Isabella

you’re mid-chew, texting, when you feel satoru materialize behind you. that and the rustling of his plastic bags give him away . his chin hooks over your shoulder, breath warm against your ear.

“gum?”

you nod, not looking up. “yeah. want a piece?”

“mm.” his voice drops. “already have one.”

before you can ask what that means, satoru’s hand cups your jaw—gentle and firm—and turns your face toward him. he doesn’t ask. he doesn’t warn. he just leans in.

he kisses you slow and deliberate. you reciprocate after a moment, a motion mostly on instinct, which ends up giving him the right access. his tongue slides past your lips, not to deepen it, but to sweep.

satoru coaxes the gum from your mouth with an infuriatingly skilled curl of his tongue, pulling it into his own mouth with a soft, wet sound that has no right to make your stomach feel that way.

he pulls back and chews, his dimples showing as an unapologetic grin spreads across his face.

“mint,” he hums, like he’s tasting a fine wine. “good choice.”

you’re frozen, face burning and brain short-circuiting.

he plucks the slick gum from his own mouth and presses it back to your lips with two fingers. “open.”

you do. pathetically.

satoru pushes it past your teeth, taps your chin to close your mouth, and pats your cheek like you’re a good pet.

“now we match,” he says sweetly. “shared flavor. shared spit. shared everything.”

then he turns, waves at the cashier, and strolls out of the store front like he didn’t just ruin you in public.

ii. later during dinner, you both are eating something disgustingly sticky together—honey-glazed chicken wings and melted s'mores, because satoru having zero self-control around sugar is nothing new.

your hands are messy. his hands are a crime scene.

you see him eyeing your hoodie. that soft, oversized, perfect fit that you love more than life itself.

“don’t.”

satoru freezes, hand hovering. eyes wide and innocent.

“don’t what?”

“don’t wipe those fingers on me, satoru. i swear to god—”

satoru gasps, offended. “i'd never.”

you stare. satoru holds your gaze. too long. then, with the exaggerated deliberation of a man performing a magic trick, he slowly—so slowly—wipes both hands down the front of his own white t-shirt.

dark streaks bloom across the fabric. he looks down at the mess, then back up at you.

“see?” he beams. “respectful. courteous. boyfriend of the year.”

you blink. “you literally just ruined your shirt.”

“my sacrifice.” he clutches his chest dramatically. “anything for you, my love. i would never defile your sacred hoodie. i would rather die.”

then he opens his arms wide.

“now. hug.”

“no.”

“hug.”

“satoru, your entire front is—”

satoru doesn’t wait. he lunges, wraps his sticky, honey-drenched, s'more-crusted arms around you and squeezes. his open palms find your back. your shoulders. you try to save your hair.

you feel the tacky residue transfer. everywhere.

when he finally takes mercy and pulls back, both the front and back is a disaster of regret. and he’s grinning as if he contributed to your life in such a meaningful way.

“looks good,” satoru says, tucking a sticky strand of hair behind your ear as you continue to scowl. he inspects the honey smeared across your hoodie with genuine satisfaction.

“perfect.”

“perfect?”

“now everyone will know we hugged.”

the first time vi saw you, it was through a screen.

she was scrolling through her phone, half-naked in her dorm, still buzzing from a win against the university of minnesota.

her roommate was passed out, her muscles ached, and she was too wired to sleep.

so she did what she always did—opened twitter, checked the mentions, ignored the thirst tweets.

and clicked on a link someone had posted in a quote retweet. it was a stream. a camgirl site.

the kind of thing her teammates joked about in the locker room, the kind of thing vi never really paid attention to.

but the thumbnail made her pause.

you were beautiful. dark skin glowing under soft pink lights, hair pulled back in a silk scarf, a lace chemise slipping off one shoulder.

you weren't looking at the camera.

you were looking down, fidgeting with the hem of your top, like you were nervous. like you were somewhere else entirely.

vi clicked.

she watched for ten minutes. then twenty. then an hour.

