cheesecake !!

You know better than to respond; it's been beaten into you like the very aspect of respect, lingering like the jewels from your ears, just enough to weigh you down. So, you shiver, knees pressed together under the keyboard, hardly any strength left in your socked feet to push the sustaining pedal to the floor. Still, he leans against the action frame, breathing slowly, dress shirt unbuttoned just enough for his plaid tie to hang, forgotten about and loose after a long morning of tea and cigarettes.

The windows are open, letting in the whisper of mid-August in racing breezes and the overwhelmingly sticky humidity that clings to the lace curtains, weighing them down, then blowing them clean. You swallow against the whistle as it flows through the room, fingers pressing the keys into the instrument with the delicacy you know you can give — for some reason, your mind just isn't connecting to the music today. You're distracted, painfully so.

"I-I-I'm s-sorry," you whisper, unsure where you stand, slowing down on the keys as you start the exercise over, breath piquing a bit hotter this time around. Your heart sinks when he shifts, soft leather shoes rubbing together as he stands up straight.

"Start over." He demands, and it's simple enough — not friendly or as gracious as he's been all week. In fact, Mr. Higuruma is quite tense. You can see it in the hard veins in his forearm, shifting as he clutches the baton in his grip. He's standing over the keys now, looking down over your shoulder, dark hair falling from its gelled back grip. You can hear him swallow behind you, and how his lips part when he slides his dark-framed glasses over the bridge of his nose.

You don't want to start over; the shake in your fingers is growing unbearable now that he's staring you down like prey. Your core is trembling, panties as humid as the August summer outside of those windows, as you press the beginning notes. At first, he nods you through it, letting you set your own time, though you're shaking like a leaf. His fingers flex and itch at the baton, squinting under his dark-framed glasses when you finally hit that first sour note halfway through the scale.

"That's the fifth one." He corrects — fast and sharp, he whips the hard wood baton over your trembling fingers, withdrawing as you yelp. Snatching your knuckles away from the keys, you can feel the humiliation of the tears as they start to burn. You swallow them back with a whimper, "The fifth time you have gotten this scale wrong. Will you continue to waste my time, or will you have some respect?"

"I jus— I didn't s-sleep well last night." Lie. A fucking lie. You couldn't sleep at all. Still, you would never tell him that it's because of the obvious — you stayed up, a shaking hand between your thighs as you massaged your clit to images of his huge hands scaling the keys just hours prior. He does something to you, and it's unsaid and so primal that you can't focus on anything else… ever. Not while you're with him alone like this, watching as he slumps into his study at night with his nose in a book, totally ignoring your existence until you're at his stool, back as straight as a pin.

You only have a week before your audition for the post-grad art program of your dreams — a shiny little headway to get your foot in the industry, so you can play to thousands and have a comfortable life in a city you can't afford yet. Your parents need this for you; it's why they're paying for this excursion—an academic bootcamp, Mr. Higuruma coined it as. It's only the two of you in this secluded beachside manor, soaked by Summer and the caw of seagulls, and you were starting to feel it.

You wonder if he notices — when you circle your hips against the authentic leather, desperate for the pressure your underwear gives when you move just right. It feeds on the singing pain in your reddened knuckles, bruised over just slightly from the two slaps you earned yesterday. Since he started this new avenue of punishment, you've been falling deeper and deeper, and you're not sure you want to know why.

As you ponder it, gulping softly as you start over, the lapse of attention makes you hit the wrong key. Mr. Higuruma tenses as soon as it hits. "Six." He deadpans, moving the baton to his right hand. He smacks it over your knuckles, again — harder this time. So hard that the burning in your eyes turns into welling tears. Your hands shake with nerves and pain — skin bloomed red.

"I-I-I—

"Don't speak, just start over."

"Ye-yes, sir…"

So, one more time — you roll through the first six notes in cascading ease, swallowing down thickness every few seconds, now that you're thinking too hard about it. You know that if he didn't hover, you'd be able to nail out this scale and the four others he had you memorize with your eyes closed. But, the second he shifts — crossing his socked ankles against his corduroy trousers, you tense, and your finger slips over a flat. Your heart drops.

Before he can scar your knuckles again, you turn to look up at him with wide eyes and parted lips, heart racing as his dark gaze flickers down to you like he's a robot. You go to stand up, to run for cover, and blame it on your time of the month, if not the severe lack of sleep, but something stops you. It's his dark glare, burning like embers, and stunning you still and silent.

A few moments tick by — he stares at you, and you stare right back up at him, heart in your ass, core buzzing, and touch-starved. You swallow… again.

"Seven." He recites like it's the date of your reckoning. You wish it truly was, maybe then, you'd be free of the silent, easy wrath he hands out in avoidance and disapproving glares. You know that when he doesn't hit you, he's serious. It's the final nail in your coffin.

You don't speak — don't even attempt to apologize, because it wouldn't work. The crook in his brow tells you enough, but you're blind to it. You can't even blink.

"Stand up for me," He purrs, voice so low and calculated that it feels like he's actually okay with you and with this nonsense that he's ridding his afternoon to.

So, you don't make him wait. Your knees tremble as you stand, the bench creaking against the wooden floor as you keep balance with two hands pressed to the base of the keyboard. Your small skirt rides up, sticking to the perspiration on the back of your thighs. Unbeknownst to you, and much to your dismay, as you stand, a wet spot right where your core sat shines in the natural light, staining his chair and staining any sort of pride you once thought you had.

You don't notice, but Mr. Higuruma does.

Oh, he notices right away.

He doesn't speak… No, he lets the tension marinate and twist into the air, carried by the wind like the old dust particles that you have to blink from your eyes. Mr. Higuruma flickers to your shaking hands, still lounging easily on the side of the baby grand, shaking his head softly.

"Looks like you made a mess." He finally whispers, lips rolling under his teeth as he stands up straight. Like you're being interrogated, you keep your hands where he can see them, holding your breath as your stomach falls through your ass, lips parted as you start to hyperventilate at the ghost of him.

You go to turn around — to try and see if you were wrong, praying your body betrayed you with blood instead of arousal, but as you go to investigate the scene, Mr. Higuruma stops you.

"Did you… have an accident?"

"N-No—

"Hm," He mutters, head cocked to the side as he lowers the baton to your dark skirt, teasing the end of it against the flowing fabric. You gasp as soon as you feel it, knees rocking together as another flood of warmth kisses your thighs — bleeding through your panties. "Then, are you… aroused?"

The word hits like a gut-punch. You can't believe such obscenities could slip from his lips so easily, like he's reciting a prayer to you. "What?"

Mr. Higuruma chuckles, the corners of his lips quirking up before completely fading by the wayside like he was never amused. "Don't sound so shocked… Look at the mess you've made."

As you go to dip your head and rake over the damning evidence to your mind-numbing desire, he stops you… again. This time, it's the delicate trace of his baton sneaking under your skirt, just enough to get leverage to show you off. He smiles, bending his neck so he can watch your tight, lace panties peek into view.

You're naked for him — on fire, and too nervous to beg for the touch you know you need to get your head back in the game. Something comes over you. It's a need, not just a want. "Please…"

Mr. Higuruma hums again, pursing his lips as he crosses behind you. His footfalls are calculated and precise, clicking against hard flooring and stopping right at the bench, keeping you two apart. You swallow again, then let your head hang between your shoulders, as you've finally been overcome.

"Is this why you have been so distracted today?" He offers, using the polished tip of his shoe to drag the bench away. It scrapes against the floor with a vengeance, filling your head with hot air, and Mr. Higuruma's with restlessness.

You want to lie and blame it on the weather — it's fucking hot, but not hot enough to leave a pool of slick on his leather. Your tutor is not stupid and has certainly faced a few aching women in his days. You think it's the glasses, or maybe the hunched demeanor that carries so much wisdom that you could spend hours farming and chipping away at it, yet still not crack the surface of his overwhelming ease.

"Poor baby…" He scrunches his face in a little sniff, cheeks hollowing as his dark gaze plots on your taut ass, showing itself just under the crumpled fabric. He knows you're bound to attest, so he beats you to it — with a smack of the baton against your upper thighs. You jump, a hand flying up to cover the whining moan that dares tumble from your lips.

You know how wrong this is, and how your relationship with him will never be the same, but you're willing to risk it all. Your eyes slip shut, heart pounding as the sharp pain on your thighs mellows out into something… satisfying. It's impossible to bite down a smile, but you have to.

"Hm?" He tries again, pushing his glasses further over his crooked nose, lips twitching and pursing around his inner thoughts as the baton reaches further up your skirt. He catches the fabric on the very end, teasing it and himself as the baton lifts it up slowly — so slow, he's starting to drive himself crazy. "If I help you with your little… problem, surely we can get today's lesson plan finished within the hour, right?" He's not asking, hardly giving you a choice. You can either nod and feel him in a way so intimate that you'd be damned for the rest of your life, or you can shyly turn away and pretend like this never happened.

You chose the former.

"I'll d-do my best."

"Good girl," he offers as a testament to his quickly dwindling patience. Like you're welcoming him into open arms, he closes the space between the two of you, getting a better angle to push his baton up your skirt. It pokes between your thighs, forcing you to bend at the hips, hands fumbling over the keys. A sour note punches from the piano, and you jump, making him chase that sweet heat between your thighs.

"Ah, ah…" He clicks, breath hot against your ear as his back presses into you. He's tall and so brooding, making you feel tiny, yet so powerful to have garnered his attention like this. You can't help but let a smile grace your features, especially when he gets so close that you can feel the hardened bulge against his brown pants, digging against his belt, and pressing into the back of your thigh. "Hands off the keys. Put them over the fall board, now."

"Yes, sir." You whisper, nerves fizzled out by the excitement pooling in your veins. The feeling of being wanted is like a drug, and being wanted by him is the high. Always someone so casually domineering — someone you're terrified of disappointing, wants you.

Scratch that — he needs you.

Mr. Higuruma makes it no stranger, but he's quick to keep himself in line, even as sweat begins to bead at his dark brows. His gaze flickers up as your shaking hands plant in the spot he ordered you to place them, nodding with a satisfied hum. He takes a handful of steps back, then it feels like you're exposed to the entire world, even though you're fully clothed.

"The way you reacted when I hit you…" He starts like you're the lesson he's invested in. Mr. Higuruma likes the idea of studying you — he has let himself ponder on it before. He likes the way you hold yourself, and he's endlessly respectful of your talent and hard work. He just doesn't know what has gotten into you, but he thinks he knows, now. "Did you enjoy the way it felt?"

"It hurt."

"Oh, yes, I know." You can hear his lips form the words, sticky and wet in his mouth, before offering them to you. "But that is not what I asked… Did you enjoy the way it felt?"

You're on fire, sizzling like a sinner in front of a congregation as you squeeze your eyes shut. You know you can't hide it anymore — he has the proof painted on leather, and a prize just inches away. It feels like a crime when you nod, slowly at first, letting your own body come to terms with this anxious new feeling that kinda reminds you of soul-sucking arousal.

"Please do it again." You whisper, trying on your own need for size. It sits in the air for a second, twisting and turning like invisible notes when you fondle your keyboard.

"Where?"

"M-my… m-m, m—m-my—

"Your…" He starts like he always has the tendency to, the baton snaking back between your thighs, catching your skirt as he traces the seam of your panties against the gathered flesh. He steps back, and it's sudden, but not enough to make you want. Just as you go to turn around, the baton withdraws, then a painfully piercing slap falls across your ass, making you jump with a surprised yelp. "Ass? Or… what about," he pauses again, his tongue running over his top lip as the baton trails down your thighs, swatting at your thighs until you peel them apart. "That messy snatch between your thighs? D'you think she wants it?"

Mr. Higuruma's words kill. They're lewd and unfamiliar in his professional tone of voice, but fuck, you're dripping down your thighs. It's like you're being electrocuted as the poking end of his stick presses against your sticky folds. It's a deep, overwhelming feeling that you can't think about, or else you'd be digging a grave.

"Hm? Yes or no?"

"Y-yes, that." You squeak, face so tight and tense from holding your breath like you're drowning.

"Say it."

"M-my—

He slaps you, raining that stick over the sensitive meat on your thighs. You jump and startle, rising to your tiptoes, running away from his hold, only for him to step closer, forcing a knee between your thighs to pry them open. He's so close, so hot with his head tucked against your shoulder, glasses fogged with how wet you are. "That clammy little thing?" He moans, placing that first kiss right at the base of your jaw, grinding haphazardly into your leg. "Tell me… that it's mine."

"It's yours! I'm all yours," You whine, hips bucking back into him. Mr. Higuruma tosses his baton over the keyboard, finding more use in his hands when he reaches for his belt and pulls it off with a fervor usually so lost on him.

Wet bodies, sticking together with perspiration — it's uncomfortable. The air reeks of sex and heat against weathered wood, ripe with seawater. Your tutor doesn't give you grace, let alone any form of mercy or understanding, as he grunts in your ear. "That pussy is mine. Say it."

"My pussy is yours. M—Mr. Higu—guruma."

"Oh…" He pushes you deeper into the keys, guiding your knee up and over the board. The pressure gives weight to scattered, jumbled piano notes, startling you further as they pierce the air. "Oh, yes, she is. Always has been, just didn't know it yet." He grunts, loosening his tie just enough to pop those next few buttons on his shirt free. His chest, soft with tufts of dark hair, comes into view, and your mouth goes dry as you regard him with a hurried peek over your shoulder.

You tremble and twitch, fingers bearing claws into the polished wood of the piano, leg squivering and hips aching at the uncomfortable stretch — leaving it all on the line for him to take, focusing air in and out of your lungs manually. When he touches you with thick fingertips, he starts at the soft fabric of your underwear, not giving you space to react as he tugs them off in a few, steady tugs. You gasp, peeking behind you again, just to turn around and whine when you see his reflection.

Bloodshot eyes — low and heavy under his glasses. It looks like he's slept a combined two hours in the last twenty days, but something about it feels so right. The blush that's spanning across his freckled chest, rising and falling angrily as your sopping cunt leaves a trail from your soaked panties, all the way to his nose.

Bringing the fabric to his face, Mr. Higuruma doesn't falter for a second. He takes a lungful of your essence, groaning deep in his chest as the sinful smell of your arousal seeps down his sinuses and onto his tongue. He's swallowing down traces of you, mouth watering as he breathes you in like he's trying to suffocate in it.

You press your forehead to the cool piano, trying to steady your breath so you don't faint from nerves and want. It's hard enough to stand as-is when you have a hold on your mind, but now it's so much worse. You feel like you're losing your mind.

"Come on, please, I can take it."

"You've been holding back on me." He grunts in response, biting down on your panties so he can keep one hand pressed into your hips, and the other back to his trousers, shoving his buckle out of the way, yanking the gold-plated zipper to its ruin. "Is it distraction? Am I not challenging you thoroughly?" He grunts against closed teeth, the cotton muffling his words.

He picks the worst times to try and make conversation, because you're losing your mind — foaming at the mouth and writhing in your spot as he yanks his pants down. You want so badly to turn around and watch as he pulls his cock from the tight confines he's kept it in for what feels like hours, but you hold back.

Mr. Higuruma tenses and hisses when the scratching friction of his underwear rubs just right, head tossing back as he fishes in the luxe, sweat-wicking fabric. He needs it for these long, summer days, and certainly needs it when a single look at your pleated skirts and dark stockings makes him dribble just softly — like he's a teenager, staining his briefs.

Now, he's staring at his outlet, sucking spit back into his mouth when his parted lips linger open too long. Your cunt is his for the taking, pulsating, wet, and so fucking warm it feels like you're on fire. He's deaf to your pitchy whines and moans, but not blind to the way you wiggle your ass back into him, demanding the situation like you weren't the one who threw him into this head-first. If only you weren't so… distracting.

"N-no, I just… I just — Mm…"

"You just, what?" He pushes, breath rolling into tiny little hicks as his heavy length, standing straight and tall for you, falls into his palm. His whimpering makes you whimper, then roll your neck, desperate to get a fleeting gaze at his flushed cheeks — the way your body has made such a mess of his careful mind.

When your eyes fall on his, glasses foggy and slipping from his nose, you bite your lip to stifle back a heady moan. Instead, you push your ass back into him, telling Mr. Higuruma with as few words as possible to just do it. You're waiting so patiently, and all you need is him.

Wordlessly, Mr. Higuruma nods as he pulls your panties from between his teeth, giving them another passing sniff before letting them fall at his feet. Your fate feels like it's being sealed in heated touches and cruel slaps, but you'd rather die than withdraw now.

"I just want you…"

"There you go, girl…" He eases into you like he's treading in high water — desperate, yet unyieldingly slow. It takes all his strength and every ounce of willpower he has not to give you all of him in one go, but your cunt sucks up the tip like it's starving. Little did he know, you've just been waiting for this.

Your heart sinks, knees slipping against the keys, making them erupt in a sour chord all over the situation. Little broken, determined grunts of air fall from your lips, silently begging him for more — more touch, more attention, and more of him. He makes you wait for it, his hand kneading circles into your soft ass as if it's any comfort.

Where he lacks in length, he surely fills out in girth — splittingly so. Mind-numbingly slow. You can't believe your body can take it, still fluttering and open for more as his hips push slowly. "O-oh, it's big,"

Mr. Higuruma can hear you sucking him in — your slick creating a sort of vacuum around the shaft of his cock as he feeds it to you. He's mystified, so taken that when his glasses fall again, he doesn't push them up in time, and they fall right from his face and onto your back, bouncing and toppling somewhere under the baby grand. You gasp in surprise at the sudden coolness, whining when the jump in your demeanor makes his thick cock hit just a bit harder — too deep for comfort, and surely not what you're used to.

"If you focus on one thing today," He groans, head tossing back as his world falls into a blur. He brings a hand up to his face, rubbing his palm over his bloodshot eyes to try to bring himself down. "At least focus on making all of it fit inside of you."

"It's so—

"This was our deal, hm?" His top lip twitches, bearing his shining, coffee-stained teeth. He bucks his hips just an inch, reveling in the biting, uncomfortable moan that falls from your throat. As soon as you steady yourself, peeking back to nod at him, Mr. Higuruma gives it to you.

One slick, punishing thrust renders you into a dumb pile of your past self, thighs screaming and cunt pulsating against his thick length. You whine and cry, tears dripping down in the innards of the piano, marking this existence forever, even when you step away from him and the instrument for bigger, better things.

"So tight…" He adds, sucking in a breath before grabbing and slapping at your left cheek, watching as his pale cock disappears and pulses inside of you. Your gummy walls clamp over him, and he's absolutely fucking taken — halfway in love, and so enamored with your affection that he doesn't know what to say, or how to even think.

Mr. Higuruma just knows one single thing — he has to ruin you.

He's drunk off of it — manic and unsteady as he shuffles handfuls of your ass, tongue peeking from his lips as he concentrates on the early-set ejaculation that's made its home in his stomach.

He's gotta push it back… for you, he pushes it back, and lets his free hand wander up your back, then around your neck, reminding you that you're here, and so is he. This isn't a dream, and he needs to hear your pleading moans — your broken, needy whispers, right in his ear like it's a gospel. Still, he really takes his time rolling his hips, getting you into it, before wrapping his big hand around your neck, forcing you to bow upwards.

"P-ple—

"No," He beats you clean, thumb digging hard into your jugular. You wince and seeth against the touch, your own hand flying up to aid his direction, trying to peel him away. The leverage he gets from your uncomfortable, revealing position is just enough to send him forward. He rolls his neck like he's ready to play a concerto, not to fuck you into submission.

Mr. Higuruma fucks you like he's mad. He rolls his hips, snapping them into you with a strength you didn't know he had. It's supernatural and hard, blurring with motion like his fast fingers over the keyboard your toes are digging into. Every time you shift, after every one of his merciless thrusts, you play a note — a jumbled mess of noise and sound, stacked atop your cries and his well-timed grunts.

You lead, he carries. You cry, he smirks.

He shoves your head back into the frame, smushing your cheek against the streaking spit on the enamel. It takes your makeup off in filthy smudges — making a mess of the face he's seen under the brightest lights and darkest circumstances. After this, here and now, it's safe to say that Mr. Huguruma knows you as no man does.

"More…" You manage to crack, breath knocked from your throat every time his hips snap forward. His heavy cock pushes right at that half-angle, deep enough for you to really fucking feel it. It's driving you crazy, and all you want to do is see his face. You want to see if you're killing him the way he's killing you, right now. "W-wanna seeeeee,"

"Needy thing." He bites, clamping both hands on your hips as he screws you into the piano. With every deep thrust, he's feeding you his entire length, then leaving you dry. Your cunt isn't used to it, and it certainly isn't used to his tone, because you swear that's what does it. You wish you were more alert, but when you cum, it's with a strength you didn't even know you had.

For the first time, ever, you cry his name. Not his professional surname dripped with respect and knowing, but his motherly name stripped down to the bone. "Ah— fuck, Hiromi!"

"Who?" He clamps, one eye open in a craze as he grabs and flips you around. The hard piano digs into your soft flesh — the feeling of his cock bending and twisting inside of you, making you see white. Hiromi blinks at you again, your shirt hanging off your limbs, and your body weak and gelatinous as you whine and arch your back against the keyboard.

It's the only name that comes to mind in your post-orgasmic haze, but it's choppy and unsure. You whisper, trying to control your fuzzy fingers to get lost in his dark, greying hair gathered so close that you can taste it. "M-Mr. Higuruma…"

"That's right," He nods, leaning down for just a second, resting his clammy forehead against your clothed collarbone. In that fleeting moment, he bites at the collar of your button-up, nudging his nose under the fabric, smelling the sweet ghost of your perfume against the soft skin of your collarbone.

