in a breath, lungs screaming for air as he stared at the woman he was supposed to marry. 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. 

The mission should’ve been routine. Simple. 

Suguru should be setting up the navigation. He should be begrudgingly agreeing to being his best man and coming to the courthouse to witness the rushed ceremony. 

“Sometimes,” you started, swallowing hard as your gorgeous eyes welled up with tears that threatened to spill out. “I dream of you. Us. Back in our old apartment in the creaky bed and the broken window. I wake up thinking I’m still there.” 

The hard lump lodged in his throat was threatening to choke him entirely, the taste of bile still on his tongue as his nails digging crescent moons into his palms as he watched your mouth quiver. 

“The government declared you dead a few years ago. One of your old colleagues came by one day, said that no one really knew for sure what happened, just that you missed the supply drop. Used a bunch of big words like I was too stupid to understand that the bottom line was that you weren’t coming home. Tried to make me feel better about it too,” you bitterly scoffed at the memory, resting your chin on your knees as you exhaled. On the brink of crumbling just recalling it, “Told me that you might’ve settled on a colony on a different planet or got stuck in some fucked-up time dilation. That you might still be alive out there somewhere.” 

If his throat wasn’t already raw, he would’ve screamed at the screen that he was. 

Wanted to beg you not to fucking believe whatever bullshit everyone else was feeding you and believe in him. 

“You don’t feel dead,” you added. Sniffling a little, using the back of your hand to rub underneath your eyes. “Maybe it’d be easier to move on if you did.”

Even his relief was tainted by guilt, ruined with his own worry that he was ruining your future by wishing you’d be stuck on him forever. 

“My therapist thinks I’m wasting my life waiting on someone who’s never coming back,” you murmured, speaking to him more like you were talking to your diary than truly believing he was going to hear any of it. “But how am I supposed to tell her I’m scared that some day you will, and I won’t be here?” 

Everything hurt.

His body, his heart, his soul. 

Aching for everything he’d lost. Everything you lost because of him. His own kids growing up without a fucking father because he was an idiot who put a career before his family. 

The life he’d spent years carefully building towards lost because he miscalculated. 

“I know it’s not fair, but fuck, thinking about you moving on with another girl, or fucking starting some colony up in space and having kids with someone else, makes me wanna throw up,” you admitted, clueless that he had just puked at the idea of someone else being the stepfather to his twins. 

You hadn’t even confirmed-

“I’m being a hypocrite,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands to hide the fact you were crying — and that’s when it hit him.

The engagement ring on your finger wasn’t his.

Smaller. More subtle. A different cut and style. 

No. You couldn’t-

“I’ve, um, been dating a guy for a few years. He’s sweet. Everyone loves to tell me how much you would’ve liked him,” you admitted, twisting the ring around your finger anxiously like you were confessing a sin. He didn’t like him. Already hated whatever bastard had snuck in and swept you off your feet. “They keep saying that you’d want me to move on.” 

What a load of fucking shit.

The last goddamn thing he wanted was for you to move on. The idea of you marrying another man was enough for him to gag again, bile rising from his stomach as he struggled to stop it. 

“I still love you,” you shrugged a little, guilt of your own etched in your face as his eyes stung with more tears. “I just love him too.”

Gojo would take getting stabbed over hearing those words from your lips again.

“Choso said maybe it’d make me feel better to make another video for you, y’know, get everything off my chest,” you exhaled. “I’m just so tired, Satoru.” 

Okay, well, that kind of felt like being stabbed. 

Knowing that this was all his fault and you were the one bearing so much of the burden. 

“I know you’re probably never going to see this, but you’d want me to be happy, wouldn’t you?” You asked, eyes big and wavering as you struggled not to sob, reaching up to play with the silver chain of your necklace tucked under your shirt. “Would you hate me for choosing someone who cares about me and our kids?” 

He could never hate you.

Even if you married ten other men while he was gone.

He would just always hate the man who got to call you their wife. Jealous of whichever one got to take family photos with you and take you on vacation and sleep next to you every night. 

Gojo wanted to be that guy. Wanted to get down on his knees next to you now and dry your cheeks, kiss your mouth and murmur anything you wanted to hear just to make you feel better.

“I’m getting married in four months,” you murmured, wiping the tears away from underneath your eyes, mascara smearing on the back of your hand as you sniffled. “At that chapel we picked out. The one with the pretty hydrangeas out front.”

No no no. 

He could still make it. 

Couldn’t he? 

If they skipped the supply drop entirely and went straight back through the wormhole? 

Hadn’t he lost enough? 

Gojo refused to let you slip through his fingers a second time. No matter how fast the hourglass was running out of sand. 

You stood up, walking out of frame for a few seconds as he heard the sound of something unzipping. And then you came back, holding out something white and-

A wedding dress. 

“You never got to see me in one, so I thought-” You didn’t finish your sentence, just swallowing hard as you draped it back down on furniture just out of sight. 

The camera barely focused on your body as you peeled your clothes off, his breath hitching at the intimate sight of you slipping the dress on, struggling to zip the back by yourself before walking closer. 

You looked like an angel.

And Gojo sorta wished he was dead. 

Stuck in the stunned shell of his body as he watched the way the dress clung to your chest and flowed to the ground, his heart thrumming loud enough he was sure it was about to break through his ribcage. 

And then a noise in the background startled you. 

The thud of a door shutting. The excited clamoring of children, a girl giggling as a man said something he couldn’t quite make out. 

Your face scrunched up, a million different emotions flashing across it as you both heard it at the same time. “We’re back, baby.” 

Another man was calling you baby. 

Footsteps echoing down a hallway he’d never gotten to walk down, your own body rushing over to block the door before it could open. 

“I’m trying my wedding dress on, Cho,” you called out, lips pressing together in a pretty pout. “It’s bad luck if you see.” 

“Yeah? We brought back your favorite takeout, want me to put it in the fridge or-” he started asking, his voice deep, gravelly. 

“You can leave it out,” you replied, your voice softening as you spoke to him. “I’ll be out in a minute.” 

You glanced back at the camera, guilt returning the second your stare hovered over at it. 

And before Gojo could even really appreciate what a beautiful bride you made, you were rushing to get out of it, biting your lips before stuffing it back into a garment bag, putting your clothes back and returning to your seat. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, fingers trembling as your hand reflexively reached for your necklace again. “I wish things were different.” 

It could be.

It would be. 

Even if a little voice in the back of his head suggested that you might not leave your current fiancé for him if he made it back in time. 

That you might choose the man that had actually been there for you all this time. 

Behind you, there was a knock on the door. 

“Can I come in now?” 

No. 

This was supposed to be private, a one-sided conversation that was for his ears only, but you were glancing back over your shoulder. 

“Yeah,” you quietly answered. 

Gojo almost wished your fiancé was ugly. That it would make it easy for you to pick him instead.

But of course, he had to be annoyingly attractive, dark hair hanging around his shoulders and bangs that reminded him of the best friend he just damned as he casually walked over to you, concern etched into his sharp face as he leaned in to press a kiss on the top of your forehead. 

“Everything okay?” He asked, but then his eyes shifted and he noticed what you were filming. “Oh, baby.” 

The sound of someone who knew you were hurting. Who cared. 

“I’m okay, really, I’m just saying goodbye,” you murmured, like they both couldn’t tell how close you were to breaking down. 

“I’ll give you a few minutes,” he spoke gently, his touch lingering on your skin like it really was his now. “Apollo and Yuji want to go spend the night with one of their friends.” 

Gojo wanted to strangle him. 

Fly through the space and stars just to give him a black eye for just how casually he spoke about his son. 

Although some sliver of him was well fucking aware that Choso had probably been more of a dad to Apollo than he’d ever gotten to be. 

“That’s fine,” you shrugged, nodding a little as your body relaxed, tension lifting from your shoulders the longer you looked at him. 

Gojo hated that he could see that you really did love him in your eyes. 

See that familiar glimmer shining in them as you looked up at a stranger instead of him. 

Choso left the room, but his presence didn’t. 

You stared at the door for a few moments after it shut, but you didn’t say whatever you were thinking. Kept it bottled up before you eventually looked back at Satoru. 

Not that you could even see him. 

You thought you were talking to a ghost. 

That’s all he’d become to you. To his children. A phantom haunting rooms he’d never entered. Lingering in empty spaces he should’ve been. A spectre living in the shadows of your heads. 

“I miss you,” you murmured, reaching for the button one last time to shut it off. “I don’t think that will change. But I can’t keep believing you’re coming home.” 

No. Please no. 

He was.

“I love you, Satoru,” you half-whispered, choking the words out. “Goodbye.” 

The screen went dark. 

His reflection staring back at him. Cheeks wet with tears that wouldn’t stop, breaking down as he fell apart, nausea swirling as he forced himself to stand and step around where he’d thrown up, pacing the floor as his brain struggled to work through a problem he didn’t know how to solve. 

He went back to the console, frowning when he tried to start recording to send a message back out to you, to beg you to just give him a little more time, but nothing happened. 

Body and brain barely working together to frantically tap buttons, staring at what data was available to see if he could find when the transmission was received. 

A faint flicker of hope stirring when he realized it had only been two days ago. 

You weren’t married yet. 

Maybe there was time.

And even if there wasn’t, he’d do his damndest to get there and wreck your marriage if it meant winning you back. 

He was a wreck, stumbling out of the room to rush to find Shoko, nearly tripping on his own feet as he found her by the controls, her neat brunette brows scrunching together in disgust when she saw the state he was in. 

“What the hell-” 

Gojo wasn’t sure he was even speaking in full sentences when he started rambling about time dilation, about how they already missed a goddamn decade, her mouth curling down into a tight frown as he got into the details of how they needed to go home now. 

“We don’t have the fuel,” she deadpanned, drawing his attention to the data on screen. “We can make it to our supply drop, but unless they have some there, we’ll probably be stuck on their settlement until another crew comes along.” 

That wasn’t a fucking option. 

They had to make it.

But even when he spent the next forty-eight hours crunching the numbers and calculating different ways to return, he still came to the same conclusion – Shoko was right. 

And still said ‘I told you so’ when he said fine to going to the planet for the supply drop, figuring that at least if the load was lighter, he might be able to make what they had left stretch. 

He was barely showering. 

Barely eating. 

Manic energy getting him through the long days and longer nights to avoid the dreams that would only mock him for all his failures. 

They were just filled with your face, with Suguru’s, of children that called another man dad. 

Filling his notebooks with different calculations he was desperate to get right this time. 

Skin crawling with the fear that he’d fuck this up and lose you forever. 

He didn’t get to mourn Suguru. Couldn’t mourn the years he missed. 

Not if he didn’t want to miss the rest of them. 

By the time they made it to the next planet, he was a wreck. Practically shoved in the shower by Shoko to get cleaned up before they landed, feeling ill when he was forced to get his suit back on, praying to whatever higher power might be out there to let there be fuel. Let him go home to his family. 

This planet wasn’t full of water. Wasn’t one big ocean. 

Landing in a lush green field, not far from real buildings, actual structures erected, fellow scientists rushing out to greet them as Shoko worked fast to unload the supplies with their help.

Gojo knew he probably sounded like a lunatic rushing to get his request for fuel out as soon as possible, counting the seconds in his head as he hoped that they weren’t months passing for you back home. 

“I need to get back to my fiancée, my kids, please," he begged, pleading without caring how pathetic it came out when everyone here had given up their lives on Earth in the name of science and research. 

“I’m sorry,” their de facto leader apologized, an astronaut he once grew up looking up to frowning at him as he glanced around at their simple setup to search for anything that could help him. “We don’t have any. There’s going to be another supply drop in a month, more people coming to live here. You could probably go back with them if-” 

“No,” he accidentally interrupted, the word ripped from the back of his chest as he recoiled. 

It couldn’t end like this. 

He’d be too late if he stayed.

“Satoru,” Shoko hissed, pulling him back as his breathing got ragged, on the verge of a panic attack. 

“Shoko, they don’t-” 

“I know,” she cut him off, swallowing hard as she fixed him with her steady stare. “Look, I’ll stay here. You take the lander back. Without me and all this stuff, the fuel should last.” 

“You want me to leave you?” He asked, automatically shaking his head no at the absurd suggestion. 

“I don’t have anyone waiting for me back on Earth anyway,” she shrugged.

He didn’t have the seconds to debate it. 

“Are you sure?” He asked, his chest already aching at the idea of being alone on the ship. 

“Go get your wife back,” she huffed. “Name one of your next kids after me.” 

“Deal,” he breathed, throwing her arms around her in a rushed hug before he had to sprint back to the lander. 

Both his best friends left behind on planets he knew he’d never get back to. 

And still, he wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to make it back to the one they came from. 

He wasn’t even meant to be the navigator. 

Wasn’t supposed to be the one frantically typing in coordinates and rushing through checklists to get back home. 

Struggling and squinting at the consoles, breathing heavy when everything was inputted, running the numbers again and again.

He should make it.

Although, his current path put him at landing in some random field in the middle of nowhere, NASA would probably be rushing to get there once they realized it was one of their landers. 

If only he could send out a fucking transmission. 

He tried to figure out why it wouldn’t work, fiddling with it almost every day in failed attempts to fix it and rewatching your videos when his energy threatened to run out. 

Gojo hadn’t cut his hair in months. That was something Suguru usually helped him with. It was nearly touching his shoulders, looking like a stranger in his reflection in the fogged-up mirror on the occasions he’d make himself shower and scrub his skin until it was practically red.

But maybe you liked men with longer hair now. Wouldn’t mind the fact that he changed too. 

When he slept, he made it to the chapel just in time, rushing through the double doors right when the officiant asked if anyone objected. 

He would whisk you away, dip you down and kiss you, fingers sinking into the silk of your wedding dress as he begged you to still be his. 

Some part of him felt like it was all light years away. 

Up until Earth was outside his window, his heart thrumming at the thought of you down there, sharing a bed with someone else while he was fighting so hard to come back to you. Did he fuck you as good?

Make sure you finished every single time? Dot your face with kisses and carry you into the bathroom? Make all your favorite foods and worship the ground you walked on every day? 

Gojo didn’t know if he’d be able to handle knowing.

But fuck, if it meant he’d still get to have you, he’d share you with that asshole. 

Gojo still couldn’t send a transmission, had no way of actually notifying anyone when he got in the lander, flipping switches and changing settings as he got behind the controls. 

Shutting his eyes for a few seconds as he set the coordinates, palms sweating as he clutched the controls. If his math was right, today would be the day you were supposed to be standing at the altar. 

He could do this. 

Failing wasn’t an option.

Not after everything that had brought him here. 

“I’m coming home, sweetheart,” he murmured, a little aware that he had probably lost it if he was talking to himself up here. 

But he hoped you could feel him. 

That even if you were wearing your wedding dress right now, you would be able to sense him somehow. Clinging to the hope that yours hadn’t completely faded yet. 

The landing fucking sucked. 

Hitting the ground too hard, his head snapping forward fast enough he was pretty sure he had a concussion or whiplash, body bracing for the impact as it skidded to a stop in a corn field an hour from that chapel he just toured with you last year. Even if it’d been more like twelve to you. 

It still didn’t stop him from rushing to get out, nearly kissing the ground as he stumbled out. Sucking in the fresh air as he glanced around, his legs trembling as he forced himself to keep moving, well aware he definitely looked like shit even if he tried to clean himself up before his, ah, crash landing. 

“Are you okay? What the fuck is-” 

Gojo grimaced as he glanced up to find someone who pulled over on the side of the road, a stranger squinting at him and the wrecked lander in disbelief. 

“Uh, could you give me a ride?” 

Maybe the universe had decided to cut him some slack. Give him a helping hand as he sat in the passenger seat of a beat-up truck, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes as he noticed the new phone in the cupholder. 

“Do, uh, you mind if I make a couple calls?” He asked, the distant sound of sirens echoing as they put mile after mile away from the lander – and inched closer and closer to you. 

“Sure,” his new friend shrugged, using his face to unlock his phone at the next stoplight and passing it over. 

Gojo still had your number memorized. 

Even if you didn’t pick up the phone for him. 

No voicemail box set up either, just the generic ‘please leave a message at the beep’ he didn’t have it in him to oblige. He hurried to dial one of his old contacts from NASA he remembered, not sure if Ijichi would pick up either. 

But they did. 

“Hello?” Ijichi croaked, almost sounding like he just woke up, or maybe was sick. 

“Hey, it’s, uh, me,” he said, tapping his fingers on the side of the window. “I sorta crash landed. You guys are gonna want to send someone out to take care of clean up.” 

“Satoru?” 

“Yeah, it’s, um, been a bit, hasn’t it?” He awkwardly chuckled, rambling off the coordinates twice, sure that Ijichi was scrambling to get them down before he exhaled. “Look, I’ve got a wedding to crash. I’ll check in later.” 

Gojo hung up before he could get caught up in any more stupid space bullshit. 

He was finished. 

Ready to spend the rest of his years devoted solely to you and his twins. 

Would you be happy to see him? 

Let him pick you up and press kiss after kiss to your mouth and promise that you missed him? 

He’d spent so long daydreaming about it that he didn’t really know what to do when the truck pulled into the very much empty parking lot of the chapel. 

Was he too early? 

Too late? 

Walking up to the double doors and pulling them open to find barren pews illuminated by stained glass windows. He walked around like an idiot, something pricking at the back of his brain that he wouldn’t listen to as he looked outside at the cemetery next to it. 

He didn’t have a real reason for going back out there. 

