SATORUPUFF

you lift your head from your knees and make eye contact with your husband who looks rather . . . upset. somehow more upset than you are at the moment.

you whimper as his big and intimidating stature dwarfs over yours while you’re stuck in the corner. when you look up at him, you cry even louder. seeing that familiar face after two whole days of suffering in this place alone gets you even more emotional.

after sukuna entered the room, his gaze had immediately fell upon your quivering figure.

he raises an eyebrow as you cry louder once you spot him, the sound breaking his ear drums. he lets out a sharp exhale, a hint of annoyance seeping into his tone.

“enough with the tears,” sukuna grumbles as he crosses the room in a few long strides. his presence is both imposing and protective as he looms over your small figure.

his eyes flicker over your body—taking in the sight of your round belly. he can’t deny that the view makes his shoulders relax, relieved to see his wife do well after two days.

sukuna kneels down before you, his eyes narrowing as he notices the tears running down your cheeks. who knows how long you’ve been sobbing? the realisation that no one’s checked on you while you’ve been crying like this irks him.

the king of curses will make sure that every single servant—and especially the ones assigned to you—pay for not noticing your sour mood sooner.

“damn it, woman,” he curses under his breath, his words laden with both irritation and a sense of concern, “what’s gotten into you now, hmm? why the blubbering mess?"

you hiccup, gasping for air as sukuna kneels down to your level, something he rarely does. one of his hands reach out to wipe a tear from your cheek, his expression stoic and unreadable while he does so.

“welcome home,” you utter, remembering to greet him properly.

you wipe your own tears away and try to explain the situation without it sounding absurd. “i—i went down to the kitchen to get som-something,” you stammer, trying to spit it out before sukuna’s irritation spikes.

“but they didn’t have the food i craved. they’re out of mangoes,” your wailing starts again just at the mention of the fruit. it felt like the most devastating moment in your life when the maids told you that they were out of mangoes.

sukuna’s annoyance quickly dissolves upon hearing your explanation. the revelation that you’re crying over mangoes seems so unbelievable, so absurd, that he can’t help but let out a dry huff of laughter. an amused smirk tugs at the corners of his lips.

he brushes the remnants of the tears away from your face. his rough fingers pause at your chin, giving it a light tap. “mangoes, huh? y’re out here bawling y’r fucking eyes out like a baby for some damn mangoes?”

despite his tough exterior, sukuna knows that pregnancy hormones often amplify emotions, making even the smallest things a cause for crying. and right now, you’re stressing and sputtering over some mangoes.

“mangoes,” you nod and cry softly, watching as sukuna rubs your cheeks with his manly fingers, enjoying his rough touch.

you guess by just the increased toughness of his calluses that your husband has worked hard while he was gone.

though, mangoes are your current craving and not having them meant war to you. it’s all you can focus on—even if your beloved is right in front of you.

“i need them,” you whine and pout again. your hormones make it difficult for you to calm down.

you do, however, try your best to stop crying. you clean your face with the sleeve of your kimono and bite on your bottom lip to refrain from bawling your eyes out.

“i want my mangoes,” your voice is hoarse as you glance up at sukuna, “please?”

sukuna hates to admit it, but his expression softens upon hearing the hoarse tone of your pleading voice. the view of your tear-streaked face and the knowledge that you’re experiencing pregnancy cravings makes it difficult for him to maintain his usual firm demeanor.

the king of curses sighs, his annoyance replaced by a reluctant acceptance of your plight.

“tsk, damn it,” he mutters, lazily resting his head against the palm of one of his hands, “y’re really gonna make me fetch you some mangoes?”

here you are, a grown woman crying and begging like a kid for a sweet, juicy mango. he’s seen you in many states—happy, sad, tired, excited—but never quite as emotionally overwhelmed just for a piece of fruit.

sukuna’s large hand reaches out to pat your head in a surprisingly gentle manner, a rare display of his softer side.

you pout at him and lean into his touch. you come up with something witty to say, as you always do.