"It's Mr. Higuruma to you,"

“psh no way, that guys a total nerd. what would he be doing he-“

anddd just as you were about to keep on moving the guy turns around. which does..? turn out to be gojo?

“wait that IS gojo!? the hell is he doing here??”

satoru gojo? the same nerdy gojo that’s gets straight A+’s in your physiology class? the same quiet and reserved gojo that’s always unaccompanied on campus.? the same gojo that’s always hiding behinds stacks of books and worksheets?

yup, that’s him.

you never thought gojo, of all people, would be into working out, or let alone be in the same vicinity of a gym.

anytime you’ve seen him, he always sitting in between the furthest bookshelves of the campus library playing on his little psp console. or walking around aimlessly with his head stuck in some weird sci-fi novel he’s always reading.

“hm maybe he’s finally working on himself more to get some play” you smirk, chuckling to yourself. rude, but painfully true. the guy was genuinely a loner.

just as you start to make your way over to him to go speak, you see him set his belongings beside the bench. reading the front-design of his hoodie, which has a few cartoon characters on it and a big “DIGIMON” logo plastered on the front.

definitely him.

what makes stops you in your tracks is him slowly pulling off his hoodie — causing his other workout shirt peaking from underneath, to slide up with it.

then your jaw drops. almost damn near dropping your water bottle and yoga mat.

you gape, taken aback of his hoodie revealing how defined his lower abdomen was. perfectly carved ridges of his lightly airbrushed abs leading down into the sharp curve of his defined v-line. and little white sprinkles of his happy trail traveling up to the underside of his bellybutton, ever-so-slightly peeking out.

you drastically look around the gym, eyes wide, seeing if anyone else was seeing what you were seeing.

WTF.

you can’t help but shamefully stare as he warms up and starts to work out. with the way you were eyeing him from the corners of the treadmills across the gym, had you feeling predacious.

you were supposed to been gone a few minutes ago by now, but there’s no way you could leave now??

seeing his biceps flex and triple in size as he started lifting, in that tight t-shirt and adding on to his veins popping out underneath his forearms immediately sent blood rushing to your core. involuntarily, you cross one leg over the other, starting to feel yourself sweat again.

…not from your armpits this time.

ever since the gym, you’re now starting to see gojo in a different light. you can’t help but feel a little excited when you see him around, knowing what’s hidden underneath those baggy clothes. it sounds so perverted but you honestly cant help it.

now, you never had any interest in gojo, or even barely cared for him before at that fact, but GOD you can’t stop thinking about him ever since.

in fact, that little experience alone had you acting a bit more bolder.

gymrat!nerdjo does find himself to be pretty good looking, but tends to underestimate himself a lot because of never truly being approached.

anytime he’s gotten a "compliment", it’s always just another thanks for finishing someone’s assignment or half-assed compliments of how cute his glasses make him look or whatever, but never anything further.

not until a pretty girl like you came up to him and complimented his top. that just being a regular short sleeved star wars shirt. you didn't give a damn about star wars whatsoever. but you know what you had your eyes laid on.

“for real? you think so?” he genuinely questions you.

you be more specific; “well it makes your arms look really nice in that shirt” you giggle.

he beams with a toothy smile. giving him a confidence boost.

right away he knew.

the gym is definitely paying off.

gymrat!nerdjo who is now more motivated to go to the gym ever since you complimented him. and coincidentally… you guys run into each other “again”!

gymrat!nerdjo who invites you to workout with him on weekends and some weeknights after hours of school thinking it’d finally be nice to have some company and have a gym partner.

and maybe help each other during sets and give you some facts about your anatomy!

but little did he know you were going to be standing above him eyefucking him the entire time as he does his bench presses.

you watch as he lifts up the huge, heavy barbell above his chest. eyes already fixed on his lean muscular body. his chest and forearms flexing. pecs hard and prominent through his now see-through shirt, drenched from sweat.

you take notice of the beads of sweat trickling down his forehead making strands of hair stick. causing his glasses to fall a bit lopsided on his face.

seeing his pathetic scrunched up face, alongside the groans and whimpers leaving his parted lips had your head in the gutter.

“h-hey.. you’re still counting right..?” he mutters weakly out of breath. snapping you out of your thoughts.

oh shit.

gymrat!nerdjo who would unintentionally check you out as you did your dumbbell sets. he was honestly just checking your form, and yapping his mouth off about your contractile unit of muscles how they shrink and expand and yadayadayada.

but to be fair, you really do have a nice shape. nice curves shaping the fullness of your butt, and watching how your glutes thicken along with the recoil in your gym shorts with every squat.

those pilates classes sure were paying off. he tries to not think of it much until you stand up, almost accidentally grinding up against him.

"oh whoops, i am so sorryyyy." you apologize in a condescending tone. a sly smirk tugging your lips.

"n-no i'm sorry! i was in your way.. haha.." he pushes his glasses up sliding off his bridge. and instinctively grabs the waistband of his sweatpants. only to feel something hard? under the strings.

without even wanting to look down, he throw his head back and bites the insides of his cheeks.

ughhh come onnnn mannn. his inner monologue screams at him. he was already nervous enough to be around you.

but of course you notice, its obvious. painfully obvious enough with how the bulge in his pants and it surely doesn't help with the small growing wet spot sitting atop of it.

gymrat!nerdjo who just had a feeling you were far from innocent, until you proved his point with you grinding against him earlier. and it doesn't help he caught you out of his peripheral of you rubbing your thighs together when he lifted his shirt up to wipe his face in the gym mirror.

you just brush it off as your calves were wearing you out. yea right.

gymrat!nerdjo who would let you study on him during workouts. he’s propped up on the yoga mat beside you letting you examine him as he does his planks.

you run your manicured hands over his biceps feeling, grabbing, and squeezing as much as you’d like. you purposely tease him, feeling him shudder under your touch about to mess up his plank.

"cmonnn gojo, you have 45 seconds left. don't mess this up. you don't want to pull your any of your muscles. " your lips graze his neck. you see the veins in his jaw flex and tense up.

working out with gymrat!nerdjo was a 2 in 1 reward. who says you can’t get your education in as well? not only do you get a cheat code for physiology, but also get to stare at his muscles the whole gym sesh.

insanely down bad, but come on,

can anyone blame you?

The second the lecture ended the hallway flooded with students pouring out of the Communications building. You were still wrestling your laptop into your bag when Suguru fell into step beside you.

"Hey." He adjusted the strap of his bag. Effortlessly casual. As always.

"I'm heading to the library to finish notes for the campaign project. My roommates grabbed us a table on the third floor. You in? I figure we can speedrun the outline in an hour, maybe less—"

You'd only just met Suguru this semester. Psych major taking your Persuasion and Social Influence class as a random upper-level elective. He claimed it was for "analyzing the mechanics of mass manipulation" or whatever reason he fed the professor.

Honestly, you really liked him. He was painfully chill and normal. Sensible, even. Genuinely one of maybe three people you'd met in college you could actually say that about. Which was a depressingly low number but oh well.

Exactly the kinda guy who seemed to have his life together. So you figured roommates meant, you know, normal college students. As one does. Maybe someone who chewed gum a little too loudly. Maybe someone who clicked a pen.

"Sure," you shrugged, falling into pace with him. "I've got some time to kill. Let's go."

The walk over was pleasant. You complained about your professor's weird obsession with the word synergy and he agreed with that calm patience of his. The kinda conversation you two shared on a weekly basis.

The third floor of the library was supposed to be the Silent Zone. Highest floor. Always the go-to for quiet mental breakdowns, dissociating between classes, or straight up passing out for twenty minutes without judgment. Sacred ground, basically.

And then you heard it. Well. Everyone heard it. Legally deaf people probably heard it. People three floors down definitely heard it. NASA's deep space monitoring equipment may have picked up a blip.

THWACK CLACK THWACK.

Obnoxiously loud. Rhythmic and sounding exactly like someone had found a plastic machine gun and was absolutely going to town with it in the middle of a library.

Suguru stiffened beside you. The cool mask slipping right off his face—  "Oh my fucking god." Eyes closing.

"Huh?" You glanced at him. You heard the noise sure, but you hadn't placed it. Was there construction happening? Was someone breaking the vending machine again?

"Just..." he muttered it through his teeth. "...keep walking."

So you did. Single file behind him through the stacks, the CLACKING getting louder with every single step. Louder. Louder. LOUDER.

You could literally see the heads of other students snapping around. Shooting homicidal glares over their MacBooks, all desperately trying to locate whatever, whoever was responsible for the fucking ear rape.

You followed their gazes to the far end of the room. 

Bingo.

Sitting there was a girl with choppy brown hair. One would say, completely locked the fuck in. Dead-eyed, dragging a glittery pink marker across a cross-section of a human spleen, head bobbing slightly to whatever was blasting through her overhead headphones.

And then you looked past her. 

Oh. OH.

Someone had built a freaking barricade out of heavy spine-broken physics textbooks and buried behind all that was a man who looked like he hadn't seen direct sunlight since he hit puberty.

Hunched over a laptop that looked like it was actively fighting for its own life. Cooling fans screaming for mercy. And plugged into it was a keyboard. Taking up almost half the desk. Huh?

…So that was the noise.

The keys had those specific tactile switches created with one purpose and one only of making everyone within, like, a fifty-foot radius contemplate a violent felony.

He looked... lived in. And that's, like, putting it very, very PR friendly.

His white hair was sticking up on the left side, matted down on the right as if he'd been running his hand through it the whole day.

"Satoru," Suguru's voice cut through the clicking. It came out really tight. Really low. The kinda tone of a man trying very hard not to make a scene while absolutely, undeniably making one.

"I explicitly told you to stop bringing the damn keyboard to school."

Click click click click click.

But at that, the girl finally looked up. One headphone sliding off and a lazy wave in your direction.

"Oh, hey," she rasped out. "You brought reinforcements."

She then gave you a look. Then softer, almost conspiratorial. "I'm Shoko, by the way." A pause. "Please ignore him. He's always like that."

Satoru didn't look up. Didn't pause. Didn't even flinch.

He just reached out blindly, shoved a stack of Quantum Field Theory textbooks a few inches to the left to clear his sightline. And kept typing.

Click click click click click.

"Look." He finally spoke. Eyes still glued to his screen, not even a flicker toward you. "I've been going through this logic loop for an hour. I'm finally in the middle of it."

A pause. “If I look away now I will lose the thread n' have to start over from line one." Another pause. "Please leave me alone."

Suguru looked like he wanted to dissolve directly into the ugly library floor. You could literally hear him internally asking the universe or whatever why his best friend was still like this at twenty-one. He'd grown out of this phase at sixteen. Sixteen. So why hadn't Satoru? 

Shoko just rolled her eyes and went back to studying. Clearly a veteran of this specific situation.

But you— You just stared at the mess on his side of the desk. The Great Wall of textbooks. The greasy-ass pizza stain sitting dead center on his chest.

And your brain just basically cheered tf on. You need this man. It was a sickness at this point. It wasn't like you had a great track record to begin with either. You'd basically YOLOed your entire way through college and your taste in men had always been, let's say, questionable too. And yes, you liked them a little pathetic. A little weird. Nerdy in that specific way most people just didn't get. 

But this was a new low even for you. He looked like a raccoon that had raided a Best Buy and for some reason your ovaries were doing a very enthusiastic standing ovation.

You stepped forward. Bypassed the do not engage aura radiating off Suguru like a physical forcefield. Leaned your hip against the edge of the table.

"Two Monsters before noon?" you grinned down at the two cans standing next to his laptop. "Isn't that, like, an excessive amount of caffeine?"

Click click cli—  

It stopped.

Satoru pushed his glasses up his nose and looked at you. There was no shame in his expression whatsoever. It was just the annoyed, arrogant glare of a genius who had been interrupted by a mere mortal.

"Caffeine has a half-life of roughly five hours," he said. Like you were the stupid one for asking.

"I timed the consumption to overlap for best performance." A pause. "I'm not addicted." Another pause. "It's just a well-thought-out fuel strategy."

You blinked at him. What does that even mean?

Like genuinely. What. Lmfao. He talked like those grotesquely self-assured nerds you'd only ever found in the deep corners of the internet. The ones you always assumed couldn't exist in real life.

"And the keyboard?" you gestured to the loud glowing monstrosity. "You really carry around a whole external keyboard everywhere? It sounds like you're firing a shotgun—"

"This is a custom board with Cherry MX Blue switches." His tone could've curdled milk. He looked genuinely offended.

"Do you have any idea what the travel distance on a standard laptop key is?" A pause that really let that question sit there. "It's complete garbage. Complete garbage. No actuation point whatsoever."

"We're in the library," you rolled your eyes. "People are trying to study. Or sleep." You jerked your head. "Look at your friend—"

He glanced over at Shoko. 

And she chose that exact moment to look up from her textbook. The look she gave him was kinda hard to describe. It sat somewhere between a death glare and a promise of future violence.

"Shoko's fine," Satoru said, shrugging it off completely. "That's why she brought the headphones. She adapts." A beat. "And I am trying to code. If I use the laptop keyboard my WPM drops by twelve percent," he said it like he was reporting a fatality. "Which is. Like. An unacceptable efficiency loss."

"WPM?" you repeated. WPM. It sounded completely ridiculous coming out of his mouth and somehow even stupider out of yours.

"Words per minute," Suguru jumped in, not looking up from his notebook. He looked like he had to explained this before and had long since stopped finding it funny. "He tracks it. There's a spreadsheet. Do not ask about it. He'll talk for twenty minutes minimum about finger-travel distance n' none of us will get anything done."

Again… What.

You let the silence sit there. Just a few seconds. Purposefully, deliberately awkward.

"Sure."

Satoru's fingers twitched. Just kind of... hovered there. Waiting. He clearly waited for you to be more impressed. He was awaiting maybe a little gasp of awe, or at least some sort of acknowledgment of his hyper-optimized little hobby. Anything, honestly.

When absolutely nothing came his eyes narrowed behind his smudged glasses.

"What?"

"Nothing—" You leaned a little further into his space, hip grazing the stack of textbooks beside him. "It's just a lot of big words for a guy with visible crumb-crust on his spacebar."

Jerk— 

Satoru's hands flew back from the keyboard instantly. Hovering mid-air like he genuinely believed he could erase the evidence through sheer willpower alone.

But you didn't just stop there. Oh no no.  You then lowered your gaze to his chest and stared at the disgusting sauce stain with a silent disdain. Long enough to make it weird. Longer than that, actually. Just really committed to the bit at that point.Then looked back up at him with eyes full of pity. 

And being this close you caught a whiff of him. He smelled like sweet soda and lived-in musk. The specific scent of a man who probably treated showering as more of a when-i-remember-to activity.

It should have been a red flag. Genuinely. A full sensory alarm system going off. But god fucking help you. It was masculine enough to make your pulse skip and it had absolutely no business being that effective and you were going to need a moment—

"The—the stain is simply sustenance residue," he blurted out. "Pizza rolls."

His voice pitched up much higher than before, waving a hand to dismiss it. But the movement was jerky and uncoordinated, panicked—  And caught one of the empty cans on the edge of the desk.

Clatter clatter — thud.

The hollow aluminium echo rang through the entire floor like a gunshot. Every head within a twenty-foot radius snapped up. People already looked pissed off as hell.

Satoru froze. Hand still in the air. Eyes on the fallen can. 

"And before you even ask—" he pushed on immediately, the words tumbling out in a desperate avalanche to cover the noise. "No. I am not changing." A shallow breath. "This hoodie is currently at its peak comfort level. It is nicely broken in and the fabric tension is exactly where it needs to be for full range of motion," his voice was picking up speed. Getting away from him slightly. "Washing it right now would disrupt the structural integrity of the cotton and honestly— It's inefficient to use so much water and detergent so I'm basically saving the planet by not—"

He abruptly shut up, realizing he was rambling off. Chest going a little too fast. The tips of his ears going red and then his neck and then his cheeks, the blush spreading very fast.

And you were still just standing there just smirking down at him with that stupid smirk on your pretty face.

Somewhere in the two seconds of silence that followed, the full awareness of the situation caught up to him—

You aka an objectively hot girl. Standing very close to him. Like, actually close. Purposefully close. Close in a way that was making it extremely difficult to remember what intelligent words were.

Your thighs were barely a foot from his arm and your perfume was doing something genuinely criminal to his ability to think straight.

Focus, his brain suggested helplessly. But alas, his brain was ignored.

Most women didn't voluntarily talk to Satoru. No no. His mom did. Grandma too. Shoko did too, though sometimes involuntarily, but technically she didn’t really count. He'd witnessed her aggressive My Chemical Romance phase, her brief and deeply unsettling taxidermy hobby, n’ basically every embarrassing era of her life since middle school. She was less a woman and more of a biological thing at this point. Like a fungus he'd developed immunity to.

So now understand, you were a system error. His game was non-existent. Hell, it was deep in the negatives. He mostly communicated in comic book references and spent his free time studying or farming loot in World of Warcraft.

The closest he'd ever come to actual dating was when he thought he was flirting with a cute e-girl on Discord — only for her to turn out to a middle-aged man named Gerald.

And yet here you were. Someone half the campus was probably actively tripping over themselves to look at. Wasting your premium time bullying him about things no one in his life had cared about in years.

Why. Why were you doing this. Why did he want you to keep doing this.

"...Stop looking at me like that," he muttered.

He moved to turn back to his screen, but his gaze faltered. Immediately.

His eyes slid down. Tracking the line of your legs, the very short skirt you were wearing, the way the sharp edge of the desk was digging into the soft squishy flesh where you were pressed against it.

Look. You genuinely cannot blame a man for having a thing for thighs, okay? It's not a character flaw. It's just biology. Moving on.

His jaw tightened. Face and ears blooming even redder than before.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

He then had a few very awkward seconds of him having a staring contest with your legs. Jaw practically hanging open. 

He would swear on his life it was one second. Maaaybe two at the absolute maximum.

It was ten. It was definitely ten. You could practically hear the Windows XP shutdown noise playing on a loop somewhere behind his eyes.

He finally scrambled to recover whatever was left of his dignity and snapped his eyes back to the laptop with a literal neck-breaking jerk that probably should've required a chiropractor.

"Now," he grumbled, eyes locked back onto his wall of code. "Unless you have a degree in computational physics—" a pause that really let that land, because of course he couldn’t help himself to be at least a little condescending. "—you're obstructing my view of the compile bar."

Another pause.

"Move."

You should've been offended. You would've been offended. If his eyes hadn't snagged back on your legs approximately every five seconds like he physically couldn't stop himself.

Noted for future reference.

Suguru had both hands over his face in absolute defeat. Shoko, on the other hand— Click. Her marker shut. She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and just watched Satoru's erratic typing.

The keys clicking with the rhythm of a man whose heart rate was currently sitting at a minimum of 120 BPM and climbing.

She looked at his beet-red ears, then at your smug smile, and a wicked grin spread across her face like a slow sunrise of pure evil.

"Nice meeting you," Shoko purred, keeping her eyes on you. The specific look of acknowledging a fellow apex predator when she saw one. "I think you're going to fit in here just fine."

Hm. You sat down next to him and opened your laptop.

And somewhere to your left, the compile bar of Satoru's self-control sat frozen at 99%.

Buffering. Buffering. Buffering— And completely unable to load. Just a few feet from the source of the fatal error.

You decided right then and there. You were going to absolutely ruin this man.

It only took a few weeks. The library dates were officially declared a thing of the past. A string of "accidental" study sessions and Suguru's increasingly desperate need for a buffer, and somehow you'd gone from intruder to full-blown invasive species.

Naturalized citizen basically.

And sure enough, you and Shoko were a match made in hell. Inseparable within the first two weeks. You two were trading clothes, stealing each other's food, spending hours ignoring the boys to talk about people they'd never met.

But the truth was you weren't just there for Shoko. Or for Suguru. Or for the free study space and occasional snacks.

You were there because — against your better judgment, against all available evidence, against every reasonable instinct you had — you actually liked the tall weirdo who couldn't hold eye contact for more than three seconds even when you were just asking how his day was.

You liked the way he laughed. The way his glasses were always sitting slightly crooked on his face. The way he— Okay, enough. We get it, girl. Or do we though.. You were trying, in your own quiet way, to get closer to him.

Meanwhile, Satoru was completely, impressively blind to all of it. In his genius brain he had crunched the numbers and landed on one devastating conclusion. He'd been fucking friendzoned.

He convinced himself you only tolerated him because he was Shoko's roommate and a convenient Statistics tutor. That your friendliness was just a social obligation tax you paid to hang out in his apartment. That you weren't there for him specifically —

Just the proximity. Just the free tutoring. Just the apartment with the good Wi-Fi. Obviously.

It was two weeks before midterms. Their apartment smelled like cheap takeout and nail polish.

You were on your stomach on the floor, legs kicking idly in the air, frowning at a probability distribution chart. Satoru was sitting cross-legged a few feet away, supposedly helping. But he was mostly just clicking a pen and staring at the side of your neck.

"Soo," you started, chewing on the end of your pencil. "I watched that sci-fi movie you talked about — the one with the time dilation?" A pause. "It was actually pretty cool."

You looked up at him smiling.

Satoru stiffened immediately.

Oh god. Small talk. You were engaging in small talk. Do NOT make it weird. Do NOT make it weird. Do NOT—

"Yes," Satoru said a beat too late. "The cinematography is... alright. The physics were derivative. I've seen worse I guess..."