Just some invisible string tugging him there as he held his breath, searching for proof in the last place he wanted to find it. 

And there it was. 

Sitting underneath a willow tree waiting for him. 

He stared at the gravestone. Your name etched into the stone – with another man’s last name attached to it. 

His knees gave out. Collapsed underneath him as a broken sob racked through his body, hitting the hard ground as his body surrendered to the pain. Fat tears rolling down his cheeks, sucking in shallow breaths as he cried for the life you had. 

The one he hadn’t been there to give you. 

You couldn’t be- 

Someone tapped on his back. 

He turned fast, shaking as his eyes landed on your face. His pretty girl, probably a good twenty years older than him, aged like a fine wine as your mouth fell open in a surprised gasp. He reached out, fingers trembling as he nearly touched your cheek from his position on the ground, but you froze.

“Dad?” 

It wasn’t you. 

Artemis tried helping him up, tears springing up in her eyes as she immediately hugged him, his brain fractured as he realized that his daughter was here. His daughter was older than him. How much time had passed? How fucking off was he? 

“Oh my god, it’s actually you, when I got the call, I didn’t think-” 

“Artemis?” He breathed her name, wishing he’d gotten the opportunity to say it to her a million more times. “You’re-” 

“Holy shit, I have to call everyone,” she grinned, her smile hurting his chest when it looked so much like yours. “Apollo isn’t gonna believe it. You know, you’re already, like, a great grandpa thanks to him, by the way.” 

Every word was a fresh punch to the gut. 

A great grandfather. 

He never even got to be a father. 

Missed his kids growing up, getting married, having kids of their own, and even them having kids. 

“How long has it been?” He asked, his voice raw, broken chords of disbelief as Artemis' face twisted up, looking behind him as it struck her that he hadn’t known any of it.  

“Since you left?” She awkwardly spoke, tilting her head as she scratched the back of her neck. There was a wedding band on her finger. Did your husband walk her down the aisle? “Um, about fifty years?” 

Four months had been forty years. 

Gojo couldn’t stop himself from crying again, wiping away his cheeks faster, ashamed of what he’d done. 

A fool masquerading as a man. 

Artemis awkwardly wrapped an arm around him, trying to soothe him as she used her free hand to send texts like he couldn’t see through the tears. Sobs wracking through him as the dam inside him broke, reduced to rubble as he fell apart. Painfully aware that he was only inches away from you, and still no closer at all. 

He’d never hold you again. Never touch you again. 

Wouldn’t get to see your smile or hear your laugh, feel the warmth of your affection. 

His children wouldn’t need him. 

For a while, his daughter just sat there with him. Let him cry until he managed to halfway collect himself, his eyes swollen and sore as he struggled to breathe, body aching and stomach starving despite how sick he felt every time he looked up and saw your grave. 

“She passed away last year,” Artemis muttered. “She’d been sick for a while.” 

God, he felt like he was going to die right now. 

Figured it would hurt less than hearing about everything he missed. 

“She talked about you a lot. Made you out to be a big hero,” his daughter smiled softly, obviously trying to make him feel better. You should’ve turned him into the bad guy. “I actually work at NASA. God, she was pretty pissed at me when she found out I even applied, but I promised that I wouldn’t go to space so, uh-” 

It seemed like she inherited his ability to shove his foot in his mouth, her lips clamping shut as she realized that maybe this wasn’t the time. 

“Apollo’s a teacher now,” she abruptly changed the subject, and he didn’t know what to say.

Just staring at her in shock, unable to form proper sentences when he thought he was coming home to a preteen – not a fully grown woman who looked so much like you it hurt to breathe. “Oh, there he is.” 

He looked over to see his son was walking down the path with an old man, talking between each other with furrowed expressions. 

Watched the shock register on their faces when they saw Gojo there. 

He didn’t know what to say when they finally approached, the thick silence and tension simmering in the air as he stared at Apollo. 

Strands of silver in his white hair, blue eyes burning with emotions he didn’t blame him for. Resentment. Reproach. 

“You’re-” 

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he heard himself say, voice cracking painfully. 

“Yeah,” his son huffed, arms folding across his broad chest. “Us too.”

“Apollo,” the older man next to him scolded, giving him a fatherly look that seemed so natural on his face before throwing Gojo a look that was almost like ‘kids, right?’ “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Choso.” 

And despite the fact he had to be in his seventies now, Gojo still sort of wanted to hit him.

Rip the golden band off his finger and start a fight over the fact he’d gotten to spend decades with the love of his life. 

“Was she happy?” He asked instead, hollowed out, no strength left in him to stand. 

“She was,” Artemis softly confirmed, patting his shoulder like he was a child. And he wondered if she had kids too, or if even his son’s children were older than him now. 

“She missed you,” Choso added, more mature than Gojo suspected he would ever be.

Because right now, he was filled with hate.

Anger and rage boiling and burning under the surface at the injustice of all of it. At everything he missed. Everything that should’ve been his that ended up in the hands of someone else because he was too stupid to hold onto you tight enough.

He hated Choso. Hated space. Hated the universe. 

Mostly though, he hated himself.

“We should go get some food,” Artemis artfully pivoted away, trying to tug him upright. “You’re probably starving, right?”

Gojo thought he nodded, not that he was totally in tune with his body, dazed as he tried to sort through the thousand thoughts flooding through his mind.

Numbness creeping in now that he knew it had all been for nothing.

“Before I forget,” she murmured, taking off a necklace he hadn’t noticed her wearing. The thin silver chain weighed down by two rings dangling at the end. The engagement ring he once gave you – and a plain band of white-gold. “Mom always wore it. She told me she bought the band for you before you were supposed to come back and could never bring herself to put either of them away.” 

She dropped it in his palm, his pulse pounding in his ears at the proof you never fully gave up on him. One last thread of you in his hands as he automatically unlocked the clasp and put it on himself, the weight of it sitting over his chest and tethering him back to reality.

To the two children he made with you standing in front of him now he was still lucky enough to meet. 

Artemis interlocked her arm with her brother, laughing at something he said before immediately beginning to bicker about where to eat at, who to call next.

Giggling about their sister, his throat closing at the confirmation you had another baby after him. That you lived a full life he’d only get to see second-hand. Through photos and stories instead of in person. 

Apollo grumbled something under his breath, throwing a glare back at Gojo, still protective over you after you passed. Artemis just elbowed her brother though, tossing the hair back over her other shoulder that reminded him of you.

And some depressing part of him wondered if that’s what you and him would’ve looked like together one day if he stayed. 

He would never get to know. 

His eyes drifted back to your grave. And then the one next to it. 

His name etched next to yours. A plot you must have purchased for him back when you thought you’d never get his body back. 

A loving fiancé and father. 

Gojo was grateful he would at least get to be buried next to you one day. 

You spent your life missing and mourning him.

He supposed it was just his turn. 

Rounding the corner, his long legs making no accommodations for your shorter ones, he says, “No. If you wanted better results, you should have put in a better performance. Surely you’re smart enough to work out that that’s how life works.”

Hands grab his arm, yanking back with all your strength only to be dragged along with him and his burly body. Your heels scrape along the floor. People stare. You don’t care. “Don’t be an asshole. You know my essay was good. It was really good. Just give it a read. A proper one, and not the rushed job you do because you’re overworked and underpaid.”

He stops.

Your face bumps into this back, forehead nearly bruised by the hardness. 

His brows rise above his glasses as he fixes you a look. “Kid, your essay was good — decent introduction, clear structure, sufficient evidence — but it’s not good enough for the extra marks to push you into the top band. Your closing argument fell flat ‘cause of your wishy-washy writing style, you didn’t adequately humour the counter arguments and undermine them to strengthen your thesis, and, worst of all, you misspelt ‘complement.’”

A frown graces your features. 

“No, I didn’t. C. O. M. P. L. I. M—”

“No. With an I, it’s to flatter someone. With an E, it’s to enhance, pair well, or complete another thing.” Toji explains rather robotically, eyes still dead and voice monotone. “For example, if I said you’re a pretty girl, that’s a compliment. And if I said, your essay goes well with the trashcan over there, that’s a statement that suggests the two complement each other. See the difference?”

He’s already stalking off again, hands in his pockets, huge stature unwilling to accommodate the people walking down the hallway. 

You break into a jog, panting embarrassingly by the time you reach him. “Dude, we’ve known each other for three years. We’ve gone through a lot together. We’re basically friends. Can’t you do your best pal a solid?”

Toji glances down at you. He pushes a door open, holding it a second longer than he needed to. You follow behind him. Somewhat amused, he replies, “We know each other because we’re on the same course, not by choice. And I don’t know what you mean by the whole ‘we’ve gone through a lot together’ thing — the most dramatic thing we’ve faced is when the projector didn’t work and we had to go into a different hall. And we’re definitely not friends.”

Well, fuck, you’re running out of rope. 

“Then, let’s officially be friends,” you offer, elbowing him gently. “If you ever need help, buddy, I’ll always have your back.” Then, in an act of complete desperation, you begin shakily singing, “You’ve got a friend in me. You’ve got a friend in me. When the road looks tough ahead—”

A heavy hand shoves you away by your head. You stumble into a bulletin board.

“Enough,” he gruffs. “My day’s already fucked because the prof lost his papers and wants to blame me. I don’t need to lose my hearing on top of that.”

Your head flits around. “Did you guys see that?” People give you weird looks. “He just shoved me. The TA just shoved me. We need to protest his violent behaviour by demanding he remarks our papers. Who’s with me?”

Everyone walks past without another look at you.

Toji, on the other hand, lifts his glasses and runs a hand down his face. Muttering something under his breath, he pushes a door open and holds out a hand before you can mindlessly follow. “It’s the men’s bathroom. Tell me you’re not shameless and stupid enough to come in here.”

“I’ll wait outside.”

His eye twitches. 

As though an idea comes to him, he straightens ever so slightly. “I’m gonna take a dump; you’ll be waiting a while.”

“That’s okay — I have no more classes so take your time but make sure you don’t stay sitting down longer than you need to,” you tell him, smiling innocently and standing aside to let a guy walk out, ignoring the freaked out face he makes at you. “You can get hemorrhoids."

He groans. “Jesus fucking Christ, woman.” 

That seems to be as much of you he can tolerate because he walks in without another word to you. Opposite the door, you lean against the wall, whistling and coming up with alternative lines you can pull on him. 

God, he’s so stubborn. 

It’s not like giving you the marks docks his pay or lowers the professor’s opinion of him. He’s clearly just being an ass. 

If he wasn’t such a good TA, a genuinely intelligent man, you would have gone above his head and asked for the prof’s personal assessment. But no, he has to be knowledgeable, a helpful source of information when you’re lost, someone who seems to know everything about any topic, who knows the exact pages of a textbook you should read to further your understanding, and who’s never declined a meeting for clarification on something you wrote. 

For years now, you two have had a friendship-like relationship, often sharing snacks and exchanging brief words before or after lectures and classes, despite what he says.

Everyone gets along with him, though you’ve never actually seen him hang out with friends or go to parties. Maybe he doesn’t have any. Word on the street is he works part time in a couple different places. Some say so he can afford drugs, some for tuition. 

The rumours never interested you, apart from any that mused about his love life, which seems to be nonexistent except for the many girls who hit on him. Not that you’re especially interested.

It’s just fun to be in the know.

Who knows how long has passed since he went in there. Your phone says fifteen minutes. Is that a normal amount of time for someone to be taking a dump?

Hesitantly, you push the door open and yell out, “Fushiguro? You doing okay? Is it stuck? For a couple extra marks, I’ll give you a hand.”

No one replies. 

Brows furrowing, you bend down, looking through the stalls. No feet. What the hell?

Ahead, a window is ajar. Big enough for a man to squeeze through. Well isn’t that convenient? The kind of convenient that exists only in fiction.

Aggrieved and feeling bamboozled, you stomp back to your dorm room, slamming the door, jumping face down on the bed and screaming into the pillows. You’d feel better if you knew he had a grudge on you, if you bumped into him the first day and spilled his coffee all over himself and he’d never forgotten it. Instead, he’s just like that: does things by the book, does his job well, and achieves the best grades with ease. 

Naturally, he’d become the professor’s assistant, a coveted position that seemed like it was made for him from the very beginning, and made your life a living hell because he won’t ever make concessions for you.

Sure, you shouldn’t ask him to, but it’s not like you’re asking for much. You’re generally a high performing student — punctual, hard working, ambitious — but you had one bad day which resulted in one bad essay and it lowered your average and now the internship you’d been eyeing could be snatched from your hands in a blink of an eye. 

“It’s just not fair,” you cry out to your teddy bear. “It’s three marks. Three! Would it kill him to reread my essay and find those three marks?”

Mr. Teddy stares back at you and says, “He’s a grumpy man. Don’t take it personally.”

You sit up, blinking and processing his reply.

“Teddy…you’re right. He is a grumpy man, a TA with broad shoulders, yummy arms, and thick thighs with a bubble butt, but a man nonetheless. If he won’t pull favours for me, student to student, maybe he’ll pull favours for me man to woman.”

The plushie falls to the bed as you stand, staring at yourself in the mirror and formulating a plan. 

With that you decide to seek him out the next day, sporting a new outfit and a different attitude.

.

.

.

“Hi.”

“Fuck off.”

The cafeteria’s busy. It always is. It’s loud enough that most people wouldn’t even hear the exchange — chairs banging on tile, trays clattering, someone laughing too loudly at a table nearby. 

Toji’s hunched slightly over a bowl of udon noodles, chopsticks moving lazily as he slurps them down. Some sports clip plays on his phone, propped against his dented metal water bottle. Commentators yell about something you don’t understand. His sleeves are pushed up over his forearms, revealing ropey muscle and the faint silvery line of an old scar running across his wrist.

An old hoodie hangs off his shoulders over a plain white T-shirt. Distressed jeans, worn sneakers. He’s too big for the plastic chair, long legs spread under the table. When he saw you approach, his feet had hooked onto the chair legs, forcing you to fight to remove it from his clutches so you could take a seat.

So damn rude.

His glasses have fogged slightly from the steam of the noodles.

He doesn’t look up. But he knows it’s you. You can tell by the way his mouth tightens for half a second before he goes back to eating.

You snatch his phone away. His green eyes flick up, annoyed. You smile, arms pushing your breasts together so they spill over your tight top. Toji’s gaze doesn’t waver. He continues to stare at you like you’re a pest. 

“You can’t take no for an answer?” he asks though it’s not a question at all. “Might want to retake the consent course.”

Manicured fingers walk up his bare forearm before scratching down from his elbow. His skin is warm. Light dusting of hair tickling your fingertips. “Oh, Toj, have I ever told you how handsome you are? Because you really are. You’re so damn hot I can hardly focus on the lectures.”

He snorts, still eating his noodles and still refusing to look at your cleavage. “That’ll explain why you’re missing marks.”

Jaw dropping, you force yourself to recover quickly. A heeled foot brushes against his calf, sliding his jeans up. You bat your lashes, sultrily saying, “The only thing I’m missing is your cock in me, big boy.”

Toji meets your eyes again. His scarred lips twitch. “I don’t need to tell you that was bad, do I?”

You cringe, foot dropping and whole body slumping back into the chair. “Yeah, I heard it as soon as I said it.” Then you sit up, handing him his phone, and asks, “Are the noodles good? I’ve never had them.”

Phone pocketed, he shrugs. “They’re just the cheapest deal on the menu. Growing girl like you should get something more filling.”

The menu’s extensive, and the only thing sticking out to you is the chicken burger and chicken tenders meal deal. It seems to be especially popular today but you’re not sure you can finish the whole thing. 

“Hey, if I get the Meal Super Cluck Blaster, will you share it with me? I’ve got dinner plans later so I don’t want to fill up.”

That finally gets a reaction. Toji leans back a little and gives you a slow once-over. Tight top. Lacy bra peeking up. Glossy lips. More jewellery than usual. His eyebrow lifts. “That why you’re dressed like a hooker?” he asks lazily. “Hot date?”

“Nah,” you reply, waving him off. “Wore this for yo— Wait.” You lean forward, staring at him wide eyed. “Are you jealous? Are you in love with me already? Because for extra marks, I’ll cancel my dinner plans and promise myself to you for all eternity.”

Toji rolls his eyes. “Go get something to eat; you sound insane.”

You hop up. “Okay, but stay there, alright? Take my burger because I only want the tenders. Oh, and will you share a pot of cheesecake with me? I’m lactose-intolerant but I really want cheesecake right now.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He’s still here when you come back. 

As soon as you hand him the wrapped up burger, he scarfs it down the way big men do, like they haven’t eaten in days. You push him the tenders too. You’d actually gotten a double serving of everything so you have your own portion of tenders and he gets to eat another burger. There’s no way a man his size could survive on udon noodles.

“Also, let’s not act like you didn’t leave me hanging outside the men’s bathroom yesterday,” you bring up after sipping your juice. “Can’t believe you left through the bathroom window just so you could get away from me.”

“I didn’t,” he says, mouth full and adjusting his glasses. 

You frown, dipping a piece of chicken in hot honey. “No, you definitely did. I peeked and there were no feet in any of the stalls. Unless you’re telling me you can grow invisible.”

“Just lifted my legs when I heard you come in, which I knew your crazy ass would do, so I could finally leave in peace. Didn’t think it’d take you fifteen minutes though.”

A laugh escapes you. “You were waiting me out? Does that sound like the mature thing to do? Jeez, you need to act your age.”