“well, yes, you’re the one who got me pregnant,” you comment in a teasing way, sticking your tongue out at your husband.

no matter what sour mood you’re in, you can still be sassy.

though it doesn’t last long before your bottom lip trembles again. “i can’t do anything about it. the baby craves mangos,” you sniff as you rub your baby bump to emphasise your desire.

sukuna’s smirk wides at your retort and the playful gesture. even in your distraught state, you had the audacity to sass him. cheeky little woman, he thinks.

your husband scoffs, his large hand roughly ruffling your hair again before pulling away.

“‘n i don’t regret a thing. even if i gotta put up with y’r cranky ass.”

you roll your eyes at sukuna’s reply. you know you’re an emotional mess, but you can’t care less. you’d dl anything for your mangoes—those juicy ones that you can eat a dozen of in one sitting.

“the maids said that the mangoes were out of stock in the towns ‘nd villages nearby,” you continue while you carefully stand up from the corner. you’re trying your best to stay rational.

you’re extremely hungry and haven’t eaten ever since breakfast. that’s how stubborn you are being.

“but i’m hungryyyyy. want my mangoes,” you sigh and nearly stomp your feet out of frustration.

“yeah, yeah—fuckin’ hell,” sukuna groans, watching you slowly stand up, your pregnant belly protruding like a perfect sphere. it’s a constant reminder of the effect he has on you and it makes him proud.

he helps you stand up by holding onto your arm, sharp eyes focused on your body to make sure you don’t strain a single muscle.

after you manage to stand up straight, you walk with sukuna to the kitchen to find something to eat—perhaps some other fruit will satisfy your cravings for now.

sukuna follows behind you, his steps long and leisurely while your shorter strides keep the pace with him. as the two of you walk towards the kitchen, he continues to listen to your repeated mantra.

it’s driving him insane.

“mangoes, mangoes, mangoes. i fuckin’ get it, brat,” the king of curses swears he can feel the vein in his forehead throb.

you’re lucky that he ‘tolerates’ you as his wife.

it’s something more than just ‘tolerating’ you, of course, but openly admitting to loving you, even in the slightest, is something sukuna would never do.

if someone would ask him why he goes the extra mile for you, his answer would be that it’s simply because you’re carrying his heir. however only he knows the full truth, the sappy secret he’ll forever keep to himself.

before you arrive at the kitchen, you bump into uraume.

they glance from sukuna to you and bow. “good day,” they greet you with as much respect as they do to sukuna. they’ve been doing so ever since you gained your title as his wife.

the king of curses folds all four of his arms over his chest. his lower pair of eyes are still focused on your impatient self, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. he just knows you’re holding yourself back from asking for your craving again.

sukuna clicks his tongue and nods his head at you while he speaks to uraume.

“keep an eye on her while ‘m gone. feed her what she wants,” he says in his deep voice, his tone commanding and firm.

uraume remains quiet for a second. sukuna had recently came back from a mission and is once again heading out for some ambiguous reason, but they know better than to question their master.

“where are you going, hubby?”

you of course, get a free pass.

you don’t hesitate at all before questioning your husband. sukuna scoffs when he hears your voice ask him such in an oblivious manner. you should known where he is departing to.

“where’d you think, smartass?” he pinches your nose, causing you to swat his fingers away out of instinct. he gives up on your nose and moves to squeeze your cheeks together in a gentle yet firm manner.

you huff at his antics. sukuna grins at your frown and pout before releasing your jawline with a faint push.

“you better hold on ‘til i come back with y’r stupid mangoes,” he scoffs while turning around to walk to the entrance, “and when i do, i don’t wanna hear ‘nother squeak, understood?”

sukuna seems to have made another mission for himself; find his heavily pregnant wife mangoes before she goes absolutely insane.

your face lights up and you nod repeatedly. your heart melts when you realise that he’s actually putting effort to satisfy your needs. he may be harsh and stern at times, but his actions speak louder than his words.