He turned back to his notebook. ...Aand he made it weird.

You sighed and shifted your weight, arching your back slightly to stretch.

Roll— 

Your highlighter skittered right off the edge of your notebook, across the floor, and came to a stop directly under the sofa. Of course it did.

"Ugh," you groaned.

Shoko had claimed that entire sofa. Legs stretched out, wet red polish on her toes and a massive medical textbook balanced on her knees. 

"Don't touch the paint," she warned, not looking up. "You smudge, you die."

"I know, I know—"

Okay. Here was the situation. You couldn't reach blindly. The only way around Shoko's wet toenails without sending the textbook flying was to get up on your knees and Satoru was sitting directly behind you…

So, when you twisted your torso and arched your back to swoop your hand underneath the frame— You miiight have angled yourself just so. Or maybe it was just physics. Who could say.

The movement caused your shirt to ride up. Just a little. Just enough. It exposed the curve of your lower back while your yoga pants did exactly what yoga pants were engineered to do, right in front of him, at this specific cheeky (literally) angle.

Engineering at its finest, if you ask me.

Thud. He dropped his pen, making a noise that weirdly sounded like a strangled moan? His eyes went wide. Pupils blown. And then his survival instincts kicked in approximately three seconds too late.

"I just remembered—!" He scrambled upright, voice cracking a full octave on the way up. "I totally forgot to download the expansion patch—"

He was backing toward the hallway, gesturing wildly at absolutely nothing. "There's a raid tonight and if I don't update the client right now I'll miss the login window entirely and—"

"What?" You sat back on your heels. "But 'Toru, you were helping me study?"

'Toru.

He'd never— You'd never called him that before. The nickname hit him like a physical slap across the face. Friendly. Casual. Completely devastating. And how exactly was he supposed to act normal when you were just. Like this?! 

"Tutoring... can wait!" he yelped, heel hitting the baseboard. "My guild needs me! Bye!"

Slam. His bedroom door closed shut, and the lock clicked instantly. 

Then, you heard the muffled opening notes of California Girls seeped through the door. 

...what. What?!

"Is he okay?" You frowned at the door, pouting slightly. "He keeps just disappearing like that." A pause. "Does he hate me?"

"He doesn't hate you," Suguru sighed, looking at you with the exhaustion of a single father of two. "He's just... over-calculating." A beat. "Honestly? You should just tell him you like him. His genius brain won't figure it out for the life of him. He needs the answer key.”

You just stared at the door listening to the muffled bass of Katy Perry bleeding through the wood.

The answer key, huh?

Things went from awkward to chaotic just a few days later. Naturally.

It was around 2 AM. You and Shoko were in the kitchen, Both of you completely high out of your minds from the brownies you two had baked earlier. 

The munchies arrived. "I need snacks," you announced, swaying slightly. "If I don't eat something yummy in the next five minutes my organs will shut down."

Shoko was already rummaging through the pantry. "We're out."

But then her eyes lit up. "Wait—" She turned around with a look that meant absolutely nothing good. "Satoru has snacks. He only hides them in his room because he's a stingy goblin."

So without another word you wobbled down the hall together. Shoko didn't even bother knocking. The door swung wide and you barged straight past the hand-written Forbidden Zone sign.

This was your first time here and it was exactly what you'd expected and somehow also more. 

Full shut-in sanctuary. Blackout curtains pulled tight, five thousand dollars worth of setup glowing neon blue, LED strips lining the ceiling like a gamer's idea of mood lighting.

Satoru was in his chair, headphones on, smashing his keyboard. 

He spun around, eyes going wide at the sudden intrusion. 

You scanned the room. For a man who seemed to live primarily in stained oversized t-shirts and barely-contained social anxiety, it was actually pretty orderly.

Surprisingly orderly. More, like, suspiciously orderly.

Well. Except for the shelf right next to his bed. That seemed to be its own disaster zone. We’re talking textbooks, dog-eared manga, a suspicious surplus of crumpled tissues, and a stray Goku figure that looked like it was fighting for its life against the clutter—

But buried right in the middle of all that crap— There. Your eyes landed on the prize. A red Pringles can.

Now. Maybe it was the weed haze. Maybe you were just being an idiot as per usual. But you didn't even stop to wonder why a lone can of chips was sitting there. Right next to a pile of tissues and a bed— 

You just wanted the carbohydrates. Simple as that. 

"BINGO," you shouted.

Satoru's head snapped to where you were looking and he swore his soul left his body. He launched himself from his chair and scramble scramble scrambled over the mattress.

But unfortunately for him. You were faster. You snatched the can off the shelf triumphantly and held it over your head like a trophy.

"Gotcha! Hand over the chips, 'Toru." A grin. "I'm eating the whole can right now—"

"—DO NOT OPEN THAT!"

His big hands clamped over yours before you could even process the words. Pinning the can shut. The momentum sending both of you tumbling backward — Fwump. Straight onto his unmade bed.

And suddenly you were flat on your back and Satoru was hovering directly over you. Straddling your hips to pin you down, face inches from yours, wild-eyed and breathing like he'd just run a sprint and also possibly seen a ghost.

Both hands gripping yours so tight his knuckles were white. Holding that tube like his entire life, his entire future, depended on it.

"Drop it," he wheezed. Cheeks flushing immediately. "You can't open that—!"

You blinked up at him. Completely stunned. Because what the fuck was happening. What was actually happening right now.  His chest was heaving, his hair was tickling your forehead, and he was… very very heavy.

"I don't care!" you laughed. The brownie fog making the whole thing feel like a fever dream. You wiggled under him, trying to get your hands free. "Gimme the salt—!"

Salt—

The word hit him like a flashbang. BANG.

His brain took it and sprinted straight into the gutter. He was suddenly very aware of the specific white gooey reality of what usually happened inside that can. The taste of it. The—

You want the salt. Oh my god. OH NO.

His heart was hammering so hard against his ribs he was convinced you could feel it through your own chest.

I'm the grossest man alive, he thought, his face burning up like a furnace. I'm thinking about you eating —

"HELL NO!" he screamed.

"'Toru. Are you seriously wrestling me over potato chips?"

He finally looked down at you. Knees bracketing your waist, your wrists pinned to his chest with the can between you like a hostage situation. And then the horrible realization arrived. That if you struggled even a little bit, the lid might pop off and reveal the unholy sponge-and-glove contraption hidden inside. 

That. Cannot. Happen. Absolutely cannot.

The fact that the prettiest girl he'd ever seen in real life was currently lying on his bed with him on top of her hadn't even fully registered yet. His entire brain was running one single mission — Make sure you do not find out. 

Make sure you do not find out that he was a certified grade-A gooner who had used this exact... thing while thinking about you... Literally just yesterday. 

"They're — they're stale!" he stammered, sweat already forming at his hairline. His grip didn't loosen. If anything it tightened. And somehow you wondered where the hell all that sudden strength came from. 

"The sodium levels are freaking lethal. I am literally saving your life right now—!"

Meanwhile, Shoko, leaning against the doorframe, did a quiet sweep of the room. Her eyes followed the can, the shelf with absolutely no other snacks on it, and Satoru practically vibrating with terror on top of you.

Click. She put it together immediately. Because it didn't take a genius to figure out why a certified virgin would throw his entire body over a Pringles can like it contained state secrets.

Oh this was going to be so good.

She started cackling. This deep wheezing laugh that made Satoru flinch like he'd been physically struck. So you took your shot and writhed. But it only made him yelp instantly.

He ripped the can entirely from your hands, and scrambled backward off the bed like a scorched cat. Clutching the red tube to his chest, curling into a ball in the corner of the room. Cornered.

"Get out!" he squeaked. His face the color of a literal stop sign. "You high hooligans!"

You sat up slowly on his messy duvet. Hair tousled. Face flushed. Heart beating a little too fast from the impromptu wrestling match and also possibly from being pinned under him for thirty seconds but that was neither here nor there.

Your eyes did a lap around the room — Shoko, smirking in the doorframe like she'd just witnessed the best thing that had ever happened to her. Satoru, trembling in the corner like a man on trial for crimes he was absolutely guilty of.

And then. Then you realized. You had never. Not once. In your entire time knowing this man. Seen him eat a single chip.

Oh.

"Oh."

Satoru practically sobbed. The Pringles went behind his back. Eyes fixed on the floor. Literally praying for a meteor to strike the apartment building immediately. Please.

You and Satoru were sitting on a concrete bench in the middle of the quad. It was Result Day. Neither of you mentioned the Pringles can incident ever again, only because Satoru had spent the intervening days pretending not to exist and incinerating the device in the dumpster out back. 

And you did feel bad for him. You'd nearly had to physically restrain Shoko from bringing it up approximately forty-seven times. I mean. An adult guy shouldn't get bullied for being... innovative with the way he pleasured himself, right? That felt like a basic human right. You were going to stand firm on that.

He looked like absolute, unmitigated garbage though. Wrinkled shirt that said I Paused My Game To Be Here— This man genuinely did not seem to own a single decent t-shirt, not one. Clutching his third Monster of the day like a life support system.

He seemed more stressed about your grades than you were.

Squinting aggressively into the distance like he was actively losing a battle against the sun but refusing to surrender.

Your phone buzzed. Mid-term Grades.

Satoru stiffened beside you, and the aluminum can in his hand let out a sharp crinkle of protest.

Your heart did a stupid little kick. You opened it. Scanned down the list and stopped at Statistics.

C+.

It wasn't a great grade. It wasn't even a good grade. But in the grand scheme of "Cs get degrees"  it was a goddamn miracle. Especially considering this one midterm had made up 50% of your entire grade. Which the fuck?

"I passed!" you shouted, launching yourself off the bench. "Oh my god, I actually passed! I'm not going to fail this goddamn class!"

Satoru, who had been hunched over his knees, nervously biting his thumbnail down to nothing, snapped upright immediately.

One second of pure, unfiltered relief crossed his face. One. Then his ego kicked back in.

"Naturally," he said, going for a smooth baritone n' landing somewhere considerably closer to a sleep-deprived croak. "My teaching methods are flawless. Even with a..." A pause. "...suboptimal student, success was obviously guaranteed." Another pause. "You're welcome."

He looked so smug. So proud of himself. So incredibly roastable that you almost almost let the subtle dig slide.

…okay or perhaps you didn't.

You grinned and stepped closer. Right between his spread knees, while he sat there looking up at you. A simple thank you was far too boring for what you were about to do to this man.

"Aww, look at you being all proud!" you cooed in the exact tone reserved for golden retrievers and small confused animals. You reached out and aggressively ruffled his hair — messing it up even further — scratching lightly at his scalp right behind the ear.

"Who's a good tutor? Satoru is a good tutor! Who's my smart boy?"

Satoru froze. He really should have been offended. He knew he should have been offended.

But for one long, humiliating second his eyes just closed and he leaned into your hand. Tilting his head against your palm like a cat chasing warmth.

Purr, said his brain probably…?

This man had a high-level understanding of quantum mechanics and he was currently leaning into someone scratching his ears like a freaking pet. 

He felt like a disgrace to his entire bloodline.

But then his CPU rebooted, jerking his head back. His face went a violent shade of red that clashed terribly with his white hair.

"I am not a canine!" he sputtered, batting your hand away. "Stop that patronizing behaviour! People are looking!"

"But you did so good!" you laughed, completely ignoring him. "You helped a girl in need."

Satoru's chest puffed out instantly. His ego took the bait before his brain even had a chance to weigh in.

"Actually," he said, sliding back into that obnoxious condescending lilt he used whenever he was feeling himself. "I didn't just 'help' you. I performed a miracle. I dragged your GPA out of an actual dumpster n' did academic CPR on a brain that was essentially flatlining." A pause for effect. "I'm not a tutor." Another pause. "I'm a secular saint."

He took a prideful swig of his energy drink, already gearing up for a full ten-minute lecture on his own brilliance—

A girl in need.

The phrase did a slow, sticky lap around his skull.

In need of what, exactly?

His mind went places. And none of them had anything to do with Statistics. His eyes dropped to where you were standing between his legs —

He thought about his bed. With you in it. And mostly about the very specific, very needy noises he'd imagined you making — For him. Because of him —

His throat went completely dry. He nearly choked on his Monster. Adam's apple bobbing violently as he tried to swallow it down. And I don't mean the gulp.

"I-I mean," he stammered, "the terminology 'in need' is very subjective n' vague as hell! You should be more precise with your descriptors!"

"You're so cute when you're being a nerd," you giggled.

And before he could get another smart-ass word out you went for the kill. Just for the hell of it. You threw your arms around his head and hugged him.

The physics of the hug were... aggressive. You pulled his head forward, and Satoru went completely still. His entire world went dark, soft, and terrifyingly warm. All at once. 

His nose was smashed directly between your tits, glasses getting absolutely destroyed, suddenly inhaling a whole lungful of you —

He sat there stiff as a board. Hands hovering uselessly in the air like he'd genuinely forgotten he had limbs. But then something just. gave. He'd been praying for this for months. Months. And in that moment he genuinely believed he might actually be a fucking saint because your chest was somehow even softer than he'd imagined. And he had imagined it a lot.

Do not drool. Do NOT drool. So god help him god if he drools right now—

Trembling slightly, Satoru lowered his hands and tentatively wrapped them around your waist. Hugging you back.

Which was, unfortunately for him, his complete and total undoing. The second his hands touched your waist you hummed happily and leaned your whole weight into him.

Because he wasn't the only one who'd been waiting for this. You'd been thinking about making out with him long before he'd even worked up the nerve to call you a friend in his own daydreams. So. Yeah.

You arched your back slightly. Pressing your chest harder into his face, your stomach warm against his lap.

And instantly— He was hard. Completely. Painfully. And motherfucker-immediately.

And because he was wearing those thin worn-out sweatpants. The kind that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, the kind that were currently leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. There was nowhere to hide the sudden rock-hard problem now throbbing against his waistband.

A single hug. One hug. That's all you'd done and he was— God he really thought he wasn't this pathetic.

He realized — with a clarity that was almost impressive given the circumstances — that if you shifted even an inch closer you'd feel it. And he was the grossest man on the planet and was actively destroying what little chance he had with someone he was so hopelessly down bad for.

"Satoru," you murmured, your voice right against his ear. "You stopped breathing again."

He started to panic badly. Which led to him launching himself into what could only be described as an emergency self-eject sequence. ??

He slammed both hands on his knees and threw his upper body backward with enough force to briefly defy gravity. Which would've been fine. Except he was sitting on a backless bench and there was absolutely nothing behind him.

He tipped— Legs flying up in the air and in that one cursed split second, before gravity fully claimed him, the fabric of his sweatpants pulled tight across his lap.

And you saw it. You saw everything.

The distinct and frankly, impressive outline of a very angry erection tenting the grey fabric.

Thud.

A wide grin spread across your face. A faint stupid blush crept up your own cheeks simultaneously. For months you'd been convinced you were the one stuck in the friendzone. Waiting around for a sign that never came, slowly going a little cray cray, genuinely starting to wonder if you'd just made the whole chemistry thing up inside your own head.

He was always so awkward. So seemingly unbothered by your advances. So apparently unaware that you existed as anything other than a study buddy and an occasional source of snacks.

But now. Now. You finally knew.

He wasn't indifferent. He was just as obsessed with you as you'd been with him. Maybe more and he'd been silently losing his mind about it this entire time.

Thank fucking god. The relief hit you warm and slow and settled right in your belly like something coming home.

You did feel a little bad for him though. A little. I mean. The poor guy's situation was currently very visible in the middle of the campus quad and there was absolutely nothing either of you could do about it right now.

But you still felt powerful. You finally felt wanted by this stupid giant of a man.

"What —"

"Shut up!" Immediately. Before you could even finish the word. "I — I just got a cramp!" he yelled, forehead pressing hard into his knees, refusing to look at you, refusing to look at anything. "A really bad one! My leg just— it locked up! I haven't slept n' I'm shaky n' — stop looking at me like that! It's not funny! Just please go away! I'm just gonna lie here for a second." A pause. "The grass is cold. I need the cold." Another pause. "Just begone!"

"Right," you said. Your voice dripping with a brand new, very specific, very dangerous kind of sweetness. "A cramp. Of course."

You knelt down in the grass right next to him. Satoru flinched. Curling even tighter, compressing himself into the smallest possible shape. Looking like a pill bug trying to defend itself from a predator. The back of his neck glowing a nasty, bruised red color.

"'Toru," you hummed, leaning right in until your breath was ruffling his fluffy white hair.

Oh. You weren't even close to being done. You were going to soak up every single second of this and milk it absolutely dry. 

"You look thirsty." A pause that you let sit there. "All that muscle tension… Must be dehydrating."

You were still holding your half-finished boba — ice rattling around in the cheap plastic cup like a tiny, cheerful taunt.

Rattle rattle rattle.

"I— I'm fine," he wheezed into his knees. He deadass sounded like he was three seconds away from a full-blown asthma attack. "I got my Monster. Please just go back to the library. Or home. Or literally anywhere but here."

"But your hands are full," you pointed out pleasantly, eyeing the white-knuckled death grip he had on his own shins. "Here." You held out the cup. "Have a sip of mine."

You didn't wait for him to say yes. You just shoved the cup riiight up to his face and poked the straw directly against his lips.

Satoru's eyes snapped open wide. Staring at the straw like it was a loaded gun. Then snapped his gaze back to you.

His brain was literally just dial-up noises right now. He clocked the flush on your cheeks anyway. The way you were looking at him with zero pity — just full of something that made his stomach drop straight through the soil.

Shaking like a goddamn leaf, Satoru finally parted his lips. Let you put the straw in his mouth. Eyes locked dead on yours. Absolutely terrified and horny as hell and somehow both at the exact same time.

He took a long drag. You yanked the cup back before he could finish, popped the straw straight between your own lips and sucked down some boba while holding the most aggressive eye contact known to man.  Slurp.

"Good boy," you whispered, getting back on your feet.

Satoru let out this pathetic little whimper n' buried his face back into his knees. And since you were standing right over him, your shadow swallowed his shaking form completely, his dumb ass just couldn't help himself as his eyes shot up.

And you were wearing that dangerously short little skirt again. The one that was going to send him into cardiac arrest one day. His beloved laws of physics had basically abandoned him. When you shifted your weight the hem flared up just enough, just enough, to give him a straight-up godly view. 

Not just your legs. The full fucking show. The soft curve of your thighs. A dead-on glimpse of the panties he'd only dared to think about in his wildest dreams. 

You leaned down one last time, skirt hiking up even higher. Getting that close made him jolt like he’d licked a car battery.  You reached out and gave his messy white mop the most patronizing little pat imaginable.

"See ya later, 'Toru." A smile that meant absolutely nothing good. "Don't sit out in the sun too long."

You spun on your heel and strutted off toward the library. Heart beating out of your chest on a sick, electric thrill. You didn't even bother looking back. You felt his eyes burning holes into your head as you walked away.

And behind you, Satoru made a decision. He was never standing up again. Ever.

He was going to live in this specific patch of grass until the end of time — the raging boner as a flag of surrender.

He stayed glued to that exact spot for a solid forty-five minutes after you walked away. Just staring at a cloud that deadass looked like a giant thumbs-down. Waiting for his situation to resolve itself so the blood could actually go back to his brain.

The data was conclusive. The facts were staring him right in his stupid face and there was no room for error whatsoever. You — the girl he'd been trying to impress by playing it cool and nonchalant for months — hadn't just caught him rocking a massive stiffy. You had swapped spit with him. …While actively looking at it.

“Good boy,” he whispered to the sky,as if testing the words on his tongue. A fresh violent shiver racked his entire spine. Shudder.

He had to cover his face with his hands to stop himself from screaming. He was probably the smartest person amongst all the undergrads, he was a Level 80 Paladin, and he was currently being obliterated by two stupid words and a boba straw

Why did he like being called a good boy. WHY.

He should be disgusted with himself. He understood quantum superposition and non-Euclidean geometry. He was supposed to be the apex of human evolution. But nah. Apparently millions of years of primate evolution had been instantly, catastrophically overridden by a praise kink he didn't even know he had. 

And this guy was into some weird shit, okay? He had seen the dark corners of the internet. Poor Charles Darwin was probably rolling in his grave.

And the worst part, It was his own damn fault. This absolute clown constantly backed himself into a corner because the second you existed in the same air as him, he physically forgot how to operate as a human being. Every. Single. Time.

So the days after were an absolute clusterfuck of ungodly blue balls n' pure existential dread. Naturally. Satoru straight up ceased to function as a man. Became a ghost in his own apartment. Haunting the living spaces, operating purely on energy that was equal parts shame and desire.

He tried to function. He really really tried. He tried to focus on studying. Tried to grind for loot in World of Warcraft. Tried to do literally anything that wasn't thinking about you. But every time he closed his eyes, the sensory data from the campus overloaded his brain.

He could still feel it— The ghost-warmth of your body all up on him. Your arms wrapped around his neck. The god-tier squish of your chest smashing right into his face when you hugged him. Or the way you smelled this up close.

He felt like he was in literal heaven and it was ruining his life—

Stop it, he hissed to himself, glaring at a blank Word doc that had been blank for three hours. Stop thinking about her—

...but you were just so soft. So, so soft.

He vaguely remembered Shoko trying to warn him at some point.

It was some blurry memory from Wednesday. He’d been lay-sitting on the couch, staring blankly at a turned-off TV, fully dissociating over the specific way your hair had brushed against his cheek. Shoko had been standing over his slumped form, holding a bag of ice and ripping a cigarette.

Her mouth had been moving. Satoru knew that much. He could see her lips forming words and everything.