Toji’s eyes meet yours. Your smile falters for the briefest second. “I’m not that much older than you,” he reminds you. “Only by two years.”

“And yet you call me kid or kiddo,” you retort, clearing your throat. Have his eyes always been that green and deep? And is his voice usually that husky and masculine? Because you could have sworn guys your age don’t sound like that.

He shrugs again, second burger finished in a blink of an eye. “Never hurts to remind yourself.”

“Remind yourself what?”

The legs of his chair screech as he pushes it back. He stands, picking up his tray, and answers, “Forget about it. Enjoy your dinner plans. And I’m taking the cheesecake — no one wants a gassy date.”

“Wait,” you call out before he can turn away. “My marks?”

A pat on the head ruffles your hair. 

“Still a no, kid.”

.

.

.

“What if I suck your dick?”

Toji lifts his glasses to rub at his eyes. “I’ve got a ton of papers to grade for another class; I don’t have time for you.”

The door shuts behind you. His office is bare, not a single decoration littering the place, not a plant nor a picture. 

His office is exactly how you remember it — disappointingly, aggressively empty. The walls are a dull institutional beige that makes the overhead fluorescent light feel even harsher. No posters. No photos. Not even a sad little plant struggling for life in the corner.

Just a desk. A filing cabinet. Two chairs that look like they were stolen from a waiting room. It’s the kind of office someone occupies temporarily, like he expects to leave at any moment and doesn’t see the point in settling in.

Leaning against the desk anyway, your fingers drum lazily along the edge.

You’ve been here before: once to argue about a paper he’d shredded with red ink, once because you’d missed an exam and needed him to sign a form, and once because you’d sworn you heard him swearing loud enough to be heard halfway down the hallway.

You grip his shoulder, squeezing as you scan the fat stack of papers on his desk — the prof’s particular about handwritten essays. There’s so much to read through; you do not want to be him. 

“God,” you mutter, flipping through a few pages of the stack. “There’s like fifty here.”

“Seventy-two,” Toji corrects without looking up. His handwriting is sharp and aggressive, red ink slashing through entire paragraphs like he’s committing academic murder. You wince in sympathy for whoever wrote the paper currently being dismantled.

“Good thing you can multitask, can’t you? I’ll suck your dick under the desk, you grade papers, and you bump me up a grade. Easy.”

He shrugs you off, hulking body hunched over and pen scratching on the papers, leaving harsh circles and comments like, ‘what the hell does this mean?’ and ‘you can’t just say perchance.’ 

Toji gruffs, “I’m serious. Take your jokes elsewhere.”

Nah, you think to yourself. 

With a massive struggle against his weight, you yank his chair back, wheeling him a distance from the desk and clambering under before he can fill the space again. He makes some noise above you but you pay him no mind. Your hands rest on his meaty thighs through his sweatpants, marvelling at the density, at the strength you find in them. 

“You’re fucking ridiculous.” His foot nudges your knee. “Get the fuck out. I’ll cropdust you if I have to.”

You call his bluff by clutching his clothed cock. He jolts, grunting. Laughing softly, you muse, “You say all that but you have a semi already — did my proposition get you hard, Toji?”

You’re rubbing his hard on, trying not to get flustered by how big he feels, and how fat the girth is. Of course he’s big. In hindsight, you really shouldn’t have been so surprised; he’s a big man so naturally the proportions will match up. 

“Suck my dick, don’t suck my dick, it doesn’t matter,” he says, sighing and probably pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re not getting those marks.”

He thinks that’ll stave you off because he knows you’re whoring yourself out for a grade. What he doesn’t know is that your stupid little brain’s already forgotten about all of that the moment you felt his cock. Now all you can think about is how you’ll have to stretch your lips nice and wide to take him in, and even then, even when your throat is lax and loose, you won’t be able to take him to the base. 

Toji grunts again, peering down at you. “You mouthing at my dick? Did’ya not hear what I said?”

Like you’ve been possessed, you press kisses to where his tip is, humming around it. “I heard, but your dick’s saying other things to me, and I know which I prefer to listen to.”

“My dick’s not marking your paper, so get the fuck up,” he growls.

“Don’t wanna.”

“You’re fucking killing me here.”

A heavy hand bundles your hair up, pulling but you fight against it, hooking your fingers under the waistband and releasing him from the constraints. His boxers have a hole, and yet you only find it endearing. Freeing his cock so it bounces up and smacks your cheek, it leaves a wet mark on your skin. 

Tutting, he wipes away the wetness from your skin. 

Oh fuck, he really is big. 

With nothing between you and his dick, you can see him in all his glory in the partial shadow of under his desk — long, thick, flushed red, already shiny at the slit, veiny as hell, hairs at the base wild and unruly, with weighty balls to match. You’ve never seen anything better. 

Tongue out, you lick him from base to tip, prodding at his frenulum.

“Quit it,” he commands through gritted teeth. 

You moan wantonly, already addicted to the salt on his kin, to the texture of his veins, to the softness of his cockhead. “Toji, you’re so big. I don’t think this’ll fit inside me.”

The thing throbs, bobbing. A droplet oozes out and you quickly lick it up. The hand that was pulling your hair has grown slack, simply resting on the back of your head, keeping you from bumping the wood. 

Voice hoarse, he mutters, “If anyone can make it fit, it’ll be your stubborn ass.”

Your eyes meet his from under the desk, mischief sparkling in them you’re sure. His cock throbs again. “I thought you had papers to mark, Fushiguro. Maybe you should get on that, no?”

A calloused thumb presses down on your lips, shushing you. It slides down, bringing your bottom lip down with it, before releasing it so it’ll bounce back in place. That same thumb holds your jaw open, hand guiding your mouth to his tip. You know what he wants. You also know that he knows that you both know that you won this time. 

Wide as you can, you take as much of his length as possible. You don’t get much further than a third of the way, full beyond belief and overwhelmed by just how much of him there still is. Your nails dig into his thighs.

“If this is supposed to convince me to give you extra marks, then you’re failing real hard, doll,” he notes, gripping the base. “Can barely fit the head, can you?”

He’s acting like it’s your fault he’s so big. 

Challenged, you loosen your throat to take him an inch deeper. You gag around the length. Toji curses under his breath. “Careful,” he mutters. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

You ignore him in favour of shallowly bobbing, sucking and licking what you can, as though he’s a lollipop. It’s actually kinda fun.

The familiar sound of pen scratching on paper and paper rubbing on paper echoes in the relatively quiet office. Only the wet sounds of your mouth sucking his cockhead pierces the silence. 

Growing more and more used to his size, you flick your tongue around the head, letting your hands wrap around the rest of him, squeezing and tugging in time with your mouth. Occasionally, he makes a couple breathy noises — low grunts when your tongue laps up his tip, gravelly groans when you hollow your cheek to suck, and rough exhales through his nose when you grip his balls, massaging them, thumb rubbing the seam. 

It becomes easier to forget why you were here in the first place; you’re just blowing him for your own entertainment now, wanting something to occupy your throat. 

Then, he asks, as though he’s making casual conversation, “How was the date?”

“Hmm?”

Toji rolls his eyes. “The date,” he repeats. “How was it? He pay for the meal? Open doors, see you to your door, kiss you goodnight and shit?”

Your lips stretch into a smile. You release him with a pop! “I didn’t go on a date,” you tell him. “My friends hosted a housewarming party because they moved in together. I had a great time, thanks for asking.”

Is he pleased? Unaffected? Genuinely just making conversation? Hard to tell, except for the pushing of his hand, urging you back to his dick, and taking him further inside your throat, till his tip bumps the back of the gummy walls. 

“Good,” he exhales out, thighs flexing around your body. “That’s real good.”

“My blowjob skills or that I had a great time?” you ask, words muffled and barely understandable.

“Both,” he answers. “Both, doll.”

A knock on the door has you both stiffening. Toji glares down at you and whispers, “It’s the prof. Do not make a sound.”

He didn’t need to tell you that — you’re well aware that if you get caught, you’ll both face disciplinary action, and will likely be kicked out of the university. That’s worse than not getting the internship. 

The office falls quiet so suddenly you can hear the ticking of the wall clock. Toji’s hand tightens briefly against the desk as the knock comes again. “Come in,” he calls, voice steady.

The door opens before he even finishes the word.

“Ah, Fushiguro, there you are,” the professor says, stepping inside with a stack of papers tucked under one arm. “I wasn’t sure if you’d left already.”

From your position under the desk, you can only see shoes. Polished leather. Slow steps across the floor. You don’t slide his cock out of your throat, lest it makes a sloppy noise that’ll give you both away. So you breathe through your nose, being very, very quiet.

“No, I was just finishing up some grading,” Toji replies, cool as a cucumber.

His tone is annoyingly normal. Completely unbothered. He’s really convincing. Has he done this before? Is this a normal occurrence? Do a lot of girls offer to blow him for better marks, and does he take them up on it? Are you the one exception to his generosity? 

“Good, good.” Papers shuffle. A chair creaks as the professor sits across from the desk. “I actually wanted to ask about the research methods essays.”

Of course he did.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Toji shifts slightly above you — just enough that the movement brushes your shoulder — and then he leans back in his chair. “Yeah?” he says.

“I noticed something odd in the submissions this year,” the professor continues. “Half the class seems to misunderstand the section on sampling bias.”

He hums thoughtfully. “You mean where they’re supposed to explain the limitations of convenience sampling?”

“Exactly.”

A sheet of paper slides across the desk.

“You see this one here—”

From below, you hear Toji pick it up.

“—they describe the method correctly, but their conclusion contradicts their own analysis.”

There’s a pause whilst the TA reads. You stare at the underside of the desk and try not to shift your knees. God, this is like torture. Having a cock lodged in your throat and not being able to do anything with it is hell. Above the desk, they’re chatting away, talking about your fellow students, with the professor none the wiser that one such student’s under the desk. 

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “They’re treating correlation like it proves causation.”

“Precisely!” the professor says, sounding delighted. “It’s surprisingly common.” Another pause. You hear a pen tap the desk twice. “I was thinking next year we might restructure the lecture slightly,” the professor continues. “Maybe introduce a short case study before the assignment.”

“Could work,” Toji replies. “Give them something concrete, tangible, to analyse.”

Your legs are starting to cramp. Your lips tighten around his hot cock. Toji brushes your hair back from your face, a quiet act to show he hasn’t forgotten about you. The professor keeps talking, completely unaware.

“Also,” he says, shuffling more papers, “the literature review sections were stronger this year.”

“Mm.”

“I suspect the workshop helped.”

Toji lets out a quiet huff that might be agreement.

“You handled that well, by the way,” the professor adds. “The students seem to respond to your feedback.”

This is way too boring, you decide. In an act you might end up regretting for the rest of your life, your offended tongue prods his tip where he’s still leaking salty precum. 

He grunts, knee crashing up on the wood. 

The professor asks him if he’s alright, and Toji replies, “Fine. Sorry. Just had a cramp.”

A triumphant smile pulls at your lips, which is quickly wiped away by the sudden pinch at your cheek. You wince, unable to smack him in retaliation. 

A sigh fills the room. “I fear you work too hard, Fushiguro. You ought to take a break here and there. Do something fun and wild, or whatever it is people your age do nowadays.”

“I am having fun,” Toji says, hand coming back to rest on your head, growing heavier and heavier until you’re forced to take him inside your mouth, deeper and deeper. “In my own way.”

He’s filling you up more than he was before, now more insistent, no longer so passive. You’re struggling to take him but he’s not letting up. Fuck, you’re soaked between the legs. Who knew you had an oral fixation?

“Well, good,” the professor says. He pushes his chair back. Your heart jumps in joy. “I won’t keep you any longer, I know those papers won’t mark themselves. Boy do I not envy you.” He laughs. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“You too, Professor.”

Footsteps move toward the door. The handle turns. The door opens. Closes. Silence. Two seconds pass.

Then Toji peers down, licking his scarred lips, and mutters under his breath, “You needy fucking girl. Couldn’t wait, could you? Couldn’t resist not being a pain my fucking ass. If you want cock so badly, then here you go.”

His hips thrust up, hand keeping you in place. Your eyes fly open, throat stretching to take all of him in. Oh, he was as pent up, as frustrated, as you were. The force in which he’s rutting inside your throat displays that nice and clear. 

“You’ll do anything for a good grade, won’t you? Even debase yourself like this. God, you drive me crazy.”

You gag around his cock but he doesn’t pay any mind to that. No, Toji’s just rutting inside your mouth over and over again, grunting louder and louder now. 

Meanwhile, your hand seeks out the heat between your legs. You grind against the heel of your palm, moaning around his length. The vibration has his balls tightening up.

“Fuck!”

Hot cum bursts inside, coating the walls of your throat and your tongue. 

Toji leans back in his chair, which creaks. You pull him out, coughing at the salty burn. Damn, even his loads are big. It’s like a cream puff exploded inside your mouth. 

Hands carry you up, sitting you on his thigh. One rubs your back in circles, the other wipes away the tears at your eyes, licking at the wetness he’s collected on his thumb. “You good, kid?” he asks, brows furrowed. 

“Yeah,” you respond, voice hoarse and not fooling anyone. “I’m good.”

You take a sip of his water from his water bottle, not caring about the fact that you’re drinking from where he had been, and if he cared that your mouth which had been sucking on his dick and cum is on his cup, he didn’t say.

He sighs, tucking himself back in and says, “Come by my place tonight. Hand me your essay again and I’ll reread it. But I’m not making any promises about finding extra marks, alright? It’s just a second chance, and the only one you’ll get.”

Dopily, you smile at him. “Throat game that good, huh?”

His lips twitch. He shoves you away, smacking your ass as you walk away.

“I’ll text you the time and place. Don’t be late.”

Nodding, you head for the door, not leaving however till you ask, “Should I wear matching underwear, or is this a strictly keep your clothes on meeting?”

“Fuck off before I regret it.”

“Lacy thong it is!”

.

.

.

“Should I spread my legs now or do you want me to fluff you first?”

Toji’s deadpan face meets you when he opens the door. He sighs as though he’s regretting this already. Regardless, he lets you in. 

You can tell he showered recently — there’s the scent of cheap soap lingering on his skin and his hair is still a little damp. 

His apartment is nice and clean, which surprises you somewhat. Most guys your age tend to be messy. But you should have known the TA would be neat and organised. 

“I’m serious,” you begin, snuggling up to his side and batting your lashes up at him, “what position do you want me? I’m not the most flexible but I’m not too bad.”

Shaking you off, he pushes you in the direction of the living room where the coffee table is covered with carefully laid out papers he no doubt carried from campus to continue working on. “Go sit down, you horny gremlin. Make some room for your essay and let’s get this over with.”

You do as he says, folding your legs so you can sit by the coffee table on the rug. You take the essay out of your bag, shoving all the others to the side. With a frown, you ask, “So we’re really not fucking?”

He folds himself down too, sitting beside you, knee brushing yours. “I don’t solicit sex in exchange for academic favours. Dunno why you’re so surprised by that — can’t recall having done anything to make you think otherwise.”

“Well, you did give in after I blew you, so…”

“I was gonna offer before you did all that,” he informs you, snorting. “Just never promised to give you the marks.”

Toji adjusts his glasses, taking your papers and starting his reassessment of it. His lips purses, brows furrows, and he stares at the thing like it could tell him the answers to the universe. That or it’s so bad he just can’t fathom what you were thinking. 

“Second paragraph, third line, why the hell is it so convoluted?” he asks, voice returning to that grumpy tone you’re more than familiar with now.

It’s the latter, it would seem. He really meant business. You shaved and everything for nothing. What a shame. 

Leaning over, you rest your head on his big bicep, and, with a pout, reply, “I thought it sounded smart; I was pretty proud of that line actually.”

“No, doll,” Toji says, sighing. “The simpler the better. Don’t purposefully complicate your syntax. Only do what’s necessary to get the point across. If I, an expert in this topic, can barely understand what you mean, how is the ordinary person supposed to?”

“Yeah, okay. Simple is better, I get it.”

He continues reading, red pen in hand and making annotations as he goes. Meanwhile, you’re worming your way into his lap: one hand resting on his thigh at first, then a leg thrown over his. He notices what you’re doing — there’s no way he doesn’t know — but he doesn’t put up a fight. Eventually, you’re sitting in his lap, his chin resting on your head, and his arms caging you in. 

Toji’s warm. He’s comfy to rest on despite all the muscles. Closer now, his soapy scent envelops you. It goes straight to your head. You find yourself squirming. 

“Keep still,” he reprimands, underlining a phrase twice for emphasis. “You can’t just use jargon if you’re not going to explain it. It’s bad practice.”

“Got it.” Fiddling with his spare hand, running your fingers down his and over his palm, you ask, “Are academics supposed to have calluses?”

“They bother you or something?”

“No, not at all. I’m just curious.”

He hums. “I do odd jobs here and there, some more manual than others so yeah I built up some calluses.” Without missing a beat, he pivots the topic. “Tell me again what the difference is between compliment and complement.”

You bring that hand up to your breast, imploring him to grope your tits as you reply, “With an I is to praise someone or something, and with an e is to say something matches well with another.”

A moan escapes your lips when he squeezes in approval. Toji mutters, “Good girl. Guess you do listen to me.” Thumb brushing your hardened nipple through the thin material of your top, you squirm in his lap. His lips move against the top of your head. “No bra?”

“I figured you were going to take it off me anyway so I didn’t bother,” you say, still pressing his hand to your tit, riding the motions of every grope and flick of your nipple. 