“okay! love you, ryo!” you call out to your husband as he disappears behind the gates.

as expected, your words are met by silence.

that’s fine with you. not hearing an ‘i love you’ back doesn’t hurt you as much as it did at the start of your relationship.

you know sukuna cherishes you in his own special way. if he didn’t, you’d be dead long time ago. on top of that, he would not go out on a hunt for mangoes right after coming back home if he didn’t like you.

and that’s all that matters.

Satoru felt a surge of nausea. His knuckles turned a ghostly white as he gripped the spine of his textbook, the hard edges digging into his palms. "Toru, this is cruel," he said, his voice vibrating with a rare spark of heat. "Even for you. She’s a person, not an assignment you can just delegate because you didn't do the required reading."

Toru’s eyes went flat, the way they did right before he won an argument. He stepped forward, invading Satoru’s personal space, the metaphorical distance between them feeling larger than ever despite their identical height.

"You owe me one, remember? Unless you want me to just text her 'we’re done' and block her number. At least this way, she hears it from a face she knows." Without waiting for an answer, he snatched his signature leather jacket from the bed and tossed it. The heavy, scent-soaked material hit Toru’s chest like a physical blow. "Don't mess it up, brother."

At 2:00 PM, the light filtered through the high, frosted windows in beams, hitting the white surface with a blinding glare of the ice rink.

Satoru’s eyes were screaming. The contacts Toru had forced him to wear were dry and scratchy, a constant reminder that he was currently living a lie. Without his glasses, the world was a smudge. He stumbled slightly on the concrete stairs, his boots clattering too loudly in the hollow space.

Then, the world seemed to sharpen. He saw you.

You were a blur of motion, a shadow spinning in the dead center of the rink. Your headphones were on, sealing you away in a world of rhythm that only you could hear. You moved with a terrifying, disciplined precision, launching into a double axel. For a heartbeat, you were suspended in the air, graceful, lethal before your blade cut back into the ice with a sound like a diamond scratching glass.

You carved a wide, elegant arc across the ice, surging toward the barrier. You stopped inches from the wood, the spray of ice crystals hitting the toes of his shoes like tiny diamonds. You pulled your headphones down, letting them rest around your neck.

Your gaze was a cold, sharp sweep. It made Satoru feel like a specimen under a microscope. He tried to adjust the leather jacket, tried to channel Toru’s arrogant stance, the way his brother leaned against walls as if he owned the building.

"What are you doing here, Satoru?"

The name hit him like a physical strike. His heart did a frantic, uneven dance against his ribs. He hadn't even opened his mouth. He was wearing the jacket, the jewelry, the cologne, he was a perfect physical replica of the man you were dating.

"I... urm..." he stammered, the cocky persona evaporating instantly. "How did you...?"

"Toru doesn't come here," you said, your voice indifferent but sharp as a razor blade. "He finds the cold unflattering. And he certainly doesn't look at me with guilt in his eyes." You leaned against the railing, your eyes narrowing as you took in his trembling hands. "If your brother is too much of a coward to say it himself, then consider the message delivered. Tell him we’re broken up. From this second."

You’d known Toru since freshman year. You knew every inch of his ego. And you knew, within three seconds of seeing this man walk through the door, that the soul behind those blue eyes was much, much softer.

Satoru’s shoulders slumped. The lie was dead before it even started. "I'm sorry," he whispered, looking at his shoes. "I really didn't want to do this. He... he just wouldn't listen."

"Save it," you snapped, turning to skate away. "You weren't going to apologize if I hadn't known."

"No, that’s not true," he called out, his voice cracking with a rare flash of spirit. "I’m still sorry. I hate this. I didn't want to hurt you."

He watched you skate away. Toru had always called you judgemental , but Satoru saw something else, a girl who was fiercely protective of her own time and dignity.

A week later, the world felt as gray as the campus concrete. The meeting with the Dean had been short and devastating. “Academic excellence is a requirement for this scholarship,” she had said. Between the heartbreak and the grueling hours at the rink, your focus had fractured. If you didn’t fix your Physics grade, you wouldn't just lose your spot on the team, you’d lose your future.

