¿Mmmh?

୨ৎ RUDO !

Would be the chaotic fun dad, like the type to race his kids in the park, lose and then say it's because he's getting older </3 protective tho, especially if they cry. His kids would definitely have too much candy and scrapped knees like all the time, but it's the most fun childhood ever.

Would complain, but go buy the stuff for a project in the middle of the night if his kid forgot to ask earlier

୨ৎ RIYOU !

Her kid would probably have the most coolest but also scary parent at the same time. Would say no candy before dinner but still end up giving it to them because of their little eyes.

Easily gets protective tho, side eyes anyone who gets too close to them.

୨ৎ ENJIN !

A bit of the overall the top parent. Science fair project? He helps then turn it into a literally presentation with props. He loves showing his kids off, school plays, sports, band, he's there. And clapping the loudest.

Very much encourages them to express themselves in anyway they want.

୨ৎ ZANKA !

Peak dad vibes, packs lunch for them, and even reads then bedtime stories if they want it. Strict, but in a more loving way yk. Always makes sure they know they're safe and loved.

Would definitely be the type to teach them random skills, like how to tie a knot properly

୨ৎ JABBER !

Look man, he's feral, his kids are going to be feral too </3 a little rough around the edges, but he loves them a lot. Would let him climb on him like a jungle gym and be completely okay with it, like it happens a lot.

They type to encourage them to hit someone back if they hit them.

୨ৎ SEMIU !

The quiet but strict parent, but also gentle with it. Has regularly expectations for then, but does try to push them to do things. A little awkward at affection with them, but she does make sure they're well taken care of.

Honestly always comes if her kids call and a worrywart...

୨ৎ TAMSY !

Chaotic dad 2.0 here. The fun dad who gets the other parent upset because he let the kids stay up late. On a school night. Would plan and join them with the pranks they pull on the other parent.

Same time, he's super soft, he hates seeing them cry. Gives them the best pep talk, though oddly...

୨ৎ AUGUST !

Strict and maybe a little traditional parent. Puts a lot of emphasis on discipline, respect and responsibility for his kids. He would push them because he knows they can do it.

Actually really protective over his kids, his love just comes off as structure and guidance.

Dog, cat, fish. and yeah, </3 also, sorry i'm just now getting to it cursive anonnie </3

“We’re supposed to compare the Lintons and Earnshaws,” you sighed.

“You wound me, Kitten. I came all this way in the rain—”

“You live next door.”

“—just to be bossed around by my favorite academic weapon.” Hoodie lifted, flash of waist. Grin inevitable.

“You’re so weird,” you muttered, smiling anyway.

Then he ditched the act, rolled onto his stomach, eyes sharp. “You don’t like Edgar, do you?”

“…He’s manipulative.”

“Knew it. I can read you.”

You both laughed. Rain hammered the window.

But he kept inching closer. You looked up, caught him watching, lips parted. Your highlighter slipped. He grinned.

“Do you ever focus on the assignment?” you asked.

“I’m focused,” he said, leaning in. “Hyperfixated. If I read this, will you promise to verbally abuse me the whole time?”

“Only if you start at the top and don’t skip the weird cousin names.”

He winked, catching the pillow before you could throw it. His fingers brushed yours—warm, buzzing. “Deal. But if I get PTSD, you’re driving me to therapy.”

“You don’t need therapy. You need a straitjacket and a muzzle.”

His grin split wide. “Promise?”

You buried your smile in the book. “Read, Gojo.”

He leaned closer, voice lower now. “Anything for you, Kitty.” The drawn-out nickname made your pulse stutter, but you didn’t let him see it.

Gojo squinted at the family tree like it was a bomb manual. “Francis. Isabella. Hareton? That’s a name? No wonder these people were miserable.” He glanced sideways, eyes glinting for your reaction.

“Keep going.”

He did, adding snide commentary every few names (“‘Little Cathy’? Is there a Big Cathy? Cheating, Brontë”). Your laughter kept breaking through despite yourself.

You almost missed how his thigh pressed against yours, his shoulder nudging closer each time, his hand lingering at your wrist while pretending to trace a family line.

By the time he finished—wrong, but with dramatic flair—he tossed the page aside. “There. I did it. Now go easy on my fragile soul.”