But his audio input had been completely muted because his brain was currently allocating 95% of its RAM to the memory of your thighs.

"...mid-terms..." something something. "...party..." something. "...Friday... people coming over..."

Satoru nodded like an idiot. Threw out a "Yeah, cool" or whatever. Just enough to make her stop talking so he could get right back to his ongoing mental simulation of you sitting on his lap.

He had walked face-first into a total trap. He somehow hadn't computed that "party" meant, like, a literal fucking party. That "people" meant you.

It wasn't until Friday night, when he started hearing giggles through the walls and smelled stuff wafting under his bedroom door, that it all finally clicked.

He wasn't safe. He was so fucked. He'd just greenlit a party in his own home where the literal cause of his humiliating blue balls was going to be the guest of honor.

“I might have made a tactical error,” Satoru whispered to his glowing monitors.

He slumped back in his gaming chair, yanking at his hair, cursing his past self to hell n' back and several other things besides. He could have been safe.

He could have been deep in some basement across town right now. Ijichi had literally invited him to a 48-hour raid weekend. And dumbass Satoru had said no because he thought it sounded "socially pathetic." Socially pathetic. Can you fucking believe it? 

God, what an absolute clown he was. "Pathetic" meant smelling like Cool Ranch Doritos and stale air. Surrounded by a bunch of nerds who were just as terrified of women as he was, playing games until 4AM and never once having to think about the specific way someone's hair smelled.

It was paradise compared to the horny purgatory he was currently trapped in with absolutely no parole date in sight.

You and Shoko were in the kitchen standing by the island. Shoko was holding a plastic tub the size of a toddler, while you dumped in a handle of bottom-shelf vodka that cost less than a McChicken.

“Does this need more Hawaiian punch?”

"Fuck no," Shoko deadpanned, letting her cigarette ash drop dangerously close to the tub. She swirled the mixture with a soup ladle. "The goal isn't flavor. It's blackout. If they can taste the fruit, we fucked up."

You nodded like she just didn’t declare something utterly stupid. 

Across the room, Suguru was sprawled on the beanbag. Half-finished joint in one hand, phone in the other. Queuing songs on Spotify.

"’I'm putting on Tame Impala." He blew out a thick cloud toward the smoke detector — the one they'd had taped shut with a sock since the move-in day.

"We need to establish a baseline vibe before the frat boys Shoko invited ruin the feng shui."

"’Aye, fuck off!" Shoko snapped, ladle pointing in his direction. "I desperately need to come in contact with some hot guys considering I am trapped with gremlins twenty-four seven!"

And then there was Satoru.

Hovering in the hallway. Clinging to the doorframe. Looking like a man who had just realized he'd walked into a situation he had severely miscalculated.

His eyes went to the joint in Suguru's hand. Then to the vat of red death in yours.

Back n' forth. Back n' forth.

"I rescinded my objection to the 'gathering,'" he announced, white knuckling the doorframe, absolutely refusing to step one single foot further into the room.

His eyes ping-ponged wildly around the room before locking dead onto the coffee table.

Sitting right there was a massive glass bong that looked like a high school chemistry project from hell.

"But this?" His voice went up an octave. "This is a blatant violation of the lease. I did not RSVP to a localized drug ring."

"Chill out, bro," Suguru drawled, lazily waving the joint in a vague gesture of reassurance. "It's organic." A long, contemplative drag. "It helps with the... expansion of the mind."

"I don't need my mind expanded—!"

His eyes were darting everywhere. The dirty floor. The ceiling. The soup ladle in Shoko's hand. The coffee table. The bong. The coffee table again.

Anywhere. Everywhere. Except your face. Specifically not your face.

Because he knew exactly what would happen if he made eye contact with you. He'd remember. The specific way you fit so so nicely against him and the way you'd felt and—

"I need my ping low!" he babbled, frantically grabbing for any nerd-ass excuse that would get him the fuck out of this room. 

"I am literally inhaling second-hand felonies! My reaction time is gonna drop! I have a Tier-1 Guild Raid at 10 PM n' I'm the main tank —" his voice cracked slightly "— if I die, the whole party wipes n' I am not taking the heat for forty digital deaths just so I can stand here and watch you give the entire student body poisoning!"

You just looked at him. The empty handle of the cheap vodka still dangling upside down from your hand.

Normally you would've roasted the absolute shit out of him. Told him to quit being a whiny little narc or something, dragged him in by the hood and shoved a solo cup directly into his hand.

That was the standard procedure. 

Instead you just stood there watching him vibrate in the doorway like a terrified chihuahua.  Eyeing the dumb fluffy hair sticking up in three different directions and the sheer panic radiating off him in waves.

Your stomach did this sick, traitorous little flip.

And it wasn't even annoyance anymore. It was this stupid bubbly heat that made you feel like a total freak because you couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd looked up at you from the grass. Completely wrecked. Flushed all over. Totally losing his mind just from you getting a little too close.

It was honestly intoxicating and he looked so lost and so gorgeous—

God. You wanted to walk right over there and touch him. Your hands were literally itching to smooth down that ridiculous tuft of hair, grab him by the jaw, tell him exactly how fucking cute he looked when he was panicking.

But. Neither Shoko nor Suguru knew about the little quad incident. And you weren't making it weird in front of witnesses.

So you let him go. For now.

You set the empty bottle down on the counter. "It's okay, 'Toru," you said softly.

Satoru froze dead mid-rant about packet loss.

His head snapped toward you. Eyes going wide behind his glasses, looking exactly like a deer in the headlights of a semi-truck. Fully bracing for you to tear him a new one. To earn a cheap laugh from Shoko at his expense.

Instead, you just gave him this soft, genuine smile that felt waaay too sweet for a kitchen that currently reeked of weed and rubbing alcohol.

"Go save Azeroth." A pause. "We'll save you a cup if you decide to show up."

Satoru just stared at you.Completely stunned. Mouth slightly open. 

You knew it was called Azeroth? Since when the fuck did you know WoW lore?!

What he didn't know— What he couldn't have known —

Was that you were so embarrassingly down bad for him that it was genuinely bordering on a legitimate mental illness. 

Instead of studying for your actual degree like a normal human being, you'd been spending your free time deep in the trenches of Wikipedia and Reddit. Practically running FBI-level background checks on every single nerd hyperfixation he'd ever name-dropped.

Just so you could casually drop a lore reference and make this supposed genius finally, finally take a fucking hint.

Because you needed him to realize you wanted him to rearrange your guts. But you also knew that if you just walked straight up to this socially inept loser and told him you wanted him to demolish your cervix, he would instantly assume it was a cruel prank, spiral into a full-blown panic attack, and start cursing you out for making fun of him.

And how did you know that? Because you already tried. Bruh.

It happened a few weeks ago when you two were stuck alone at lunch in the cafeteria. Shoko off letting some jock drool all over her, Suguru getting high on the quad with his Psych friends. Just you and Satoru and a golden opportunity.

You figured, fuck it, you’d take Suguru’s advice and just shoot your shot straight up.

Okay, maybe you phrased it in your own unique little way. But the message was clear.

And this dense dumbass looked you dead in the eyes— Completely missing the point— Shrugged and said, "I know I'm such a good friend, you don't have to tell me that."

Like are you fucking KIDDING me?!

Bro had literally friendzoned himself while you were actively trying to suck his dick.

So yeah, you had to play the long game.

Now he stood there with his mouth open, Adam's apple bobbing hard. His brain trying to mash up two completely incompatible images.

You. Looking hot as hell. Smelling like heaven. Smiling at him. And his crusty little MMO hobby. Does not fucking compute.

He looked insanely relieved you weren't roasting him. But there was this wild flash of confusion in his eyes too. And honestly the sick bastard almost looked disappointed that you weren't begging him to stay. Mixed up with a massive wave of attraction just because you'd name-dropped the goddamn continent. He legitimately didn't know what to do with any of this information.

"Right," he breathed out. "Sure. I will..." A pause. "...I will retreat then."

He gestured vaguely behind him at his bedroom door.

That stupid Forbidden Zone sign still taped to the wood. Peeling at the corners. Looking even more pathetic than the first time you'd seen it. And his only defense against the fact that he desperately wanted you to touch him again and never, ever stop.

"T-try not to be loud," he said, already backing away. "I gotta focus. And also don't want to be complicit if anyone calls the cops."

He turned on his heel and scurried back into the darkness of his room. 

Pooof.  Gone.

You stood there staring at that Sharpie-scrawled sign. The messy black letters basically laughing at you from across the hall. 

That bubbly heat settled into something more frustrating. An ache right between your thighs and the specific, annoying disappointment of watching him go. Again.

"He's gonna fold," Shoko declared, wiping her hands on her jeans, eyes already on your love-sick pout like she'd been taking notes. She might be a bitch sometimes — she was a bitch sometimes — but she wanted her two best friends to finally just. Get on with it. The sexual tension was genuinely becoming a public health concern.

"Give him two hours max. He'll get thirsty." A stir of the ladle. "Or insanely jealous." Another stir. "Honestly? Mostly jealous."

Suguru laughed from his beanbag, finally peeling his eyes off his phone. "You really orchestrated this entire social nightmare just to smoke him out of his hole, didn't you." 

"I'm a woman of science, Suguru," Shoko deadpanned, stirring the punch with a terrifyingly evil grin. "I'm just introducing a catalytic agent to a volatile compound." A pause. "He's going to explode. I only sped up the timeline."

Gotta love women in STEM. 

You grabbed a cup and dunked it straight in. Glug.

"I hope so," you muttered, and took a long gulp that tasted exactly like cough syrup and mild regret.

"’Cause if he plays World of Warcraft all night, I'm gonna kick his door down myself."

Shoko clinked the soup ladle against your plastic cup.

"That," she smirked, "is Plan B."

And Shoko was right on the fucking money. 

Two hours. 

That's exactly how long Satoru lasted before his own biology staged a full coup against him.

InfiniteVoid_69 was just running face-first into a pixelated brick wall on loop because Satoru hadn't touched his keyboard in fifteen minutes. Too busy sitting in the RGB glow, listening to the muffled music bleeding through the wall from Suguru's JBL speaker.

He was miserable. Lonely. Horny as hell—

He wasn't hiding from the party. Obviously he wasn't hiding from the party. He was hiding because his stupid brain was stuck on a hyper-realistic loop that refused to stop.

Every time he closed his eyes — Every. Single. Time — His twisted mind went straight to it. The lewd way your lips had wrapped around that straw. The filthy eye contact you'd held while you sucked down your boba. And then — like clockwork, like his brain hated him — the audio file auto-played.

Crystal clear. Full surround sound and all.

"Good boy."

Stop it, he hissed, white-knuckling the armrests of his chair until the plastic creaked.

Cease data retrieval. Clear the fucking cache—

But his meat wasn't taking orders from his brain anymore. Just the ghost of your whisper was enough to send a fresh surge of blood rocketing straight south.

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Under the fabric of his sweats, things were starting to wake up again. And by things I mean him getting bricked-up for the sixth time that day alone.

Over a memory. A single memory.

Oh god. Stop it, Satoru, he had to beg himself, staring blindly at the ceiling like it had answers. Stop it stop it stop it—

You are an adult man. Not some hormonal teenager who needs to be bonked. But if we're being completely honest, he desperately needed to be bonked. It was actually hysterical how pathetic he was. Like, genuinely hysterical, the kind of thing you'd tell a therapist about and watch them struggle to maintain a neutral expression. 

He was a literal danger to society. If Horny Jail was a real place he'd be in maximum security serving consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole.

He needed a hard reset. Badly. Needed caffeine. Needed to flush his system with enough taurine to kill a small horse and reboot his logic center.

He reached blindly down to his mini-fridge and yanked the handle —

Nothing. Empty.

"...Fucking hell." He was actually going to have to go out there.

Yanking his hood up over his hair, he took one long, steadying breath.

The mission was simple — Acquire the Monster. Avoid all eye contact. Haul ass back to base. Do not, under any circumstances, perceive the girl.

He cracked the door open. Suguru's shitty indie bass rattling the floorboards, the whole place reeking of weed and Shoko's cheap cigarettes and whatever memory-erasing blackout cocktail you two had cooked up out there.

Head down. Hugging the wall like a little cryptid. Making a beeline straight for the kitchen.

Ninja. He was a ninja. He was a shadow. Nobody was even gonna notice he was—

SLAM.

A hand smacked flat against the fridge door right next to his head. Satoru jumped, the Monster can in his hand nearly getting crushed. And looked down and—

Fuck. It was you. And you looked… dangerous.

You were a solid three cups deep. Cheeks flushed. Eyes dark and heavy-lidded. Staring at him with this predatory hunger that instantly turned his long legs to absolute jelly.

You'd been stalking his bedroom door all night. Nursing your drink, trying to act all interested in whatever conversations the frat boys Shoko was practically eye-fucking were attempting to have with you.

You didn't care about their gym routines. Nor did you care about their crypto. You'd spent two hours staring at that freaking sign and willing it to burn— Just waiting for the white-haired coward to finally crack. 

And crack he did.

"I—I was just... acquiring electrolytes!" His back hit the fridge. Thud. Pupils blown so wide the blue was just a thin frantic ring around nothing. "The party seems... statistically successful! You should be out there, socializing!"

You stepped into his space. Chest to chest. Close enough to feel him stop breathing.

"Sukuna was giving me plenty of attention out there, ya know." A pause that you let sit there. "He asked for my number." Your voice dropped. "He seems pretty direct. Knows exactly what he wants to do to me." You tilted your head. "Unlike someone who's been hiding in his room for days because he's scared of a girl."

Satoru's jaw clenched. Sukuna. God he hated that guy. His tattoos. His confidence. The fact that he probably never once needed a pep talk in the mirror just to talk to you. Just existing over there being all. that.

And Satoru would literally rather drag his freaking balls through a mile of broken glass than let you leave with him tonight.

“I am not scared!” Satoru whined. His voice pitching up so high he sounded like a literal tween hitting puberty. 

“‘Am just practicing social distancing! It’s for health reasons, a highly responsible choice, you know—”

“Liars don't get prizes, ‘Toru.” 

You were done with the talking. Your hand glided down his stomach. Satoru flinched, his breath hitching, but he didn't move away. But he didn't move away, physically couldn't, mentally couldn't. Trapped between the fridge and the girl who had been haunting his jerk-off sessions for months—

Your palm landed flat at the very top of his thigh. There. Under the fabric  the thick muscle violently twitched. And then he went rigid. Instantly.

Not just a little bricked up. Actively throbbing right under your hand. His own meat snitching on every filthy little secret he'd been trying so hard to repress. Rock-hard and straining against his waistband.

Again. HOW. How are you even doing this to him?!

"You're so tense, 'Toru—" you cooed, thumb tracing a slow teasing circle. "Is the 'cramp' coming back?" A beat. "Or is it just that you've been thinking about me touching you..." Another pause. "...as much as I've been thinking about... you touching me?"

The words hung in the air. Heavy. Intoxicating. Sitting there like a lit match.

Satoru stared down at you, his face burning up, the realization making him dizzy. 

You. Out of his league. Had been fantasizing. About. Him. Does not compute. DOES NOT COMPUTE.

But hallelujah... I guess? The dense bastard finally clocked it.  Which, of course, just sent him into an immediate spiral of existential dread. Looking like he was five seconds away from physically melting into the kitchen linoleum.

"I—I've gotta go back," he stammered.

His trembling hands hovering uselessly in the air. The Monster sitting somewhere on the counter. Long forgotten.

God, he wanted to grab you so so bad. Confess everything right there next to the refrigerator magnets. Haul you in by the shoulders and kiss you so so stupid. Even if his virgin ass had absolutely no clue how to do it. He was dying to eat that sparkly pink lip gloss right off your mouth, mostly because he knew exactly how pretty those lips would look wrapped around his—

But the unholy sensation of your hand gripping him oh so perfectly was completely overloading his system.

A literal breathing 404 Error, this man. eeeerrrrr—

"H-have to hop back on Discord!" he yelled-squeaked, ears ringing.

He shoved right past you, nearly wiping out an entire stack of solo cups on his way, and gremlin sprinted down the hallway which was genuinely something to witness. 

You took one last sip of your drink. Watching his pathetic little virgin retreat. Eyeing that stupid Sharpie sign. Forbidden Zone.

Yeah, no. Fuck that. You weren't letting him lock himself away tonight just to edge to the memory of your hand on his dick. Absolutely not. Not tonight.

Cup down. And you took the fuck off. You hit the hallway just as his bedroom door slammed shut, threw your shoulder against the wood before he could even think about turning the lock —

The door flew open with a violent BANG—

Satoru spun around. Caught dead in the center of his musky bedroom, illuminated by the RGB glow of his PC. Hadn't even made it to his desk. 

"I am busy!" he screeched, backing up with both hands raised like you were literally holding him at gunpoint. "I am—I am currently in a raid! I am logged in — digitally occupied!"

“Your game isn’t even on, Satoru.”

He risked a panicked glance back at his monitors. Which were doing absolutely nothing but displaying his embarrassing anime waifu wallpapers. Dude was literally caught in 4K.

Realizing his raid excuse had just become an impossibility, he experienced approximately two seconds of genuine internal crisis. Cursing his past self for quitting the game, then immediately thanking his past self for quitting the game, then cursing himself again.

"I use... err... voice commands!" he gasped. Delivering it with zero conviction. "It's hands-free gaming! You wouldn't understand the meta!"

Did he think you were stupid. You scoffed and took one step forward. 

Satoru backed up instantly. Heels dragging through the carpet and you kept marching forward until his knees hit the bed and he tipped backward onto the mattress. Tried to scramble away like a cornered prey animal. Got trapped between his pillows and the weight of your gaze.

You crawled right up onto the bed after him— Swung a leg over — Straddling his lap.

Satoru, pinned down, staring up at you like he'd genuinely forgotten how to process oxygen. Frozen fucking stiff.

"You have a boner, Satoru."

"I absolutely do not!" A full body flinch. "It is— it is a trick of the light! Like an optical illusion! It's the pleats of the pants!"

Okay, that was enough. His sweats didn’t even have any fucking pleats, the hell. 

You grabbed fistfuls of his hoodie, yanked his panicked face up toward yours, his glasses sliding down his nose, and kissed him. Finally.

It was messy. Horribly uncoordinated. Teeth clashing and noses bumping with a vibration that went straight through Satoru's entire skull. 

Clack. Smack. And everything in between, I guess.

He tasted like soda and sheer terror and you freaking loved it. Satoru had absolutely no idea where to put his anything. Tongue doing just everything and nothing all at once. Lapping at your lower lip, then wrestling with yours, then somewhere completely wrong, then back again, never where it was supposed to be.

Oh, Gojo. You sweet, sweet summer child. Bless him.

But at the exact same time it was hands down the single greatest moment of his entire life. 

You were actually kissing him. His dumb ass was somehow kissing you back. Right there in his bed, with you in his lap, and it wasn't even one of his pathetic little wet dreams.

Real. It was real. Someone should pinch him right now— Or rather not, his skin is too sensitive for that. So please, don’t do that.

He whimpered straight into your mouth. His heart aggressively trying to punch its way out of his chest at Mach 2, knock knock knocking on his ribcage like it wanted out.

His hands finally crashed down onto your hips, almost bruising them. He literally needed to anchor himself so he wouldn’t float away. Cloud 9 was for fucking normies. He was skyrocketing straight past Cloud 11 into a whole new stratosphere.

You pulled back just a little— Lips barely grazing the shell of his ear —

"Look at me..." A pause.

"Good boy."

BANG.

Satoru's eyes snapped open. Blown wide. Swirling with this desperate hungry something that made your stomach flip.

This man looked absolutely drunk off your existence. Addicted and disbelieving and so so gone— And you couldn't understand how it had taken you this long to finally just… jump him.

The past weeks had made everything so insanely intense n' unbearable n' you were done waiting. You rolled your hips down. Slow. Filthy. Deliberate. Grinding right into his crotch and god —

Heavenly.

Eyes half-lidded. Cheeks flushed. Staring right into his pretty blues while you ground down on him.

Satoru swore to god he had never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

Three measly dry-humps later, and that was it. Satoru gasped straight into your mouth. Mentally on the brink of complete insanity for days, and you just shoved him off the fucking cliff without a parachute. A literal nuke going off in his lower abdomen. 

...And to think he had literally prayed to whatever god would listen that he wouldn't instantly bust a nut in his own pants the very first time he got with a girl.

Oh well. RIP to that dream. 

His entire body shuddered— Shoulders straight down to his trembling knees. He ripped his mouth away from yours with a sloppy gasp, glistening with your spit, starry-eyed, skull smacking back against the headboard with a hollow—

Thonk.

"Oh, FUCK!” He went limp under you. 

And you felt it. That jerky little twitch right against your inner thigh, followed by the sudden warm dampness soaking through the fabric and sticking lewdly right to your leg.

Oh.

Satoru dead-eyed stared at the popcorn ceiling. And there goes his only chance with you...

"I..." he whispered. Voice hollow. "...uhh. I'm so sorry—"

Satoru slowly tipped his head down. Looked at his own crotch. The wet spot blooming right dead center on the light grey fabric like a declaration of defeat.

His hands came up to cover his flaming face. He just laid there. Already drafting his resignation from the honors program in his head, mentally scouting off-the-grid locations where he could fake his own death and live out the rest of his life as a celibate goat herder somewhere with no WiFi and no witnesses.

And then. He heard it. A soft bubbly little noise— A giggle.