That desperation led you to the back of the lecture hall. You waited until the room emptied, leaving only one person behind.

Satoru was methodically packing his bag, sliding his notebooks into his bag with precision. He looked like himself again. The cologne-soaked ghost of Toru was gone, replaced by the boy with the thick, black-rimmed glasses and the soft, oversized hoodie. He looked approachable.

You stepped into his line of sight, blocking the light. "If you were really serious about making it up to me," you said, your voice steadier than you actually felt, "consider this the way. I need a tutor. Specifically for Physics."

Satoru froze, a strap of his bag halfway over his shoulder. He blinked, his eyes appearing huge and startled behind his lenses. For a moment, he just stared at you, his brain seemingly catching up to the fact that you were actually speaking to him.

A soft, betraying pink crawled up his neck and settled in his cheeks. "Tutor you?" he managed to ask, his voice an octave higher than usual.

"I'm at risk of losing my scholarship," you added, leaving no room for him to argue or offer pity. "7:00 PM. The West Wing of the library. Come if you want to." You didn't wait for an "okay." You turned and walked out, feeling his stunned gaze lingering on your back like a physical warmth.

The library was a tomb of hushed whispers. You were tucked into a corner booth, hunched over a textbook, a steaming vanilla mocha sat by your elbow, but it had long since gone cold.

"That's not quite right."

The voice was soft, appearing right by your ear. You hadn't even heard him sit down. Satoru leaned over, he pointed a long, steady finger at your notes.

"Check your constants here," he murmured, his face so close you could see every speck in his blue eyes. "It’s h-bar, not h. If you don't use the reduced Planck constant, your uncertainty principle calculation is going to be off by a factor of 2pi."

You stared at the scribbled numbers, the symbols blurring together. The frustration of last week bubbled up. "I don't understand," you admitted, your voice cracking just a fraction. "None of this makes sense anymore."

And for the next hour, the world narrowed down to the scratching of lead on paper. Satoru was a natural teacher. He didn't get annoyed when you asked for clarification. He noticed the way you tapped your pen against your chin when you were stuck, a small, rhythmic tic.

The library's ventilation kicked on, blowing a draft of icy air across the table. You shivered, pulling your arms tight against your chest.

Suddenly, a weight settled over your shoulders. It was warm and heavy. You looked up to see Satoru standing there in just his graphic t-shirt, having draped his hoodie over you.

"The ventilation here is terrible," he whispered, his ears turning a vivid, brilliant red as he quickly sat back down and avoided your gaze. "And you can't focus if your core temperature is dropping. It’s basic thermodynamics. Energy diverted to maintaining heat is energy taken away from cognitive function."

You looked at the sleeve of the sweater, then at him. You didn't say thank you but you pulled the hoodie tighter, burying your nose in the collar for a fleeting second.

"Listen, I’m still so sorry about earlier," Satoru said, his pen hovering over a diagram. "Toru... he didn't tell me the truth. He described you as someone who... well, someone who wouldn't leave him alone. I was wrong to judge you based on his ego."

You felt a sharp, familiar sting in your chest. You set your mocha down, the plastic lid clicking. "I asked him questions about his day because I thought that’s what people in a relationship did. I didn't realize that caring was the same thing as an interrogation. What's wrong with wanting a boyfriend to show up to his own anniversary dinner?"

Satoru’s pen stopped mid-graph, his voice thick with disbelief.. "He missed your anniversary?"

You looked Satoru in the eye, wanting him to see the hurt Toru had caused. "I sat at that Italian restaurant for two hours on our anniversary while he was at a frat mixer three blocks away. He didn't even text. When I found him, he told me I was being demanding."

"I don't think you're high-maintenance at all. I think Toru just doesn't know how to look at the things that actually matter."

In the weeks that followed, the loud, chaotic frequency of Toru was replaced by the steady, low-humming presence of Satoru. Twice a week, he would wait for you at the rink. He’d be holding a styrofoam cup, the cardboard sleeve damp from the steam.