you didn't do much. you talked to your viewers in a low, sweet voice, laughing at their comments, stretching out on your bed like a cat.

you were good at this—the performance, the persona. but vi could see the cracks. the way your smile didn't quite reach your eyes.

the way you flinched when someone said something crude. you were pretending. and vi couldn't look away.

the second time vi saw you, it was at a party.

a house off campus, packed with students, cheap beer sweating on every surface.

vi was there because her teammates dragged her, because she was supposed to be social, because she was the star of the women's hockey team and people expected her to show up.

she was leaning against the kitchen counter, nursing a red cup, when she saw you across the room.

you were wearing a tight black dress, heels that made your legs look endless, and a smile that didn't reach your eyes.

vi recognized you immediately.

you were talking to some guy who was leaning too close, his hand on your arm, his mouth moving too fast.

you were nodding, laughing, playing the part.

but vi saw the tension in your shoulders, the way you kept stepping back, the way your eyes darted toward the door.

vi moved without thinking.

she crossed the room, slid her hand around your waist, and pulled you against her side. "hey, baby. sorry i'm late."

you looked up at her, startled. the guy's face flickered with confusion, then disappointment.

"who the fuck are you?" he asked.

"vi." she didn't look at him. she was looking at you. "her girlfriend. you got a problem?"

the guy muttered something under his breath and walked away.

you were still staring at her, your body tense, your breath shallow. "you're not my girlfriend."

"no," vi said, her voice low. "but you looked like you needed an out."

you blinked. something cracked in your expression. the mask slipped, just for a second, and vi saw the exhaustion underneath. "thanks," you whispered.

"don't mention it."

the third time vi saw you, it was intentional.

she found your stream again that night, watched from her bed with the lights off.

you were back in your pink-lit room, back in your lace, back to performing. but you seemed different.

quieter. you kept looking at the camera like you were looking for something.

vi sent a tip. just a small one. with a message: you okay?

you read it. your lips parted. you looked at the camera, really looked, and vi felt something twist in her chest.

"i'm okay," you said, like you were answering her. like you knew. "just tired."

vi sent another tip. you don't have to do this if you don't want to.

you laughed, but it was hollow. "that's sweet. but i don't have a choice."

vi wanted to argue. she wanted to tell you that everyone has a choice, that you could do anything, that you were more than this. but she didn't know you. not really.

so she just watched, and waited, and when your stream ended, she sent you a private message.

my name's vi. i'm the girl from the party. if you ever need someone to talk to, i'm here.

you didn't reply that night. but three days later, your name appeared in her notifications.

hey. it's the camgirl. thanks for not being weird about it.

and that was the beginning. you started talking every day.

texts at first, short and careful. then longer messages, late at night, when the world was quiet and you didn't have to pretend.

you told vi about your life—how you were a junior, how you were majoring in something you didn't care about, how the money from streaming paid your tuition and your rent and your mom's medical bills.

"i hate it," you admitted one night, your voice raw over the phone. "i hate showing my body to strangers. i hate the comments. i hate feeling like i'm nothing but a pair of tits and a pretty face."

"you're not," vi said. "you're so much more than that."

"how do you know? you've only seen me naked."

"i've seen you laugh at your own jokes. i've seen you get shy when someone says something nice. i've seen you read poetry in the middle of your stream because you forgot to mute your mic. i've seen you, not just your body."

you were quiet for a long time.

"that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."

"then you've been hanging out with the wrong people."

the first time you met in person, vi took you to a diner at 2 a.m.

you were nervous, picking at your nails, wearing a hoodie that swallowed your frame. vi was nervous too, but she didn't show it.

she ordered you pancakes and made you laugh and watched the tension drain from your shoulders.

"why are you being so nice to me?" you asked, halfway through your second plate.

"because you deserve it."

"you don't even know me."