You didn’t answer. He wasn’t wrong: you had been hard on him. Maybe because it was safer than admitting how reckless this spark between you felt.

But you had a goal. Discipline. You weren’t going to be another plot point in the Satoru Gojo Show.

You shut your book and looked him dead in the eye. “Fine. Your reward is you don’t have to read the genealogy again.”

He grinned, lips parted like a wolf about to bite. “And what if I want extra credit?”

You opened your mouth for a retort, but he was already moving, head tilted just enough that you could see his intent clear as day.

He was going to break you, or die trying.

For a long, dangerous second, neither of you moved. Gojo’s gaze ticked between your mouth and your eyes, always coming back to your lips, like he was memorizing the shape, the sound of the words you hadn’t spoken yet.

You wanted to mock him, say something biting, but all your neurons fired on the same frequency: anticipation.

He moved first. Of course he did.

Not to close the distance—he was too much of a sadist for that—but to hover just on the precipice, waiting to see if you’d lean in. He was close enough that you could see the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline, close enough to count every speck in his irises. He smelled like rain and cheap cologne, but mostly just like him.

His voice, when it came, was low and hungry. “You ever kiss anyone before?”

The question could have been a joke. The normal Gojo would’ve said it for the shock factor and cackled at your expense. But this time, the air felt different: charged, brittle, like if you exhaled too loud it would shatter.

You blinked, thrown by the abruptness. “What kind of question is that?”

He grinned, but it was smaller than usual, the self-satisfied edge filed off. “Academic curiosity. For science.”

You deadpanned, “So this is research now?”

Gojo’s eyes glittered. “With you, everything’s a dissertation.”

You thought about lying—about claiming a vast and wild history of romantic exploits—but something in his expression told you it would matter to him. That he’d savor what could be the truth. So you shrugged, barely meeting his eyes. “No.”

The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic.

Gojo’s breath caught, his whole body tensed, and the tips of his ears went scarlet. He looked away for a split second, as if he needed to recalibrate his entire worldview. When he looked back, it was worse: softer, almost reverent.

“You’re…” He stopped, started again, shaking his head. “That’s illegal. There’s no way.”

You shot him a withering look. “Sorry to disappoint?”

He made a noise—almost a whimper—and covered his face with one hand, peeking at you through his fingers like you were a solar eclipse. “It doesn’t disappoint me, Kitty. It’s literally the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Your face burned. You tried to channel the heat into aggression. “You need therapy.”

He didn’t disagree. “I need you,” he said, and it sounded more desperate than he probably intended. He rocked forward, not quite closing the gap, and his hand dropped to your knee, fingers flexing like he was afraid you’d bolt.

You should have said something to break the tension, anything, but the only thing your brain offered was the sound of your own pulse.

Gojo’s thumb traced a pattern on your kneecap, soft as a secret. “You ever think about it?”

You tried for casual, and nearly managed it. “About what?”

“Kissing. Someone.” He swallowed. “Me.”

You could have lied. You could have kept your dignity. Instead, you let your eyes drop to his mouth, let the silence answer for you.

He saw. He always saw.

There was a sound somewhere between a groan and a gasp, like he was in physical pain, and he pressed his forehead to your shoulder, the heat of his skin burning through the fabric.

He was shaking, just a little. Like he was holding back a flood.

“Fuck,” he said, muffled in your sleeve, “you’re going to kill me.”

You lifted your hand, almost without thinking, and traced your fingers over the sharp ridge of his jaw. It was smoother than you expected, like he shaved that morning in anticipation of this. He shivered under your touch.

“Drama queen,” you murmured, but the words had lost all bite.

He nuzzled in closer, and you felt his lips, soft and dry, brush the barest whisper against your wrist. “You’re not scared?”

You thought about it. About everything he was—his intensity, his wild unpredictability, his way of making you feel like the only thing in the room that mattered. “No,” you said. “Not of you.”

He leaned back just far enough to meet your eyes. “You should be.”

You didn’t flinch. “You’re the one who looks terrified, Gojo.”

He grinned, crooked and wild, and you felt the moment shift—dangerous, exhilarating, unstoppable.

You both knew it was coming.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

The space between you felt electrified, every molecule trembling in anticipation, until finally—mercifully, excruciatingly—Gojo broke first.