"Vanilla mocha," he’d say. "Extra shot. You looked like you were losing the war with gravity this morning."

You’d wrap your frozen fingers around the warmth, wondering how Toru hadn't known your favorite drink after three years, yet Satoru had memorized it in a few days.

One night, the library was closed for maintenance, so you were studying in your dorm. The room was a mess of sticky notes and open laptops.

You came out of the bathroom, drying your hands, but froze at the threshold of the room. Satoru was sitting on your bed, his phone pressed to his ear. The volume was up so high that the voice on the other end felt like a physical intrusion in your private space.

“YO! Did you see the video I sent?" Toru’s voice was unmistakable and slurred.. "I'm at this house party. Man, I met these two girls who think I'm a literal sculpture. Anyways, how’s the skater? Did she cry? Please tell me she didn't get snot on my leather jacket. That thing cost more than her skates." The laugh that came made your skin crawl.

Satoru’s head snapped up. His eyes met yours, and in that moment, he looked like he was watching a car crash in slow motion. The blood drained from his face, leaving him pale.

“Uhh... yes, Professor. Yes, I’ll send that lab report soon,” Satoru stammered, his voice trembling as he frantically fumbled for the end call button. His lie was pathetic, a flimsy shield against whatever just happened. 

The silence that followed was suffocating. It was heavy and smelled of the betrayal you thought you had moved past. You didn't scream or react in any way.. You just walked over to the bed, your movements robotic.

“You’re a terrible performer, Satoru,” you said softly. “Both times now. So maybe stop trying to cover for him and just stick to physics.”

Satoru sat rigid in his spot, his phone still gripped tightly in his hand. He looked like he wanted to disappear into the walls. 

You picked up your highlighter, the yellow ink staining the page as you began to work again.

The cafe was a sanctuary of amber light and the comforting smell of coffee. Between them, two vanilla mochas sat like peace offerings, the foam dusted with cinnamon. The steam rose in identical, lazy curls, swirling together in the center of the small table, connecting their separate worlds.

Satoru’s eyes flickered from the drink to her face. For the first time in a while, a soft, genuine tug pulled at the corner of his mouth, a real smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the skin behind his glasses.

“Maybe I ought to give this a try, too,” he murmured, his voice dipping into a warmer register that made the hair on her arms stand up. He took a tentative sip, the sweetness a stark contrast to the bitter black coffee he usually drank to keep himself awake. “I usually stick to the basics, function over form, but clearly, you have superior taste. It’s... actually quite good.”

Satoru traced the rim of his paper cup with his thumb, his expression shifting from guarded composure to something animated and raw as he started talking about his love for gaming.

“It’s not just about the buttons or the graphics,” he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, intense tone people use when they’re sharing a secret they’ve kept locked away. “In a strategy game, the universe is governed by logic. There are rules. If you work hard enough, if you learn the mechanics and account for the variables, you can protect everyone. You can actually win.” He looked down at the table, his fingers stilled. “When I’m deep in a build, I feel like I finally have a grip on the world. It’s a closed system. It’s... satisfactory.”

He looked up suddenly, a self-conscious flush hitting his cheeks as he realized how much he’d revealed. “I probably sound like a total nerd. It’s just a lot of sitting still and overthinking.”

She didn't laugh. Instead, she leaned forward, her hands tracing invisible patterns on the scarred wooden table as if she were marking the ice with her blades. “No, Toru. I get it. It’s about control, isn't it? The world is loud and messy, but your world has a rhythm.” She looked at him, her eyes bright with a sudden, shared understanding. “For me, it’s the exact opposite of sitting still, but the feeling? The feeling is exactly the same.”

“I was seven the first time my mum brought me to the rink,” she said, her voice softening as she drifted into the memory. “I remember stepping through the heavy  doors. The air was so cold it felt like breathing in tiny glass needles. It hurt, but in a way that made me feel awake.”

She closed her eyes for a second, and Toru found himself holding his breath, watching the way the cafe light caught the bridge of her nose.