Satoru slowly parted his fingers just enough for one terrified eye to peek through. Fully bracing for the roast of a lifetime. Instead, you were just staring down at him. Shoulders shaking. Sporting this genuine, goofy-ass smile that made your eyes crinkle up so prettily it actually hurt to look at.

"It's not— it's not how it looks! I swear— it's a margin of error! This shouldn't have happened—!"

You'd have to be a literal stupid stupid to clown on him right now. I mean. Fuck. You finally had this nerd right where you wanted him. Pinned directly under you, completely at your mercy.

You leaned back down. Framed his burning face with both hands. Stroked your thumbs over his sharp cheekbones, soft enough that his hyperventilating stopped.

"Satoru," you whispered. "You're such a dork."

And kissed him again.

The sheer whiplash of it all hit him like a complete system reboot — Ding. The pants-ruining shame didn't magically vanish. Obviously. It was very much still there. But you weren't running away. You weren't laughing at him. You were here.

Forehead resting against his. "Don't you look like you're about to cry." A pause. "It just means I'm that good." Another pause. "But we definitely gotta take these off now."

A hopeful spark returned to his eyes. Tiny. Fragile. But there.

"Wait—" His voice came out very small. "You're not disgusted?"

And how could you be? Even if a little questionable— The man of your dreams had just come in his pants from one kiss and a little caress.

For you. Because of you. …Yeah. A good fucking ego stroke, if you ask me.

"Satoru, please—" you laughed softly, fingers already hooking into the waistband. "Shut the fuck up."

Because you were just getting started —

BAANG.

The bedroom door flew open with enough force to crack the drywall.

"Emergency!" Shoko shouted, stumbling in.

"Girl, there you are —"

She froze mid-step. Her eyes did a full sweep of the room. You. Sitting all pretty, straddling her roommate. And then the undeniable pièce de résistance— The nut stain. Proudly blooming dead center in his crotch. 

Look. She'd expected something to happen between you and Satoru. She'd planned on something happening. But you genuinely cannot buy this kind of premium entertainment.

She nearly choked on her own laugh before she could even get the words out.

"Oh." A sip. "OH."

"So the nerd is finally getting some?" Another sip, slower this time, savoring it. "Fucking took you long enough, Satoru. I honestly thought we were gonna have to bury you in that gaming chair with your V-card perfectly intact."

"GET OUT!" Satoru squealed, frantically grabbing a pillow and smashing it over his lap. "LEAVE! DE-PERCEIVE ME! I AM INVISIBLE!"

"I'd literally love nothing more than to leave you two to your pathetic little goon session n' go bleach my eyes," Shoko deadpanned, grabbing your arm in a vice grip that left absolutely no room for negotiation. "But Nanami's dumbass cousin just tried to do a backflip off the fucking balcony, beefed it, n' plummeted straight into the downstairs neighbor's inflatable kiddie pool."

… Bruh.

"I was literally in the middle of something—!" you whined, heels digging into the carpet.

God, you just wanted to eat him. Was that a crime? Genuinely. Was that legally a crime?

"The neighbor is currently screaming about property damage and wants to call the cops. He's apparently a fucking faculty member—"

"Can't, like, Suguru do something?"

"—Suguru is out there but the loser is losing the freaking fight!" Shoko's grip tightened. "If you don't get out there right now and use your major to convince this boomer that a 200-pound frat boy crushing his pool was actually a high-concept performance art piece about suburban decay, we are all getting expelled!"

She started hauling you out into the hallway like a sack of very horny potatoes.

Drag drag drag.

"Look—" she barked, completely aloof, not even looking back. "You can finish de-pantsing the three second wonder later." A yank. "Right now you need to go gaslight a very angry man into dropping the charges."

And so you were ruthlessly dragged away from the absolute feast you'd just laid out for yourself.

Satoru sat there. Glasses crooked. Staring at the empty doorway with the confused expression of a man whose reality had just been shattered, rebuilt, and shattered again in the span of approximately five minutes.

It took another two agonizing fucking hours. Two straight hours of you pulling out every absolute bullshit buzzword in your arsenal. 

"Kinetic community outreach." 

"Suburban decay performance art." 

"Youthful spatial reclamation—" 

Just to gaslight this angry boomer into not calling the actual cops.

The universe was sooo conspiring against you getting into Satoru's pants, it was crazy.

By the time the three of you dragged your exhausted asses back inside, the party was completely dead.

"I'm going back in," you whispered, already pivoting toward Satoru's room like a horny heat-seeking missile.

"The fuck you are," Shoko's fingers caught your collar with a yank— "You've had exactly three cups of my amazing drink and just spent two hours aggressively lying to a tenured professor. You're going to pass out mid-stroke, and Satoru's weak-ass cardiovascular system will give out if you so much as breathe on his dick tonight." A beat. "Let the poor nerd chill."

Suguru was slumped against the wall. Fully horizontal on the inside, you could tell. 

"God, I still can't believe that actually happened." He shook his head slowly, staring at nothing. "Poor guy. But she's right— He's probably already convinced himself he needs full witness protection. Give him the night to spiral n' overthink it." A tired little smile. "It'll make him way more compliant tomorrow."

Okay, Suguru, you manipulative little freak. He wasn't wrong, though.

Obviously you weren't just going to leave like that. You slipped away for just a second— Creeping down the hall, nudging his bedroom door open juuust enough.

His PC was still glowing. Some random Twitch stream humming quietly to an empty room. Satoru was completely passed out cold, still wearing that stupid oversized black hoodie.

The grey sweats were gone though. Replaced by a baggy pair of dark navy ones. The ruined ones prolly 100% stuffed into the deepest, darkest corner of his closet. Waiting to be ceremonially burned, RIP.

He looked peaceful. His long white lashes casting soft little shadows on his still flushed cheeks, chest rising and falling. 

God— He was so fucking pretty when his mouth was shut.

You lingered in the doorway for a second just watching him. Yeah. You were going to absolutely destroy this man tomorrow.

The door clicked shut behind you, soft as you could manage. You'd let his pathetic ass rest. For now.

When the morning sun was blasting through the kitchen window, Satoru felt worse than anyone who'd actually gotten wasted last night. Sitting at the kitchen island like a horny n’ depressed gargoyle.

He was staring into a bowl of Froot Loops that had long since dissolved into a toxic pink-and-orange sludge. Spoon hovering mid-air. Arm completely frozen. One single pink loop clinging desperately to his bottom lip like it was the last life raft on a sinking ship.

Across from him, Suguru was nursing a mug of tea, mindlessly scrolling his phone. Actively fighting a war on two fronts. The hangover. And the urge to absolutely lose it in Satoru's face.

Then. 

Click. 

Shoko's doorknob.

Satoru flinched so hard the spoon dropped. It clattered against the ceramic bowl, sticky pink milk splashing directly onto his hoodie sleeve. 

Huh. White substances really did have a thing for this man's clothes. 

You stepped out first. Freshly showered. Moisturized. Terrifyingly composed.

Thank god you'd tactically dumped every single toxic concoction Shoko had tried to hand you straight down the bathroom sink after those first three cups. You were running at full 100% capacity. And ready to obliterate him.

Satoru's breath hitched like a dying Victorian child.

Oh god.

The crushing weight of reality dropped onto his brain like a cartoon anvil. Looney tunes sound effect and everything. 

The Witness and The Victim. Emerging from the same room. In unison. The jury had deliberated in secret and the verdict was permanent exile! to the shadow realm.

You marched your hot ass straight up to the island and stopped dead right in front of him. Arms crossed. Features terrifyingly unreadable.

The ultimate Comms Major About To Destroy Your Entire Life poker face.

"Satoru."

Your voice dead level, strictly professional, brutally stripped of a single ounce of warmth.

Satoru forgot how swallowing worked. Like the biological mechanism left his body alongside with any backbone. The lone pink loop finally lost its grip on his lip and plop straight into the sludge.

"I've been talking with Shoko," you stated, throwing a glance at the brunette. She was currently posted up against the counter, taking drag out of her vape with aggressively trembling hands. 

"And given the... situation... I think we need to have a private conversation."

The blood evacuated Satoru's face so fast it was almost audible. Whoosh. It's an absolute miracle he didn't pass out face-first into his Froot Loops right then and there.

The realization slammed into his forehead like a flying brick. You two talked. And probably not just some casual morning girl-chat either. No no no. This was a full-blown autopsy. A National Transportation Safety Board crash investigation into his ruined dick.

He stared wide-eyed at the two of you standing there— the High Council of the Tribunal of Shame. And his brain immediately auto-played the whole thing in high-definition Dolby Surround Sound and all.

You, recounting the "incident" with a cringed-out face.

"Wait, so then he just—?"

Shoko, cackling her lungs completely out. Brutally dissecting his premature failure like a dead frog in AP Bio. 

"Yup. Instantly. Right in the sweatpants."

"Jesus fucking christ."

"I know."

"Fucking pathetic."

"I know."

He gripped his cereal bowl so hard it was a miracle the ceramic didn't just crack straight down the middle. He felt tiny.  A biological error. Like the devs had clocked the bug, flagged it, and were desperately trying to patch him out of existence before the next server update.

Clunk.

Suguru's mug hit the table.

The silence that followed was so extremely awkward it had physical weight. 

"I..." He swallowed hard, desperately trying to locate a vocal frequency somewhere in his throat that didn't sound exactly like a suffocating walrus. "Uhh... okay.."

Suguru was watching him.

Eyes absolutely brimming with this tragic, brotherly pity that only exists between people who've watched someone humiliate themselves beyond recovery. Satoru broke out into cold clammy sweat instantaneously.

Why the fuck is he looking at him like that. Does he know too?! Did they have a goddamned group chat?!

"Be brave, Satoru." Suguru's voice came out low and solemn. He did this slow, incredibly weighted nod as if delivering a terminal diagnosis in a hospice. "Just listen to what she has to say. Try to take it like a man."

Satoru paled so violently his skin basically color-matched his hair.

Like a man.

Oh god.

Bro-code for: please don't start aggressively sobbing until she's at least out of the building.

Shoko blew a long stream of smoke, sunglasses sliding down her nose just enough to flash one bloodshot eye. "Don't worry, Satoru. I told her you're a really fast learner." A drag. "You'll understand exactly what she means immediately."

He wanted to wither into actual dust.

She has performance notes.

You were literally about to sit him down and hand him a grading rubric on his premature ejaculation. With bullet points. Color coded. A works cited page.

"Right," Satoru squeaked.

He somehow forced his body to stand. Legs wet cement. Hands shoved deep into his sweats, fingers curled into tight fists just to hide the pathetic shaking happening inside them.

One step. Then another.

The longest ten feet of his entire life. Genuinely. The Green Mile. Dead man walking. Shuffling straight toward his own humiliating execution.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

He made a beeline straight for his gaming desk the second the door opened, putting every single inch of physical distance between himself, you, and that godforsaken mattress as mathematically possible.

That bed was a Bermuda Triangle for his virginity and he was absolutely not going anywhere near it.

He spun around awkwardly. Head ducked. Dead-eyes locked on his dumb white socks.

Click.

You locked the door behind you.

"Look," he whispered. Two seconds of dead silence and he was already caving. His voice coming out completely defeated. "You don't have to... be nice about it. I get it, okay? I'm a total mess. I know I completely ruined the vibe and blew the single chance I had."

Sniff. 

He shoved his slipping glasses up his nose frantically. Refused to look at you. His eyes were traitorously starting to burn and he was not, absolutely not, doing that right now.

He felt so insanely pathetic it was bordering on high comedy. Like, genuinely. He was 100% convinced Shoko was currently folded in half out by the toaster, one hand over her mouth, waiting for you to come back out n' join the roast session.

"I can just be your study partner," he mumbled straight to the floorboards. Voice thick n' gross n' wobbly like a building foundation about to give. "I'll do all your Stats homework for the rest of the semester. I won't... try to bother you with any of that other stuff ever again. Just, please don't tell me we can't hang out anymore. I really..."

His voice snapped.

"I really like hanging out with you."

You were absolutely not letting this groveling little monologue go on for one more second. Although, holy hell. He looked so absurdly cute on the verge of literal tears. 

And honestly you probably would've soaked up this miserable little imagery for at least another thirty seconds if he didn't look like he was three seconds away from a 72-hour psychiatric hold.

You stepped right between his spread legs. Grabbed the hoodie strings and yanked him down.

"Satoru," you paused while he just stared down at you like a stunned fucking mullet, "for the love of god. Calm the fuck down."

He was bent awkwardly at the waist, flaming face hovering mere inches from yours, panting these short terrified little puffs of air straight onto your face. hff. hff. hff.

"I don't know what you were expecting," you whispered, staring right into his panicked blue eyes. "Shoko was literally just apologizing for cockblocking us."

Satoru blinked.

An actual tear escaped the corner of his eye. Plipped straight down his nose.

"...What?"

"I came back, Satoru." Your thumb caught the wetness before it could drip off his chin, brushing it away so gently it almost broke him worse. "Last night. I wanted to finish exactly what we started. But you were already passed out."

The information hit his brain like a sledgehammer.

He stared at you like a complete idiot. Mouth slightly open. Processing and freaking buffering.

You came back? You didn't fake pity and bolt in absolute disgust?  You voluntarily re-entered the Forbidden Zone? Oh my god. Did he just refer to his own bedroom as the Forbidden Zone?

That sign gotta go. 

"You... you actually wanted more?" He furrowed his eyebrows, deeply disbelieving. "But it was so... embarrassing."

"It was cute," you corrected, letting this filthy little smirk take over your face. "Messy, yeah. But incredibly fucking hot." You tilted your head. "Made me soo horny, 'Toru."

He blinked.

"...Horny?"

The word fell out of his mouth like it was a completely foreign concept he was actively failing to translate in real time. Sounding it out.

Hor. Ny.

His oh-so-brilliant mind was attempting. No, straining to run two completely conflicting programs simultaneously.

Protocol A: Terminal Self-Loathing & Permanent Societal Exile.

Protocol B: The Hottest Fucking Girl On Campus Is Telling Me She Wanna Jump My Bones. S.E.X. I. Repeat. SEX.

The processing friction was genuinely something. You could practically see the smoke coming out of his ears. 

But you were so done waiting for him to catch up. You just wanted to get on with it already.

You pulled him flush against you. Thump, His chest hitting yours.

"You..." He swallowed hard. "you're actually not making fun of me? This isn't some cruel, elaborate sociological experiment Suguru paid you to do? I'm not getting Punk'd right now?"

"Satoru." Your voice came out deadly calm. "If you don't shut the fuck up right now, I am going to physically bite you."

The feral glint in your eyes made it very clear. It wasn’t a threat. It was part of an itinerary.

Cartoon heart-eyes and you shoved him backwards. Stumbled like a newborn giraffe discovering it had legs for the very first time, his already terrible coordination completely shot to hell, until the back of his thighs hit the edge of his desk with a thunk and he scrambled to brace his hands behind him.

Trapped. Right between his dual-monitor setup and you.

Is it weird that he kind of loved that? Getting trapped between any piece of furniture and you specifically? Because he did. He really, really did.

Satoru literally didn't know whether to keep arguing or just haul you against him. So you made the choice for him. You grabbed his face in both hands n' kissed him.

Not messy this time. Tender. Deep. So completely reassuring it almost hurt.

And it kind of wrecked you too. This tight, warm, stupid knot of something blooming right in your lower belly, fluttering around like it owned the place.

"Now," you hummed against his mouth, one hand sliding straight down to rest possessively on the waistband of his fresh sweats. 

"I see we went for the tactical wardrobe change." Eyes dragging down. "Black? No... dark navy?" A slow smile. "Trying to hide something?"

"It's a universally slimming color!" he squeaked. "And—and the cotton density is mathematically optimal for the... the temperature of the room!"

"Uh-huh."

You hooked two fingers right under the waistband and pulled. Thwack. The elastic snapping back against his hips.

"They look comfy," you agreed pleasantly. "But they're currently in my way. And I have a very specific goal for the next few hours that requires you not wearing them."

Satoru's heart was hammering against his ribs so hard. Like a trapped bird that had been in there a really long time and had just now spotted the window.

You looked so dead-set it was both equally hot and terrifying. Starving. Fully locked n' loaded to rip his V-card straight out of his fucking hands with zero hesitation.

Your eyes rolled but your smirk softened. Just slightly, into something that looked almost, dangerously, like fond.

You reached up and threaded your fingers into his white hair. Gave it one commanding little tug that forced his head right back down to yours and left another soft peck against his open mouth.

"If you glitch out again," you whispered right against his lips, "we'll literally just reload the save file, nerd."

A beat.

"Now." Your fingers found the waistband again. "Shut off your brain and let me get these fucking pants off you."

Satoru didn't even try to fight you this time.

In fact he became so aggressively eager to comply that he tried to kick the pants off way too fast— Instantly tripping over his own feet, nearly taking both of you down in a tangled heap.

"Wow," you deadpanned, watching him aggressively boot the sweats across the room. Fwip straight into the corner. "Graceful."

"Shut up! I am... currently experiencing... severe motor control issues!"

"Bed. Now."

The command completely bypassed his higher brain functions and hijacked his spinal cord directly. 

Satoru scrambled onto the bed, knobby knees hitting the duvet. He scurried backward with the urgency of a soldier diving into a trench to dodge an active grenade until his spine thwack-ed the drywall and he yanked his knees straight to his chest in the most pathetic little defensive crouch you'd ever witnessed in your life.

He looked exactly like a daddy longlegs that had just been swatted with a rolled-up newspaper.

Rocking nothing but the hoodie and a pair of boxers that were—

Wait. Wait.

Were those the pixelated slimes.... from Dragon Quest?

Jesus fucking Christ.

You were physically fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose. This was it. This was the man you were currently risking your entire reputation for.

It was tragic. Beyond pathetic. It was hands down the hottest fucking thing you’d ever seen in your life.

You stopped right at the edge of the mattress.

Satoru tracked your approach like you were a raid boss entering his aggro range. Eyes wide, breathing shallow, every muscle in his body coiled like he was genuinely considering his escape routes.

"Hoodie," you ordered, holding out one expectant hand.

Satoru clutched the fabric violently to his chest like you'd just asked him to hand over his firstborn child.

"Hell no! The hoodie stays! It is—it is a tactical safety blanket! It provides crucial emotional armor!"

"Satoru." You sighed, popping one knee onto the edge of the mattress. "We are absolutely not doing this with you dressed like a goddamn burglar. Take. It. Off."

"I physically can't! My upper body definition is highly suboptimal! I literally haven't set foot in a gym since the mandatory phys-ed requirement of freshman year—"

You were biting your lip so hard it was a miracle it didn't bleed.

This fucking nerd. This absolute smooth-brained genius was really about to debate his lack of gains while you were actively trying to throw it back on him.

Okay. Fine. If logic wasn't working, you were going straight for shock and awe. 

"Fine," you hummed, fingers already finding the hem of your own shirt. "If you're gonna be a shy little bitch about it. I'll go first. Make it fair."

Satoru's eyes snapped wide.

He realized what was happening approximately two seconds too late to stop you. And three seconds too late to prepare his nervous system for the incoming blast.

oh no—

"WAIT—" he squeaked, hands fluttering uselessly in the air. "Hold on! I—err… my graphics card literally cannot render this yet—!"

You absolutely did not wait.

One fluid motion and the top was over your head. Getting tossed directly onto the bedside shelf, landing right over the poor Goku figure's head like a little hat.

Satoru's jaw dropped like three inches. Heart-shaped pupils locked on your chest. 

You were standing there. Arms reach away and bathed in the obnoxious rainbow RGB glow of his PC tower, tits out, looking at him like you weren't the one currently causing a cardiac event.

Oh my fucking god. The geometry. The physics engine. The sheer... high-res texture quality.

For ten whole-ass seconds Satoru physically forgot he was a carbon-based life form who required oxygen to survive. Lights on, nobody home.

His eyes were blown-out saucers of pure panic. Desperately trying to render the sudden influx of high-def titty. 

He stared directly at your chest, panicked and looked up at the ceiling, immediately clocked that staring at popcorn ceiling was a colossal waste of premium runtime, and aggressively yanked his gaze right back down.

He flushed sick looking crimson and slapped both hands over his own face like a cartoon character. Left his fingers spread wide open though. Obviously. His desperate ass wasn't missing a single frame of this.

“This is way too much!” he wheezed, physically swaying on the bed. “You can’t just rip your shirt off like that! Your boobs are mathematically way too nice for a warningless drop!”

Laughing, you grabbed his wrists and ruthlessly yanked his hands away from his face. He put up approximately half a second of useless resistance. Absolutely terrified of the direct line of sight. Before totally caving and letting you pin his arms down.

"Good boy," you purred, dripping with satisfied smugness, and poked him right dead center in his chest.

Thump thump thump thump thump. His heart going absolutely feral in there. Like a double-kick drum at a death metal concert. "Now." Another poke. "Hoodie. Off."

Satoru looked at you. Then down at his hoodie.

The entire pre-planned thesis defense regarding his lack of muscle mass poofed the away instantly. Because the alternative was you putting your shirt back on and he absolutely refused to exist in a timeline where the boobs went away.

"Okay," he breathed. "Okay okay. Initiating... un-equip sequence."

He raised his arms. You didn't wait— Grabbed the bottom hem and yanked it up before he could reconsider.

It got stuck on his head. Mmmph—!

A muffled pathetic little yelp of protest, before popping clean off with a violent rush of static electricity. His bright white hair was now sticking straight up in every single direction like a cracked-out mad scientist.

You tossed the hoodie into the void.