Another hum. 

Slowly, you guide that hand down lower. He must know what you’re doing, where you want it to end up, but he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t reprimand or put up any resistance; he’s curious to see how far you’re willing to go. And you’re curious to see how much restraint he has, how long he can hold out before his façade of nonchalance breaks and he’s fucking up inside you.

You tease yourself, and him, first — his fingers, with your guidance, tease your bare thighs, following the hem of your tight skirt. Growing breathless, you ask, “What kind of odd jobs do you do?”

Toji’s calluses tickle the sensitive skin in your inner thighs just right. He’s still marking your paper, occasionally fact-checking your ideas and his theories in a textbook on the table. Amused, he retorts, “You curious about me, doll?”

“Hmm, I want to know exactly whose cock will be stretching me out in a minute.”

He snorts, patting your clothed pussy. You jolt with every impact. “I tutor on the side. Fix up some cars in the garage in town. I’m a physical trainer for three clients at the local gym too. And when I’m low on money, I sell risqué pictures of myself. That disgust you?”

All while he answers, Toji’s blunt nails scrape your slit through your panties. He’s not applying much pressure at all, if any, and yet every skim, every travel up and down has goosebumps rising on your skin.

“N-no,” you answer quickly. “I think that’s really cool. If I had a body like yours, I’d take pictures all the time too.”

His laughter rumbles in his chest. An odd sense of pride warms your own. He says, “Your body’s more than good enough to sell too, you know. Don’t act like you don’t know guys give you double takes all the time, or that your ass could stop traffic.”

Giggling, you lean back, gazing up at him with a smile. “Do you stare at my ass sometimes, Toji?”

God, you’re soaked. You can tell, though you’re not embarrassed whatsoever. If anything, you’re just itching for him to pull your panties to the side and touch you skin to skin, to plunge inside your pussy and make a mess out of you.

“Tell me where you can, and should, insert a semi-colon in paragraph six, and I’ll give you an honest answer.” 

He nudges you with his chin. “Go on. Quit thinking with your pussy and give me the right answer.” A little aggrieved, you sit up straight, holding his wrist to keep his hand between your legs. Your eyes scan the section. Tentatively, you point to a full stop on the second line. Toji shakes his head and smacks your clothed pussy again. “Try again, and don’t guess.”

“Here,” you snarl, feeling way past pent up. “Now give me my reward.”

Toji huffs. “Semi-colons help for varying sentence structures. It’s in the little ways you can convey your points compellingly. Don’t underutilise the right punctuations.”

“Yeah, yeah, smarty pants. Rub my clit and answer my question already.”

Cool air brushes against your swollen, glistening lips. You sigh when his warm hand covers the entire slit barely a second later. His middle fingers are instantly coated in your wetness. He groans. “Fuck, doll, you’re dripping.” Toji doesn’t give you a moment to respond to that; his fingers rub at your throbbing clit in tight circles, drawing it out of his hood. You moan, back arching. 

Finally, he answers, “I stare at your ass all the fucking time after I glare at the losers whose eyes wander from their laptop screens . I’m a big, fucking hypocrite — that what you wanna hear?”

“Fuck yes!”

Rustling of paper reaches your ears. Then two hands are on you: one furiously rubbing the bundle of nerves and the other gripping your throat. He squeezes threateningly. Your vision spots, jaw dropping. “Look at you, all desperate to have my cock inside you. And for what? For a couple marks? You’re not ashamed?”

Your ass is grinding back on his boner, sandwiching the hard thing between your cheeks as your own answer. How could you be ashamed when he wants you so bad too?

“I’m horny! Are you gonna fuck me or not?”

In a split second, you find your world spinning. Your back falls on something hard. You’re staring up at the ceiling, papers scattered beneath you. Rough hands tug you down by your thighs. When you peer down, Toji’s staring up at you from between your lips.

“Yeah, I’m fucking you. You already knew I was gonna. You gonna let me taste your pussy first?” A challenging brow quirks up, like he’s waiting for you to push him away. 

Instead, your legs hook over his shoulders, ankles crossed. You grin at him.

Panties pulled to the side, his fingers spread your pussy for him. Those eyes scan every inch. He releases a shaky breath, cheeks flushed and Adam’s apple bobbing. “Even your pussy’s pretty. Fucking gorgeous.” Running a hand through his hair, he says, “You’re always such a pain, aren’t you?”

“I can’t help that every part of me’s pretty,” you reply, twirling your hair.

“Shut up and play with your tits — I like a show with my dinner.” Toji spits a fat dollop right on your clit. It slides down your slit but before it can disappear in the crevice of your ass, his tongue is collecting it and shoving it inside your cunt. 

You gasp. “Fuck, Toji!”

In spite of his aggressive tone, you pull down your top, letting your tits bounce out. Those eyes follow every jiggle. “Good girl,” he rasps. “Squeeze them for me nice and hard. Good. Real fucking good.”

His glasses are foggy now with your own humidity, rattling with every movement. He’s eating your pussy out like he’s starved, like he’s never tasted anything better, like he’s going to make sure not a single trace of you can be found in his apartment after he’s done with you. 

Growling, he spread your thighs wider. “Course you’ve got a sweet pussy,” he says, brows furrowing in what appears to be anger. “Course it’s sweeter than that fucking cheesecake. Course I’ll be craving you till I die.”

Fingers tangle in his hair, tugging for purchase. “Ngh, Toji, my clit…suck my clit!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Those scarred lips, the very ones you’ve stared at more times than you can count, wrap around your clit, sucking hard the way you did when you were blowing him under the desk. Electricity sparks inside, sending tremors up from your lower belly to your tits to the very tips of your fingers. “Oh fuck, that’s so good.”

Filthy squelches are being wrung out of you, and you know he’s doing it on purpose, addicted to how responsive your body is to him.

Two fingers worm their way through your pulsing hole, basking in the rough textures of your entrance, stretching your gummy walls on their way to curling against that spot that has you oozing more cum out. 

“You’re fucking tight,” he hisses. “You’re gonna struggle taking all of me later.” Then he barks a laugh, spare hand pressing down on your belly where the pressure builds up. Your toes curl. “A better man would take pity on you, go slow or wait another day, but I’ve already had my tongue inside your cunt so I’ll spare you the gentleman act.”

More fingers shove in, ignoring the screech that you let out. You’ve never had more than two and yet all four of his thicker, longer fingers are inside pushing your walls to their very limits. 

Despite that, he remarks, entertained by the shock on your face which he studies through his glasses, “Suck it up, buttercup — my cock’s thicker than this, you know that.”

You do. 

It’s all you’ve been thinking about all day. Hours after, your jaw’s still stretched out, sore and creaking after the workout you put it through. The thought of having something even thicker, longer than his four fingers has you growing dizzy, head handing over the coffee table.

“Yeah, my cock can’t wait to feel you too,” Toji says, not to you but to your pussy which is squelching lewdly and loudly. “Had to resist jerking my dick raw all day so you better make it good for me.”

Is it seconds later, or minutes, maybe hours, when you cum?

How ever long it is no one can deny it’s the strongest orgasm of your life. 

Your entire body trembles, spasming beyond control. Are you screaming or silently moaning? Are your eyes shut or have you gone blind? And is he still pistoning his fingers inside you, damn near pushing all of his hand in? 

“Stop,” you cry out. “No more, please!”

Mercifully, he yanks his hand out. Unfortunately, it leaves you feeling so empty you immediately crave the feeling of his hand gripping you from inside. 

Lips and chin glistening, he kisses both inner thighs, which tremble. 

Toji gathers you with one arm, showing off his strength as he carries you off the table and to the glass door which leads out to the balcony. It’s dark out and all you can see are the lights of people’s rooms in the apartment across. There are families lounging, dogs sleeping, TV’s blaring. 

Behind you, you hear the rustling of his shirt as he throws it off carelessly. Bare skin grazes your own soon after his hands make quick work of the clothes you’re still wearing. In a flash, you’re naked. He bends down to pick up your fallen panties, inhaling the gusset deeply. Your legs cross tightly at the deeply satisfied groan he lets out. 

“Next office hour,” he starts, lazily spreading your pussy lips and smearing your juices around so he can listen to the squelches and keep your squirming, “you better leave your panties with me. Consider it payment.”

You laugh. “Sure.”

Groggily, you try to keep your head up, wondering what you’re doing by the window, still a little out of it. A hand clutches your jaw, aiding you. 

“I’m gonna fuck you against this window,” he announces, leaving no room for arguments. “You want those extra marks? Then you’re gonna be a good girl and take my cock like a champ.”

Ass gyrating back against the hot, heavy thing still confined in sweatpants, you wonder, “Do you have an exhibitionism kink?”

He lets go of you. You have to catch yourself by pressing your palms to the cold glass. Toji drags your hips back, foot kicking your legs apart. His cock plops onto your ass, scalding. “No, I have a ‘get my time’s worth from shameless women who waste my time with demands for better grades by humiliating them’ kink.”

“Sounds long. We should get that shortened,” you drawl.

His cockhead slides through your pussy, coating itself in your wetness. The fat thing bumps against your clit. You shudder. 

Satisfied with your natural lubrication, he prods your entrance. “Yeah, we should. Let’s call it, Shut The Fuck Up And Take It.”

Then he enters you in one go.

You scream.

The window fogs up with your breath. Your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

You’re taking so much of his length so quickly that it should be painful. Despite that, there’s not an ounce of pain, not one you didn’t like at least — only the overwhelming pleasure of being filled up is resonating. 

Toji grunts. “Almost had to fist this cunt and you’re -hah fuck- still too tight.”

Pummelling his cock in, his hips don’t pause for a second. You gasp for breath, palms slipping and sliding on the condensation that’s built up on the glass. It’s like you can feel him in your lungs, so impossibly deep, so hot, so intimidating. 

“God, it should be a crime to have a body like this,” he says, hands groping every part of your flesh he can reach. He slaps your ass to watch it jiggle for him. He’s an ass man, that much is clear.

The force of his thrusting has you pushed closer to the glass, so close now that almost your entire front is flush with the surface. The coldness grazes your nipples. You moan. 

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

He tugs you back to him, body sliding down the glass till your ass is jutted out. Toji carries your hips up so you can reach him, but it means your toes are only brushing the floor. You cling to the glass door as much as you can. Through the glossy haze, you see the marks you left on the glass, from the oils and sweat on your skin. You see the outline of your tits, all round and fat, the handprints you left and the smearing of them all over the place because you couldn’t grapple with one position to have them in. 

Are people watching? Are you flashing a poor old man, are you reigniting a sexual appetite in a pitiful divorcee, making a housewife jealous, creating fantasies for some guy your age? Are people rubbing one out to the flashes of ecstasy on your face, to the swaying of your tits, to the rippling of your ass?

Toji’s fingers creep under you, furiously teasing your clit. You whine. “I think I’m gonna cum again.”

“Go on, gorgeous,” he rasps. “Lemme feel you cum around my cock. Make my dreams come true.”

Two fingers gather the cream that’s formed a ring at his base. He draws three letters on the glass for you to stare at. It spells out c u m.

God, he’s dirty.

Another orgasm ripples through you. Your thighs shake. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Toji!”

He growls out, hands tightening their grip on your hips, threatening to bruise, “Shit, you’re gonna make me cum early.”

Without waiting for you to come down from your high, he flips you around. Your back thuds against the door. His cock reenters you in a clean, easy slide, cunt beyond soaked and stretched out. Your arms and legs wrap around him. 

Those glasses of him have fogged up so thickly now that they fail to serve their purpose. Toji takes it off with one hand, sliding it onto your head, like a headband keeping your face clear of your hair. “Don’t let them fall,” he orders. “They break and you won’t be getting that internship.”

And his lips?

They smack against yours.

He kisses you, all tongue and teeth and drool dripping down chins, like he’s been waiting weeks, months, perhaps years to do that. And you kiss him back just the same. 

Inside you, his cock throbs. Toji’s hips swing back and forth, pelvis grinding on yours, rubbing your clit and wringing our more obscene squeeeelches. 

“Oh god, I’m so full, Toji. You’re so fucking big.”

“You’re -hngh- t-taking me so well,” he praises, littering sloppy kisses all over your face and neck all while he pinches and rolls your nipples. “Moaning so adorably, all pretty and finally keeping this mouth quiet of smartass comments. You should be like this all the time.”

The rocking of his cock inside you is even better like this. The closeness, the warmth, the taste of him — you wonder why you waited so long to do this. 

Tits squashed to his chest, your nipples scrape his skin, slipping and sliding with the sweat beading down your bodies. The hard planes of his chest feel magnificent. Nothing about his muscles are for vanity only, and the knowledge of the strength he’s holding back has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

“You’d miss my smartass comments,” you tell him, head thrown back and hips working their way down on his cock of their own volition.

Toji groans against your neck, licking droplets of sweat. “Yeah, maybe. I definitely wouldn’t miss your spelling errors though.”

Smiling, you tug his head up by his hair, and bite his bottom lip. You pull and let go so it’ll snap back into place like he’d done with your lip when you were under his desk. “Maybe if you taught me like this, I wouldn’t -hah- make so m-many mistakes— deeper, Toji! Fuck me deeper.”

His hips plough deeper inside, like you wanted, hitting that spot inside you till you’re sure it’ll be bruised in the morning. Moans after moans are fucked out of you; his neighbours will give him an earful tomorrow, you’re certain. 

“Book more office hours just to see me and not because you want something from me, then we can see if I can fuck your stupidity out of you,” he retorts. 

You peck his lips. “Aw, does poor, needy Toji want me to give him more attention? Does he miss me when I’m not there? What a cute little baby.”

“Yeah, he does, actually,” he says, smirking. “That a problem?”

“It will be if you don’t make me cum.”

Toji reminds you, “You’ve been cumming around my cock this entire time; you still want more? Greedy girl.”

He pulls away from the window, stalking over to the sofa instead. Each step burrows him deeper inside you, kissing your cervix and pushing out gasps from your lips, all of which he swallows. 

Carelessly, he throws you on the sofa. You bounce with an oomph!

Ankles held by one hand, he keeps your legs upright, hips lifted up to meet his. Toji presses a kiss to your ankle bone before he pushes his cock back inside. Your back arches with a mewl. Like this, his huge body becomes even more glaring — he’s casting a shadow over you, completely dwarfing you, reminding you how easily he could break you, how he could take whatever he wants from you. 

Every time he buries himself to the hilt, a bulge pops through your tummy, right under your belly button. 

“Look at that,” he mutters, brushing a thumb over it. You whine. “Feel me deep inside you? You’ll be feeling me inside for days, won’t you? Once it starts to fade, you can always come back for another fill, you know.”

“Promise?” you ask, grinning ear to ear. 

Toji pulls out, leaving just his tip before he slams back in, jostling you down on the sofa. His abs contract, cock throbbing at the sudden clenching of your walls around him. “Fuck, yes, doll. Promise. I fucking promise.”

His glasses have slid off, rattling somewhere on the sofa with the impact of every thrust. He doesn’t seem to care about them anymore. You’re nearing another orgasm, head whipping around at the intensity of the pressure building in your core. He’s bullying his cock relentlessly in your cunt, chasing after his own high and sending you to yours. 

When your eyes clash with his piercing, green ones, unobstructed by his glasses, you explode with a scream. 

“F-fuck,” he grunts, following soon after. 

Searing cum spurts inside you, cock pulsing, cum painting your walls. His thumb rubs your clit, aiding you through your orgasm. Your moans are vibrating against the walls, definitely disturbing his neighbours, but so are his groans. 

He slumps over, rolling the two of you on the sofa so you’re resting naked on his heated body, his heavy arm preventing you from falling off. Your pussy’s sore, a mix of your cum and his dribbling out and creating a sticky mess on your inner thighs. 

Absentmindedly, as you both catch your breath, he rubs your back. You draw shapes and letters on his chest. Toji combs his hair off of his forehead, chest rising up and down with his breathing. The dirty marks you two left are still on the glass, though it’s no longer foggy. 

Reaching up above him, he gracefully finds his glasses, sliding them on his face. You like him with and without them. 

“So,” you begin, “about those extra marks.”

Toji lifts his glasses up to rub a hand down his face. “Jesus, yes, you’ll get the marks.”

“Thanks!” you chirp. 

“God, you’re a pain in the ass.”

.

.

.

“Fuck, Toji,” you moan. “I already came three times. It’s too -hic- too much.”

Your TA ruts his cock inside you, face buried in the crook of your neck. His glasses are on your nose bridge, blurring your vision; he gets so frustrated when the thing gets in the way of kissing you or eating you out.

“Shut up,” he rasps, hand pressing down on your lower belly so you can feel him even more. “You’re the one who dragged me here. Take every orgasm I give you and be grateful.”

That’s true — you were supposed to have an office hour with him, which is really an excuse to see your boyfriend before you have to attend the internship induction session, but then you took one look at him and his amazing body and started soaking through your panties so here you two are.

Oh yes, you did say boyfriend.

After he blew your mind out, you’d been visiting his apartment after classes so often, you were practically living there, and he didn’t mind. It started out casual, but after realising you two would go grocery shopping, watch movies together, and text each other practically every day, you decided to just seal the deal and make it official. 

In short, he fucks good, and he can tolerate your personality, so you two stuck together. 

A month in, neither of you are really regretting it. At least, if his desperate thrusting and sloppy kisses to your neck’s anything to go by. 

“Missed you so much, Toji,” you whine, hips fucking back into him.