His hand slid up your thigh, squeezing gently just above the knee. His thumb traced small, hypnotic circles, skin barely skimming denim. Your breath hitched, and he grinned, greedy for every reaction.

“You’re such a freak,” you whispered, but your voice came out too soft, the words lacking any venom.

“Yeah,” he agreed, not an ounce of shame. “But only for you.”

He pushed in closer, his other hand finding your waist and anchoring there, holding you steady as if you were the only solid thing in a world spinning off-axis.

He was trembling. Not enough that anyone else would notice, but you felt it—every shiver, every microtremor. Like he was holding back an entire planet’s worth of need.

He ducked his head, hair falling messily across his forehead, and pressed his mouth to your cheek. Not a peck. Not even a real kiss. Just a soft, lingering imprint—hot breath, the humid ghost of his lips, the tip of his nose buried in your hair.

He inhaled, audibly. “You smell like highlighter and books and kikufuku. Fuck.”

You tried to breathe, found yourself clutching a fistful of his hoodie, knuckles white. “That’s not even a real scent, Gojo.”

He only grinned, moving his mouth across your cheekbone, landing another gentle kiss at the hinge of your jaw. “It’s you. You’re driving me fucking crazy.”

His hands tightened, pulling you forward until you were nearly in his lap, bodies overlapping like puzzle pieces. He kissed down your jaw, slow as syrup, pausing at your pulse to just… breathe you in.

You should have resisted. You could have pushed him away, told him to get a grip. But his touch was so careful, so reverent, that instead you let your head fall back, exposing your throat.

Gojo let out a shaky exhale. “You don’t even know, do you?” His lips hovered at your ear. “How insane you make me?”

You swallowed, hard. “You’re projecting.”

He huffed, biting back laughter, and trailed his nose down your neck. “You’re unreal, Kitty. It’s not fair.”

You tensed, waiting for him to cross a line, but he never did. Every kiss stayed feather-light, each one more hesitant than the last, like he was terrified you’d vanish if he pressed too hard.

He shifted, adjusting you with a gentleness that should have been illegal for someone so enormous. Suddenly you were straddling his thigh, the denim of your jeans pressed tight against him, your knees bracketing his hips.

He looked up at you, eyes wild and shining. “I want to ruin you,” he said, almost reverent. “But I want to do it right.”

Your heart stuttered. “That’s the creepiest thing you’ve ever said.”

He didn’t disagree. He just pressed his forehead to your collarbone and groaned, like he was in actual physical pain.

You were trembling now, too. Every nerve ending screamed, touch me, more, now, but you held fast, stubborn even as you melted.

Gojo’s hands roamed, never greedy—just exploring, mapping you like a new country. He slipped his fingers beneath the hem of your sweatshirt, finding bare skin, tracing slow, lazy patterns up your spine.

“You’re so soft,” he muttered, voice breaking. “So fucking soft.”

You let out a shaky laugh, because it was all you could do. “You say that like it’s a surprise.”

He buried his face in your neck, breathing you in like you were oxygen. “I just—I can’t believe you’re letting me.”

There was something so honest, so raw in his tone, that your heart almost stopped.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He froze, then pulled back just enough to look at you, gaze searching. “Don't you hate me?”

You snorted. “I do.”

He smiled, soft and shattered. “Liar.”

He cupped your face in both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, and studied you like he was trying to memorize every freckle, every micro-expression.

Then, finally, he pressed his lips to your forehead. Held them there. Just… held.

It should have been anticlimactic, but instead it felt like something tectonic, like the world had tilted to accommodate this one, small act of worship.

He kissed down, over the arch of your brow, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. He paused, lingering so close that you could feel the heat of his breath.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” he whispered, “not unless you ask.”

You stared at him, pulse throbbing everywhere. “Coward.”

He grinned. “Gentleman.”

You didn’t know who moved next. Maybe it was both of you, the inevitable collapse of two bodies caught in the same gravitational well. But when you exhaled, your lips grazed his, and that was all it took.

But he didn’t push further. He just held you there, suspended in the almost, the not-quite, as if the anticipation was sweeter than the act itself.

He was right. He was going to ruin you.

And you were going to let him.

The tension was a living thing—brittle, vibrating, so dense it had a gravitational pull all its own. You didn’t remember deciding to move, only that one second you were breathing him in, and the next you had a fistful of his hoodie and were yanking him forward, crashing your lips to his.