He instantly crossed both arms over his chest and curled in on himself like a shy anime girl.

"Stop looking at me!" he actually whined. "I feel like a lab specimen! You're currently calculating my exact BMI, I can literally see the math happening in your eyes!"

"I'm literally just calculating how many seconds it's going to take to finally get you to shut the fuck up," you said, n' shoved his wide shoulders back.

Fwump. Satoru went down, flopping back onto his pillows like a very tall, very compliant ragdoll.

"Boxers."

He didn't even hesitate this time. Hooked his thumbs into the waistband of those stupid pixelated slime boxers and shoved them down his legs, ready to serve you his v-card on a silver platter.

The fabric launched off his foot — Arced beautifully through the air — Landed directly on top of his keyboard.

Satoru froze. "My-my custom GMK keycaps..."

You could not have given less of a fuck about his keyboard. Although— Okay, it did make you think. Because thanks to that keyboard, and a very specific chain of subsequent events, you were currently about to sleep with this hot disaster of a nerd.

Wild. Anyway.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

For a guy who'd actively claimed his body was composed entirely of soft tissue and Monster Energy— The sight of him fully, completely exposed was enough to instantly liquify your kneecaps.

He. Was. Gorgeous.

Not just cute. Not just boyishly handsome. Unfairly masculine. The long elegant lines of his thighs, the sharp filthy cut of his V-line, the pale smooth expanse of skin glowing like an actual marble statue under the harsh rainbow LED lights.

Not fair. Genuinely not fair.

Your eyes dropped to his lap.

Oh.

That was a dick that had absolutely zero business being attached to a man who owned $400 limited-edition anime figurines. Illegal, almost.

Satoru suddenly clocked that you weren't mourning his keyboard. He tracked your gaze slooowly downward. Down, down, down  to his own lap and immediately crab-walk backward. Both hands flying to cover his junk like a terrified Victorian maiden guarding the last scraps of her virtue.

"Arms down," you commanded, reaching out to grab his sharp jaw and snapping his burning face back up to yours. "Eyes up here."

Then you stood up, towering over this trembling, giant, pathetic mess of a man.

Slowly. Agonizingly. Slowly.

You grabbed the hem of the ratty sleep shorts Shoko had loaned you and shoved them down.  They hit the floor in a sad little puddle. Then the panties followed.

Satoru’s lungs officially filed for unemployment.

He bolted violently upright, shock completely overriding his paralysis, and scrambled backward into the cheap headboard like a cornered raccoon with nowhere left to go, knees knocking awkwardly apart.

Just two completely butt-naked idiots staring at each other across an RGB-lit gamer den. Premium content right here.

His eyes were blown out like massive blue dinner plates of pure terror. Both hands frozen mid-air, fingers curled like he was scrubbing in for open-heart surgery.

Every single pathetic lonely goon session he'd ever had didn't even come close to this.

The sheer 4K ultra-HD reality of you standing there— Fully, completely, actually naked in his room was something not even Santa could've delivered on his best Christmas. You were so much softer. So infinitely prettier than the pixelated garbage he usually stared at.

Real, his brain supplied, barely functioning. she's real she's real she's actually—

"You're..." A wheeze. Literally sounding like a punctured tire slowly deflating. "You're actually fully naked right now. For me. In my room. This is 100% a simulation. I'm going to wake up in a cold sweat in approximately thirty seconds."

"I'm very fucking real, Satoru," you purred. And dropped back onto your knees. Prowled right up over his massive frame. Settled all your weight squarely across his thick thighs and —

Oh. Oh the skin to skin. So surreal you had to actively swallow down a pathetic little moan before it escaped. Can't let him know the effect he was having on you. Not yet. Not when you were supposed to be the composed one here.

He folded just as instantly.

Just crumbled forward, burying his burning face deep into the crook of your neck. His stupid nose bumping against your skin like a needy golden retriever.

"You're soo warm," he mumbled right against your collarbone, ragged hot breath sending a violent shiver straight down your spine. "I can feel your pulse. It's going— it's going crazy." A pause. His nose dragging against your skin. "Is that... is that actually because of me?"

"Wadda you think, 'Toru," you chuckled.

But your voice came out softer than intended and you honestly couldn't take the hovering anymore. More. You needed more. More touching. More kissing. More everything. More all of it. You grabbed both his violently shaking wrists and physically slammed his massive palms flat onto your bare skin.

Dragged his hands up your waist. Right up to the curve of your chest. Pressed down hard, forcing those long twitchy gamer fingers to finally, finally sink straight into the softness.

Sqqeeeeak— Satoru let out a sound like a dying tea kettle directly into your neck. His lips brushed your collarbone as he made it, the deep vibration shooting straight down to your core like a livewire.

"Holy fucking shit," he actually whimpered, hands twitching helplessly against your chest. "You're— you're so soft. Like mathematically impossible levels of soft. I literally cannot believe you're actually letting me— that you're actually—"

He couldn't even finish the sentence. 

"Good." You tilted his chin up. "Because I want you to feel this too."

You didn't give him a single second to brace himself. One hand grabbed his trembling wrist and shoved it straight down between your legs. The other wrapped dead around his cock. And started pumping.

Satoru’s head literally slammed back against the ikea headboard with a hollow thump. Throat bared, eyes rolling completely into the back of his skull the second he registered two things simultaneously — How ridiculously slick n' hot you were against his fingers. And a hand. Your hand. not his hand. Someone else's hand. Finally wrapped around his dick. Both at once.

Feeling how feral you were for him while you touched him so perfectly was genuinely sending him to another dimension. You were so soft everywhere— Your body, your hands, the way you were looking at him. All of it, too much.

"Toru..." You leaned in and bit down hard on his earlobe.. "Feel how wet I am?" A pause. "This is all for you."

"Is this..." He was stammering, completely losing his entire mind in real time. "Is this level of fluid leakage biologically nor—"

"Do not," you warned, voice dropping dangerously, "ever use the word 'leakage' during sex again."

The threat dissolved instantly into a high-pitched yelp when his clumsy untrained fingers violently slipped and' accidentally mashed directly against your clit.

It was so chaotic and uncoordinated, but holy shit, it worked.

"What—" Satoru yanked his hand back and stared at it like it had just performed unauthorized black magic. "What was that? Did I just— wait." Eyes going wide. "Did I just hit a hotkey?"

You shot him the most withering glare known to mankind but did not bother answering. Because what the fuck was even that question? 

You just lifted your hips, grabbed his cock, and guided it straight to your entrance.

God. It was a literal struggle. He was so unreasonably, stupidly, illegally large. Like, "did you illegally 3D-print this in a basement lab?" levels of large. 

You let out a sharp staggered gasp as you tried to sink your weight down onto his lap and had to stop halfway. You wrapped both arms tight around his neck and buried your face in his shoulder, gritting your teeth, just trying to accommodate.

Breathe, girl. You lowered yourself another inch. Physically forcing your body to accept the hardware upgrade one excruciating millimeter at a time— Like trying to parallel park a Hummer into a compact spot or something.

"Oh my fucking god, Satoru," you gasped, the words literally punched clean out of your lungs. "You're so fucking— just. Just give me a second."

Satoru's reaction was immediate. And absolutely catastrophic.

His hands convulsively dug into your waist like he was dangling off the edge of the Grand Canyon by his fingertips and you were the only rock face within reach.

Whimper. And vibrating right against your collarbone.

His spine gave an actual audible pop as he arched aggressively off the headboard. Neck straining. Eyes rolling back so far into his skull you could literally only see the whites.

He looked like he was getting abducted by aliens and they were beaming him up by his dick. 

"I see the literal light," he whispered, voice raw and trembling into your ear like a Victorian orphan succumbing to tuberculosis on a particularly cold Thursday. "I see the math. I can actually see the Fibonacci sequence. I..." A full body shudder. "I've wanted this so bad it has been actively ruining my life." A pause. "I think I'm literally in love with you." Another pause. "Please tell my mother I died bravely."

You froze completely. Fingers digging into his messy white hair. Not moving. 

"...Wait." Your voice came out very carefully. "What the fuck did you just say?"

But Satoru couldn't answer. Bro was gone. Officially offline. Blue Screen of Death. Mouth hanging wide open in a silent brain-dead gasp, soul visibly and physically ejecting from his body in real time as you sank the rest of the way down—

"DON'T MOVE—!"

The shriek cracked across three separate octaves simultaneously. Crushing your waist so desperately his knuckles went pure white.

"If you move I'm going to instantly bust! The friction coefficient is mathematically way too high! I literally cannot handle the sensory input! You're squeezing my dick so fucking hard—!"

"Too bad," you hummed mercilessly.

You started to grind. Slow. Filthy. And rhythmic— Just this devastating swivel of your hips down against his, over and over and over.

Satoru squeaked every single rotation. His glasses had slid so far down his nose they were basically resting on his bottom lip. His entire face flushed a violent radioactive crimson that honestly looked medically concerning. Sweat gathering at his temples. 

"Satoru," you panted, pulling back just enough to glare down at his completely wrecked face. "You are not watching porn right now. You are the ride. Fucking touch me again!"

"I don't know how!" he wailed — actually wailed, like a man being wronged. "It looked way easier in the videos! The professionals make it look like a perfectly seamless cutscene! I am operating on manual controls here! There's no tutorial! I never did the tutorial!"

You desperately needed more. Frustrated, needy and sweating, you reached right down between your bodies— Fingers finding your clit instantly, exactly where it had been grinding into his pelvis. There.

Satoru's eyes snapped violently to your hand. The wailing stopped. The panicked bird-flailing ceased.

He went dead. Fucking. Silent. 100% of his processing power diverted, from pure screaming panic straight into hyper-observation mode. Behind his fogged-up lenses, his eyes locked onto the movement of your fingers with the terrifying laser-focus of a sweaty esports pro who'd just spotted a single enemy pixel from across the map. 

Locked in.

He watched your face change. Saw your head tip back. Your lips parting in this desperate wordless oh. Heard that sharp jagged intake of breath, that filthy little noise that you caused, not him. Watched you actively get yourself off while fully riding his dick.

The rusted gears in his genius brain started grinding together. And something sharp and sudden spiked through him. Indignation. Pure indignation.

Wait. Wait a damn minute.

His brain frantically crunched the numbers. Eyes cutting to your hand doing all the actual work. Then down to his own hands, which were currently just holding your chest.

"Hey." His voice dropped. And not in the cool sexy anime-boy way either. No no no. This was the aggressively grumpy petulant drop of a toxic gamer who'd just gotten blue-shelled at the finish line in Mario Kart. And was absolutely not okay with it.

He clumsily swatted your hand away— Nearly poking you in the thigh in his chaotic haste.

"Move,” he grumbled. "Move. Let me actually try."

You bit the absolute shit out of your inner cheek. Mastermind. You were a literal mastermind.

Because the absolute last thing you'd actually wanted was to rub one out while straddling a guy who, approximately five seconds ago, hadn't known where to put his own giant hands without looking like he was frantically trying to defuse a bomb. You didn't want to do it yourself.

You needed to trigger his competitive streak. You needed him to get in the game.

He shoved your hand completely out of the way and slapped his own massive thumb down. 

Splat.

Absolute. Fucking. Disaster at first.

Bro was pressing waaaay too hard— Mashing it like he was desperately trying to skip an unskippable cutscene that the developers had deliberately made unavoidable. His ping was lagging. His thumb was slipping everywhere. He was dead-ass glaring at your crotch like he was trying to mentally calculate the square root of Pi through sheer force of will.

But then. Then. He hit the spot just right again.

The exact second a genuine filthy moan ripped out of your throat.

And Satoru didn't just feel encouraged. The man felt god-tier. His fragile male ego, which had been in a state of catastrophic multi-system failure for the past twenty-four hours, surged back to full capacity like a phoenix rising from the ashes of his own ruined sweatpants.

Ding. 

PLAYER 2 HAS ENTERED THE GAME.

A hyper-competitive glint flared up behind those fogged-out lenses.

And it wasn't just a mental buff either. He felt it. Directly. In the hardware.

The sudden frantic spasm spasm flutter of your pussy wrapping around his dick— Just pulsing against him in a way that zero hours of 4K VR porn could have ever prepared his virgin brain for.

The ultimate premium haptic feedback. It sent a massive fucking shockwave straight from his crotch directly into his brain stem.

And in the same exact second, Satoru had a full-blown religious experience.

Right then and there, he made a decision. He needed to feel this exact specific sensation until the literal heat death of the universe. Wanted to live inside this flutter. Wanted to be permanently buried inside this wet mushy and terrifyingly perfect reality until the servers shut down for good. Forever.

"Hypothesis—" He was panting, this manic absolute shit-eating grin splitting violently across his sweaty face. "Fucking confirmed." His eyes were wild.

"I've officially mapped the inputs. My dexterity stats are mathematically way higher than originally calculated."

A beat. He looked down at you. "Step aside, amateur."

"Amateur?!" You barely managed to get the word out before —

He clamped his fingers down on your waist and with the sudden terrifying display of someone who regularly lugs a 40lb custom PC rig up three flights of dorm stairs strength he aggressively shifted his weight and violently twisted his hips to completely flip you over.

"Excuse the fuck out of—?!" 

Aaand the entire room did a barrel roll.

Oomph. You hit the mattress, hair sprawling across the pillowcase. You just laid there staring up at him, jaw hanging open like a laggy video feed buffering on a bad connection. 

Completely. Utterly. Fucking. Gagged.

Because you had plans for this man. Massive. Long-term. Devious-ass plans.

You'd fully intended to spend the next six to eight business months systematically dismantling his virgin innocence piece by piece. Just carefully, methodically digging until you finally unearthed the depraved feral perverted monster you just knew was hiding somewhere beneath the pathetic layers of "I have a 2D waifu" and "I forgot to use deodorant today."

You were supposed to be the mentor here. The mastermind.

But apparently apparently Satoru had decided to skip the base campaign entirely and just buy the endgame DLC. Without even reading the patch notes.

You had been trying. Sweating. Putting in 110% elbow grease, grinding down on his dick with the full calculated intention of keeping his ass completely pinned and overwhelmed this entire time.

And yet three measly strokes and one lucky-ass thumb placement. And bro had successfully speedrun the entire goddamn power dynamic.

He looked absolutely feral.

Glasses so violently fogged up he was legally blind. White hair a static-charged dandelion puff of pure chaos standing in every direction simultaneously. Straddling you with the intense focus of a speedrunner who could smell the global World Record.

His fingers finding purchase on either side of your head. Settling in and locking eyes.

"The latency issues," he rasped, "have been resolved."

His voice sounded like it had been dragged through a gravel pit, run over twice, and left there. He didn't even look like a pathetic nerd anymore. He looked like a man who had just discovered how to aggressively exploit a physics glitch in the universe and was absolutely planning to abuse it.

He leaned down and licked this wet scorching-hot stripe right from your collarbone straight up to your ear —

His tongue was hot and surprisingly firm and before your brain could even begin to process the sensory input he sank his teeth right into the soft junction where your shoulder met your neck.

Bite. Not a cute gentle romantic nibble either. No no no. This was a feral hungry "I am permanently claiming this hardware" bite that instantly curled your toes and made a muffled horny shriek die completely in your throat before it could escape.

"'Toru—!" you gasped, fingers knotting desperately into his sweaty hair.

"Mine," he mumbled right against your skin.

The deep rumble of it buzzed through you like a livewire. He clamped his teeth down again— Just hard enough to leave a blatant mark before dragging his open wet mouth slowly across your pulse point.

But then he stopped. The momentum didn't slow down gradually. It slammed face-first into a brick wall at full speed with zero warning and absolutely no survivors.

Satoru's entire massive body went rigid. His head popped up so fast it was like someone had triggered a fire alarm directly inside his skull.

And that devastatingly confident glint completely gone.

Replaced instantly by the panic of a guy who had just realized he might have accidentally violated a major societal contract without reading the terms and conditions first.

"C-can I actually call you mine?" he squeaked out terrified. "Is that— is that allowed? I haven't read the updated EULA for this dynamic! I don't want to violate the user licensing agreement! Was that way too aggressive?! Did I just sound like a possessive fedora-tipping creep in a Discord server?! People say a lot of crazy shit in porn n' I just thought it would sound cool! Oh my fucking god—"

A full body shudder of horror. "I'm being a literal Nice Guy, aren't I?!"

He looked existentially horrified. Both hands hovering awkwardly in the air above your chest like he was completely terrified to make contact without a legally binding notarized consent form signed in triplicate. 

"Satoru," you groaned.

You reached up, grabbed a fistful of his sweaty white hair, and yanked his panicked face right back down to yours. "We are naked." A beat. "I put your dick inside me." Another beat. "I have wanted this for months." You stared directly into his terrified eyes. "I am literally yours. It was incredibly fucking hot. Keep going."

Satoru didn't just reboot. The man overclocked. His eyes blew out so wide they were basically just two shimmering dilated blue voids full of worship. This pathetic sob ripped out of his throat like it had been stored there for months and had finally found its exit.

You were his. You. And him. Together.

God. God. Neither of you were making it out of this bed until the heat death of the universe and that was just. A fact now. A biological certainty.

"Administrative privileges..." he wheezed, his entire massive body trembling so hard the cheap headboard rattled. "...fully granted."

Ding.

Oh lord have mercy, he was such a nerd it truly does hang between fucking hot and wanting to slap the fuck out of him to just shut the hell up.

"Ownership confirmed." His voice dropped an entire octave on its own. "I have the master key. I'm the only fucking user with root access."

He dove straight back into your neck. Mouth wide open and starving. Sloppy hot tongue laving right over the red mark he'd just bruised into your skin like he needed to physically taste the fact that you belonged to his nerd ass.

But he wasn't camping in one spot anymore. Oh no. Now that he had official root access? Satoru was data-mining.

Aggressively experimenting. His wet mouth wandering everywhere. Sloppy scorching kisses along your jawline, teeth dragging over your collarbone, biting down the slope of your shoulder. Acting like a rabid completionist hunting a hidden Easter egg on a brand new map, hot breath coming in ragged hitches right against your bare skin. 

And then. Then. He found a new variable. Leaned down and just shamelessly dragged his hot wet tongue directly into the curve of your ear. Slow. Disgustingly bold. Incredibly wet. The movement sent a literal 10,000-volt electric shock straight to your goddamn clit.

And the noise that ripped out of your throat wasn't some cute curated porn-star moan. It was a freaking wail. Loud and totally wrecked and completely embarrassing and you could not have stopped it if you tried. 

Your body reacted way before your brain could catch up. Walls clamping down around his dick with this sudden feral ferocity, squeezing so aggressively hard you could literally feel his pulse thrumming against your own.

Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. 

Like two heartbeats arguing about who was more desperate.

What the actual fuck. Your skull slamming back into the crusty pillowcase. What the ACTUAL fuck.

Your body was just completely milking this man. Acting out on some deep feral instinct you didn't even know you possessed. The mastermind top persona? Dead. Buried. A distant memory. You will not be missed. You were officially just a puddle of needy desperate overstimulated nerves n' poor decisions.

Are you both having a catastrophic spiritual awakening right now? Is this giant trembling nerd actually a sleeperagent sex god? Are YOU actually just an irredeemable degenerate? Have you seriously been holding back this insane radioactive level of combined freakiness this ENTIRE time?

These were questions that deserved answers. That you were utterly unable to process right now.

Satoru's reaction to getting aggressively squeezed was this strangled deeply vibrating groan that felt like a literal car subwoofer detonating directly against your chest.

"Do that again," he panted. "Squeeze me like that again."

He did not pull away. Obviously he did not pull away because why would he?

If anything the premium haptic feedback just made him more of an animal. He bit down hard on your earlobe— And started thrusting with this renewed intensity that had absolutely zero chill left in it whatsoever.

He wasn't testing variables anymore. Bro was farming the spawn point. Like his entire life depended on it.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

His hips finding a rhythm. A terrible one, but yet just perfect rhythm.

He was a sweaty mess. You were a drooling mess. His entire bedroom was a disaster zone of kicked-off sweatpants and aggressively glowing RGB electronics and approximately zero dignity left between the two of you.

But as he drove his hips back into you, massive gamer fingers digging deep into your hips, keeping you completely pinned under him. You realized. The tutorial level was over.

"God, Satoru, seriously—" you gasped. "Just shut the fuck up n' fuck me or let me get back on top!"

The command didn't just register, it was processed as a Priority 1 Override Directive.

Satoru's fried motherboard, already overclocked way past its safe operating limit, finally, finally stopped trying to verbally narrate the gameplay.

He let out this low growl straight into your neck. A noise that was like 5% actually sexy and 95% a giant nerd who had just achieved his ultimate final form. He abandoned the theoretical approach entirely. And just leaned in.

He kissed you. Finally, on his own, without being yanked into it. It was just full of spit and licking and biting and he still had absolutely no idea what to do with his tongue and none of that mattered at all because he started thrusting with actual terrifying frame-dropping velocity simultaneously and your brain just— Buffered.

It wasn't smooth. It was desperate and heavy and his long-ass pale limbs kept tangling with yours in this sweaty chaotic disaster.

Every time he drove back in, his glasses rattled so violently against the bridge of his nose that they finally just gave up. Flying off to clatter against the headboard before vanishing into the void behind the mattress. Gone. Forever probably. 

RIP.

"Going dark—!" he wheezed.

His vision was nothing but a smear of blinding colors n' your face. But that was enough for him. That was everything. He didn't need to see to feel the way you were completely wrapped around him or the way he was bottoming out with every single heavy messy thrust.

Aggressively kissing your cervix or whatever the narrator would say in some of those smutty ass romance books. 