Toji groans, hand groping your tit from under your shit. “Yeah, baby?”

“Mmm.”

“Missed you too,” he confesses, licking a stripe up your neck and scraping his teeth down. Goosebumps rise on your arms. “Been wanting to see you all morning.”

You giggle, holding onto the stall for purchase and so his thrusting won’t make you smack face first onto the door. “You’re so cute w-when you’re needy.”

“Fuck off,” he says with no real heat to his words. 

In the near distance, the door to the men’s toilets opens with a dull metallic creak, the sound echoing faintly off the tiled walls. Feet pad in—slow, unhurried. The steady rhythm of someone who expects the place to be empty.

“Fushiguro?” a voice calls out. “You in here?”

The two of you go very, very still. Toji’s entire body stiffens behind you, muscles locking. His hand clamps firmly over your mouth for extra measure, warm palm pressing tight enough that you can feel the tension in his fingers.

Your heart slams against your ribs, loud enough that you’re half convinced it might echo under the stall. What the hell is the professor doing here?

“Susan told me she saw you walk in this direction. You got a minute?”

Toji releases a tense breath through his nose, annoyed at the interruption but left with no choice but to answer. He lifts you up so your feet hang over the floor and won’t be seen by the outsider. “Yeah, prof. But I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

The professor laughs. “Yes, yes, I’m sure. I do apologise for interrupting you. I was just locked out of my account and can’t send emails for the next hour. You know how terrible I am with technology.” He enters the stall next door. He unzips his pants. You cringe. “I only wanted to ask if you’re prepared to host the internship induction later.”

You go still, this time for a different reason. 

Your boyfriend releases your mouth. Fingers creep over to between your legs, where you’re still connected to him, where he’s still throbbing inside you. He slowly rubs your clit, keeping you from squirming in complaint with his strong arms. Toji responds, “Yeah, got all my notes ready.”

The bastard’s trying to distract you…

“Ah good, good,” the older man joyfully responds. His stream hits the water, and you fight the urge to face palm. “I had a look over the plans and the schedule. Very well organised, I must say. The competition was fierce, which is a testament to the success of the event, so props to you.”

Do men hold conversation so casually in the toilets?

Toji carefully begins moving in slow and shallow thrusts, prodding your g-spot over and over with his fat cockhead. You bite your lips to keep from moaning. Your nails dig into his thick arm. He ignores you. 

“Don’t mention it, Professor.”

The man zips himself back up and flushes, exiting the stall. Outside, the tap runs, and you’re both still as quiet as rocks, afraid that any sudden movement will out you both as sexual deviants. 

He adds, “Oh, and thank you for handling the applications for me; you know I hate all that paperwork nonsense.” 

Your jaw drops. 

Beyond tense, Toji replies like he’s aware of the weight every word exchange carries, “I do what I can do to help out.” 

“I couldn’t do what I do without you,” the professor continues, sincere and ignorant to the fact that you’re there. The rustling of paper towels echoes. “Well, I’ll see you later. Apologies again for interrupting.” 

The exit door swings open and you relax, but then his voice fills the space again. 

“Do say hello to your pretty, little girlfriend for me.” 

Your heart? 

Drops to the fucking floor.

Toji’s grip on you tightens just slightly, barely noticeable unless you’re pressed this close to him.

Your mind races. Did he see you come in? Did someone tell him? Did Susan, whoever the hell she is—

Toji speaks before you can spiral further, his tone sharper now, suspicion threading through it. “What do you mean, Professor?”

“Oh, you know, the girl you’ve been eyeing for a while now — she’s on the internship, yes?” Then he laughs the kind of laughter old men do, all paternal and wise. “Don’t worry, son, I’m not accusing you of pulling strings; I know she’s a very intelligent young woman. Ambitious too. Almost as ambitious as you. I hope you two work something out.”

Your heart slows its beating but you’re not any less tense. 

Sighing, Toji responds, “I’ll let you know if we do.”

“Yes, yes,” the professor says before he leaves for good. 

Finally, it’s just you two in the men’s toilets again. The silence and emptiness is maddeningly relieving. Although, you’re seething, practically vibrating with accusations and anger.  

Toji lets you down. Your feet touch the ground again. You pull him out, whirling on him with a disbelieving glare. You snatch his glasses off your face with one hand and smack his chest with the other. The man doesn’t budge.

“You sneaky piece of shit!”

He gathers both of your wrists with one hand, rolling his eyes. Toji takes his glasses from you and slides it on his face. Seeing you clearer now, he guides his cock back to your pussy, re-entering with ease. You moan, allowing him to hike your leg over his hip so he can press in deeper.

Kissing your lips, he mutters against your lips, “I did what I had to to get your attention. Sue me.”

“God, you’re the worst,” you breathe out, chest jutting out to his, nipples aching and clit throbbing. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, “I’m the big, bad wolf, and you’re creaming all over my dick right now. Let’s not act like you got the short end of the stick here.”

“Master manipulator,” you hiss, kissing him back, fingers tangling in his hair as soon he lets go of your wrists to grope your tit and ass.

“Whore,” he fires back.

Then the two of you smile, clutching each other tightly as you both rock into each other, nearing your mutual orgasm and riding the pleasure growing in your bodies. Fuck, he feels so good.

“We’re gonna be together forever and ever, aren’t we?” you ask.

Toji’s scar brushes your forehead with his kiss. 

“That’s the plan.”

Disclaimers:

♤ COMPLETED

♤ Available on AO3 but is currently three chapters behind.

♤ This is a mix of fluff, smut and angst, so minors/ageless blogs do not interact.

♤ Any comments hating on the reader in this story will be deleted and the user will be blocked. The story plays on the mean girl trope so you will see mean girl behaviour. Just know this is all intentional. If you are sensitive to a flawed female character, do not read. I know what some of you are like. I have played these games before.

♤ This is a college au separate from my EdenU au. Different Gojo and university setting altogether. Any semblance is coincidental.

♤ Every part of this is of my own work. No AI or external inspiration was used. Please do not repost this on Tumblr or on any other platform without credits. I do not give permission for this to be translated. And please do not feed my work into AI.

Now, you’re stuck in a games cafe with a circular table of his so-called friends — campus’ outcasts and society’s future pioneers, you’re sure — staring at you. 

Actually, the whole cafe’s staring at you, which isn’t a surprise at all; you’re dressed in a tight dress that barely covers your ass under a tiny fur coat that does nothing against the chill of the night, and stilettos. There’s probably more glitter on your nails alone than they expected to ever see in their lives, much less on a Thursday night in this part of town. 

“Is there a problem, freaks?”

At your sharp tone and scowl, people quickly turn back to their board games and pick up conversation.

Your ‘boyfriend’ laughs at that. He rubs your shoulder. “People really do stare too much, don’t they?”

Excitedly, Satoru steers you to his friends’ table, introducing your name before saying, “And these are my best buddies: Haibara, Ijichi, Yuji, and Inumaki!”

They all wave at you, all but Inumaki smiling, his face half-covered by his loose turtleneck sweater. 

This is probably the first time they’ve ever spoken to a woman, much less a woman as hot as you. You should put on the Nice Girl act again, even if it kills a part of you, you decide. So, with a smile — the kind that makes your nose scrunch in a cute way that no guy could defend against — you purr, “Pleasure to meet you boys. Please take care of me.”

“Nice to meet you!” The guy you just learnt is called Yuji chirps. “We were wondering who Satoru was bringing, we didn’t know it’d be the girl from the library.”

Hands collide when you reach for your chair at the same time Satoru pulls it out for you. You give him a look before sliding into your seat. You turn your attention back to Yuji. “You remember me?”

He nods enthusiastically. “Of course! You’re hard to miss.”

“That’s right,” Haibara pipes up, as enthusiastic as his pink-haired friend. “I can’t believe Gojo actually took an interest in girls.”

Satoru chuckles. “You’re feeding the ‘I’m gay’ rumours again, Hai.”

Bashfully, he shuffles in his seat. “Sorry. That wasn’t what I meant.”

The guy with glasses and a loose fitting sweater nervously laughs, spine ramrod and eyes flitting all over the table. What a nervous little guy. “What my good friends here means is, Gojo has never dated anyone before, even though lots of the girls in his department have asked him out. The prettiest, smartest girls, and each one he turned down. It’s something of a miracle that he’s finally let someone in.”

“Are you saying I’m punching? That he’s too good for me? That I’m not nearly as pretty or as smart as all the other girls?”

They jolt at your cutting voice. Frantically, they all shake their heads, stuttering a response to deny your accusations. 

What was the point of telling you so many girls want your man? Who the hell are they?

The relationship might not be the realest one out there, but it’s still a relationship, and damn it all if you’ll let someone suggest that you’re not good enough for your boyfriend; you’ve had enough of that kind of judgement from your previous relationships. 

A placating hand rubs your back. 

Your hard eyes dart to gorgeous blue ones. He gives you a look — not a scolding nor angry look, but rather comforting and soothing. Satoru says, “That’s not what they meant. They’re just talking about how I never really thought about dating, until now that is.” He turns to his friends. “I know it’s quite sudden and out of nowhere, but I don’t know. I just kept running into her, and I couldn’t get her out of my mind. So we’re taking it slow and seeing how it goes. Your support would mean a lot to me.”

Their shoulders relax, as does yours. 

It’s impressive how quickly he rattled the lie off; you almost believed him. Does lying come naturally to men, or is Satoru just comfortable stretching the truth? You never thought an upstanding nerd like him would betray codes of honour so easily for someone he just met. It’s kinda hot.

Smiles slowly return to their faces. 

“Sorry we weren’t very considerate with our words,” one says.

“Yeah, that wasn’t cool of us.”

“I do apologise. Please don’t think badly of us.”

“Salmon.”

Your head snaps to Satoru, a confused look on your face. He blinks, then laughs. “Oh, sorry. I forgot — Inumaki here is a singer; he protects his vocal chords by limiting his speech. We’ve known each other a while so we’ve gotten used to it. I’ll translate for you: ‘my bad, big bro.’”

That’s new, you think. Not that weird though, you suppose. You once knew a guy who didn’t speak at all, just for the fun of it. He could order a pizza with ease, but when it came to being vocal in bed, he was quieter than a monk. 

Forcing the defensive stance you’ve taken to soften, you smack your lips together, feigning nonchalance. “Well, you’re forgiven, I guess. I’ll make sure not to jump to conclusions next time…or whatever.”

“Great!” Satoru claps his hands together. He looks delighted that everything's worked out. “Now that introductions are out of the way, let’s play!”

Yuji is already smirking, sleeves pushed up like he’s been waiting for weeks for this. Ijichi is carefully aligning pieces with so much care you wonder if these things are expensive. Haibara is cheerfully explaining the rules, though it seems unnecessary for them so perhaps it’s for your own benefit. And Inumaki, meanwhile, is eyeing everyone down with sudden determination.

Wow, they take this seriously. 

The only time you’ve ever been half as serious as them is when there’s a sale at your favourite stores. 

Around you, towering shelves are stacked floor to ceiling with board games with names that sound fake and whose boxes are covered in dragons, spaceships, or aggressively serious-looking cartoon men. It feels less like a café and more like some kind of shrine. Who knew these kinds of places get so much business? 

You lean forward, chin in your hand, not really listening as Satoru launches into an explanation that makes absolutely no sense to you. Something about resource management. Turns. Victory points. You nod along, occasionally making encouraging noises, whilst wondering how they could tell the difference between any one of these little cardboard tokens; they all look the same. 

The only thing you truly register is Satoru himself, animated and bright, eyes lit up in a way you’ve only seen once before: back in the library when he was deep in his element and completely unreachable.

It’s annoying. 

And kind of entertaining.

He looks completely in his element like this, fingers deft as he sets the board. He laughs when Yuji interrupts him, rolling his eyes fondly, and you feel a flicker of something sharp and possessive twist in your chest. 

Fake or not, you don’t love how easy this is for him, how natural. Your presence right beside him doesn’t make him nervous and anxious, like you’d expected it to. Instead, it’s like you’ve always been here beside him. 

How is it possible that he’s never had a girlfriend, even with his condition, when being a boyfriend comes so easily to him?

Despite that, it doesn’t take very long at all for you to grow bored out of your mind. You’re acutely aware that the bathroom is right there, down the hall, private and quiet and infinitely more interesting than pretending to care about whose turn it is.

You try. 

You really do — you pick up a piece, move it when you’re told, ask one clarifying question you immediately regret because it leads to a five-minute explanation and a small debate between Haibara and Ijichi. And you, more or less, even keep your hands to yourself. 

Satoru ends up playing for you most rounds, which is fine with you. It’s not like you want to win, though it does seem like he’s setting you up for victory over his own piece. Or maybe you’re not understanding the game a little more than you originally thought.

The nerds, you decide, are…nice. Earnest. Harmless. 

They smile at you like you’re more than welcome here, like you’re already their best friend, and that almost throws you off more than if they’d been rude. 

Still, your attention keeps drifting back to Satoru’s mouth when he talks, the way his hands move, the way he leans closer to point something out on the board and doesn’t move away right away, and how he adjusts those stupid glasses here and there.

A knee nudges his under the table. 

He glances at you, eyebrows lifting in quiet question, and you flash him a smile that very clearly does not have anything to do with dice or cards or whatever the hell this game is. You tilt your head toward the hallway, subtle but not subtle enough, and watch understanding dawn slowly, followed by a soft huff of laughter.

“Give me a minute,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear it, eyes flicking back to the board even as his knee bumps yours in warning.

You roll your eyes but settle back, pretending to pay attention again whilst mentally counting the seconds. When Satoru finally takes his turn, he’s fully in it now, excitement sharpening his focus, voice animated as he strategizes, and something in your chest tightens at the sight. 

Fine. You can wait. Watching him like this is almost worth the boredom.

Almost.

About an hour later, or maybe only five minutes have passed — time doesn’t seem to exist inside the cafe — you lean close, lips near his ear this time. “I can’t wait any longer. I’m going to the bathroom, and you’re following. Don’t take too long,” you whisper. “If you keep me waiting, I think I’ll have to punish you.”

His hand falters just a little, a flush appearing at the tips of his ears, before he straightens, clears his throat, and finishes his move like a man desperately pretending he isn’t already thinking about following you wherever you want to go.

“Time for a break,” he announces, getting up and flagging a waitress down for the table. “Order something for the table, I just need a breather. I’ll be back in a bit, and the board better be exactly how I left it. I’ve taken a mental picture so don’t even try. I’m looking at you, Yuji.”

The man in question raises his hand in surrender. “No promises.”

People have quickly gotten comfortable with your presence because no one even glances at the two of you when you both slip away into the toilets. Or maybe it never occurs in their loser, virgin minds that a couple could do anything remotely illegal or immoral in a place so sacred.

There’s the men’s and the women’s. 

You drag him into the cleaner one, the one that smells less like piss and disease. Thankfully, there’s no one inside — you expected as much; there’s only two other women out there and one of them is a server.

“Are you sure now is a good time?” he whispers conspiratorially though no one’s around.

Shoving him into a stall, you lock the door behind you and say, “Any time is a good time to have a good time.”

Satoru whistles low, impressed. “Very well put.”

That’s not a phrase you came up — one of your exes, a real sleazy horndog who only wanted sex on his own terms, did — but you don’t tell him that. He doesn’t need to know that you used to hate that phrase. 

Instead, you inquire, “Are you hard?”

He glances down at his own pants. His brows furrow, and replies, “Not sure. Kinda?” You grab his crotch to test it for yourself. Satoru grunts. “Hey, careful with the goods.”

“You have a semi,” you conclude. He looks somewhat confused by the term, so you explain, “It’s when you’re a little turned on, but need more simulation to get fully hard.”

“Stimulation. And that’s a good sign, right? It means that time in the janitor’s closet wasn’t a one-off.” He looks so pleased with himself, with you, and with his dick that you almost smile at his excitement. Then, he glances around the cramped space and notes, “The girls’ toilets are so nice. I’m so jealous. ” 

Far too conversational for your liking, you decide to turn up the vibe a notch. You press close to him, spinning the two of you around so he’s leaning against the door. Your adept hands begin unbuckling his belt. 

Satoru grabs your shoulder. “Are you sure you want to do this here? It’s cleaner than the men’s but it’s still a toilet stall.”

You shrug him off and focus on unzipping his jeans to reveal his boxers. “I’ve done it in worse places, don’t worry.”

He frowns and halts your hands from pulling the band of his Calvin Klein underwear down. “That’s not cool at all.” Brushing an errant strand of hair from your forehead, he whispers, “I can wait, really. I wasn’t planning on testing anything out tonight; I was always going to meet them here, but I wanted to see you too, just to hang out. Maybe we can do this another day, or we can go to my place after?”

A weird sensation throbs in your heart. You reel a little. “N-no, we’re doing this now. I want to. I want to see what I’m working with at least.”

And when you drop to your knees and free his dick, he doesn’t oppose. Your jaw drops. 

“No way,” you breathe out. “Are you kidding me?”

Sensing your panic, he stares at his dick. “What? What’s wrong?”

“You’re fucking huge, Satoru!”

He groans, head smacking back against the door. “Don’t do that. Jeez, I thought my dick was broken for good, or, like, super ugly.”

Not a single part of you was lying, not this time — he really is big.  It’s also not ugly. Alright, no dick is gorgeous, but as far as dicks go, his is quite nice. And he’s not even fully hard yet. Are nerds supposed to be packing? 