Gojo made a noise that barely qualified as human. Somewhere between a gasp and a whine, pure surprise and unfiltered relief.

He didn’t fight for control. Not even for a second.

He melted beneath you, hands dropping to your hips as if anchoring himself to a world rapidly dissolving. Your kiss was messy, greedy, more teeth than finesse, and he took it—took all of you—like it was the answer to a question he’d been asking for years.

You bit at his lower lip, tugging, and he moaned into your mouth, the sound reverberating low in your chest. You swallowed it greedily, pressed closer, grinding down into his lap just to feel the way his whole body jolted in response.

God, he was so responsive.

You mapped his reactions—how he shivered when you bit, how he trembled when you tugged his hair, how he whimpered when you raked your nails down his neck. He was a study in contradictions: built like a Greek statue, but trembling like a kid on his first rollercoaster.

He tasted like coffee and rain, sweet and bitter and something sharp underneath. When you finally pulled back for air, his eyes were glassy, lips swollen, breath coming in ragged gasps.

You licked your own lips, savoring the lingering heat. “You’re such a mess,” you said, but you sounded more awed than mocking.

Gojo just stared, like he was seeing the face of god.

He reached up, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, and his hands shook so bad he missed the first try. “You kissed me,” he whispered, dazed.

You grinned, suddenly drunk on power. “You asked.”

He blinked, like he couldn’t believe his own luck. “Can you do it again?”

You didn’t answer. You just grabbed his jaw, tilted his head, and kissed him until he was boneless beneath you.

You ground down again, harder this time, and he hissed, clutching your hips as if he might float away. You could feel him, hard through both layers of denim, and the friction made your head go fuzzy.

He broke the kiss first, shuddering, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re going to kill me,” he whispered.

You ran your fingers through his hair, pulling just to hear the little whimper it drew. “You’re not even putting up a fight.”

He shook his head, wild-eyed and desperate. “Don’t want to.”

You rocked your hips, slow and deliberate, and watched him fall apart.

Every moan, every gasp, every helpless twitch was yours. For once, you were in control, and it was intoxicating.

Gojo’s hands roamed your back, clinging, grounding himself in the only way he knew how. “Fuck,” he said, voice cracking. “You feel so good. Better than I—” He bit back the rest, shaking.

You pressed your lips to his ear. “Finish the sentence.”

He shuddered, whole body trembling. “Better than I ever thought it would,” he breathed, voice barely more than a whimper.

You kissed him again, softer this time. Tender, almost apologetic. He whimpered, clung tighter, breath hitching with every movement of your hips.

You didn’t stop. Not even when his hands slipped beneath your sweatshirt and found bare skin. Not even when he gasped your name, over and over, like a prayer.

You didn’t stop until you felt the shudder run through him, the desperate way he clung to you as if the world might end right here, in your tiny living room.

When you finally pulled back, he was ruined—flushed, panting, eyes blown wide and unfocused.

You grinned, victorious. “Extra credit, Gojo. You passed.”

He stared, utterly wrecked, and whispered, “I’d do anything for you.”

You could feel him—hard, trembling, so desperate it bordered on embarrassing. Maybe it should have made you self-conscious, but instead it ignited something hot and merciless inside you.

You kissed him again, rougher this time, biting at his lips until he whined. You wanted to hear it, every single sound he made.

Gojo was melting under you, hands sliding up and down your back, fingertips shaking where they pressed into your skin. He arched into your touch, rutting up helplessly, the friction of denim and cotton making him gasp.

It didn’t take much—just a shift of your hips, a little more pressure, and he was gone. The hard length of him strained against his sweats, already damp from where your body pressed into his. You rocked into him again, slower, and he shuddered, the whole line of his body quivering with pent-up need.

He tried to say something, but it dissolved into a helpless moan, muffled as you kissed him again and again, each one more demanding than the last.

You could feel how wet you were, panties sticking to your skin, every movement making it worse. Or better.

You broke the kiss long enough to look him in the eyes, to see just how wrecked he was. Gojo’s face was flushed, his mouth open and bruised, and he looked at you with pure, abject devotion.