“But then you push off,” she continued, her hands moving gracefully over the table. “There’s this specific sound, a crisp hiss of steel cutting through ice. In those minutes, the gravity changes. You don't feel like you’re in this world anymore. You’re just... gliding. Freely. No one can reach you there.”

“The expectations, the noise, it all just fades into the background,” she whispered, her smile turning wistful. “When I’m mid-rotation, the world loses its edge. It becomes a blur of colors, and the only thing that’s real is the bite of the skate and the rhythm of my own lungs. It’s the only place I’m actually me, instead of the girl everyone expects me to be.”

Satoru watched her, his own drink forgotten and cooling. He’d seen her in crowded lecture halls, and he’d seen her standing beside his brother like a trophy, but he realized with a jolt of clarity that he had never actually seen her until this second. 

“A blur of colors,” he repeated softly, nodding as if he were memorizing the phrase. “I think I’d like to see that sometime. 

For the first time, the air felt lighter. He listened to her with an intensity that made her feel like the only person in the room, his gaze never wavering, his blue eyes finally steady.

Three weeks later, the afternoon sun cut through the campus windows. Satoru rounded the corner to meet her after her afternoon seminar, but his pace faltered.

There, leaning against the lockers, was a guy from the soccer team. He was a carbon copy of Toru’s brand of charisma, the athletic slouch, the expensive team jacket, and a smirk that suggested he owned the very air people were trying to breathe. He was blocking her path, his shadow sprawling over her like an eclipse.

Satoru’s chest tightened, a physical constriction that made it hard to swallow. He searched her face for discomfort, but she was wearing a small, polite smile.

The sensation that hit him was involuntary. It was a sharp, jagged heat that soured into a hollow ache in the pit of his stomach. Was this jealousy? The thought was terrifying. He had no claim to her. But as he watched the soccer player lean closer, invading her space, Toru felt like he was watching a rare manuscript being handled by someone who couldn't even read.

For a split second, Satoru considered retreating. He could go to the library, hide behind a stack of books, and nurse his bruised ego in the silence he was used to. He wasn't a fighter. He wasn't the guy who won the girl.

Then, she looked up.

Her eyes bypassed the athlete’s smirk entirely and locked onto his. “Satoru!” she called out. Her voice bright and unmistakably relieved.

The hollow ache in Satoru’s chest vanished instantly, replaced by a surge of light. He watched, mesmerized, as she deftly sidestepped the athlete, leaving the guy mid-sentence as she hurried toward him. The soccer player’s brow furrowed, his expression shifting from smug to genuinely baffled as he watched the girl choose the quiet guy with the glasses over him.

Satoru didn’t know what came over him. Maybe it was the lingering heat of jealousy, or maybe it was the way she looked at him like he was a lighthouse. When she reached him, he stepped into her space boldly and pulled her into a short, firm hug.

He could feel the coldness of the hallway air on her jacket and the faint scent of vanilla mocha that always seemed to linger around her.

“Hey,” he said, his voice steadier and deeper than he felt. “Ready to go?”

“Uhh, hi,” she chirped, a soft, beautiful flush creeping up her neck. She stepped back, looking a little dazed, before turning to lead the way toward the library.

Satoru glanced back over his shoulder. The soccer player was still standing there, jaw clenched, looking like a man who had just realized he’d lost a game he didn't even know he was playing. Satoru felt a dizzying, giddy sense of triumph as he turned back to her and matched her stride.

The kitchen of Satoru’s shared apartment with Toru was a battlefield of flour, steam, and Shoko’s cigarette smoke drifting in from the open window. Suguru Geto, ever since he found out Satoru was tutoring you, decided you all needed to have a bonding day and that a homemade meal was the only cure for stress. He was currently leaning against the fridge, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched Satoru meticulously dice carrots into perfectly equal cubes.

"You're prepping dinner, Satoru, not performing surgery," Suguru teased, his voice full of mischief.

"Precision matters, Suguru." Satoru muttered, though his ears were pink.