It’s actually kind of a crime that he’d gone so long without ever dicking another woman down. This kind of dick deserves to be felt, to be worshipped, to be wrung dry on a daily. 

Well, don’t mind if you do. 

Too self-conscious now, he asks, “Is it too big? I know some girls have a prob—WOAH!”

Unable to resist any longer, your hands have wrapped around the length, warming it up. He keeps it nice and clean down here, which is more than you can say for most guys. Slowly, he grows harder and bigger, until it’s at full mast. The entire length stretches the length of your face and a little beyond. It’s a beast of a cock, truly. 

Your pussy drools.

You waste no more time; you take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around his cockhead and making sure he sees everything — from the way you have to open really wide to how your lipgloss is rubbing on his skin, and to the hand fondling his heavy balls.

Satoru groans above you. “I didn’t know blowjobs feel this -hah- good. Is it supposed to feel this good?”

Gripping the base and suckling on the tip, you send him a wink. “Blowjobs from me do.”

You know what men like. You know that when you flick your tongue over the slit, they hiss, just as Satoru does. You know that when you start taking him deeper and deeper down your throat, his hand will fly to the back of your head.

And right on cue, it does. 

Partly undecided between pushing you away and yanking you down on his length, he holds you with shaking hands. The strain must be hard on him. Poor thing.

Inch by inch, you take him. Soon your lips graze his base, his cockhead bumping into the back of your throat. It’s not easy at all. It’s actually in the top three hardest dicks you’ve ever deepthroated. You thank the dating gods that you won’t have to swallow the shame of being with a small-dicked loser at least.

“O-oh, fuck, that feels so good. Your mouth’s so warm -ngh- a-and your throat’s so tight. I don’t know what to do.”

Acrylic nails digging into his clothed thigh, you draw a hiss from his lips. Pulling off to suck his balls, you’re free to retort, “Cum, duh.”

“Where?”

“Down my throat, obviously, idiot.”

“You -hngh! slow down, I can’t think!- y-you sure?”

To show him how sure you are, you take him back in your mouth, expertly swallowing as much of him as you can. You bite back your gag reflex and bob your head rapidly. He proves weak to that attack. With a cry of your name, he spurts down your throat.

“Fuck,” he gasps out. His hips stutter, bruising your walls without meaning to. 

Mmm, salty. A little sweet too — he keeps a healthy diet at least. No Mountain Dew, battery-acid spunk. Great!

Lips making a pop! sound when you slide him out, you smirk proudly at his dazed look. Yeah, you’ve still got it. 

His knees quiver, threatening to bring him to a slump on the floor. You hold him up with a roll of your eyes. Gently patting his cheek, you say, “Venus to Satoru. Hello? We’ve still got a game to finish, don’t pass out on me now.”

Index finger weakly lifted up, his head falls onto your shoulder. Your own legs threaten to buckle from his sudden weight. He mutters into your fur coat, “Earth to Satoru, and be noted, Houston, Satoru is completely shattered.”

“I don’t know who Houston is, but you need to get your shit together.”

Satoru chuckles. 

“Yes, Command.”

.

.

.

Your second date has been arranged by you. 

Well, it’s not exactly a date. Not in the traditional sense. It’s more of an excuse to be fucked. 

You’ve never waited so long to be ‘bedded’ before — it’s been over a week since you’ve started ‘dating’ Satoru. 

Being college students mean that schedules don’t often align. Satoru, for example, has an internship at the Limitless Foundation that he attends twice a week on top of his usual workload. He’s, no doubt, doing sciencey stuff at his internship that means working long hours, not that you cared to ask more about it.

And even though you’re studying an already rather easy subject, Business — a degree everyone knows is a waste of time — you don’t actually attend most of your classes. They aren’t very mandatory. As long as your assignments are completed in time, you’ll pass just fine. So, you’ve been busy with other things. Namely shopping, getting waxed, massaged and whatnot.

It’s a full time job to maintain your appearance. 

It’s as hard as whatever he’s doing, honest!

Anyway, when he texted you, talking about how he finally has time to see you during the weekend, you jumped to take the lead. No more nerd cafes, no more board games, and toilet blowjobs. 

You’re going to be fucked on a bed or on a sofa, like a real lady, even if it killed you both. 

You’ve invited yourself over to his place. He didn’t seem opposed at all, whereas most guys tend to be quite skittish about that sort of thing. In fact, he replied, Okiedokie I’ll send you my address. See you soon, ‘babe’ ;)

Who the hell says ‘okiedokie’?

The area’s not too far from campus, so the walk from your dorm was rather short. It’s a nice neighbourhood. Very nice, actually. You’re rather thankful you don’t have to hold your keys between your knuckles as you wait for him to buzz you into the apartment building. 

“That my fake-real girlfriend?” His voice is static-y when it reaches you through the box. 

You inspect your nails and drawl, “Not for long if you keep me waiting.”

Satoru laughs. “I wouldn’t dare.”

He buzzes you in but not before giving you a set of instructions: enter the elevator to your left, not the one to your right, press the button that says P, and the doors will be open when you reach the top. 

The doors are, in fact, open when the elevator stops. You have no idea what P means, or why the door would lead straight to his place, and thinking about it anymore hurts your head. 

You step inside, the wheels of your suitcase rattling on the porcelain floor. His place is massive. It’s two flipping floors. The first is an open-spaced studio with the living room marked by large sofas, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the neighbourhood, a grand piano in the corner, and a spacious kitchen to your left. 

Passing by the balcony of the second floor, where you assume the bathroom and bedrooms are, he spies your shocked figure and rushes down the stairs. 

“Hey! Come in, come in. Make yourself at home.”

Somewhat bewildered by the idea that any college student could be living somewhere so fancy, you numbly mutter, “Mi casa es Sue’s casa, huh.”

He takes your coat, pats your head, and corrects you all in one go, “Su casa, Diapers. And yes, it is. I mean it. Honestly throw your things wherever you want. Don’t ask me for permission for anything. Just relax.”

That’s all you need. 

Breaking into a run, your heels click and clack on the floor. You stop at the windows, leaving marks on the pristine glass as your fingers press on the transparent surface. “Everyone looks tiny! You can see everything.”

Satoru laughs. “I hear that often. My friends like to say that it’s like I’ve got eyes everywhere. Six Eyes, they call me ‘cause, y’know—”

“You’re four eyes with glasses, add two more for this view, I got it,” you finish for him, unable to resist beaming ear to ear. 

Suitcase inspected, he wonders, “What’ve you got in here? You’re only staying the weekend, not a whole month.”

You turn to look at him, lashes fluttering as you look at him blankly. “I know. I just brought my weekend necessities. Believe it or not, I actually cut down a little since the dorms are just a hop and a skip away.”

He whistles. “Must be hard being a girl; my friends only need their toothbrush and underwear, and sometimes not even that.”

“Ew.”

Satoru’s lips twitch. “Yeah, it is kinda ew.”

Through the reflection, you watch him carry the suitcase up the stairs with ease, despite his earlier remark. Through his plain white shirt, you see his back muscles flex and his biceps bulge. What a pity that he hides his impressive stature in frumpy sweaters. He’d get all the hoes, and not just the nerdy ones on the anti-bullying brochures, if he showed off a little. 

Moments later, he finds you in the living room, reclining on his stupidly comfortable sofa and scrolling on your phone. 

Teasing, he leans over and asks, “Not gonna snoop around my place?”

“Nope,” you reply. “I’ve learnt my lesson after being told off many a-times — guys are kinda sensitive to the idea that someone might find their porn stash or crusty sock, I guess.”

He shakes his head, laughing. “You won’t find any of that here. Broken dick, remember?” Not so broken now, you want to tell him but you keep it to yourself. Jerking his chin, he continues, “I’ll show you around; food’s thirty minutes away. Sorry I didn’t make something from scratch. I’m not very good at cooking unfortunately.”

On your feet, you follow him up the stairs. “That’s fine with me.” At least he’s feeding you something, and not just his dick. You can’t recall a time you’ve stayed over for dinner at a guy’s place. Most of the time, you get kicked out right after they cum if they’re dickheads, or you leave ASAP if they’re clingy. 

“There’s five rooms up here,” he says, putting on a professional tone like he’s a tour guide. “On your left, there’s my study room. Very boring, very often visited, unfortunately.”

You take a peek. There’s a wooden desk with a blue iMac, and an array of papers sprawled over it. Pushed against a wall, stands a whiteboard with numbers and letters making up things that make you nauseous just to look at. Apart from those, it’s more or less bare in there. 

“On the right is the bathroom. Pretty straightforward. And down here,” he begins, leading you down the hall where three doors await, “are the two bedrooms. Mine, and the guest room, which is yours for tonight.”

A frown graces your glossy lips. “I’m not staying with you?”

Satoru adjusts his glasses, a nervous habit it would seem. “I thought you’d like your own space.”

Shoving him aside, you grouch, “Fuck that,” and barge into his room. What you see brings out a, “Seriously?” from your mouth. 

His room is as nerdy as it gets — glow-in-the-dark stick-on stars on his ceiling, posters of famous scientists littering his walls, shelves full of little figurines from shows and movies you’ve never watched, and a bed with Star Wars themed bedsheets. He has a telescope stationed by his window, and a solar system chandelier hanging above his bed like a dreamcatcher.

On a desk are a couple of display cases with painted miniatures posed mid-battle, clearly the result of hours of patience you don’t have. You lean closer to one, squinting. “You paint these?”

“Sometimes,” he says lightly from behind you, like it’s no big deal. “Helps me unwind. I don’t have much time these days though.”

You scoff as you straighten. Of course this man relaxes by painting tiny warriors with microscopic precision. You suppose it’s his version of painting your nails when you’re stressed or didn’t get to cum after a disappointing hook-up.

It’s ridiculous. You don’t care about any of this. He’s just revealed the extent of his childish and dorky interest. 

And yet, standing in the middle of his space, surrounded by proof of his obsessions and his focus and his stupid, attractive competence, you feel that familiar spark flare hotter in your freaking womb.

God, are you actually finding his nerd museum hot?

He seems a little embarrassed for the first time ever, shuffling on the floor and avoiding your eye. Forcing nonchalance, he says, “You won’t want to stay in here. The guest room is a lot less…me, I guess.”

“Satoru.” His head perks up, looking at you like he’s waiting for an order. “Come here.”

The man doesn’t hesitate. He comes to stand before you, head tilting a little. You don’t break eye contact as you sit on his bed, then lie on your back completely.

 Your dress rides up. He notices. 

What an idiot, you think. As if you’d spend a night at his place by yourself. He’s really clueless. All girls want to snuggle somewhere warm. Preferably in the arms of their boyfriend. You’ll teach him well tonight.

He scrunches his face up, thinking hard. “Sorry, what do I do?”

Ravish me.

Fuck me into next week. 

Lose your virginity to me on your geeky sheets. 

Slam your huge fucking cock into my tight pussy until I’m squirting all over your bed. 

You don’t say any of that though. No, instead, you say a line that drives all men wild:

“Anything you want.”

He runs a hand through his hair, releasing a tense breath. Of course he’s not immune to it either. All men are the same at the very core.  

Satoru takes a brave step forward, admiring your body all sprawled out where he sleeps. Something’s been switched on inside him — his pupils are growing bigger, a pink hue creeping in on his cheeks, and his hands flex by his sides.

“Anything?” he asks, voice dropping an octave.

“Mhm.” Your smiles curl up into sharp points, beyond satisfied that he’s walking willingly into your trap. Heeled foot resting on his thigh, you part your legs so he can see your pretty, pink thong. His eyes immediately zero in on them. Classic. “Just wear a condom, alright? I’m on the pill but your first time shouldn’t be so extreme.”

Raw’s reserved for long term boyfriends, for men you’re sure don’t have STDs and won’t run off if they find out that they’re a father. Maybe you can give him the privilege on your last tryst, a goodbye present of sorts. 

He shakes his head, muttering, “Don’t need one.”

Your smile drops. Leaning on your arms, you glare at him. “Listen here, mister. I say if we need one or not. You’re not going to talk me into forwarding protection; I’m not an idiot.”

His lips twitch at the corners. “Foregoing protection.”

“Whatever — bottom line is, wear one or I step on your dick.”

He falls to his knees, slotting perfectly between yours. Smooth hands tentatively grasp your thighs, squeezing experimentally once, then twice and a third time when he realises how good it is to feel a female body. “We won’t need one because what I want is a step or two before that. If that’s okay with you, I mean.”

Satoru hooks his hands under your knees, thumbs rubbing your smooth skin. He wet his lips.

You begin to panic. “What are you talking about? Go get a condom and fuck me already, dumbass.”

“You’d need to be properly lubricated for that, no? I may be a virgin but I’m not clueless,” he says, yanking you down slightly so he can get even closer. 

The tip of his nose grazes the material. You jolt. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go — you’re supposed to be bent over and ploughed, supposed to be consoling him for cumming too early. You were going to tell him it happens and that it doesn’t make him any less of a man all whilst thinking the exact opposite!

But he doesn’t seem to care about your plans. 

With a glance that asks for permission, he pulls your thong aside. Then he whistles. 

“Don’t do that,” you snap. “It’s rude.”

A thumb brushes your thigh in apology, though he does utter one too. 

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” he mutters. “I mean, I’ve seen vaginas before. In class, anyway. And in porn, not that I watch any. It’s just hard to avoid any kind of pornographic content when you’re a guy, I suppose and—”

“Satoru, you’re rambling,” you groan, eyes rolling in annoyance and not pleasure. You throw a leg over his shoulder, heel digging into his back. Though, there is a part of you that’s relieved by his chattering; it burst the sudden fright you felt at him going off-script. He’s still Satoru, still a nerd, and a virgin. You’ve got the upperhand. “If you’re gonna eat it, eat it with haste. And don’t call it a vagina; it’s unsexy. Call it a pussy.”

He nods, adjusting his glasses and licking his lips. “Right, sorry. I’ll be eating this p…,” he clears his throat, “this p-pussy. Thank you for the food.”

“Ugh, you’re so cheesy, god, just—NGH!”

Ignoring your insults, he dove straight in. 

Your eyes spring wide open, hands clutching his hair for purchase out of reflex. There’s no more teasing, no hesitant exploration, or reluctance the way most men feel giving head to a woman is routine or obligatory.

His tongue’s clumsy. It pokes and prods nowhere in particular. The man seems to know where your clit and hole are, which is a great start already, but he doesn’t seem to know what to do with them. You stifle a laugh, finding his eagerness adorable.

Eyes with the vastness of the sky flicker up to meet yours. You feel his lips twitch. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No,” you say.

Satoru shakes his head with a disbelieving chuckle. “No, you totally are. Don’t think you have to be polite to me; I already know how brutally honest you can be. Guide me. Tell me how you like it. Train me to know how to make you feel good. I’m a quick learner, promise.”

“Fine. Circle my clit. Rub it with your tongue. Not too fast, not too hard. Not yet. You have to build up, ‘kay?”

Invigorated by the instructions, your little nerd does as you say. The change in his actions makes all the difference — you’re growing breathless at the attentive ministrations. Every rub, every flick, is intentional and careful. 

“Like this?” he asks, voice muffled.

“Hmm, keep going.”

You can feel his eyes on you, watching your movements and the way your chest caves in and out. The skin where his heated gaze skims tingles. You fight the urge to hide for the first time ever; he sees too much.

Slowly, his glasses become fogged up, and he pushes them up over his head once he realises they’re not making a difference. With no barrier between his hot mouth and your hotter pussy, he draws even closer. 

Satoru begins using his own common sense and wraps his lips around your clit, sucking hard and harder when you gasp, thighs tightening around his head. 

“I didn’t realise p-pussies can get this wet,” he remarks absentmindedly, practically talking to himself. “I meant to say your pussy’s really –mmm- pretty earlier, by the way. I just panicked.” The pads of his fingers follow the outline of your lips, feeling the swollen folds, dipping in your wetness to make squelching noises. “Guys always talk about how ugly pussies are, but I think yours is too pretty, if anything. Doesn’t taste bad either. People always say it tastes like pennies; yours doesn—”

Groaning, you grab a handful of his hair and pull his mouth back to your clit. “Yeah, yeah, my kitty’s gorgeous, I know. Instead of waltzing poetic about it, why don’t you make me cum?”

He hisses and then moans at the sting at his scalp. Not a word of complaint is voiced though. On the contrary, he seems rather dazed at the pain. Halfheartedly, he corrects you, “Waxing. It’s waxing poetic.”

“Potato, tomato.”

“Potato, po-ta-to.”

“Shut up.”

“Aye, aye.”

“Oh my fucking go—YES! Right there!”

Loud, wet noises reverberate around the room. 

Satoru is a messy eater. He really puts his all into it, rubbing his nose and cheeks carelessly, and lapping the entirety of your cunt with no reservations. Whilst he has a long way to come, it’s somehow working well enough for you that minutes later your back arches and you cum with a long moan.

“Hngh! Fuuuuuckk, that’s good,” you groan out when the final waves of your orgasm are washed away.

Satoru marvels at the translucent webs he makes between his fingers. He licks his lips. Glasses sliding back over his nose bridge, he beams at you. “How did I do?”

You sit up, ripping a pillowcase off his pillow and cleaning yourself up, and then throw the dirty thing at him to do whatever with. Fixing your hair, you say with a shrug, “Not bad for a virgin. Don’t worry; by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be known as the university’s pride and joy munch.”

Wiping his face and fingers clean with the case, he chuckles. “That’ll be a dream come true.”