You ground down harder, shifting your angle until you could feel him pressed perfectly against you, the heat and the pressure almost too much to bear. He whined, hips jerking up, and you realized he was already close—so close it was funny, or would have been, if you weren’t in exactly the same boat.

You slowed your pace, circling your hips in slow, deliberate motions, letting the friction build and build until you could feel the outline of him twitching against you.

He sobbed your name, half-formed and desperate, hands clutching at your waist like he was scared you’d disappear.

“You gonna cum?” you whispered, lips at his ear. “Just from this?”

He nodded, frantic. “Please,” he gasped, voice gone high and thin. “Please, please—fuck—”

You pressed down harder, rolling your hips in sharp, steady pulses. His whole body arched, eyes rolling back, and you felt the first shudder wrack through him. He came with a strangled, wet gasp, cock pulsing under your heat, soaking his sweats in seconds.

He didn’t stop shaking, didn’t stop moving—if anything, he rutted up harder, desperate for more, for everything you were willing to give.

You slowed, then sped up again, playing with the rhythm just to see what it did to him. Every shift made him twitch and moan, made his grip on your hips turn almost bruising.

You watched him, studied every flinch, every broken sound. He was so sensitive now, so raw, and you wanted to see how much more he could take.

You rocked against him, wetness slick between your thighs, the ruined mess of his sweatpants only making you grind harder.

He sobbed, honest to god sobbed, and you felt him cum—uncontrollably, body wracked with it, shaking under your hands.

When you finally slowed to a stop, you were both breathing hard, sweat sticking your clothes to your skin, your heart pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Gojo collapsed back onto the floor, spent, shaking, tears streaking his cheeks. “Fuck,” he choked, “fuck, you—”

You leaned down, kissed the tears away, and whispered, “You’re mine, Satoru.”

He nodded, unable to speak, just held you tighter, letting you settle onto his chest as he shook apart beneath you.

You’d never felt more powerful. Or more wanted.

He should have been done. You’d never seen anyone come that hard, that completely, let alone twice in a row with barely a break.

But as you pressed down against him, hips shifting, you could feel he was still hard, or hard again, or maybe just unable to go soft when you were sitting on his lap with your soaked panties grinding into his cock through thin, ruined sweatpants.

You rocked forward, slow at first, feeling out the sensitivity. Gojo’s head lolled back, and he let out a sound so wrecked it barely even counted as a moan.

You kept the pressure steady, dragging your pussy up and down the length of him, so wet you could feel the heat and stickiness everywhere, every movement leaving you more exposed and hungry.

Gojo tried to say something, but all he managed was, “Please,” voice raw and hoarse.

You leaned in, breath hot against his ear. “Please what?”

He shuddered, clung tighter. “I can’t—” He broke off with a sob, hips twitching up into you without his permission.

You reached down, palmed him through the wet fabric, and felt his whole body jerk. “You’re still hard,” you teased, voice low. “That’s so embarrassing, Gojo.”

He whimpered, tears still streaking his face, but he didn’t ask you to stop. Not really.

“Don’t stop,” he whispered, and you felt the confession in your bones.

You rocked harder, faster, hands digging into his shoulders for leverage. The mess between you got obscene—your wetness soaking through your panties, his cock leaking pre-cum and more with every desperate grind. The friction was almost too much, but not enough, never enough.

He writhed, sobbing openly, but his hands never left your body, desperate for every bit of contact. “You’re killing me,” he gasped. “I can’t— I’m—”

You smirked, slowing your hips just enough to drag the moment out, to see if he’d beg.

“Say it,” you whispered. “What do you want, Satoru?”

He met your eyes, wide and fever-bright, and the need in them nearly knocked you over. “Want you,” he choked. “Want to feel you—want to—”

You rocked down hard, and he broke, shuddering and keening as he came again, so violently it left you breathless just to watch. You felt it, all of it, the way he pulsed under you, the new flood of heat and wetness between your bodies.

You didn’t stop.

You kept grinding, riding him through it, letting him squirm and whimper and cry. You kissed him, sloppy and rough, drinking down every sound, every shudder.

Gojo didn’t speak, just buried his face in your neck and breathed, shaky and uneven.

You stroked his hair, slow and gentle. “You’re so easy, Gojo,” you teased, but there was no cruelty left in your voice. Just awe.