Because the kitchen was designed for two people and currently held four, the counter space was limited. You found yourself squeezed into the corner with Satoru, your shoulder pressed firmly against his. There was only one large cutting board left, forcing you both to share the wooden surface. Every time you reached for a potato, your hand brushed against his. The contact was brief, a flicker of skin against skin, but it sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with the heat of the stove. Satoru shifted his weight, making more room for you, his presence a steady hum at your side.

From her perch on the counter, Shoko  took a long drag of her cigarette, careful to blow the smoke outside and squinted at the two of you through her tired eyes. She traded a knowing, silent look with Suguru. The kind of look that said 'Look at these two idiots.'

"So," Shoko started, her voice lazy. "Is the genius here actually teaching you anything? Or is he just reciting the laws of motion until you fall asleep?"

"He's a great teacher," you said, not looking up from your work, though you could feel the heat rising in your face. "He makes the complicated stuff feel... simple."

Satoru’s knife stopped moving. He stared intensely at a carrot, his face darkening into a deep, unmistakable crimson.

"Oh, he's definitely dedicated," Suguru chimed in, his eyes glinting with a predatory kind of amusement. "I don't think I've ever heard Satoru talk about 'maximum penetration depth' with quite so much... passion. It’s all he’s been focused on for weeks."

Satoru cleared his throat loudly, the sound a bit strangled. He knew exactly what Suguru was implying. 

The heavy ceramic pot on the stove suddenly hissed, the broth bubbling up and threatening to spill over the sides. In a flash of shared instinct, both you and Satoru reached for the lid.

Your hands met squarely over the steam-slicked handle. His palm was large and warm, completely covering yours. The world seemed to stall. The sound of Suguru’s laughter and the clink of Shoko’s lighter faded into white noise. You didn't pull away and neither did he. You stood there in the steam, connected by a pot of soup and a feeling that was becoming too big to ignore.

Satoru’s gaze flickered down to your joined hands, his chest rising and falling in a ragged breath.

"I've got it," he whispered, his voice vibrating in the small space between you.

As you finally pulled back, your heart hammering against your ribs, you caught Shoko smirking into her drink. Suguru had started humming a low, annoying tune. The kitchen felt smaller than it had ten minutes ago, the air thick with a new weight that neither of you knew how to put back into the box.

The sky had turned dark by the time you finished your last lecture. The moment you and Toru stepped through the heavy doors of the department building, the clouds finally broke. 

"The new cafe is five blocks away," you said, watching the water bounce off the pavement. "We'll be soaked before we hit the corner."

Satoru looked at the rain, then back at you, his expression unreadable behind the glare of his glasses. "Maybe... you could stay at my dorm," you suggested, "Just until the rain gets lighter. We can study there."

The walk to your dorm was short, but the air between you felt charged, as if the lightning outside had followed you indoors.

The dorm room was small, making his presence feel twice as large. You were sitting side-by-side at your desk, the drumming of the rain against the window providing the only soundtrack. Satoru leaned over to point out a complex line of text in the textbook and his hand brushed against yours.

Usually, he would pull away instantly. But today, he stayed. His skin was warm, and you could feel the slight tremor in his fingers. The room felt suddenly stiflingly hot, the tension from the kitchen with Suguru and Shoko still hanging over you.

As he began to explain a diagram, you leaned in closer, close enough to catch the scent of clean laundry. He could clearly smell your perfume and the closeness  seemed to short-circuit his brain. His voice faltered, then stopped altogether. The silence that followed was heavy, vibrating with everything neither of you was saying. Slowly, Satoru set his pen down on the open book.

"Are you going to finish the explanation?" you whispered, your voice barely audible over the storm outside.

Satoru turned his head. His blue eyes were dark, focused entirely on your mouth. "I can’t... I can't right now: he admitted, his voice rough.

He reached out, his hand trembling as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the line of your jaw making your breath hitch. When you finally leaned in, the kiss started off slow, a tentative exploration of lips, testing the waters to see if the other would pull away.