“You didn’t show me the last room,” you note after a minute, wanting a distraction from the pulsing of your clit and the desire to bounce on his dick right here and right now.

Satoru gathers his thoughts for a second, still in that haze of pleasure but he quickly shakes it off and pushes himself up. He has a raging boner. You raise your brow at it. He angles his hips away from you, as though he thinks you’re going to bite it. 

Extending a hand to you, he brings you to your feet, rearranging your clothes for you even though your hands keep smacking his away. 

“It’s my favourite room,” he remarks contemplatively. “I can’t believe I forgot.”

“Good pussy does that to you,” you say, flicking your hair with a grin.

He grins too, brushing the hairs sticking to the sweat on your forehead away. “You’re right. I better be careful.”

The last room is right across from the guestroom, where you were supposed to be stationed. He pushes the door open, revealing a room all men would kill for, you’re sure. 

It’s a game room.

There are retro arcade games lining the walls. A desk with three screens standing next to each other to create one long one. There’s a seat on the floor with pedals at the foot and a massive TV towering over it, which flashes the words Formula 1. DVDs fill up a whole bookshelf. You can’t tell if they’re movie ones or video games. On your left, there’s even a popcorn machine and a slushie maker. 

And at the very centre is a large table. It’s a familiar sight. You saw tables like this in the nerd cafe.

Seeing where your gaze has landed, Satoru leans against the doorframe, proud. “That’s our D&D setup. Ongoing campaign,” he says. “We’ve been running it for a few months now. Paused it mid-arc, though. Party’s getting back together next week to pick it up again.”

“Games can last that long?” you ask, actually a little amazed. You walk around the table, having enough tact and sense not to touch anything. It’s been drilled inside your pussy and your head that men will throw a fit if you touch their precious things. 

Satoru nods, strolling leisurely to your side, chest brushing your shoulder. “Heck yeah. Longest one I did was half a year. This one seems like it’ll enter into the next academic year.”

A little childishly, you wonder, “Are you winning?”

“No,” he answers with a reflective smile, seemingly not upset at all, “but it’s not really about winning. As we like to say, it’s not the destination, it’s the journey. Good storytelling trumps all!”

You frown. “But winning’s good. It’s fun. It’s the whole point of anything.”

He brushes your hair from your shoulder, and lays a kiss there. You shiver. “We can play one day, and I’ll show you that there’s more to life, to games, than winning. That even if you lose, you’ll never regret playing.”

The doorbell rings.

“Ah, that’ll be the food.” Satoru makes a move for the door. “Look around as much as you’d like, just be careful in case you trip over something. I’ll set up the table. Hope you’re hungry!”

Why the hell did he kiss your shoulder?

No one’s ever done that before. The closest you’ve gotten is being bit there by some freak masquerading as a respectable lawyer. 

Weirdo.

But why did you kinda like it?

Suddenly feeling colder, you run a finger down the length of the table. You can’t make out a single thing that’s happening on the board. There’s cards and figurines of monsters and people, and all sorts of different shapes. 

You head down, joining him for dinner, feeling somewhat troubled by his words, and wholly unconvinced by his belief.

Journey. Storytelling. Never regret playing?

Bullshit — winning’s the only thing worth fighting for in life.

.

.

.

In a lacy negligee, you wander into his bedroom, fresh out of the bathroom. Satoru reclines on the bed, reading a comic book about Batman or another superhero, you don’t know. He smiles when you slide into bed. 

“I knew it was going to be weird having a girl sleeping in my bed, but I didn’t realise just how weird it’d be,” he notes, putting his comic book down on his bedside drawer. He’s wearing some old anime-themed matching set pyjamas, a sleeping mask to pair it with prepared beside him, and you have to resist the grimace setting on your face; he looks like an idiot incel.

“Uhuh,” you reply, applying lip balm because you’d rather die than have chapped lips. 

Satoru continues. “It feels like I’m having a sleepover, but we’re allowed to snuggle and grope. I’m worried I’ll be drooling and talking in my sleep. Maybe I’ll accidentally push you off the bed too. Are you sure you’re okay here?”

“Yes, for the last time. And if you push me off the bed in the middle of the night, I’ll rip your dick off, then you’ll really have a broken dick.”

He laughs.

Dinner had gone by as normally as any other dinner — he talked your ear off about the development of Chinatown in the city, starting from the very first restaurant and the boom of boba tea, which apparently isn’t even a Chinese invention. You weren’t really listening, too peeved off with how he didn’t seem the least bit affected by your attempt to play footsie with him under the table.

Now, it’s time to sleep, but you have no interest in sleeping.

It’s been over two weeks since you’d last been fucked good and hard, and you’re beginning to twitch and scratch at your skin like someone going through withdrawal.

You need dick inside of you or you might die.

Satoru’s surprised when you climb onto his lap. His hands instinctively hold your hips. “Woah, uh, I thought we were gonna sleep,” he says. 

He can’t seem to decide where to set his eyes: off your body to be respectful or on your body because you clearly want him to look. You grab his face and make sure he can’t look anywhere but the tits in front of him.

Lips curling into something sinful, you inform him, “No, Satoru baby. You’re gonna suck my tits, I’m gonna rub my pussy on your dick until you’re hard again, and then you’re going to lose your virginity. That okay with you?”

There’s no way he’s going to reject your offer; his pupils are blown out. He’s also obviously fixated on the faint promise of your nipples he spies through the thin material of your lingerie. All men are weak to lace and satin, like cats and catnip. Gulping, he nods. “Y-yeah, if you’re sure.”

Beneath you, something grows bigger. 

“Perfect,” you purr. “Now suck.”

You shove your tits forward so he’s buried between them. He inhales deeply, groaning. And, almost as if puppetted by lust, his hands come up to grope you. Satoru doesn’t squeeze hard. He doesn’t squeeze at all. In fact, he’s merely feeling the weight and shape.

“So soft,” he whispers. 

Nails scraping his scalp, you mutter encouragingly, “I said ‘suck’, Satoru. Are we going to have problems?”

“No, ma’am.” Carefully, wise enough to know not to ruin your expensive lingerie, he pulls down the cups. At the sight of your breasts bared to him, he makes a noise of amazement. “Wow. They’re so spherical.”

Fed up with his gentlemanly act, you flick your nipple and show him how they harden. “Suck, squeeze, be a little rougher, and get me nice and wet again. I don’t want to have to tell you another time.”

Satoru nods, putting more force in how he holds your tits. After a harder grope which elicits a pleased hum from you, he’s emboldened. Over and over again, he squeezes and jiggles the fats. He mouths at one, kissing skin before venturing to your nipple.

His warmth covers you. You sigh. “That’s it. More. Be rougher with me, Satoru.”

Like he had done with your clit, he flicks the hardened bud, then rolls it on his tongue. One hand keeps you steady by holding your waist whilst the other plays with your other tit. The little nerd looks parched as he sucks on your tit. One would think he’d been doing this forever. Guess it’s something that’s just innate to men.

Your hips begin rolling too. His cock has hardened under your ass. With a little shuffling, the length of it lines up with your pussy through his pants. The cockhead kisses your clit, though separated by layers. You bite your lips.

Being fucked is incredible, but dryhumping can be just as. 

The friction, the warmth, the constant bumping of sensitive points — there’s nothing like it. You won’t deny to anyone that you’re soaking through your thong right now. 

He gasps, leaving a string of spit from your nipple to his lips. “I can feel you. It’s like a hotdog bun. Go faster.”

Smacking the back of his head, you scold him, “Don’t describe it like that. It’s so unattractive. Do you not know how to dirty talk? Do I have to teach you that too? Or are you purposely trying to make me dry?”

A pulse makes your hips jolt. 

Satoru shakes his head. He dives for your other tit, giving it equal attention, in apology. “S-sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Just…please go faster.”

You roll your eyes. “I was going to. God, you’re so impatient.” The pleasure was building before he’d spoken. Now, you have to build it back up again. 

Faster and faster, you rub your pussy all over his cock, rotating your hips right where his tip is so your clit can get what she needs.

Groans and moans and hisses fill the humid space between you. His glasses are being knocked into a wonky angle. He doesn’t seem to mind; his eyes are closed anyway, too consumed by the sensations he’s feeling to care about anything else.

Soon, your hips stutter, juices soaking through. “Mmm, that’s good.”

Dryhumping never fails to make you cum.

You suddenly push off him so he can’t rut up into you and ruin everything. You lick your lips at the wet spot you leave on his pants. 

Satoru reaches for you. “Hey…” he complains, pouting. “I wasn’t done, and I haven’t cum yet.”

“Shush. Do you have condoms?”

“Top drawer,” Satoru replies, sulking a little. You open it and frown at the massive mess of condoms you see. He scratches the back of his neck. “Ah, sorry, I didn’t know which one to get, so I got all of them.”

Warming. Ribbed. Extra Small. Extra Extra Large. Glow-in-the-dark. Flavoured.

You should have known he couldn’t do something as simple as buying condoms. Snatching the plain XL, you swat the hands attempting to reconnect with your tits away and situate yourself on his lap again. Pants and boxers pulled down, his cock springs out. You poke it to watch it bounce. 

“Y’know, I’ve been trying to get myself hard since that time in the bathroom, but nothing works,” Satoru confesses, thoroughly bothered by his dick’s refusal to listen to him. “It’s not fair that I can only get hard with you; I really want to play with it too.”

“I bet,” you reply, rolling it down on his length. Damn, he’s even bigger than you remembered. 

He watches you lift yourself up on your knees, aiming his tip just right. You slide down his length impatiently. At the tightness that meets him, he hisses, hands flying to grip your hips once more. This time, they’re not gentle — they dig into the meat, fighting the urge to tug you down.

Shaking his head, he whimpers. “No, no, I can’t do this. You’re too tight!”

“Shh, Satoru,” you whisper, stroking his cheek to comfort him. “You can take it, promise. It’s going to feel so good once you’re fully inside, trust me, ‘kay?”

Satoru takes multiple deep breaths, throwing his head back and gritting his teeth. “Okay, okay. Fuck.”

It isn’t easy on you either; he’s far too big to take with as little prep as you’d done, but your pussy’s a pro. She’s magical. Capable of anything. So, you push through, sucking him inches at a time until you’re more or less at the base. Breathless yourself, you say, “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” 

Somehow, he musters a half-nod, but the flush on his face suggests otherwise. 

“I’m going to start moving, alright? Hold on to me and let me know if it’s too much. I won’t get mad.” That’s more than most men have said to you, but the words leave your lips so easily you wonder why so few have ever given you that mercy. 

He nods, panting. “Yes, yes, move. Please.”

Up and down your hips move, slowly and gently. Each rise and fall sends his eyelashes fluttering and his head rolling. It’s as if every sense is heightened and he’s already overwhelmed to the max. Despite that, he doesn’t quit. He wants this just as bad. 

Anything to prove he’s not weak, that he’s not a failure. 

“Such a good boy, Satoru,” you drawl.

His cock throbs. “T-thank you.”

The stretch is insane — it stung at first. But now, you’re so eager to feel his cockhead pressing against your g-spot, kissing your cervix, and wringing out a deep orgasm, that you fight the complaints of your inner walls. Honestly, you can’t remember the last time you’ve ever been so full. 

What a waste that his wonderful cock had gone so long without being ridden. 

All the bouncing makes the bed creak pitifully. It’s a subtle sound under his loud moaning. The rasp of his whines and groans sends vibrations rattling your bones, tickling you from the inside. 

Oh, how you love a vocal man. 

“So tight,” he gasps out. “You’re so fucking tight. I can’t think straight. I never knew -hah- sex felt this h-heavenly.”

“This is just the tip of the iceberg, Satoru. Imma show you a whole new world.”

Through the overstimulation and the dizzying pleasure, he finds it in himself to smile. “Shining, shimmering, splendid, huh?” At your eye roll, he moans, distracted once again. “Use me to make yourself cum; I’m not sure I h-have it in me to do anything but not -hah fuuuck- cum early.”

You snort. “That was always the plan, dummy.”

Unrestrained, you bounce on his cock like it’s a trampoline. Just as he said, you use him for your own pleasure. Your nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt. He throbs inside of you. When you grind your hips, your eyes roll back, and when his cockhead prods that gummy spot inside you, wetness floods out. 

It’s so fucking good. You can’t tell if it’s because it’s been so long, because he’s so big, or if your body chemistry is really that fucking good — whatever the case may be though, it’s certain that you’re in for a great time with this nerd.

“Oh fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you whine out, back arching, tits shoved right into his face.

Spasms wrack your body at the massive orgasm that consumes you. You screech with the strength of it, hips stuttering once again. 

Three orgasms in one day is fan-fucking-tastic.

Satisfied, you droop over his chest. “Thank god you have a big dick.”

Satoru makes a tortured noise. Hands clutching you with an iron-clad intensity, you find yourself shoved backward. Your back hits the mattress. Above you, he stares at your body. He’s flushed. Manic. Practically deranged-looking.

You frown. “Hey, are you okay? Did I go too fast?”

Hastily, he shakes his head, throwing his glasses carelessly behind him when it begins creeping down his nose bridge. “No. Fuck no. You were perfect. You felt so perfect. I want more. I want to feel good too. Can I? Please?”

“Yeah, of cour—”

That’s all he needs. 

He finds your pussy with a little fumbling and help from you, pushing his still-hard cock in. Satoru gasps, outstretched arms he uses to hold himself up shaking. The slide back in is easier this time, and he doesn’t wait till he bottoms out before pulling out just to shove himself back in a second later.

There’s no rhythm to his thrusting; he’s simply doing what feels good. He swings his hips like his biological instincts have taken over. It’s fast, jostling you around. You’re being inched backwards. 

Your head hangs over the bed. Satoru buries his face in your tits, slobbering all over them. “So good,” he repeats like a mantra. “So good, so -hngh- fucking good. I don’t ever want to stop. Fuckfuckfuck, I think I’m gonna pee.”

“No, Satoru,” you say, being jostled further and further down the bed with the force of his thrusting. “You’re gonna -hah- cum. Just like in the toilet stall, remember? Let it happen.”

“Yes,” he says, licking a stripe between the valley of your breast, tasting the salt on your skin. “I’m gonna cum. Mm, your nails — dig them into my back. I like it. I think. Fuck, I don’t -hic!- know anymore!”

Through his shirt, you scratch his back up, digging enough to make his hips speed up, ramming his cock inside you now. You moan with him. His energy and enthusiasm is making up for his lack of experience. The rubbing of his pelvis against your clit quickly brings you to the edge again. 

You cum with a scream. 

He cums with your name on his lips.

Then he completely slumps onto you, dead to the world and threatening to suffocate you with his weight.

Delirious with your surprise fourth orgasm, you weakly mutter, “Virgins.”

After that night, something awakens in him. 

As you brush your teeth, he comes up behind you, eyes bleary with sleep and mumbling a good morning. Satoru rubs his morning wood against your ass, holding you tight and nuzzling the crook of your neck. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I woke up like this, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Condom?”

Satoru holds one between his fingers, ready and smiling into your skin, proud he’d anticipated that. 

Rolling your eyes, you bend over the sink a little, pushing your panties to the side — good thing you woke up wet yourself. He sinks his cock inside, stealing your breath once more. 

“Oh fuuuuuck.”

You each get another orgasm that way. 

And when you wash up after in his spacious shower, he joins, nimble fingers parting your folds and rubbing that spot inside you he finds quite easily. The nerd’s good with his fingers, which is great because it’s such a waste to have long digits like his otherwise. Under the stream of water, you’re pressed up to the tiles, panting in his mouth. Dizziness makes you feel lightheaded; the steam isn’t helping at all. 

When you cum, he fucks his already-hard and protected cock inside you. You cling to him as he holds you up, and you warn, “If you slip and drop me, you’re dead meat, do you hear me?”

He nods, groaning and rutting with wet slaps against your hips. “I won’t. Won’t -hah- drop you.”

True to his words, he doesn’t drop you, but he does get a nosebleed from the intensity of his second orgasm of the day and the humidity. You scold him thoroughly for getting blood on you. He apologises with his face between your legs.

Whilst you get ready for the day, he cooks breakfast. 

Sitting on the island opposite him, you two eat the food together. Satoru talks on and on about how he got some Pokemon cards graded recently, and that they’ll go up in resale value by some percentage every year. You’re hardly listening, just nodding here and there. He doesn’t seem to mind. 

Satoru finishes his breakfast first, and when you look up, he’s gone from his seat. Hands push your thighs apart. You peek under the table, and there he is, smiling up at you all innocently. Sighing, you hook your legs over his shoulder and give him free rein once more. 

“Don’t jostle me too much,” you order. “If I drop sauce on my new top, you’re going to pay for it.”

He mouths against your panties, “I’ll be good.”

You cum ten minutes later. 

And again when he fucks you as you’re bent over the counter. It seems like the man’s catching up on all the orgasms he’s missed out on throughout the years. 

Satoru whines behind you, hips stuttering when your pussy clamps down on his throbbing cock. “So good…so fucking good. I’m gonna cum again, oh fuck.”

Fingers digging into the fat of your ass, he yanks you back to him, making fwop fwop sounds with the force of his desperate thrusting. Then he spurts inside you, body shuddering in waves.

Drooling on the marble surface, you groan at the slumping of his body over yours. “Ugh, Satoru, you’re heavy and sweaty, get the fuck off me.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, mumbling, “Don’t be mean to me — it’s getting me hard again.”

You don’t let being on campus stop you from fucking like rabbits either.