You thought you’d broken him. Maybe you had.

Gojo lay there, sweatpants soaked and clinging to his hips, the mess between you obscene and sticky. His whole body trembled with aftershocks, but he never tried to escape, never told you to stop. Instead, he clung to you with the desperation of a man drowning, breath shuddering, eyes closed as if the sensation was too much to process.

You rolled your hips again, slower this time, dragging your soaked core over his cock. The slick, slippery pressure made you both gasp, a symphony of ruined need.

He whimpered, head tilting back to expose the line of his throat, hands fisted in your sweatshirt as if holding on for dear life.

“You’re not tapped out yet, are you?” you murmured, voice syrupy and low.

He shook his head, barely more than a twitch, but it was enough. You grinned, wicked and triumphant, and ground down harder, the friction delicious and raw.

Gojo’s breath hitched, and he bit his fist to muffle the sounds. It didn’t work—every movement made him shudder, made new, helpless moans escape.

You leaned in, teeth grazing his earlobe. “Look at you,” you whispered. “Such a mess. You like it, don’t you?”

He let out a sob, too far gone to pretend anymore. “Please,” he choked, “I can’t—”

You didn’t relent. You rocked against him, slow and relentless, feeling the heat of his cock pulse under the ruined fabric.

“Look at me,” you said, biting his neck just hard enough to leave a mark. “Want you to see how wet I am for you.”

He cracked an eye open, gaze glassy and wild. You reached down, grabbed his hand, and pressed his fingers to your soaked panties.

“Feel that?” you hissed, grinding against his hand. “That’s all you, Satoru.”

He trembled, body arching up, and you felt his cock twitch hard. “Fuck, I—” He cut off with a sharp, broken cry, legs kicking out as he came again, a third time, the mess between you expanding in a hot, sticky flood.

You kept moving, slower now, dragging out the sensation until he collapsed back, boneless and silent except for the ragged sound of his breath.

You licked the sweat from his jaw, kissed the tear tracks from his cheeks, and whispered, “You’re perfect, you know that?”

He didn’t answer. He just held you, shaking, until the world stopped spinning.

You didn’t let go.

Not even when his sweatpants cooled and the wetness started to feel cold, not even when you shifted and felt the ache between your thighs turn sharp and needy.

He was yours. Ruined, wrecked, and smiling, even if it hurt to do it.

You buried your face in his neck, let him rock you back and forth in tiny, exhausted movements, and thought about what would happen if you never let go.

He might die of embarrassment.

But at least he’d die happy.

The silence stretched, thick and humid, until Gojo started to realize just how much of a disaster he was.

He blinked, looked down, and saw the state of his sweatpants—soaked through, sticky, clinging to his skin in the worst possible way. His hands shook as he tried to cover himself, but there was no hiding it. Not from you, not from himself.

He stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, and then—abruptly—he lurched upright, nearly dumping you to the floor in the process.

You caught yourself, landing on your hands and knees, and turned just in time to see him stagger to his feet, hoodie pulled low and hands awkwardly covering the front of his pants.

“I, uh—I need to—” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the bathroom, face burning scarlet.

You propped your chin in your hand, watched him with an unhurried amusement. “You good?”

He shot you a look that was equal parts mortified and pleading. “I’m… I need to clean up. Fuck. I’ll be right back.”

You smirked, rolling onto your back and stretching like a cat. “Take your time, Satoru. No rush.”

He vanished into the bathroom, slamming the door with more force than necessary.

You heard him splash water, curse under his breath, and—at one point—let out a muffled, desperate wail.

You almost felt bad for him. Almost.

He returned a few minutes later, fresh sweatpants pulled low on his hips and hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows. His hair was a mess, cheeks still blotchy.

But you were gone.

In your place: a single sticky note. Neat handwriting. Brutal.

Expand on Chapter 9 on your own. I’m not helping you anymore. And please leave my house before I come back from the library.

He froze.

Read it once. Then again. Then again, like it would somehow change if he stared long enough.

Then he groaned—loudly—and flopped face-down onto the couch, clutching the sticky note to his chest like a cursed relic.

“Fuck,” he muttered into his hands. “I’m so screwed.”

He curled into himself, shamefully, miserably, pathetically, and held your note like a love letter.

And yeah, maybe he'd keep it forever.

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