But when you pressed closer, the spark ignited. The kiss grew deeper, hungrier. Satoru pulled back just long enough to rip his glasses off his face, tossing them blindly onto the desk, before crashing back into you with a desperate kind of intensity.

Satoru’s hands, which were usually so steady, were shaking as they found your waist. In one sharp, decisive motion, he pulled you off your chair and onto his lap.

The air left your lungs as you straddled him, your knees hooking on either side of his chair. The sudden weight of you seemed to break whatever remained of his composure. His head was thrown back, the sharp line of his throat exposed as he let out a jagged, broken moan that you never thought you’d hear from the quiet Satoru.

His eyes were blown wide, his pupils dilated until they almost entirely swallowed his irises, leaving only a thin ring of blue. He looked shattered, almost as if his logical brain couldn't compute how the dry friction of denim on denim could ignite a reaction this good.

Satoru’s breath hitched, a jagged sound in the quiet of the room. He began to heave upward against you, his movements desperate and uncoordinated. Every time his hips met yours, the rough, heavy fabric of your jeans created a searing, electric heat that made your toes curl. You needed that pressure, you needed the grounding weight of him as the world began to blur at the edges.

You were shaking in his arms, your fingers digging into the muscle of his biceps as your forehead pressed against his. The only sounds in the room were the frantic, uneven gasps for air.

Driven by a sudden need, you gripped his shoulders tight and leaned in to crush your mouth against his again. This time, there was no hesitation. The kiss was messy, desperate and loud, filled with the small whimpers and guttural groans that neither of you could hold back anymore.

"I can't—" Satoru gasped, the words breaking off into a sharp, pained hiss as you shifted your weight against him again.

He buried his face in the sensitive crook of your neck, his hot breath ghosting over your skin before his teeth grazed you. His hands, large locked onto your hips, his knuckles white as he pulled you flush against him making your back arch, forcing a faster, more frantic pace.

“S-Satoru…” you gasped, your voice breaking as a wave of heat finally crashed over you. Your body shuddered violently, your strength failing as you slumped against his chest.

Not a second later, a low, broken groan ripped from deep in his throat. His grip on your hips tightened until it was almost bruising, pinning you to him as he finally came apart. He let his forehead fall heavily against yours, both of you trapped in a haze of adrenaline, the air between you thick with the sound of your shared, burning breaths.

notes: divider credits: @sisterlucifergraphics Pic from pinterest!

Your hands swiftly pushed past his waistband—urgently you pulled down his briefs and a sigh of relief spilled from his throat. Your soft chuckle brought a sudden burst of heat through his body.

Kento's leaking tip prodded against your curious fingers. The precise but vehement movement sent a shiver down his spine. You pressed your palm against his chest, gently pushing Kento's body further on to the bed.

A small left your lips as you positioned yourself right above his mushroom tip. Your husband's mean head nudged your entrance. Nanami's eyes met yours perfectly as you sunk on to him.

"My darling...fuckk—"He groaned, watching you lower yourself with every piercing inch you took. Your body was made for him. Your hips moved at a slow—sensual pace, your hazy cries filling the room quickly.

"Let me take care of you." He groaned sternly. Kento’s hands landed sharply against your ass, a soft gasp slipped past your tongue. Your eyes fluttered open at the sudden switch in the air; that look in Kento's eyes was pure hunger. 

You weren’t in control anymore. He was. 

“Ken—nghh!” you mewled as he flipped the two of you over. His large body framed over yours as he set the pace now. The loud squelch of your bodies meeting made you feral. Kento spilled sincere apologies against your neck as his hips snapped against your plush skin.

“ ‘missed this pussy soooo much—’m sorry!”His words alone had your eyes lolling to the back of your head.

You couldn’t take it anymore. “please! It’s too much” From this point on, Kento was eliciting sounds out of you that you weren’t sure you could even make. Bending down towards your ear, Kento soothed you. “You can take it though, can’t you…” He paused, breathing in your intoxicating scent. “ My sweetheart.”