At least twice a day, you’ll text him which room you’re in — janitor’s closet in the Psychology building, Studio 3 in the atrium, Masamichi lecture hall between the 9am and 11am slot — and he comes as soon as he can.

Satoru eats you out from under your skirt whenever he has to be quick, to get back to his responsibilities, whatever they are. He fucks you from the back, rolls of toilet paper rattling off the shelves, and from the front on desks, when you have longer time to mess around. 

He fucks you with his fingers whilst you jerk him off if you run out of condoms.

The two of you do it whenever and wherever you please.

Like now, as you’re in the Music storage room. Dusty violins, keyboards and instruments you don’t even know the name of surround you. A quick text had him sprinting from one end of campus to the other. As soon as you heard his footsteps outside, you dragged him in.

Shrugging off his backpack, he groped your tits through your top, flicking and pinching your nipples. “I was just thinking about this,” he confessed, breathless.

You were unzipping his jeans, pulling it down enough to stroke his half-hard cock. “Yeah? Were you thinking about fucking me as I pull your hair?”

He moaned, fingers finding your cunt soaked. “Y-yeah, want you to pull it hard.”

So you do — every time you yank on his scalp, he throbs inside you, whimpering so loudly you worry that someone will hear him outside. 

“Harder,” he begs. “I can take it.”

His pelvis rubs your clit so perfectly that you feel your own juices oozing out of you, leaving a mess all over your inner thighs you’ll have to clean up. The friction, inside and out, the slamming of bodies, the tightness in which you’re holding each other, it’s all fucking good. 

To his credit, he’s quickly learnt all your weak spots, the way you like to build your orgasm up, how you don’t want to be treated too roughly nor too softly. Maybe it’s because he’s a smart guy, maybe it’s because he wants to impress — whatever the case may be, it’s working pretty damn well for you.

Your orgasm explodes, and you lose control over your own hand; you pull so forcefully and suddenly with the force of your orgasm that his head yanks back sharply. Satoru’s eyes roll back, and he cums so hard his knees buckle. 

He takes you down with him, falling to the floor in a loud clatter. 

“Satoru! Someone could have heard us,” you hiss against his chest.

But he doesn’t hear you, not over the sound of his own moaning at the residuals of his orgasm. Glasses foggy, you can’t tell if he’s passed out beneath you or not. You smack him awake regardless. 

Stammering, he says, “Huh? Oh, right. Yes, yes, we should fix ourselves up and get out of here as soon as possible…after another round.”

This happens often.

This, as in a general disregard for the law and campus policy. 

You fuck behind the bike shed, on teachers’ desks, in the gym shed, cafeteria kitchen after hours, on all fours, from behind, against the wall, on your back, on his back. Anywhere there aren’t any cameras, you’ve fucked. If someone were to take a blacklight to the whole university, they’d think a series of murders had been committed. 

All in the span of a week. 

And you guys aren’t showing a sign of stopping. 

.

.

.

When Satoru texts you, asking to meet him at a store, you’re confused but go anyway. He’s waiting outside, hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels. 

“You want to fuck here?”

He beams when he sees you. “Heyyyy, thanks for coming. And no, Diapers,” Satoru says, eyes sparkling with humour, “we’re not defiling a toy store. We’re here ‘cause I have some things I want to get.”

“And I have to be here?” You don’t even bother hiding the unimpressed tone of your voice. God, if you had known he’s just running errands, you wouldn’t have come all this way wearing a cute, blue thong and matching lacey bra. What a waste. 

Satoru fixes you a look.  “Now, now, fake-real girlfriend, if you want to violate my poor, fragile body later, you’re going to keep me company as I pick out new Lego sets, m’kay?”

Holding onto your shoulders and ushering you in before you can sashay away, he leaves you no choice but to walk in with him. The automatic doors slide open with a cheerful chime, and you’re immediately assaulted by colour.

Bright plastic aisles stretch on forever. Shelves packed with dolls, puzzles, plushies staring vacantly into the void. The air smells faintly of cardboard and sugar, like childhood and disappointment. Somewhere nearby, a kid shrieks with joy, and you physically cringe.

He pushes a cart — how much is he planning to buy?

You slow your steps, heels clicking against the floor. “I cannot believe,” you say flatly, “that I waxed my entire body for this.”

Satoru laughs, unbothered, already scanning the store like a man on a mission. “You say that now,” he replies, “but give it ten minutes and you’ll be like a child in a candy store.”

“I will not,” you say, crossing your arms. “I don’t even like children’s toys.”

“That’s because you’re thinking of them wrong.”

You shoot him a look.

He grins and drifts toward the Lego aisle, long strides unhurried, like he’s completely at home here. You trail after him, already bored, eyes glazing over at the endless boxes stacked floor to ceiling. 

“Okay,” he says, stopping in front of a massive display. “See this?” He gestures broadly. “This is basically world-building — like I showed you in my apartment, remember?”

“It’s plastic.”

Of course you remembered. That moment was tolerable. Spending an hour strolling through aisle after aisle under fluorescent lights that do nothing for your complexion?

Totally not.

“It’s control,” Satoru corrects lightly. “You get to decide how things look. Who goes where. What story they’re telling.” He picks up a box, studying the front. “You ever notice how much thought goes into presentation? Colour palettes, silhouettes, themes?”

“…Obviously,” you say. “If the outfit’s ugly, no one cares if it’s designer.”

“Exactly,” he says, delighted, like you’ve just passed a pop quiz. “Same principle. You don’t just slap pieces together. You curate. Pick things that reflect you, that tell your story.”

You glance at the box again. It’s a pastel-heavy set — café-themed. Tiny tables. Little cups. Fairy lights printed on the cardboard. “That one’s cute,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

His head snaps toward you. “See?”

“I said cute, not interesting,” you argue weakly.

He plucks the box from the shelf and turns it around, pointing at the figures on the back. “Look at her outfit. Layered textures. Colour coordination. She’s a diva — you can tell from just one glance. It tells a whole story about her character.”

Leaning in despite yourself, your eyes tracing the tiny details. “She needs better shoes.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s less bite now. As you move down the aisle, he keeps talking — not at you, but with you, connecting everything back to things you actually care about. This set has drama, he says. That one’s about legacy. This one’s all optics — looks impressive, but structurally weak if you don’t reinforce it properly.

You find yourself stopping in front of a display without realising it, fingers brushing over a box with sleek black-and-gold accents. “This looks expensive.”

Satoru hums approvingly. “Ahh, you’ve got great tastes, babe.”

“Obviously.”

A beat passes. You realise you’re standing closer now, shoulder nearly touching his arm. You’re not thinking about how stupid this is anymore, or how you’d normally never be caught dead here. Instead, you’re imagining it — building something with him. Sitting on the floor. Choosing pieces. Arguing over aesthetics.

The thought unsettles you.

“Don’t get smug,” you warn, narrowing your eyes. “This is still kind of lame.”

He smiles like he’s already won. “Yeah. But you’re having fun.”

You open your mouth to deny it, and fail. “…Shut up,” you mutter, reaching for another box.

A bunch piles up in the shopping cart; he doesn’t blink at the rising costs. You don’t think he even looks at the price tag. Wow, he’s irresponsible. More so than you probably. That makes you feel a little better about how often you max out your credit cards.

In a far corner, he browses through the nerf guns. “Inumaki out-nerfed me with his recent purchase; I need to one-up him,” Satoru explains. 

No one’s around. 

Slinking up behind him, you rub his crotch as he shops. He stiffens. “No. Bad girl. I do not want to get banned from this place.”

“And we won’t,” you reply, humming. He’s steadily growing under your touch despite his words, and you don’t hesitate to grope him to full-hardness. “Just keep it lowkey. Can you do that?”

His gaze flits left and right, trying to make sure no one can see what you’re doing. The camera’s behind you, and you know from experience that it’ll only look like you’re hugging him. He groans, box in his hands shaking. 

“Shush, Satoru — or maybe,” you mewl, “you want to be caught. Are you a dirty little exhibitionist, Toru? Do you want to show everyone how well your dick works, is that it?”

Satoru’s hips rut forward, chasing your grip even though he definitely wants to fight against your bad influence. His hand comes down, clutching your wrist. “No,” he insists, “I’m not that depraved. Not like you, Diapers.”

Gracefully, he spins the two of you around. You face the shelves and he embraces you from behind. Long fingers slide under your skirt, pressing upwards on your clothed slit. You gasp.

“You’re wet already,” he notes, amused. “I think you’re the one who wants to be caught. You want everyone to know you’ve got me all wrapped around your pretty finger? Or maybe you just want to show everyone your cute, little panties.”

When he creeps inside, rubbing your clit, you confess, “I just thought your nerd lecture about plastic toys was adorable, is that so bad?”

He kisses your cheek, and coos, “You’re so stinkin’ sweet. Makes me want to taste this greedy pussy right here.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“The law,” he retorts quickly. “That and the thought of having to pay years of therapy for some kid.”

Voices sound out at the end of the aisle. The two of you quickly part. 

A family walks by, not really paying much attention to either of you. Though the husband does look you up and down, snatching his leer away when Satoru steps in. As they admire a toy a metre or two away from you, you watch him suck his fingers and wink. 

At the till, you end up with two Lego sets for yourself, and him with five, and the biggest Nerf gun they had in stock. His Lego sets are movie-based, and yours are a cutesy cafe and an orchid. Oddly, you find yourself itching to get started. 

“Good afternoon, Gojo, how are you, dear?” the old lady cashier asks, looking fondly at him.

Satoru grins. “Good. How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. Back for your monthly shop I see. Great choices.” She spots you behind him. “And who might this be?”

“Oh, just a friend from school,” he says, pulling out his wallet. “I’m paying for hers too.”

You hand him the two you picked out. She smiles at you like you’re a little girl holding hands with her son, and you hate it. It’s so clearly fake. Who the fuck is she to look down at you? Does she think you’re dressed like a whore? 

He waves goodbye to her as he walks out with you, bags bumping lightly against his legs. The bell above the door chimes, too cheerful for the mood settling in your chest. A frown hardens your face before you can stop it.

You don’t say anything at first. Pride won’t let you. You walk beside him in silence, the late afternoon air cool against your bare legs, the parking lot humming with distant traffic. He unlocks his car and pops the trunk, carefully arranging the bags like they’re fragile.

Sliding into the passenger seat, you cross your arms as soon as the door shuts. The interior smells faintly like clean laundry and coffee. There’s no trashy fluffy pink dice, trash littering the seats, or other girls’ earrings and scrunchies. It’s nice, and electric, because he cares about the environment probably. Nerd car. 

Predictable. 

He starts the engine, pulling out smoothly, humming under his breath like nothing’s wrong.

You last three minutes.

“So,” you say, voice light in that dangerous way, staring out the window. “I’m a friend now?”

Satoru glances over, immediately picking up on the edge. “Hey,” he says gently, easing off the accelerator at a red light. “That wasn’t—”

“Because I could’ve sworn,” you cut in, nails tapping against your knee, “that we were doing this whole fake-dating thing. You said, it’s as real as anything else, remember? Or did I hallucinate that part?”

The light turns green. He drives on, unhurried, jaw working like he’s choosing his next words carefully. A heavy air settles inside.

“I didn’t tell her you’re my girlfriend because I didn’t want to lie to her,” he says finally. Satoru keeps his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel. “Calling you that to her, to someone who’s known me since I was a fresher felt wrong. Sorry.”

You scoff. “So you have no problem lying to your friends, but you won’t cross the line with a cashier?”

“Yeah, I know it sounds stupid. It’s just, she’s nice, y’know? She reminds me of my granny. It feels weird to lie to someone who’s so sweet,” he explains. “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, promise. I tell everyone else, people who matter on campus, that you’re my girlfriend. No one’s gonna find us out, don’t worry.”

That shuts you up. 

You look back out the window, watching buildings blur past, irritation knotting with something more confusing. You know this isn’t real. You know it’s convenient, mutually beneficial, temporary. You’re not stupid. So why does it sting?

Why does the idea of him introducing you as just a friend make your stomach twist like you’ve swallowed something sour?

“You could’ve warned me,” you mutter eventually.

He nods. “Yeah. I should’ve. I’m sorry.”

Silence settles again, thicker this time. You pick at the hem of your skirt, annoyed at yourself more than him. This shouldn’t matter. You’ve never cared before. You’ve always been someone’s arm candy, someone’s secret, someone’s placeholder — and you never blinked. But Satoru doesn’t treat you like any of those things. Maybe it upsets you so much because in that moment he felt like everyone else you had dated.

Satoru parks outside his building and turns the engine off. The quiet rings in your ears. For a moment, neither of you moves.

“I really didn’t mean to upset you,” he says softly. “If it bothered you, I’m sorry.”

You swallow, hating how sincere he sounds. How easy it would be to forgive him. How stupidly warm that feels. “…It’s fine,” you say, even though it isn’t. You don’t know what it is, just that it’s there. “But don’t make a habit of it. It’ll be bad if you slip up to people that matter. As real as all other relationships, remember? At least until the end of the year.”

He smiles, relieved. “You’re right.” He squeezes your thigh. 

You grab your bags and step out of the car, telling yourself it’s nothing.

In his apartment, you lounge on his sofa, rewatching Princess Diaries on his massive TV whilst he builds one of his Lego sets on the coffee table. You’re in no mood to build anything anymore. He, on the other hand, is as he always is — happy and excited.

Neither of you try to remove the other’s clothes. The mood seems to have passed. You don’t mind. The movie’s pretty good.

He turns around and shows you his progress once in a while, and won’t turn back around until you pat him on the head. 

Now, you’re not an expert on Lego at all, but there doesn’t seem to be a reason why anything needed such a thick booklet of instructions and over a thousand pieces. He seems to enjoy it though. There’s so many Lego things on display around his apartment that you’re scared to walk around and touch anything in case you destroyed something that took him hours to complete.

“Look, look,” he says, showing you a Lego girl and boy inside a brick building. “When I put the roof over it, we’ll never see them again. Say bye to mini us.”

“Those things represent us?” Leaning closer, you inspected the yellow things. “She doesn’t look anything like me. I’d never wear something so plain and without glitter. What happened to the cute one with ugly shoes?”

Satoru chuckles. “She’s waiting for a rainy day — gosh, I really have to ask them to make a new line based on you for next time, don’t I?”

Carefully, he angles the roof he built on the side just right, making sure everything lines up. You come down beside him, inspecting all the different pieces he had organised in separate plastic containers by colour. 

“What’s their story?”

“Hmm?”

“Their story,” you repeat, trying to figure out what exactly you’re looking at. “You said you’re all about storytelling; I’m assuming this has a plot line too.”

He looks at you for a second, hands halting, then he breaks out into a wide smile. “They run a movie theatre! Toru over here mortgaged his house to fulfill his longtime dream of owning the theater his dad used to take him to all the time as a child, before he died from an airplane crash. His pretty wifey here was against it at first, because she didn’t think it was a good financial investment, since his last business endeavour landed them in a lot of debt.”

A giggle escapes you. “Sounds like she’s the only one who has any brain in the relationship. She must drive him mad, being the constant partypooper.”

“You’d think that, but she’s actually very supportive — she just doesn’t like seeing him disappointed,” Satoru says, making space for you when you make yourself comfortable on the rug beside him.

You nod. “So they’re in a very happy relationship?”

Satoru hums. “They’re madly in love. At night, when the theatre’s closed and everyone’s gone home, they play their wedding video on their best screen and dance together just like they did for their first dance.”

Burying your face between your knees, you ask, “How did they meet?”

“He kept bumping into her,” he says, scouring through one of the boxes for the pieces he needs. “And one day, she cornered him and asked why he hasn’t asked her out on a date yet. She basically threatened him into a relationship, and he was too scared of her to say no. Still is to this day.”

A full laugh fills up the room when you elbow him, totally catching on. 

“He doesn’t regret it, does he? Never saying no, I mean?” you wonder, a little quietly.

With a small smile, he makes the two Lego people kiss, and he says, “No, I don’t think so. He only regrets the times when he disappoints her; he doesn’t like seeing her frown.”

“Then he should just keep making her happy.” Your head falls on his shoulder, too tired to keep it up yourself. 

His own bumps yours. He says, “He’ll make a note of that.”

You’re so caught up in the moment that you forget why this whole thing started in the first place. That is until you get a text message from the girls’ group chat asking why you’ve been MIA. 

Smile vanishing, your nails begin tapping on the screen. You say, you’ve been busy with things, and they immediately take that as you having a new man. You don’t deny it, only sending a middle finger emoji.

The chat explodes. 

And you’re bombarded with messages asking who he is and how big his dick is. They irritate you so much you pause the movie to focus on letting the annoyance build. It’s not any of those fake bitches’ business who you date. 

Oh, but it is though. 

This is what you wanted, right? The opportunity to prove you can get a good man and you’re not obsessed with drama? 

Brittany texts you separately: so you actually bagged him? why didn’t you tell me sooner?

It’s early days, you reply. 

She says, you know Bitch and Bitchier aren’t going to make this easy for you or him, right? If this is about what I said before, you don’t need to go this far and subject him to their judgment. I’m happy to admit that you won.

You haven’t though — if you don’t make your relationship public, does it even exist? 

Your final message to her is, I can handle them. 

You let them know to meet you at a cafe on Tuesday morning, when Satoru has an open slot. Then you turn to him.

He sees the determined look in your eyes and slowly puts his bricks down. 

“Game face on, Satoru.”