It was a collision-detection in the absolute best way possible. Every time he drove deep a fresh wave of static electricity popped behind your eyelids.

For Satoru it felt like he was actively trying to clip through the world geometry just to get closer to you. Like the normal rules of physics didn't apply and he was exploiting that.

"Critical—" His voice almost inaudible. "Hit." He buried his sweaty face deep into the crook of your neck, breathing in ragged desperate lungfuls of you. "I'm— I'm hitting the level cap! I can literally see the credits rolling—!"

The mushy suffocating warmth of you was the only thing in his universe.

Only thing left. Every time you clamped down around him he made this noise —

Eeeeerrrrr — Like high-speed server fans failing. A high-pitched hum of a moan of pure sensory overload that he couldn't have stopped if he tried.

Rhythm so frantic and sweaty and desperate as he chased the final achievement with everything he had left.

Almost almost almost—

"Satoru, I'm— I'm close! Right now—!"

"NOT WITHOUT ME—!" His voice cracked across three separate octaves simultaneously like it was actively shattering. "I'm not— I'm not letting you finish solo! We extract together!"

A pause. The most unhinged pause in human history.

"TELL MY DISCORD MODS I DIED A HERO!"

…Is he deadass for real now? Lol.

He buried himself inside you even deeper, like that was even possible. Every muscle in his back straining, visibly shaking, giving it absolutely everything his CPU had left in the tank. Teeth grazing your skin one last time.

Triggering the endgame cutscene.

Loading. Loading. load—

You unraveled completely.

Screamed his name. Like, actually screamed it. And oh my, he didn’t know his name could sound so heavenly like this. Your body violently arching off the mattress as you clamped down around him with this rhythmic crushing force that permanently blew his remaining fuses.

SYSTEM FAILURE.

Satoru's eyes rolled completely into the back of his skull. His entire frame went as rigid as a frozen PC mid-render.

"OH GOD— ERROR! SYSTEM DOWN!"

He shook. No, wait. He didn't just shake. He vibrated. Like a cell phone buzzing on bare tile at 3AM. And somewhere in the middle of all that vibrating his brain tried to send him one last coherent thought —

Wait did i just— am I about to— should I ask— her walls are so— focus FOCUS— Shoko will know what to do, Shoko always— god you feel so— SATORU GOJO FOCUS— What if you want to— NO you wouldn't— Would you— Just ASK—

"Can I—"

You could literally hear his entire thought process just from his eyes. "Yes." A beat. "Jesus, Satoru." Another beat. "I'm getting the shots."

The relief that crossed his face was genuinely profound. Like a man who had just been pardoned three seconds before his own execution.

"Oh—"

And then he just poured himself into you. One final shuddering gooey gasp of pure relief. Safe and protected and inside and the warmth of it was just. Ungodly. Heavenly. The kind of warmth he couldn’t even express using the thickest dictionary in the world—

And then he tipped forward. Straight down. All 190 centimeters of sweaty dead weight. Right on top of you.

You let out a muffled gasp of air as Satoru's entire lanky thoroughly exhausted body crushed you directly into the mattress. He was heavy. He was aggressively damp. He was currently heaving like a marathon runner who had just seen the face of God and realized he was worthy.

You two laid like that in complete silence.

Well, save for two things:

The desperate whirrrr of his PC. And the distant muffled lo-fi beats playing out in the living room since the morning. 

You were staring up at the ceiling. Feeling the aggressive aftershocks twitching through your thighs and genuinely wondering if your ribs were still in their correct anatomical positions.

Are they though… Like actually?

Then— A twitch. Satoru lifted his head just enough to rest his chin directly on your chest. White hair sweaty and god knows what else. Without his glasses his blue eyes were wide and glassy and filled with a genuinely terrifying amount of raw adoration.

You looked up at him and this sudden massive surge of something warm and stupid and completely inconvenient hitting you directly in the chest.

He looked so painfully pathetically vulnerable that it actually made your heart do something embarrassing.

You reached up, threaded your fingers deep into his hair, and yanked him down to kiss him.

Satoru made a noise. And then he just melted. His hands clutching your waist desperately, trying to clip your physical models together, trying to close every possible gap between you. 

No space. He wanted no space.

"I think I love you too, dork." You whispered, foreheads still pressed together.

Silence. One beat. Two.

But the buff was instantaneous.

Not just a mental reboot. A total unauthorized hardware overclock. That confession injecting directly into his system like an illegal mod and his ego just surging.

Satoru's frame gave a sudden violent jolt and you felt him —

Vividly — Undeniably — Throb right back to rigid inside you.

"Oh," he wheezed.

"Oh, that's..." A pause. "...that's a very dangerous thing to say to a man."

He lifted himself up— Blindly squinting down at you. His starry eyes full with this cocktail of worship and a newfound level of main character energy.

You were in trouble. Significant trouble.

"But seriously," he rasped, fingers sliding right back down to caress your hips. "We gotta find my glasses." 

"Why?" you panted, feeling the ridiculous heat of him actively expanding inside you all over again.

"Because," he grinned. Just this feral lopsided smirk that was way too goddamn confident for a man who thought he’s gonna die a virgin twenty minutes ago.

"I'm a visual learner." His hips shifted lightly. "I want to see exactly how I fuck my pretty girlfriend for round two. And I need 4K resolution on this achievement unlock."

Pretty girlfriend. He said it so casually. Like it was already a fact.

…I mean, it was a fact? This little — okay, tall — fucker had you wrapped around his finger for months and he didn't even know. And it WILL stay that way. His ego would swell up so much he'd become even more insufferable and you don't need any unnecessary cortisol spikes.

You didn't even have a single second to process the sheer unbridled weaponized nerd-hubris of that statement before—

THUD. THUD. THUD.

The bedroom door rattled violently on its hinges.

"CONGRATULATIONS, ROMEO."

Shoko's voice pierced through the wood like a blade. And it sounded utterly unimpressed. The voice of a woman who had been expecting this and was somehow still annoyed it had happened.

"We are all very proud that you've officially retired from the virginity league." A pause. "But can you both be like. At least 50% less fucking noisy?"

Satoru completely froze. His entire face turned a shade so hot that practically outshined the RGB setup.

"Some of us are actively trying to survive a hangover out here without hearing the Fibonacci sequence moaned out!" Her footsteps receded slowly down the hallway. "Keep the volume down or I am literally changing the Wi-Fi password."

The silence that followed was deafening. Satoru stared at the door. Dead-eyed. Unblinking. Then slowly looked back down at you. His pupils were vibrating.

"She's just jealous," he whispered, voice cracking only slightly as he tentatively tentatively started rolling his hips again. His newfound god-complex only momentarily dampened by the catastrophic existential threat of losing internet access. "She's just a hater." A roll. "I'm a ranked pro now." Another. "I have a girlfriend."

"Let’s just find your glasses, Satoru," you laughed, reaching up to yank his sweaty ass back down toward you. He paused for one literal microsecond. His hands tightened to bruise-level hard the exact second he felt you pulse around him and the need for 4K visuals instantly lost the battle against the sheer haptic feedback of being buried inside you.

No contest. First round knockout.

"Actually—" he mumbled, lips already finding your neck. "Fuck that." Dive. "I can find them before round three." His teeth grazing your skin. "Right now I'm playing on instincts."

ˏˋ loverboy!yuji : ̗̀ꨄ︎➳ who would try to make every date as unique as possible. He’s a very adventurous person and loves trying new things! and what better way would it be to try them with his favorite person in the world? cozy movie nights under a pillow fort, aquarium dates, picnic and painting together, paintball, laser tag, exploring abandoned places etc!

 ˏˋ loverboy!yuji : ̗̀ꨄ︎➳ who would yap yap and yappp about you before you guys even gotten together. megumi always begging him to shut up from how much he was blabbering on and on about you. but he was just so entranced in his thoughts, megumis complaints were completely muffled and tuned out. he was so smitten and head over heels for you. he talked about you so much you swear you could see his pupils dilating into big hearts just from mentioning your name alone.

And once you guys were official…oh my gosh someone would have to duct tape his mouth shut. He would hear something “related to you” in the slightest and just immediately start ranting

ˏˋ loverboy!yuji : ̗̀ꨄ︎➳  who has got to be the most chalant and charismatic person to ever exist. THE golden retriever boyfriend. he isn’t ashamed of showing his love to you around anyone. why would he ever?? at school, out in public, infront of his friends, his brother, megumi, everyone!

He never understood the whole thing of men being “nonchalant” and dark and mysterious around their partners. He actually thinks it’s the stupidest thing ever and that any man that doesn’t publicly declare their love for their partner is just a pussy. this boy doesn’t have not one singular nonchalant bone in his body. 

ˏˋ loverboy!yuji : ̗̀ꨄ︎➳ who loves to show you off. you’re his most prized possession. his lockscreen and wallpaper is a picture of you, on all his socials his pfp is you guys together, insta highlights dedicated to you, and he keeps a photo of you in his wallet. 

When he’s gone on long missions he always reminisces on your little polaroid knowing he has you to go back home to. yearning like a man in the military -`♡´-

ˏˋ loverboy!yuji : ̗̀ꨄ︎➳   who is biggg on physical touch. It’s his favorite thing in the worlddd. Always leaning on your shoulder, hugging you from behind, kissing you and stealing pecks from your lips anywhere at anytime, wrapping his arm around your waist at any given moment to show everyone that you’re his. etc. He’s always touching you in some way, he genuinely can’t keep his hands off of you. It also doesn’t help how soft your skin is under his touch. 

ˏˋ loverboy!yuji : ̗̀ꨄ︎➳ who always prides in himself on showing his affection for you the best he can. he LOVES calling you nicknames like baby, my love, sweetie, pumpkin, cupcake, tiger, angel. Allll of it. He doesn’t care how cheesy they may be, the thought of pet names even being cringey doesn't even come to his mind nor phase him! He’ll also purposely call you them in front of others just to get an reaction out of you to fluster and tease you.

ˏˋ loverboy!yuji : ̗̀ꨄ︎➳   who is sooo clingy and obsessed with you it’s almost unbearable. but how could you ever dislike it when it’s mutual? He can barely be more than 6 feet away from you, like EVER. Always has to be touching you in someway or being around you. Holding your hand under the table, playing footsie while studying together..

And don’t even start with the texting and calling. You miss just one of his calls? Not even a glance back to your phone, 16+ missed calls. 10+ text messages popping up back-to-back. 

[ my sweet boy 🧸ྀི: babyyy  ] now

[ my sweet boy 🧸ྀི: sweetieee ] now

[ my sweet boy 🧸ྀི: did ur phone die? ] now 

[my sweet boy 🧸ྀི:  babyyy where r u? why aren’t u answering mee (◞‸◟,)  ] now

[ my sweet boy 🧸ྀི:  are u ok?? I miss uuuu ] now 

[ my sweet boy 🧸ྀི: im gonna die if u don’t answerrrr (● ˃̶͈̀ロ˂̶͈́)੭ꠥ⁾⁾ ] now

ˏˋ loverboy!yuji : ̗̀ꨄ︎➳ whos love language is also giving. hes a HUGEE gift giver. giving his favorite hoodies scented with that cologne of his that you love, lego flowers,  matching keychains, couple bracelets, and of course gift baskets filled with your favorite things.

Whenever he comes back from a mission he is always bringing you something back. little sweet treats, bubble tea, and even pretty souvenirs to remind you that he loves you and that he’s safe back home.  -`♡´-

ˏˋ loverboy!yuji : ̗̀ꨄ︎➳  who would be the most forgetful person, yet remember every single little detail about you. you mentioned once how you love a specific character from a show? he’s immediately jotting that down and ordering merch for you.

He’s the type to have a whole notes folder dedicated to you of all the things you love! your favorite color, foods, songs, tv shows, even your exact orders from restaurants. from the customized drink you get down to how you don’t like pickles on your sandwich. 

hes so considerate and loves you so much. your adorable loverboy. -`♡´-

a/n: guess who’s back haha.. totally didn’t go on hiatus after posting 1 fic..

every little thing you did chipped at him. the way you waved from your balcony in the mornings wearing nothing but a thin tank top and no bra, nipples stiff from the cool air. the way you asked him once, all sweet and shy, if he knew how to fix a leaking faucet and stood too close while he worked, soft focused grunts leaving is chest and his rolled-up sleeve. after that night he jerked off twice before he could even get his jeans off, coming so hard he had to brace one hand on the shower tile just to stay upright.

he hated how easily you affected him. hated that a girl barely old enough to rent her own apartment could make a man like him, a man who prided himself on control, feel like some desperate teenager again. his sex life used to be something he managed. now it was just quiet frustration and the occasional guilty stroke while he thought about how small you would look under him, how tight you would feel, how pretty you would sound moaning his name.

then came the router. you knocked on his door at nine-thirty one random night, voice small and embarrassed over the phone first, then in person when he opened up still dressed in his white button-up and black jeans.

nanami stands at your doorway with one hand already in his pocket, the other holding the small toolbox he keeps for these exact random neighbor emergencies all ready, and he tells himself for the tenth time that this is nothing. just a quick fix.

your voice is soft and a little embarrassed over he’s not surprised. “sorry to bother you, nanami-san, but my wifi router just died and i have no idea what i’m doing with these things.” he had sighed, told you he would be right over, and now here he is, hating every single second because the moment you open the door he feels it again. that pull. that stupid, inconvenient heat low in his gut that has been creeping up on him since the day you moved in.

you are wearing your famous oversized t-shirt that slips off one shoulder and tiny sleep shorts that ride up when you shift your weight, bare feet on the hardwood, skin glazed with a thin layer of sweat like you had been lounging on the couch all evening.

you smile at him, grateful and a little shy, and nanami’s jaw tightens. he is forty, a divorced but settled, a man who likes order and quiet and routines that do not include getting half-hard at the sight of his much younger neighbor’s collarbones. yet here he is, eyes dragging down the line of your neck before he forces them back up.

“thank you so much for coming,” you say, stepping aside to let him in. your voice is warm, a little breathy from the relief of not having to deal with it alone. the apartment smells faintly of vanilla and whatever takeout you had for dinner.

nanami nods once, polite as always, and follows you toward the corner where the router sits on a low shelf. he can feel the weight of his own body, the clean but lived-in scent of his white button-up clinging slightly to his skin after a long day, black jeans sitting snug on his hips. he is musty in that grown-man way, soap and faint cologne mixed with the faint trace of office air and the walk over, nothing overpowering but undeniably male. he knows it. he hopes you do not notice how it fills the small space between you.

you hover close while he crouches down to look at the router, your thigh brushing his shoulder as you point at the blinking lights. “it just stopped working out of nowhere. i tried restarting it but…” your words trail off when he glances up.

his eyes catch on the way your t-shirt hangs loose, the soft swell of your tits visible at the neckline, the smooth skin of your legs right there at eye level. he should look away yet nanami does not. instead his gaze lingers, slow and heavy, tracing the curve of your hip, the way the hem of those shorts digs into the flesh of your thigh. he feels his cock twitch in his jeans, thickening against the zipper before he can stop it.

fuck.

he shifts his weight, trying to hide the growing bulge, but the movement only makes the fabric pull tighter.

“let me see,” he mutters, voice lower than he intends, rough around the edges. his fingers work the cables, checking connections, but his mind is not on the router. it is on you. on how you smell like warm skin and faint lotion, on how you keep biting your lip while you watch him, on how easily he could reach out and slide his palm up the back of your thigh.

he has been trying to ignore it for weeks. it takes him back to the way you wave at him from your balcony in the mornings, the sound of your laugh carrying through the thin walls when you are on the phone with friends, the soft thump of your music when you cook.

every little thing has been chipping away at his carefully built restraint. he is older. he should know better. but his body does not care about should.

he stands up slowly, taller than you by a good amount, and when he does his chest brushes your shoulder. you do not step back and the air between you feels thick, charged, and nanami’s eyes drop again, this time to your mouth, then lower to where your nipples have tightened under the thin shirt.

he swallows hard. his cock is fully hard now, pressing insistently against the front of his black jeans, the outline obvious if you were to look down. he turns slightly, pretending to fiddle with the router settings on his phone, but the movement only highlights the bulge.

he can feel the heat of it, the way it throbs when you lean in closer to see what he is doing, your breath ghosting over his forearm.

“is it the cable?” you ask, voice quieter now, like you have noticed the shift too. your eyes flick to his face, then down, then back up, and nanami sees the faint flush creeping up your neck. good. at least he is not suffering alone. he clears his throat, forcing his attention back to the device, but his free hand flexes at his side, knuckles whitening. he wants to touch you. wants to back you against the wall and slide those tiny shorts down your legs, wants to feel how wet you already are because he can smell it, that sweet faint arousal mixing with your usual scent.

his mind supplies the image without permission: you bent over the couch, his cock buried deep while he grips your hips and fucks the whimpers out of you. he exhales sharply through his nose.

“try it now,” he says, stepping back just enough to give you space, but not enough to hide anything. the router lights flicker green. you pull out your phone to test the connection and let out a small happy sound that goes straight to his dick.

“it works! oh my god, thank you, nanami-san.” you turn to him fully, eyes bright, and for a second he lets himself look. really look. at the way your chest rises with each breath, at the bare stretch of thigh, at how your lips part when you realize he is staring.

he does not smile. his expression stays bland, almost stern, but his eyes are dark and hungry, eye-fucking you so openly now that there is no pretending. his cock strains harder against the denim, a small wet spot forming where he is leaking, and he makes no move to hide it.

he is half heartedly relieved you do not notice. your gaze still stuck on your phone screen, lashes fluttering, and when you look back up, you read there is something new in his expression, something needy and waiting to be unleashed.

nanami’s voice comes out rougher than he means. “you should get a better router. this one is outdated.” it is the most neutral thing he can think of, but it does not matter.

the tension is already there, thick and undeniable, wrapping around both of you in the half-unpacked living room. he can feel his pulse in his cock, the heavy ache of it, the way his balls feel tight just from standing this close to you. he wants to hate how easily you affect him.

he does hate it. but he cannot stop the slow drag of his eyes over your body one more time, imagining exactly how you would look spread open on his bed, taking every inch while he tells you how long he has been fighting this.

you shift on your feet, thighs pressing together, and nanami catches the tiny movement. his jaw clenches. he should leave. he should say goodnight and go back to his quiet apartment and jerk off to the memory like he has done more nights than he cares to admit.

your heartbeat picks up its rate, your finger tips sweaty. you feel the air thickening already, noticing the print of your neighbors dick without even looking down.

“so maybe you could stay and i could make you some te–” your proposal is short lived.

“i’ve fixed what you’ve called me to help for. goodnight.” his stern voice catches you off guard, watching him collect and grab the toolbox on the floor that was forgotten seconds ago. you try to say something but stay frozen when he pushes past you, his neck veins slightly showing on his skin.

nanami strides out fast. because right now, with his cock hard and obvious and his control fraying at the edges, he is not sure he has the strength to stay in the same room with you.

and so he leaves you standing in the middle of your apartment with your wifi fixed and a pile of notifications ‘ding-ing’ every seconds.

+

a week drags by in thick, unspoken tension that sits heavy between the thin apartment walls like smoke that refuses to clear.

nanami wakes each morning with the same stern resolution burning behind his eyes: keep the distance, lock it down, pretend the night you called him over for the router never happened. he leaves for the office before the sun fully rises, comes home long after the hallway lights have dimmed, and when he passes your door he keeps his gaze fixed on the scuffed floorboards like they hold the answers to every moral question he has been asking himself since he first felt that inconvenient throb in his jeans. but the memory refuses to fade.

it lingers in the shower when hot water runs down his chest and his hand wraps around his cock without permission, stroking slow and frustrated while your freshly known name slips out between gritted teeth like a confession he wishes he could swallow back.

it follows him into bed at night, where he lies stiff on his back and remembers the exact shade of flush that crept up your neck when his eyes dragged too long over your body.

he hates it. hates how easily a girl barely out of her early twenties can unravel the careful, quiet life he has built for himself. he is older, disciplined, a man who values order and restraint above almost everything, yet here he is, reduced to stolen glances through the balcony railing and late-night strokes that leave him emptier than before.

you do not make any of it easier. you still wave at him from across the narrow gap between your balconies in the mornings, soft smile curving your lips like you know exactly what you are doing to him. you leave polite little notes taped to his door about shared packages or the new recycling bins downstairs, your handwriting neat and looping in a way that makes his fingers tighten around the paper every time.

each accidental brush of your fingers when you hand him mail in the hallway sends a spark straight down his spine, and every polite “good morning, nanami-san” you offer chips away at the walls he keeps trying to reinforce. he catches the sound of your laugh through the thin wall sometimes when you are on the phone with people… your age, light and warm, and his cock thickens in his slacks before he can stop it.

he tells himself it is nothing. just proximity. just the natural reaction of a man who has been alone too long. but deep down he knows the truth: you have gotten under his skin, and the more he tries to push it away the harder it pulls.

tonight the last thread of his restraint finally frays and snaps.

the familiar knock comes at exactly the time he wishes it to, soft but insistent, cutting through the quiet of his evening like a hook sinking into flesh.

nanami opens the door still dressed from the office, white button-up with the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, black jeans sitting low on his hips, the faint musty-clean scent of him drifting out into the hallway, clean and faint cologne and the long day clinging to his skin.

you stand there in another oversized t-shirt that slips off one shoulder and those same tiny sleep shorts that have been haunting him, hair not perfect like you had been caught up in something… private, cheeks already carrying that telltale pink flush. it’s as if last week was repeating itself.