"i know enough."

you looked at her with those big, tired eyes, and vi felt something shift in her chest. something dangerous. something that felt a lot like falling.

the first time you kissed, it was in her car, parked outside your apartment.

you'd been sitting in silence, the radio playing something soft, your hands inches apart on the center console. vi was staring at the steering wheel, her jaw tight, her heart pounding.

"i want to kiss you," she said. "but i don't want to make this weird."

"what if i want you to kiss me?"

vi turned. you were already looking at her, your lips parted, your breath shallow. "are you sure?"

"vi."

that was all it took.

she leaned in, slow, giving you time to pull away. you didn't. your lips met, soft and tentative, and vi felt the world tilt. you tasted like coffee and syrup and something sweet.

you made a small sound against her mouth, and vi deepened the kiss, her hand sliding into your hair, pulling you closer.

when you broke apart, you were both breathing hard.

"okay," you whispered. "that was—"

"yeah."

"can we do that again?"

vi smiled. "as many times as you want."

the first time you fought, it was about the streaming.

you were in vi's dorm, curled up on her bed, your head in her lap. she was running her fingers through your hair, tracing patterns on your scalp, and you were almost asleep.

"i've been thinking," vi said, her voice careful.

"mm?"

"about your stream."

you tensed. "what about it?"

"i don't like it."

you sat up, pulling away. "vi—"

"i know. i know it's not my place. i know you do it for the money. but i hate the idea of other people seeing you like that. i hate knowing that they're out there, watching you, wanting you. you're my girlfriend."

"i'm not your property."

"i know that. fuck, i know that. but i'm possessive, okay? i don't want anyone else seeing what's mine."

you stared at her, your eyes hard. "i'm not yours, vi. i'm not anyone's. and i don't need you to save me."

"i'm not trying to save you. i'm trying to support you. let me help. let me pay for your tuition, your rent, whatever. just—stop. stop letting them see you."

"and then what? i depend on you? i owe you? no. i've been dependent on men my whole life. i won't be dependent on you."

"it's not about owing me. it's about—"

"about what? your ego? your jealousy?"

"about loving you."

the words hung in the air, heavy and raw.

you looked at vi, really looked, and saw the vulnerability in her eyes. the fear. the desperation.

"i love you too," you said, your voice breaking. "but i can't stop. not yet. not until i know i can stand on my own."

vi closed her eyes. "then i'll wait."

the fight didn't end there.

it festered, grew, bled into other arguments. you were both stubborn, both proud, both terrified of being hurt. vi hated watching you stream. you hated feeling like a burden.

but you loved each other. and that was the worst part.

the night everything changed, you invited vi to watch your stream.

"i want you to see what i do," you said. "really see it."

vi sat in the corner of your room, out of frame, her arms crossed, her jaw tight. you put on your performance—the smiles, the laughs, the teasing. you took off your clothes piece by piece, your eyes fixed on the camera, your body on display.

but your mind was on vi.

when the stream ended, you turned to her, breathless and raw.

"well?"

vi stood. crossed the room. cupped your face in her hands.

"you're the most beautiful thing i've ever seen," she said. "and i hate that they get to see it too."

you kissed her, hard and desperate, and she kissed you back like she was drowning.

that night, she showed you what it meant to be wanted by someone who actually saw you.

the first time you said yes to vi's help, it was because your mom's hospital bill came in and you couldn't breathe.

you called vi, sobbing, and vi was at your door in twenty minutes with a check already written.

"pay me back when you can," she said. "or don't. i don't care. just—let me take care of you."

you took the check. you stopped streaming. and slowly, painfully, you started to heal.

the first time vi took you to a game, you sat in the front row, wearing her jersey, your heart pounding.

she scored the winning goal. and when she looked up at the stands, she pointed at you.

you were hers. and she was yours. and that was enough.

𝐦𝐚𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐞'𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐬 (13/50): @iadorefineshyt @pretty-u @y1ppeeyur1 @ryuwifes @almadellie @unicornclit666 @ajs-blogz @webwand3rer @blackdykegirlblogger @hopefullydoingokay2 @mermaidslament @dearbaes