“the router again,” you say, voice small and breathy, but your eyes are not on any imaginary problem. they trace the open collar of his shirt, the broad line of his shoulders, the way his chest fills the doorway. “it keeps dropping signal. i tried everything you showed me last time but… i think i need your help again.”

he should tell you no. should suggest you call the building manager in the morning this time and close the door before the air between you thickens any further. instead he exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tight, and reaches for the small toolbox he keeps by the door without saying a word.

he follows you next door, the faint click of the lock behind him sounding louder than it should. the moment you are both inside the living room the atmosphere shifts, warmer and heavier, like the space itself is holding its breath. you lead him to the same corner shelf where the router sits, but this time you do not hover at a polite distance.

you stand close enough that your bare arm brushes his rough skin when he crouches down to look. the lights on the router are steady green. he knows it is working fine the second he glances at it. and most definitely you know it.

the excuse is paper-thin and neither of you bothers to pretend otherwise.

nanami rises slowly, turning to face you fully, his tall frame casting a shadow over you in the soft lamplight. his eyes do the same slow, solemn drag they did the week before, only heavier now, sharpened by seven long days of fighting the memory of your body.

he watches the way your nipples have already tightened under the thin fabric of your shirt, the subtle press of your thighs together like the ache between them is already building. his cock responds immediately, swelling thick and heavy inside his black jeans, the thick ridge becoming obvious as it presses against the denim. he’s sure a faint damp spot is beginning to form, but he does not try to hide it this time. he lets you see. lets the weight of his stare settle on you like a touch.

“the router is working fine,” he says, voice low and rough, carrying that same stern tone he always uses, like he is delivering a verdict in court rather than standing in your living room with a hard-on he cannot will away. “you know that as well as i do. why did you really call me over here?”

you swallow visibly, eyes flicking down to the clear outline of his cock straining against his jeans before rising back to his face.

your chest rises and falls with a heavier breath, lips parting slightly, but instead of answering you take one slow step back. then another. your hands move to the waistband of your sleep shorts, fingers hooking under the fabric, and you bend forward just enough to slide them down your legs in one smooth motion.

the shorts pool at your ankles and you step out of them, leaving you in nothing but a pair of grey lace panties with delicate pink ribbons threaded along the edges. the soft fabric clings to the curve of your pussy, the faint outline of your folds visible through the thin material, and nanami’s right leg twitches involuntarily, his cock jerking hard inside his jeans at the sight.

his brows draw together in a quick pretend of frown, serious expression tightening. “what are you doing?” he asks, voice dropping even lower, a clear warning threaded through the words. but you do not stop. your fingers catch the hem of your oversized t-shirt next, lifting it slowly, inch by inch, revealing the soft skin of your stomach, the delicate dip of your waist, the underside of your breasts.

you pull the shirt up and over your head, letting it drop to the floor beside the shorts, and now you stand there in only the grey lace panties, tits bare, nipples stiff in the cool air of the room. nanami’s breath catches, his hands flexing hard at his sides, the long fingers curling into fists as he fights the urge to reach for you.

he says your name then, low and rough, the syllables heavy with warning. “don’t.” but you only smile, small and soft and knowing, and continue. your thumbs hook into the waistband of the panties, sliding them down your hips with agonizing slowness, the lace catching briefly on the swell of your ass before you let them fall.

you step out of them completely, now fully naked in front of him, skin flushed warm under his heavy gaze. you walk toward him, bare feet quiet on the floor, hips swaying just enough to make your tits move softly with each step. when you are close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from your body, when his mouth opens to speak again, you lift one finger and press it gently to his lips, shushing him.

nanami lets out a small, broken sound, half whimper, half groan, the noise slipping out before he can stop it. his cock throbs visibly in his jeans, another bead of pre-cum soaking into the fabric as the tension coils tighter in the narrow space between your bodies.

he exhales shakily against your finger, eyes dark and conflicted, thick needy lines deepening on his face. “you’re a very young girl…” he trails off, voice rough and strained, the words carrying the weight of every reason he has been telling himself to stay away.

you pull your finger back just enough to speak, voice soft but steady. “i’m legal.”

“barely,” he counters immediately, the word clipped, his gaze dropping despite himself to the bare curve of your breasts, it taught him to squeeze on them and make you feel good, the soft swell of your hips, the smooth skin between your thighs where he can already see the faint shine of arousal. “you’re barely twenty-something. i’m more than twice your age. this… this is not appropriate.”

you tilt your head slightly, still standing naked and unashamed in front of him, the tension so thick it feels like the air itself has weight. “and yet you’re standing here with your cock so hard i can see it twitching through your jeans,” you murmur, eyes flicking down pointedly to the obvious bulge. “you’ve been avoiding me all week, nanami-san, but you still came over the second i knocked. tell me again how inappropriate this is.”

caught him red handed. fuck you.

he lets out another low groan, the sound vibrating in his chest, his hand coming up like he might push you away but instead hovering just above your waist, fingers trembling with restraint. “you have no idea what you’re asking for,” he says, voice quieter now, almost pained. “i’m not some young man who can just… give in without consequences. you deserve better than an older neighbor who can’t keep his eyes off you.”

the banter stretches, slow and heavy, every word laced with the electric pull between you. you step even closer, your bare breasts brushing the front of his white shirt, nipples dragging against the fabric, and nanami’s breath hitches sharply. “then why does it feel like you’ve been thinking about this as much as i have?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. “why do you look at me like you want to bend me over every time we pass in the hall?”

his jaw clenches, the muscle ticking visibly, but his eyes stay locked on yours even as his cock continues to throb between you.

“because i do,” he admits finally, the words dragged out like they cost him something. “i want to. more than i should. but you’re young. barely out of college. and i’m… this.” he gestures vaguely at himself, the musty yet cleaned scent of his body stronger now with the heat rising off his skin, the faint sweat dampening the collar of his shirt. “a tired man who should know better.”

you smile again, softer this time, and reach up to trace one finger along the line of his jaw. “then stop fighting it for one night,” you whisper. “just let yourself have me. i want you, nanami. i’ve wanted you since the first time you fixed my router and looked at me like you were starving.”

the silence stretches again, thick and humming with tension, his breath coming heavier now, chest rising and falling against yours. his hand finally settles on your waist, large palm warm and slightly rough against your bare skin, thumb stroking once, slow and deliberate.

he does not pull you closer yet, but he does not push you away either. the battle is still there in his eyes, solemn and conflicted, but the hunger is winning, inch by aching inch, as the minutes tick by in the quiet room and his cock continues to strain painfully against his jeans, waiting for the moment his restraint finally gives out completely.

nanami’s hand tightens on your waist, fingers spanning wide enough to nearly wrap around the curve of it, and the last of his resistance crumbles like dry paper under the heat of your bare skin against his palm.

he exhales once, long and shaky, eyes still calculated but dark now with the kind of hunger he has been trying to bury for weeks, and then he is moving, guiding you backward until the backs of your knees hit the couch and you sink down onto the cushions. he follows without a word, dropping to his knees between your spread thighs like a man who has finally stopped pretending he can walk away.

his broad shoulders push your legs wider, the white button-up stretching tight across his chest as he leans in, breath hot against the inside of your thigh. he looks up at you one last time, jaw set, like he is giving you one final chance to tell him no, but you only slide your fingers into his neatly combed hair and tug him closer. that is all it takes.

his mouth finds your pussy like he has been starving for it, lips parting to drag a slow, broad stripe up your folds, tongue flat and heavy as he tastes you properly for the first time. the groan that vibrates out of his chest is low and rough, almost pained, because you are already soaked, slick coating his tongue in a way that makes his cock jerk hard inside his jeans.

he licks again, slower this time, savoring the way your thighs tremble on either side of his head, then seals his mouth around your clit and sucks gently, tongue flicking in tight little circles that have your back arching off the couch. one of his huge hands slides up your stomach, palm pressing flat just below your navel, and he pushes down with just enough pressure to make your pussy clench around nothing.

the size of his hand there is obscene, fingers spread wide so his pinky rests near the base of your ribs and his thumb brushes the top of your mound, the sheer scale of him against your smaller frame making everything feel tighter, hotter, more overwhelming.

nanami eats you out like he has all night and nothing else matters, tongue sliding deep between your folds before circling back up to your clit, sucking and licking in a rhythm that builds slow and relentless. his free hand grips your thigh, spreading you even wider, thumb digging into the soft flesh while he buries his face deeper, nose pressing against your mound as he drinks down every drop of you. the wet sounds fill the quiet room, wet and loud, his groans mixing with the slick slide of his tongue and the shaky breaths you keep letting out.

he keeps that steady pressure on your lower belly the whole time, palm rubbing slow circles that make your insides twist and flutter, the tummy bullying so deliberate it feels like he is trying to feel exactly where his mouth is working from the inside. your hips twitch, trying to ride his face, but he holds you down with that big hand, keeping you exactly where he wants you while he pushes you closer and closer to the edge.

when you come it hits hard and sudden, pussy pulsing against his tongue as your thighs clamp around his head and a broken moan spills out of you. nanami does not stop. he keeps licking you through it, slower now but just as thorough, tongue dragging over your oversensitive clit until your whole body jerks and you try to squirm away from the intensity.

he only presses his palm firmer against your stomach, holding you in place, the slight overstimulation making your eyes water and your voice crack on his name. “nanami…plea– fuck, it’s too much,” you whimper, but he just hums against you, the vibration sending another sharp spark through your core, and slides two thick fingers into your still-clenching pussy without warning. they stretch you wide, the size of them so much bigger than your own that you feel every knuckle, every ridge, as he curls them deep and starts pumping slow and steady.

he lifts his head just enough to watch his fingers disappear inside you, eyes dark and tempting, lips shiny with your slick. “look at how well you take them,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough, the praise low and almost reverent as he presses down on your belly again with his other hand, feeling the way his fingers create a very faint bulge against your walls from the outside.

the pressure makes everything tighter, more intense, and you clench hard around him, another wave of overstimulation crashing through you while he keeps fingering you through the aftershocks. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow circles that have you shaking, the combination of his thick fingers stretching you open and the firm press on your tummy turning every breath into a broken little sob.

he does not rush. he just keeps working you, long fingers dragging along that perfect spot inside while his palm rubs steady circles on your stomach, bullying that soft lower belly until you are dripping down his wrist and whimpering his name like it will make it better than it already is.

only when your thighs are trembling uncontrollably and your pussy is fluttering helplessly around his fingers does he finally ease up, sliding them out slow and careful, bringing them to his mouth to lick clean with a low groan that makes your stomach flip.

he stays on his knees between your legs for a long moment, forehead resting against your thigh, breathing hard while his cock strains painfully against his jeans, the front of the fabric dark with pre-cum. when he finally looks up at you his eyes are still determined, still carrying that quiet conflict, but the hunger has won completely now, and the way he stares at your flushed, marked body makes it clear he is nowhere near done with you tonight.

nanami stays on his knees between your spread thighs for another long, heavy breath, forehead pressed to the soft skin just above your knee while his chest rises and falls like he is trying to steady something inside himself that already broke minutes ago. his fingers are still shiny with you, the faint scent of his skin mixed with the sharp sweetness of your pussy hanging thick in the air.

when he finally moves it is slow and deliberate, like every motion costs him something. he rises to his full height, towering over you on the couch, white button-up wrinkled and damp at the collar from the heat rolling off both of you. his hands, large and steady, slide under your thighs and around your back in one smooth motion, scooping you up off the cushions like you weigh nothing at all.

your legs wrap around his slim waist on instinct, heels digging into the firm muscle of his lower back, and the sudden shift leaves you gasping against his shoulder because he lifts you so easily, strong arms locking you against his chest while your bare pussy hovers right above the heavy bulge still trapped in his jeans.

he does not give you time to look down. one arm stays banded tight under your ass, holding your weight like it is effortless, while his free hand works between your bodies to unbuckle his belt with a quiet metallic clink. the zipper follows, the sound loud in the quiet room, and he shoves both jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself.

you feel the thick, heavy length spring up against your inner thigh, hot and velvet-smooth, the blunt mushroom head already slick and leaking. before you can even tilt your head to catch a glimpse he shifts you higher in his arms, pressing your back against the nearest wall for leverage, and uses that same free hand to guide the fat head of his cock right to your dripping entrance.

the broad tip nudges through your folds, rubbing slow and deliberate, coating himself in your slick while he watches your face with those solemn dark eyes, brows knitted tight like he is still fighting the last scraps of restraint.

“breathe,” he mutters, voice low and rough, the single word almost gentle even as his hips tilt forward. he helps you sink down, one thick inch at a time, the stretch burning so good it makes your jaw go slack and your eyes flutter half-shut.

he is big, thicker than anything you have taken, the veined shaft dragging along your walls as he lowers you steadily until your ass meets his hips and he is buried to the hilt. a quiet groan tears from his throat when he bottoms out, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours, and for a long second he just holds you there, letting you feel every inch of him pulsing deep inside your smaller body.

you’re pressed and folded in an awkward position, and it only makes the size difference feel more obscene, your soft curves dwarfed by his tall, solid frame.

nanami does not wait long. his hands grip your ass harder, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and he starts to move, lifting you up and dropping you back down onto his cock with controlled, powerful strokes that hammer into you deep enough to punch the air from your lungs. each thrust makes your whole body jolt in his arms, tits bouncing under nothing. bare and free for him to watch, back sliding against the wall while he fucks up into you like he has been imagining it for weeks.

his height towers over you completely, shoulders broad enough to block out the room, white shirt straining across his chest with every roll of his hips.

the mushroom head of his cock drags perfectly along that spot inside you on every downstroke, the sheer size of him making your belly bulge slightly every time he bottoms out, a faint outline visible under your skin if you looked down, but he keeps your face buried against his neck so you cannot.

he keeps that steady, punishing rhythm, hips snapping up hard while his arms hold you suspended like you are weightless, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing louder with every thrust. sweat beads along his hairline, dampening the collar of his shirt, and his breath comes in hot, measured pants against your ear.

“too big for you?” he asks, voice strained but still carrying that solemn edge, even as he grinds deep and holds you there for a heartbeat, letting you feel how completely he fills you.

your only answer is a broken moan and loled nod, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt, legs tightening around his waist as another wave of overstimulation starts building fast. he does not slow down. he just keeps lifting and dropping you onto every thick inch, eyebrows still knitted in concentration, eyes flicking between your slack mouth and the way your body takes him so greedily.

his shirt keeps getting in the way, bunching up between both of you, so he shifts his grip, one hand sliding up to yank the fabric higher until it is completely off of him, exposing his sweaty chest completely to the cool air and your half-focused stare.

now there is nothing between you but sweat-slick skin and the relentless drag of his cock stretching you open. he leans in, mouth finding your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin while he hammers into you harder, the angle shifting so the head of his cock bullies that perfect spot with every upward thrust. your smaller frame jolts in his arms with each powerful stroke, pussy clenching tight around the thick length splitting you apart, and nanami groans low and deep, the sound rumbling through his chest as he feels you start to flutter around him again.

he keeps you pinned against the wall like that, towering over you, strong arms never tiring as he fucks you deep and steady, the size difference so stark it makes your head spin. every time he bottoms out his hips grind against your clit, the pressure on your lower belly from the inside making everything feel tighter, fuller, more overwhelming.

you are already close again, thighs shaking around his waist, voice cracking on his name, and nanami just holds you there, determined eyes locked on your face while he drives you closer to the edge with every heavy thrust, determined to feel you come around his cock before he lets himself follow.

nanami’s rhythm starts to falter just a little, hips snapping up with shorter, more desperate strokes while his breath comes hot and ragged against the side of your neck. he can feel it building fast, that tight coil low in his gut, his heavy balls drawing up tight and aching as your pussy flutters and squeezes around every thick inch of him.

but he refuses to let go first. he is older, more controlled, and right now that control means making sure you fall apart completely before he does.

with a low grunt he shifts his grip, one big hand sliding under your ass to tilt your hips forward while the other presses flat against your lower back, forcing your spine into a deep arch that pushes your pelvis out and opens you up even more obscenely. the new angle is nasty, almost cruel, your body folded and suspended in his arms so your clit grinds hard against the base of his cock on every upward thrust and the fat head of him drags directly into that spongy spot inside you at a brutal upward curve.

your legs dangle wider, heels kicking uselessly against his lower back, the sheer size difference making you feel like you are being split open and rearranged from the inside while he holds you like a toy.

he starts hammering into you with that filthy new angle, cock bullying that spot over and over until your eyes roll back and broken sobs start spilling from your slack mouth.

the overstimulation crashes in hard and fast, your already sensitive pussy clenching and spasming around him while tears prick at the corners of your eyes and start to slip down your flushed cheeks.

your hand flies down between your bodies on instinct, palm pushing weakly at his lower stomach like you can stop the relentless drag of his cock, fingers scrabbling against the damp fabric of his white shirt. nanami’s eyes narrow, jaw tightening, and he leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he hisses the words low and dark, “do that again and i’ll fucking hurt you good.”

the threat hits you like a live wire. your whole body seizes, a choked cry tearing from your throat, and then you are squirting hard around his cock, hot fluid gushing out in messy pulses that soak his jeans, drip down his balls, and splatter onto the floor beneath you.

nanami groans deep and filthy at the feeling, the wet heat flooding around him making his cock twitch violently inside you. he does not slow down. if anything he fucks you harder, hips snapping up with wet, punishing slaps while his free hand slides between your bodies and starts tracing tight, relentless infinity signs over your swollen clit with two thick fingers. the pressure is mean and perfect, circling and dragging in that figure-eight pattern while he keeps pounding into that nasty folded angle, cock bullying your g-spot and his fingers never letting up on your overstimulated clit.

“i know, baby, i know,” he rasps against your ear, voice hoarse and strained, the words almost soothing even as he wrecks you. “you can take it. just let it happen.” your legs shake violently around his waist, tears streaming freely now, little hiccuping sobs mixing with the wet squelch of your pussy taking every brutal thrust.

nanami keeps that freaky rhythm going, hips rolling deep, fingers drawing those endless infinity loops over your clit until your vision whites out and another shattering orgasm rips through you, pussy clamping down so hard it almost forces him out. he hisses through his teeth, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest, but he powers through it, fucking you straight through the peak and into the trembling aftershocks.

his own control finally snaps. his balls tighten almost painfully, cock swelling even thicker inside your fluttering walls as he buries himself to the hilt one last time, grinding deep while thick, hot ropes of cum flood you. he comes with a low, broken groan that vibrates through his chest, pulsing hard and endless, filling you so full that it starts leaking out around his cock in creamy white streaks every time he gives one last shallow thrust.

the mess is everywhere, your squirt and his cum dripping down your thighs, soaking the front of his jeans and pooling on the floor, the obscene wet sounds slowly fading as he keeps you pinned against the wall, still buried deep, both of you heaving for air.

nanami’s forehead drops to your shoulder, breathing hard, the last energy well spent, showing of with both of your sweat-soaked body mixing with the sharp smell of sex filling the room. his arms stay locked around you, holding your smaller frame effortlessly even as his cock twitches with the last weak spurts inside you.

for a long moment the only sounds are your shaky sobs and his ragged breathing, bodies trembling together in the aftermath, messy and spent and still connected. he does not pull out yet. he just keeps you there, suspended in his arms, the quiet weight of everything that just happened settling heavy between you while his cum continues to leak slowly out around where he is still buried deep.

nanami stays buried inside you for what feels like forever, thick cock still twitching with the last lazy pulses while warm cum slowly leaks out around where your bodies are joined, dripping down your thighs and onto the floor in messy little trails.

your legs are still wrapped around his waist, trembling, heels digging weakly into his lower back like you cannot quite let go yet, and he keeps holding you up without any effort, strong arms locked under your ass, keeping your smaller frame suspended against the wall like it is the most natural thing in the world. your shaky little sobs eventually quiet into soft, hiccuping breaths, tears drying on your cheeks, but the overstimulation still makes your pussy flutter weakly around him every few seconds, milking out another thin trickle of his cum.

finally he shifts, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he carefully pulls out, the wet sound loud and obscene in the quiet room.

a thick glob of his cum follows immediately, sliding out of your swollen, puffy pussy and running down to join the mess already pooled beneath you. he lowers you gently until your feet touch the floor, but your legs are too shaky to hold you, so he keeps one arm banded around your waist, steadying you against his chest while his other hand tucks himself back into his briefs and jeans with a quiet zip.

the white button-up is wrinkled and damp with sweat when he puts it back on, black jeans dark at the front from your squirt, but he still looks put-together in that quiet, solemn way of his, even now.

he does not say anything at first. just looks down at you with those dark, heavy eyes, thumb brushing slow circles on your bare hip like he cannot quite stop touching you. then he exhales, long and tired, and rests his forehead against yours for a brief second.

“this…” his voice comes out rough, low, almost reluctant. “this can’t happen again.”

the words hang between you, simple and final, even as his hand lingers on your skin and his cum continues to drip slowly down the inside of your thigh.

he presses one last, almost gentle kiss to your temple, the kind of kiss that feels heavier than any promise, before he steps back. his fingers flex once at his sides like he is fighting the urge to pull you close again, then he turns toward the door, shoulders straight, footsteps quiet on the floor.

“get some rest,” he murmurs without looking back, the manly scent of him still clinging to your skin. “and… call the building manager about the router next time.”

the door clicks shut behind him, leaving you standing there naked and trembling in the middle of your living room, thighs sticky, pussy aching and full of him, the quiet weight of what just happened settling deep in your chest. you know he means it. you also know, deep down, that neither of you really believes it.